and that philosophers were virtuous, upright men, who loved wisdom, and were above the little passions and foibles of humanity.  I thought they assumed that proud title as an earnest to the world, that they intended to be something more than mortal; that they engaged themselves to be patterns of excellence, and would utter no opinion, would pronounce no decision, but what they believed the quintessence of’ truth; that they always acted without prejudice and respect of persons.  Indeed, we know that the ancient philosophers were a ridiculous composition of arrogance, disputation, and contradictions; that some of them acted against all ideas of decency; that others affected to doubt of their own senses; that some, for venting unintelligible nonsense, pretended to think themselves superior to kings; that they gave themselves airs of accounting for all that we do and do not see-and yet, that no two of them agreed in a single hypothesis; that one thought fire, another water, the origin of all things; and that some were even so absurd and impious, as to displace God, and enthrone matter in his place.  I do not mean to disparage such wise men, for we are really obliged to them:  they anticipated and helped us off with an exceeding deal of nonsense, through which we might possibly have passed, if they had not prevented us.  But, when in this enlightened age, as it is called, I saw the term philosophers revived, I concluded the jargon would be omitted, and that we should be blessed with only the cream of sapience; and one had more reason still to expect this from any superior genius.  But, alas! my dear Sir, what a tumble is here!  Your D’Alembert is a mere mortal oracle.  Who but would have laughed, if, when the buffoon Aristophanes ridiculed Socrates, Plato had condemned the former, not for making sport with a great man in distress, but because Plato hated some blind old woman with whom Aristophanes was acquainted!

D’Alembert’s conduct is the More Unjust, as I never heard Madame du Deffand talk of him above three times in the seven months that I passed at Paris; and never, though she does not love him, with any reflection to his prejudice.  I remember the first time I ever heard her mention his name, I said I have been told he was a good man but could not think him a good writer. (Craufurd(980) remembers this, and it is a proof that I always thought of D’Alembert as I do now.) She took it up with warmth, defended his parts, and said he was extremely amusing.  For her quarrel with him, I never troubled my head about it one way or other; which you will not wonder at.  You know in England we read their works, but seldom or never take any notice of authors.  We think them sufficiently paid if their books sell, and of course leave them to their colleges and obscurity, by which means we are not troubled with their variety and impertinence.  In France, they spoil us; but that was no business of mine.  I, who am an author must own this conduct very sensible; for in truth we are a most useless tribe.