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perly the End; the End of a Social System | reaches downwards and up vards, unsurvey. which for above a thousand years had been able, fading into the regions of Immensity and building itself together, and, after that, had of Eternity. Life everywhere, as woven on begun, for some centuries, (as human things that stupendous ever-marvellous Loom of all do,) to moulder down. The mouldering Time," may be said to fashion itself of a woof down of a Social System is no cheerful busi- of light indeed, yet on a warp of mystic darkness either to form part of, or to look at: how-ness: only he that created it can understand it. ever, at length, in the course of it, there comes As to this Diderot, had we once got so far that a time when the mouldering changes into a we could, in the faintest degree, personate him; rushing; active hands drive in their wedges, take upon ourselves his character and his enset to their crowbars; there is a comfortable vironment of circumstances, and act his Life appearance of work going on. Instead of over again in that small Private-Theatre of here and there a stone falling out, here and ours, (under our own Hat,) with moderate Iltnere a handful of dust, whole masses tumble lusiveness and histrionic effect,-'hat were down, who.e clouds and whirlwinds of dust: what, in conformity with common speech, we torches too are applied, and the rotten easily should name understanding him, and could be takes fire: so what with flame-whirlwind, what abundantly content with. with dust-whirlwind, and the crush of falling towers, the concern grows eminently interesting; and our assiduous craftsmen can encourage one another with Vivats, and cries of 'Speed the work. Add to this, that of all labourers, no one can see such rapid extensive fruit of his labour as the Destroyer can and does: it will not seem unreasonable that measuring from effect to cause, he should esteem his iabour as the best and greatest: and a Voltaire, for example, be by his guild-brethren and apprentices confidently accounted "not only the greatest man of this age, but of all past ages, and perhaps the greatest that Nature could produce." Worthy old Nature! She goes on producing whatsoever is needful in each season of her course; and produces, with perfect composure, that Encyclopedist opinion, that she can produce no more.

Such a torch-and-crowbar period of quick rushing down and conflagration, was this of the Siècle de Louis Quinze; when the Social System having all fallen to rottenness, rainholes, and noisome decay, the shivering natives resolved to cheer their dull abode by the questionable step of setting it on fire. Questionable we call their Manner of procedure; the thing itself, as all men may now see, was inevitable; one way or other, whether by prior burning or milder methods, the old house must needs be new-built. We behold the business of pulling down, or at least of assorting the rubbish, still go resolutely on, all over Europe: here and there some traces of new foundation, of new building up, may now also, to the eye of Hope, disclose themselves. To get acquainted with Denis Diderot and his life were to see the significant epitome of all this, as it works on the thinking and acting soul of a man, fashions for him a singular element of existence, gives himself therein a peculiar hue and figure. Unhappily, after all that has been written, the matter still is not luminous: to us strangers, much in that foreign economy, and method of working and living, remains obscure; much in the man himself, and his inward nature and structure. But, indeed, it is several years since the present Reviewer gave up the idea of what could be called understanding any Man whatever, even himself. Every Man, within that inconsiderable figure of his. contains a whole spiritkingdom and Reflex of the ALL; and though to the eye but some six standard feet in size,

In his manner of appearance before the world, Diderot has been, perhaps to an extreme degree, unfortunate. His literary productions were invariably dashed off in hottest haste, and left generally, (on the waste of Accident,) with an ostrich-like indifference. He had to live, in France, in the sour days of a Journal des Trevoux; of a suspicious, decaying Sorbonne. He was too poor to set foreign presses, at Kehl, or elsewhere, in motion; too headlong and quick of temper to seek help from those that could: thus must he, if his pen was not to lie idle, write much of which there was no publishing. His Papers accordingly are found flying about, like Sybil's leaves, in all corners of the world: for many years no tolerable collection of his Writings was attempted; to this day there is none that in any sense can be called perfect. Two spurious, surreptitious Amsterdam Editions," or rather formless, blundering Agglomerations," were all that the world saw during his life. Diderot did not hear of these for several years, and then only, it is said, "with peals of laughter," and no other practical step whatever. Of the four that have since been printed, (or reprinted, for Naigeon's of 1798, is the great original,) no one so much as pretends either to be complete or selected on any system. Brière's, the latest, of which alone we have much personal knowledge, is a well-printed book, perhaps better worth buying than any of the others; yet without arrangement, without coherence, purport; often lamentably in need of commentary: on the whole, in reference to the wants and specialities of this time, as good as unedited. Brière seems, indeed, to have hired some person, or thing, to play the part of Editor; or rather more things than one, for they sign themselves Editors in the plural number; and from time to time, throughout the work, some asterisk attracts us to the bottom of the leaf, and to some printed matter subscribed "EDITS.": but unhappily the journey is for most part in vain; in the course of a volume or two, we learn two well that nothing is to be gained there; that the Note, whatever it professedly treat of, will, in strict logical speech, mean only as much as to say: "Reader! thou perceivest that we Editors, to the number of at least two, are alive, and if we had any in formation would impart it to thee.-Enrrs." For the rest, these " EDITs." are polite people; and with this uncertainty (as to their being

