I was in hopes, my dear Aza, to have made a friend of the learned Cusipata; but a second visit from him has destroyed that good opinion which the first had given me: In short, we have quarrelled.

At first he appeared to me gentle and sincere, but in the last visit he appeared all rudeness and falsehood.

My mind being easy with regard to the object of my tenderness, I desired him to satisfy my curiosity concerning the wonderful men who write books: I began by enquiring what rank they held in the world; what acts of veneration were paid to them; and in fine, what were the honours and triumphs conferred on them, for so many blessings as they bestowed on society.

I know not how my questions were productive of mirth; but he smiled at every one of them, and answered me in so uncertain a manner, that it was easy to perceive he deceived me.

Ought I to believe that persons who understand and delineate so well the nicest delicacies of virtue, should not be possessed of more; nay, that they should sometimes be possessed of less than other men? Can I believe that interest can be the guide of a labour more than human, and that so many pains are rewarded only by a few compliments, or at most a little money?

Can I persuade myself, that in this haughty nation, men of an acknowledged superior understanding, are reduced to the sad necessity of selling their thoughts, as people sell the poorest productions of the earth for bread?

Falsehood, my dear Aza, is no less displeasing to me when it appears through the thin veil of pleasantry, than when concealed under a thick mask of gravity: This behaviour of the Father provoked me, and I did not descend even to give him an answer.