scoundrels who keep terms with none; could the enemies of reason, the
persecutors of philosophers, the assassins of our kings, still dare to
lift up their voices in such a century as that? "Men are on the eve of a
great revolution in the human mind, and it is you to whom they are most
of all indebted for it."[149]

More than once Voltaire entreated Diderot to finish his work in a
foreign country where his hands would be free. "No," said Diderot in a
reply of pathetic energy; "to abandon the work is turning our back upon
the breach, and to do precisely what the villains who persecute us
desire. If you knew with what joy they have learnt D'Alembert's
desertion! It is not for us to wait until the government have punished
the brigands to whom they have given us up. Is it for us to complain,
when they associate with us in their insults men who are so much better
than ever we shall be? What ought we to do then? Do what becomes men of
courage,--despise our foes, follow them up, and take advantage, as we
have done, of the feebleness of our censors. If D'Alembert resumes, and
we complete our work, is not that vengeance enough?... After all this,
you will believe that I cling at any price to the Encyclopaedia, and you
will be mistaken. My dear master, I am over forty. I am tired out with
tricks and shufflings. I cry from morning till night for rest, rest; and
scarcely a day passes when I am not tempted to go and live in obscurity
and die in peace in the depths of my old country. There comes a time
when all ashes are mingled. Then what will it boot me to have been
Voltaire or Diderot, or whether it is your three syllables or my three
syllables that survive? One must work, one must be useful, one owes an
account of one's gifts, etcetera, etcetera. Be useful to men! Is it
quite clear that one does more than amuse them, and that there is much
difference between the philosopher and the flute-player? They listen to
one or the other with pleasure or disdain, and remain what they were.
The Athenians were never wickeder than in the time of Socrates, and
perhaps all that they owe to his existence is a crime the more. That
there is more spleen than good sense in all this, I admit--and back I go
to the Encyclopaedia."[150]

Thus for seven years the labour of conducting the vast enterprise fell
upon Diderot alone. He had not only to write articles upon the most
exhausting and various kinds of subjects; he had also to distribute
topics amon