persons or things) clearly before them, continue, to all appearance, in moderately good spirits. One service they, or Brière for them, (if, indeed, Brière is not himself they, as we sometimes surmise,) have accomplished for us: sought out and printed the long-looked-for, long-lost Life of Diderot by Naigeon. The lovers of biography had for years sorrowed over this concealed Manuscript, with a wistfulness from which hope had nigh fled. A certain Naigeon, the beloved disciple of Diderot, had (if his own word, in his own editorial Preface, was to be credited) written a Life of him; and, alas! whither was it now vanished? Surely all that was dark in Denis the Fatalist had there been illuminated; nay, was there not, probably, a glorious "Light-street" carried through that whole Literary Eighteenth Century? And was not Diderot, long belauded as "the most encyclopedical head that perhaps ever existed," now to show himself as such in,—the new Practical Encyclopedia, philosophic, economic, speculative, digestive, of LIFE, -in three score and ten Years, or Volumes? Diderot too was known as the vividest, noblest talker of his time: considering all that Boswell, with his slender opportunities, had made of Johnson, what was there we had not a right to expect!

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or remembered not as Man, but merely as Philosophic-Atheistic Logic-Mill? Did not Diderot live, as well as think? An amateur reporter in some of the Biographical Dictiona ries declares that he heard him talk one day, in nightgown and slippers, for the space of two hours, concerning earth, sea, and air, with a fulgorous impetuosity almost beyond human, rising from height to height, and at length finish the climax by "dashing his nightcap against the wall." Most readers will admit this to be biography; we, alas, must say, it comprises nearly all about the Man Diderot that hitherto would abide with us.

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By Brière's endeavour, as we said, the concealed Manuscript of Naigeon now lies, as published Volume, on this desk. Alas! a written life, too like many an acted life, where hope is one thing, fulfilment quite another! Perhaps, indeed, of all biographies ever put together by the hand of man, this of Naigeon's is the most uninteresting. Foolish Naigeon! We wanted to see and know how it stood with the bodily man, the clothed, boarded, bedded, working, and warfaring Denis Diderot, in that Paris of his; how he looked and lived, what he did, what he said: had the foolish Biographer so much as told us what colour his stockings were! Of all this, beyond a date or two, not a syllable, not a hint! nothing but a dull, sulky, snuffling, droning, interminable lecture on Atheistic Philosophy; how Diderot came upon Atheism, how he taught it, how true it is, how inexpressibly important. Singular enough, the zeal of the devil's house hath eaten Naigeon up. A man of coarse, mechanical, perhaps intrinsically rather feeble intellect; and then, with the vehemence of some pulpit-drumming Gowkthrapple," or "precious Mr. Jabesh Rentowel," only that his kirk is of the other complexion! Yet must he too see himself in a wholly backsliding world, where much theism and other scandal still rules; and many times Gowkthrapple Naigeon be tempted to weep by the streams of Babel. Withal, how-trait drawn by legitimate rules of art. Such ever, he is wooden; thoroughly mechanical, as resolution to be piquant is the besetting sin of if Vaucanson himself had made him; and that innumerable persons of both sexes, and wofully singularly tempers his fury.-Let the reader, mars any use there might otherwise be in their finally, admire the bounteous produce of this writing or their speaking. It is, or was, the Earth, and how one element bears nothing but fault specially imputed to the French: in a the other matches it: here have we not the woman and Frenchwoman, who besides has truest odium theologicum, working quite demono- much to tell us, it must even be borne with. logically, in a worshipper of the Everlasting And now, from these diverse scattered mateNothing! So much for Naigeon; what we rials, let us try how coherent a figure of Denis looked for from him, and what we have got. Diderot, and his earthly Pilgrimage and PerMust Diderot then be given up to oblivion, formance, we can piece together.

