“Confess that thou hast had some trouble to prevent thyself from laughing when I answered all thy civilities with my hat upon my head and with thouing and thee-ing thee (_en te tutoyant_). Yet thou seemest to me too well informed to be ignorant that, in the time of Christ, no nation fell into the ridiculousness of substituting the _plural_ for the singular. They used to say to Cæsar-Augustus: ‘I love thee,’ ‘I pray thee,’ ‘I thank thee.’ He would not allow himself to be called ‘Monsieur’ (_dominus_). It was only a long time after him that men thought of causing themselves to be addressed as _you_ in place of _thou_, as though they were double, and of usurping impertinent titles of grandeur, of eminence, of holiness, of divinity even, which earthworms give to other earthworms, while assuring them with a profound respect (and with an infamous falseness), they are their _very humble and very obedient servants_. It is in order to be upon our guard against this unworthy commerce of lies and of flatteries that we ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ equally kings and kitchen-maids: that we give the ordinary compliments to no one, having for men only charity, and reserving our respect for the laws. We wear a dress a little different from other men, in order that it may be for us a continual warning not to resemble them. Others wear marks of their dignities, we those of Christian humility. We never use _oaths_, not even in law courts: we think that the name of the _Most High_ ought not to be pronounced in the miserable debates of men. When we are forced to appear before the magistrates on others’ business (for we never have law suits ourselves), we affirm the truth by a ‘yes’ or a ‘no,’ and the judges believe us upon our simple word, while so many other Christians perjure themselves upon the _Gospel_. We never go to war. It is not that we fear death, but it is because we are neither tigers, nor wolves, nor dogs, but men, but Christians. Our God, who has told us to love our enemies and to suffer without a murmur, doubtless would not have us cross the sea to go and cut the throats of our brothers, because assassins, clothed in red and in hats of two feet high, enrol citizens to the accompaniment of a noise produced by two little sticks upon the dried skin of an ass. And when, after battles won, all London is brilliant with illuminations, when the sky is in flames with musket shots, when the air re-echoes with sounds of thanksgiving, with bells, with organs, with cannons, we groan in silence over the murders which cause the public light-heartedness.” (_Lettre II._)