Rousseau, so querulous, admits “that a moral subject could not be better discussed in a society of philosophers than in that of a pretty woman in Paris.”  Undoubtedly there is a good deal of idle talk, but with all the chattering “let a man of any authority make a serious remark or start a grave subject and the attention is immediately fixed on this point; men and women, the old and the young, all give themselves up to its consideration on all its sides, and it is surprising what an amount of reason and good sense issues, as if in emulation, from these frolicsome brains.”  The truth is that, in this constant holiday which this brilliant society gives itself philosophy is the principal amusement.  Without philosophy the ordinary ironical chit-chat would be vapid.  It is a sort of superior opera in which every grand conception that can interest a reflecting mind passes before it, now in comic and now in sober attire, and each in conflict with the other.  The tragedy of the day scarcely differs from it except in this respect, that it always bears a solemn aspect and is performed only in the theaters; the other assumes all sorts of physiognomies and is found everywhere because conversation is everywhere carried on.  Not a dinner nor a supper is given at which it does not find place.  One sits at a table amidst refined luxury, among agreeable and well-dressed women and pleasant and well-informed men, a select company, in which comprehension is prompt and the company trustworthy.  After the second course the inspiration breaks out in the liveliest sallies, all minds flashing and scintillating.  When the dessert comes on what is to prevent the gravest of subjects from being put into witticisms?  On the appearance of the coffee questions on the immortality of the soul and on the existence of God come up.

To form any idea of this attractive and bold conversation we must consult the correspondence of the day, the short treatises and dialogues of Diderot and Voltaire, whatever is most animated, most delicate, most piquant and most profound in the literature of the century; and yet this is only a residuum, a lifeless fragment.  The whole of this written philosophy was uttered in words, with the accent, the impetuosity, the inimitable naturalness of improvisation, with the versatility of malice and of enthusiasm.  Even to day, chilled and on paper, it still excites and seduces us.  What must it have been then when it gushed forth alive and vibrant from the lips of Voltaire and Diderot?  Daily, in Paris, suppers took place like those described by Voltaire,[4] .at which “two philosophers, three clever intellectual ladies,M.  Pinto the famous Jew, the chaplain of the Batavian ambassador of the reformed church, the secretary of the Prince de Galitzin of the Greek church, and a Swiss Calvinist captain,” seated around the same table, for four hours interchanged their anecdotes, their flashes of wit, their remarks and their decisions “on