Here, however, comes Paulin, PublishingBookseller," with a quite new contribution: a long series of Letters, extending over fifteen years; unhappily only love-letters, and from a married sexagenarian; yet still letters from his own hand. Amid these insipid floods of tendresse, sensibilité, and so forth, vapid, like long. decanted small-beer, many a curious biographic trait comes to light; indeed, we can hereby see more of the individual Diderot, and his environment, and method of procedure there, than by all the other books that have yet been published of him. Forgetting or conquering the species of nausea that such a business, on the first announcement of it, may occasion, and in many of the details of it cannot but confirm, the biographic reader will find this well worth looking into. Nay, is it not something of itself, to see that Spectacle of the Philosophe in Love, or, at least, zealously endeavouring to fancy himself so? For scientific purposes a considerable tedium, of "noble sentiment" (and even worse things) can be undergone. How the most encyclopedical head that perhaps ever existed, now on the borders of his grand climacteric, and already, provided with wife and child, comports himself in that trying circumstance of preternuptial (and, indeed, at such age, and with so many "indigestions," almost preternatural) devotion to the queens of this earth, may, by the curious in science, (who have nerves for it.) be here seen. There is besides a lively Memoir of him by Mademoiselle Diderot, though too brief, and not very true-looking. Finally, in one large Volume, his Dream of d'Alembert, greatly regretted and commented upon by Naigeon; which we could have done without. For its bulk, that little Memoir is the best of the whole. Unfortunately, as hinted, Mademoiselle, resolute of all things to be piquante, writes, or rather thinks, in a smart, antithetic manner, nowise the fittest for clearness or credibility: without suspicion of voluntary falsehood, there is no appearance that this is a camera-lucida picture, or a por

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In the ancient Town of Langres, in the presses in while some crowd is entering, and month of October, 1713, it begins. Fancy sets off running at full speed; the porter gets Langres, aloft on its hill top, amid Roman at him with a sort of pike he carried, and ruins, nigh the sources of the Saone and of the wounds him in the side: the boy will not be Marne, with its coarse substantial houses, and driven back; arrives, takes the place that befifteen thousand inhabitants, mostly engaged longed to him: prizes of all sorts, for composi in knife-grinding; and one of the quickest, tion, for memory, for poetry, he obtains them clearest, most volatile, and susceptive little all. No doubt he had deserved them; since figures of that century, just landed in the even the resolution to punish him could not World there. In this French Sheffield, Dide- withstand the sense of justice in his superiors. rot's Father was a Cutler, master of his craft; Several volumes, a number of garlands had a much-respected and respect-worthy man; fallen to his lot; being too weak to carry them one of those ancient craftsmen (now, alas! all, he put the garlands round his neck, and, nearly departed from the earth, and sought, with his arms full of books, returned home. with little effect, by idyllists, among the "Scot- His mother was at the door; and saw him tish peasantry," and elsewhere) who, in the coming through the public square in this school of practice, have learned not only skill equipment, and surrounded by his school-felof hand, but the far harder skill of head and lows: one should be a mother to conceive of heart; whose whole knowledge and virtue, what she must have felt. He was feasted, he being by necessity a knowledge and virtue to was caressed: but next Sunday, in dressing do somewhat, is true, and has stood trial: him for church, a considerable wound was humble modern patriarchs, brave, wise, sim- found on him, of which he had not so much as pie; of worth rude, but unperverted, like thought of complaining." genuine unwrought silver, native from the mine! Diderot loved his father, as he well might, and regrets on several occasions that he was painted in holiday clothes, and not in the workday costume of his trade, "with apron and grinder's-wheel, and spectacles pushed up,"-even as he lived and laboured, and honestly made good for himself the small section of the Universe he pretended to occupy. A man of strictest veracity and integrity was this ancient master; of great insight and patient discretion, so that he was often chosen as umpire and adviser; of great humanity, so that one day crowds of poor were to "follow him with tears to his long home." An outspoken Langres neighbour gratified the now fatherless Philosopher with this saying "Ah, Monsieur Diderot, you are a famous man, bu you will never be your father's equal." Truly. of all the wonderful illustrious persons that come to view in the biographic part of these six-and-twenty Volumes, it is a question whether this old Langres Cutler is not the worthiest; to us no other suggests himself whose worth can be admitted, without lamentable pollutions and defacements to be deducted from it. The Mother also was a loving-hearted, just woman: so Diderot might account himself well-born: and it is a credit to the man that he always (and sometimes in the circle of kings and empresses) gratefully did so.

