The Emperor, stained with every crime, is supposed to have died like a Christian. We hear nothing of fiends leering at him in the shadows of death. He does not see the forms of his murdered wife and son covered with the blood he shed. From his white and shriveled lips issued no shrieks of terror. He does not cover his glazed eyes with thin and trembling hands to shut out the visions of hell. His chamber is filled with the rustle of wings waiting to bear his soul to the thrilling realms of joy. Against the Emperor Constantine the church has hurled no anathema. She has accepted the story of his vision in the clouds, and his holy memory has been guarded by priest and pope. 319. Diderot 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 generous as the air. No man ever was more willing to give, and no man less willing to receive, than Diderot. His motto was, "Incredulity is the first step toward 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 Caesar, an insatiate thirst foi knowledge, 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. 320. Benedict Spinoza