“‘Are not the things of which I am about to speak unjust and unreasonable? We condemn every trifle in our neighbors, and excuse ourselves in things of importance; we want to sell very dearly, and to buy very cheaply; we desire that justice should be executed in another man’s house, but mercy and connivance in our own; we would have everything we say taken in good part, but we are delicate and touchy with regard to what others say of us; we would insist on our neighbor parting with his goods, and taking our money; but is it not more reasonable that he should keep his goods, and leave us our money? We take it ill that he will not accommodate us; but has he not more reason to be offended that we should desire to incommode him?... On all occasions, we prefer the rich before the poor, although they be neither of better condition, nor more virtuous; we even prefer those who are best clad. We rigorously exact our own dues, but we desire that others should be gentle in demanding theirs: we keep our own rank with precision, but would have others humble and condescending; we complain easily of our neighbors, but none must complain of us; what we do for others seems always very considerable, but what others do for us seems as nothing. We have two balances: one to weigh to our own advantage, and the other to weigh in to the detriment of our neighbor. _Deceitful lips_, says the Scripture, _have spoken with a double heart_; and to have two weights, the one greater, with which we receive, and the other less, with which we deliver, is an abominable thing in the sight of God.’” “The book must be interesting,” said I. “You must lend it to me.” “Candidly, George,” my cousin answered, somewhat to my surprise, “you had better select something else for your reading; for, if you wish merely to pass away the time in its perusal, it will most certainly disappoint you, and you will find it dry and dull. If, indeed, you desire to read it with a motive corresponding to the author’s aim in writing it, that’s quite another affair. The book is for the heart and the soul, not for the calculating head and worldly mind. There’s nothing about it of what your admired Carlyle calls _dilettanteism_, and its object is your welfare—not in this world, but in the next.” “In what language,” I inquired, “was this work written?” “In French, of course.” “But Francis of Sales was, you say, a Savoyard?” “True,” replied Dick; “what then?” “Why, perhaps he didn’t write pure French?” “Perhaps not. You are an American, are you not, George?” “Of course I am; what then?”