"One of the sweetest moments of my life," writes Diderot himself, of this same business, with a slight variation, “was more than thirty years ago, and I remember it like yesterday, when my Father saw me coming home from the college, with my arms full of prizes that I had carried off, and my shoulders with the garlands they had given me, which, being too big for my brow, had let my head slip through them. Noticing me at a distance, he threw down his work, hastened to the door to meet me, and could not help weeping. It is a fine sight, a true man and rigorous falling to weep!"

The Jesuits were his schoolmasters: at the age of twelve, the encyclopedical head was r tonsured." He was quick in seizing, strong m remembering and arranging; otherwise flighty enough; fond of sport, and from time to time getting into trouble. One grand event, significant of all this, he has himself commemorated: his Daughter records it in these

terms.

"He had chanced to have a quarrel with his comrades: it had been serious enough to bring on him a sentence of exclusion from college on some day of public examination and distribution of prizes. The idea of passing this important time at home, and grieving his parents, was intolerable: he proceeded to the college gate; the porter refused him admittance; he

Mademoiselle, in her quick-sparkling way, informs us, nevertheless, that the school-victor, getting tired of pedagogic admonitions and indictions, whereof there were many, said "one morning" to his father, “that he meant to give up school!"-"Thou hadst rather be a cutler, then?"-" With all my heart."-They handed him an apron, and he placed himself beside his father. He spoiled whatever he laid hands on, penknives, whittles, blades of all kinds. It went on for four or five days; at the end of which he rose, proceeded to his room, got his books there, and returned to college,-and having, it would appear, in this simple manner sown his college wild-oats, never stirred from it again.

To the Reverend Fathers, it seemed that Denis would make an excellent Jesuit; wherefore they set about coaxing and courting, with intent to crimp him. Here, in some mi ls, a certain comfortable reflection on the diabolic cunning and assiduity of these Holy Fathers, now happily all dissolved and expelled, will suggest itself. Along with which may another melancholy reflection no less be in place: namely, that these Devil-serving Jesuits should have shown a skill and zeal in their teaching vocation, such as no Heaven-serving body, of what complexion soever, anywhere on our earth now exhibits. To decipher the talent of a young vague Capability, who must one day be a man and a Reality; to take him by the hand, and train him to a spiritual trade, and set him up in it, with tools, shop, and good

will, were doing him in most cases an unspeakable service,-on this one proviso, it is true, that the trade be a just and honest one; in which proviso surely there should lie no hinderance to such servive, but rather a help. Nay, could many a poor Dermody, Hazlitt, Heron, Derrick, and such like, have been trained to be a good Jesuit, were it greatly worse than to have lived painfully as a bad Nothing-at-all? But indeed, as was said, the Jesuits are dissolved; and Corporations of all sorts have perished, (from corpulence;) and now, instead of the seven corporate selfish spirits, we have the one-and-thirty millions of discorporate selfish; and the rule, Man, mind thyself, makes a jumble and a scramble, and crushing press (with dead-pressed figures, and dismembered limbs enough;) into whose dark chaotic depths (for human Life is ever unfathomable) one shudders to look. Loneliest of all, weakest and worst-bested, in that world-scramble, is the extraordinary figure known in these times as Man of Letters! It appears to be indubitable that this state of matters will alter and improve itself, in a century or two. But to re

turn:

"The Jesuits," thus sparkles Mademoiselle, "employed the temptation, which is always so seductive, of travelling and of liberty; they persuaded the youth to quit his home, and set forth with a Jesuit, to whom he was attached. Denis had a friend, a cousin of his own age; he intrusted his secret to him, wishing that he should accompany them. But the cousin, a tamer and discreeter personage, discovered the whole project to the father; the day of departure, the hour, all was betrayed. My grandfather kept the strictest silence; but before going to sleep he carried off the keys of the street door; and at midnight, hearing his son descend, he presented himself before him, with the question, Whither bound, at such an hour?' 'To Paris,' replied the young man, where I am to join the Jesuits.'-That will not be tonight; but your desires shall be fulfilled: let us in the first place go to sleep.'

