DIDEROT was born in 1713. His parents were in what may be called the
humbler walks of life. Like Voltaire he was educated by the Jesuits. He
had in him something of the vagabond, and was for several years almost a
beggar in Paris. He was endeavoring to live by his pen. In that day and
generation, a man without a patron, endeavoring to live by literature,
was necessarily almost a beggar. He nearly starved--frequently going for
days without food. Afterward, when he had something himself, he was as
generous as the air. No man ever was more willing to give, and no man
less willing to receive, than Diderot.
He wrote upon all conceivable subjects, that he might have bread. He
even wrote sermons, and regretted it all his life. He and D'Alembert
were the life and soul of the Encyclopaedia. With infinite enthusiasm he
helped to gather the knowledge of the world for the use of each and all.
He harvested the fields of thought, separated the grain from the
straw and chaff, and endeavored to throw away the seeds and fruit of
superstition. His motto was, "_Incredulity is the first step towards
philosophy_."
He had the vices of most Christians--was nearly as immoral as the
majority of priests. His vices he shared in common, his virtues were his
own. All who knew him united in saying that he had the pity of a woman,
the generosity of a prince, the self-denial of an anchorite, the courage
of Cæsar, and the enthusiasm of a poet. He attacked with every power
of his mind the superstition of his day. He said what he thought. The
priests hated him. He was in favor of universal education--the church
despised it. He wished to put the knowledge of the whole world within
reach of the poorest.
He wished to drive from the gate of the Garden of Eden the cherubim of
superstition, so that the child of Adam might return to eat once more
the fruit of the tree of knowledge. Every Catholic was his enemy. His
poor little desk was ransacked by the police searching for manuscripts
in which something might be found that would justify the imprisonment of
such a dangerous man. Whoever, in 1750, wished to increase the knowledge
of mankind was regarded as the enemy of social order.
The intellectual superstructure of France rests upon the Encyclopaedia.
The knowledge given to the people was the impulse, the commencement,
of the revolution that left the church without an altar and the king
without a throne. Diderot thought for himself, and bravely gave his
thoughts to others. For this reason he was regarded as a criminal. He
did not expect his reward in another world. He did not do what he did to
please some imaginary God. He labored for mankind. He wished to lighten
the burdens of those who should live after him. Hear these noble words:
"The more man ascends through the past, and the more he launches into
the future, the greater he will be, and all these philosophers and
ministers and truth-telling men who have fallen victims to the stupidity
of nations, the atrocities of priests, the fury of tyrants, what
consolation was left for them in death? This: That prejudice would
pass, and that posterity would pour out the vial of ignominy upon
their enemies. O Posterity! Holy and sacred stay of the unhappy and
the oppressed; thou who art just, thou who art incorruptible, thou who
findest the good man, who unmaskest the hypocrite, who breakest down
the tyrant, may thy sure faith, thy consoling faith never, never abandon
me!" Posterity is for the philosopher what the other world is for the
devotee.
Diderot took the ground that, if orthodox religion be true Christ was
guilty of suicide. Having the power to defend himself he should have
used it.
Of course it would not do for the church to allow a man to die in
peace who had added to the intellectual wealth of the world. The moment
Diderot was dead, Catholic priests began painting and recounting the
horrors of his expiring moments. They described him as overcome with
remorse, as insane with fear; and these falsehoods have been repeated
by the Protestant world, and will probably be repeated by thousands of
ministers after we are dead. The truth is, he had passed his three-score
years and ten. He had lived for seventy-one years. He had eaten his
supper. He had been conversing with his wife. He was reclining in
his easy chair. His mind was at perfect rest. He had entered, without
knowing it, the twilight of his last day. Above the horizon was the
evening star, telling of sleep. The room grew still and the stillness
was lulled by the murmur of the street. There were a few moments of
perfect peace. The wife said, "He is asleep." She enjoyed his repose,
and breathed softly that he might not be disturbed. The moments wore on,
and still he slept. Lovingly, softly, at last she touched him. Yes, he
was asleep. He had become a part of the eternal silence.