In the second place, they objected to several facts which the author had inserted in his book, as well as to the licentiousness of expression he had sometimes indulged; and they said that such facts, and such manner of expression, ought not to be met with in a book written by a good Christian, and much less by a Dean of the Metropolitan Church of Sens, a Canon of the Holy Chapel, and in short by a man invested with an eminent dignity in the Church; in which latter respect they were perhaps right[2]. Among the critics of our author’s book, were the Jesuits of Trevoux; the then conductors of a periodical review, called the _Journal de Trevoux_. The poet Boileau, taking the part of his brother, answered their criticisms by the following epigram. _Non, le livre des Flagellans N’a jamais condamné, lisez le bien mes Peres, Ces rigidités salutaires Que pour ravir le Ciel, saintement violens, Exercent sur leurs corps tant de Chrétiens austères. Il blâme seulement cet abus odieux D’étaler & d’offrir aux yeux Ce que leur doit toûjours cacher la beinséance, Et combat vivement la fausse piété, Qui, sous couleur d’éteindre en nous la volupté, Par l’austérité même & par la pénitence Sait allumer le feu de la lubricité._ The first opportunity I had to see the Abbé Boileau’s book, which is pretty scarce, but which I knew from the above epigram, and other books that mention it, was about ten years ago, in a town of Italy, where it was shewn to me by a Quaker, an Englishman, who lived there; not a Quaker, however, of the common sort, that is, a scrupulous observer of the duties prescribed by his sect; for he wore laced cloaths, and played admirably well on the flute. Having since lighted again on a copy of the same book, I judged that its singularity, and the nature of the facts it contains, rendered it worthy to be laid before the public; and I had the thought of dressing it in vulgar tongue with the less reluctance, as, conformably to the confession I have made in the title-page, I have not the honour to be a doctor of the Sorbonne. However, I found, upon a more attentive examination of the book, that the obscurity and want of meaning of that part of it which properly belongs to the author, who seems to have been as defective in point of clearness of head as his brother the poet was remarkable for that qualification, rendered a translation, impracticable.