"Next morning his father engaged two places in the public conveyance, and carried him to Paris, to the College d'Harcourt. He settled the terms of his little establishment, and bade his son good-bye. But the worthy man loved his child too well to leave him without being quite satisfied about his situation he had the constancy to stay a fortnight longer, killing the time, and dying of tedium, in an inn, without seeing the sole object he was delaying for. At the end, he proceeded to the College; and my father has often told me that this proof of tenderness would have made him go to the end of the world, if the old man had required it. Friend,' said he, 'I am come to know if your health keeps good; if you are content with your superiors, with your diet, with others, and with yourself. If you are not well, if you are not happy, we will go back again to your mother. If you like better to emain here, I have but to speak a word with you, to embrace you, and give you my blessing. The youth assured him that he was perfectly contented, that he liked his new abode very much. My grandfather then took leave

of him, and went to the Principal, to know if he was satisfied with his pupil."

On which side also the answer proving favourable, the worthy father returned home. Denis saw little more of him; never again resided under his roof, though for many years, and to the last, a proper intercourse was kept up; not, as appears, without a visit or two on the son's part, and certainly with the most unwearied, prudent superintendence and assist ance on the father's. Indeed, it was a worthy family, that of the Diderots; and a fair degree of natural affection must be numbered among the virtues of our Philosophe. Those scenes about rural Langres, and the old homely way of life there, as delineated fictitiously in the Entretien d'un Père avec ses Enfans, and now more fully, as a matter of fact, in this justpublished Correspondance, are of a most innocent, cheerful, peacefully-secluded character; more pleasing, we might almost say more poetical, than could elsewhere be gathered out of Diderot's whole Writings. Denis was the eldest of the family, and much looked up to, with all his short-comings: there was a Brother, who became a clergyman; and a truehearted, sharpwitted Sister, who remained unmarried, and at times tried to live in partnership with this latter,-rather unsuccessfully. The Clergyman being a conscientious, even straight-laced man, and Denis such as we know, they had, natural ly enough, their own difficulties to keep on brotherly terms; and indeed, at length, abandoned the task as hopeless. The Abbé stood rigorous by his Breviary, from time to time addressing solemn monitious to the lost Philosophe, who also went on his way. He is somewhat snarled at by the Denisian side of the house for this; but surely without ground: it was his virtue rather; at lowest his destiny. The true Priest, who could, or should, look peaceably on an Encyclopédie, is yet perhaps waited for in the world; and of all false things, is not a false Priest the falsest ?

Meanwhile Denis, at the College d'Harcourt, learns additional Greek and Mathematics, and quite loses taste for the Jesuit career. Mad pranks enough he played, we doubt not; followed by reprimands. He made several friends, however; got intimate with the Abbé Bernis, poet at that time; afterwards Cardinal. “They used to dine together, for six sous a-piece, at the neighbouring Traiteur's; and I have often heard him vaunt the gayety of these repasts.

"His studies being finished," continues Mademoiselle, "his father wrote to M. Clement de Ris, a Procureur at Paris, and his countryman, to take him as boarder, that he might study Jurisprudence and the Laws. He continued here two years; but the business of actes and inventaires had few charms for him. All the time he could steal from the office-desk was employed in prosecuting Latin and Greek, in which he thought himself still imperfect; Mathematics, which he to the last continued passionately fond of; Italian, English, &c. In the end he gave himself up so completely to his taste for letters, that M. Clement thought it right to inform his father how ill the youth was employing his time. My grandfather then expressly commissioned M. Clement to urge

and constrain him to make choice of some profession, and once for all to become Doctor, Procureur, or Advocate. My father begged time to think of it; time was given. At the end of several months these proposals were again laid before him: he answered that the profession of Doctor did not please him, for he That Diderot, during all this period, escaped could not think of killing any body; that the starvation, is plain enough by the result: but Procureur business was too difficult to execute how he specially accomplished that, and the with delicacy; that he would willingly choose other business of living, remains mostly left the profession of Advocate, were it not that he to conjecture. Mademoiselle, confined at any felt an invincible repugnance to occupy him-rate within narrow limits, continues as usual self all his life with other people's business. too intent on sparkling: is brillante and pétillante, 'But,' said M. Clement, what will you be rather than lucent and illuminating. How inthen-On my word, nothing, nothing what- ferior, for seeing with, is your brightest train ever, (Ma foi, rien, mais rien du tout.) I love of fireworks to the humblest farthing candle! study; 1 am very happy, very content, and Who Diderot's companions, friends, enemies, want no.hing else."" patrons were, what his way of life was, what the Paris he lived in and from his garret looked down on was, we learn only in hints, dislocated, enigmatic. It is in general to be impressed on us, that young Denis, as a sort of spiritual swashbuckler, who went about conquering Destiny, in light rapier-fence, by way of amusement; or at lowest, in reverses, gracefully insulting her with mock reverences,-lived and acted like no other man; all which being freely admitted, we ask, with small increase of knowledge, How he did act then?

