Author. (Quickly.) On my word, that is true.  He wrote the Temple of Gnidus, and it would not be difficult to sustain that there is more real utility in meditating on what is at once a necessity, a pleasure, and an occupation every day of our lives, than in telling what was done and said a thousand years ago by two mad people, one of whom pursued through the woods of Greece the other, who had not the least disposition to escape.

Friend.  Ah! ha!  Now you yield?

Author.  Not I. The ass’s ear of the author only was shown; and this recalls to my memory a scene of English comedy, which amused me very much; it is, I think, in the play called the Natural Daughter.  You shall see, however, for yourself. [Footnote:  The reader will observe that my friend permits me to be familiar with him, without taking advantage of it.  The reason is, that the difference between our ages is that of a father and a son, and that, though now a man of great note and importance in every respect, he would be completely overcome with grief if I changed my bearing towards him.] The subject relates to the Quakers, that sect which uses “thee” and “thou” to everybody, which dresses simply, never go to war, never swear or act with passion, and who never get angry.  The hero of this piece is a young and handsome Quaker, who appears on the scene in a brown coat, a broad-brimmed hat, and slick hair!  All this, though, does not keep him from being in love.

A fool who is his rival, emboldened by his exterior, ridicules and outrages him so that the young man gradually becoming excited, and finally made furious, gives his assailant a severe thrashing.

Having done this he at once resumes his habitual deportment and says, sadly, “Alas! the flesh is too mighty for the spirit.”

Thus say I, and after a brief hesitation resume my first opinion.

Friend.  That is impossible.  You have shown your ear; you are a prize, and I will take you to my bookseller.  I will tell you who has gotten wind of your secret.

Author.  Do not; for I would speak of yourself, and who knows what I would say?

Friend.  What could you say?  Do not think you can intimidate me.

Author.  I will not say that our native city [Footnote:  Belley, capital of Bugey, where high mountains, hills, vines, limpid streams, cascades, dells, gardens of a hundred square leagues are found, and where, before the revolution, the people were able to control the other two orders.] is proud of having given you birth.  At the age of twenty-four you published an elementary book, which from that day has become a classic.  A deserved reputation has attracted confidence to you.  Your skill revives invalids; your dexterity animates them; your sensibility consoles them.  All know this; but I will reveal to all Paris, to all France, the sole fault of which I know you guilty.

Friend. (Seriously.) What do you mean?