Here clearly is a youth of spirit, determined to take the world on the broadside, and eat thereof, and be filled. His decided turn, like that of so many others, is for the trade of sovereign prince, in one shape or other; unhappily, however, the capital and outfit to set it up is wanting. Under which circumstances, nothing remains but to instruct M. Clement de Ris that no more board-wages will henceforth be paid, and the young sovereign may, at his earliest convenience, be turned out of doors.

What Denis, perched aloft in his own-hired attic, may have thought of it now, does not appear. The good old Father, in stopping his allowance, had reasonably enough insisted on one of two things: either that he should betake him to some intelligible method of existence, wherein all help should be furnished him; or else return home within the week. Neither of which could Denis think of doing. A similar demand continued to be reiterated for the next ten years, but always with the like none-effect. King Denis, in his furnished attic, with or without money to pay for it, was now living and reigning, like other kings, "by the grace of God;" and could nowise resolve to abdicate. A sanguineous, vehement, volatile mortal; young, and in so wide an earth, it seemed to him next to impossible but he must find gold-mines there. He lived, while victual was to be got, taking no thought for the morrow. He had books, he had merry company, a whole piping and dancing Paris round him; he could teach Mathematics, he could turn himself so many ways; nay, might not he become a Mathematician one day; a glorified Savant, and strike the stars with his sublime head! Meanwhile he is like to be overtaken by one of the sharpest of human calamities, "cleanness of teeth."

"

little toast and wine; he goes to bed. That day,' he has often said to me, 'I swore that, if ever I came to have any thing, I would never in my life refuse a poor man help, never condemn my fellow-creatures to a day as painful.""

He gave lessons in Mathematics, we find; but with the princeliest indifference as to payment: "was his scholar lively, and prompt of conception, he sat by him teaching all day; did he chance on a blockhead, he returned not back. They paid him in books, in movables, in linen, in money, or not at all; it was quite the same." Farther, he made Sermons, (to order;) as the Devil is said to quote Scripture: a Missionary bespoke half-a-dozen of him (of Denis, that is) for the Portuguese Colonies, and paid for them very handsomely at fifty crowns each. Once, a family Tutorship came in his way, with tolerable appointments, but likewise with incessant duties: at the end of three months, he waits upon the house-father with this abrupt communication: "I am come, Monsieur, to request you to seek a new tutor; I cannot remain with you any longer."-" But, Monsieur Diderot, what is your grievance? Have you too little salary? I will double it. Are you ill-lodged? Choose your apartment. Is your table ill-served! Order your own dinner. All will be cheap to parting with you.” "Monsieur, look at me: a citron is not so yellow as my face. I am making men of your children; but every day I am becoming a child with them. I feel a hundred times too rich and two well off in your house; yet I must leave it: the object of my wishes is not to live better, but to keep from dying."

Mademoiselle grants that, if sometimes

"One Shrove Tuesday morning, he rises, gropes in his pocket; he has not wherewith to dine; will not trouble his friends who have not invited him. This day, which in child-"drunk with gayety," he was often enough hood he had so often passed in the middle of plunged in bitterness; but then a Newtonian relations who adored him, becomes sadder by problem, a fine thought, or any small godsend remembrance: he cannot work; he hopes to of that sort, would instantly cheer him again. dissipate his melancholy by a walk; goes to The "gold mines" had not yet come to light the Invalides, to the Courts, to the Bibliothèque Meanwhile, between him and starvation we du Roi, to the Jardin des Plantes. You may can still discern Langres covertly stretching drive away tedium; but you cannot give hunger out its hand. Of any Langres man, coming the slip. He returns to his quarters; on enter- in his way, Denis frankly borrows; and the ing he feels unwell; the landlady gives him a good old Father refuses not to pay. The

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