Immediately there appeared a number of comic writers, ranged under their respective masters, among whom I saw, with pleasure, Juvenal, Terence, Plautus, Seneca the tragedian, and Greek, Latin, and French authors, ancient and modern. The writer, behind whom they were ranged, decried the manners of his age, and exposed the wickedness of hypocrites, who, abusing all that is sacred in religion, to deceive men, dupe the simple, and gain an unmerited reputation. Who would believe that a man was wicked enough to wish to deceive, at the same time, both God and man? This is what hypocrites do, when under the veil of divine love, and with an air of humility, more haughty than vanity itself, they conceal sensual affections, hatred of brethren, and a licentious life, unknown but to those who participate in it.—A woman wishes to hide from her husband an amorous intrigue; she is at her devotions in the morning, and in the evening still goes to a lecture, where she knows she shall see her friend. Often the church itself is the theatre of a love scene—the preacher, a fine young man, whose manners are more fascinating than his discourse. Frequently some broad-shouldered fellow sets at nought truth, chastity, continence, the money of husbands, and so forth. Affairs of business are conducted on the same principle, as those of love. “Who would believe that this devout man was a usurer: that he had possession, almost for nothing, of the meadow, the vineyard, and the house of a peasant! Oh, this is a holy man! he is full of conscience; every day constantly at church, his piety is exemplary. Behold the fate of a hypocrite: this knavery, is it any thing but a dead loss? for of what service is it to bigots to live in such uneasy constraint, if that does not procure them pleasure, property, or the gratification of their vanity? “And I,” said a woman, “can I be accused of hypocrisy? My virtue, my science, my writings, do they not demonstrate the unfeignedness of my devotion? Should I be spoken of in any other way than as Saint Therese? Have I not had, in that character, apparitions, visions, a spirit of prophecy, and a discernment into the heart and conscience?” “Contemplate, sirs,” said the satirist, “the people of the spirit, if such a thing is not above your comprehension. What is this but to deceive the world by spiritual artifices? What is this incomprehensible new grace? What devotee but has possessed it; and what mystick but has held the same language? Truly, madam, grace is very much obliged to you, and fanaticism owes you thanks; visionaries and lunaticks have gained their causes; the ancient heretics and comforters owe you a statue and a chapel.”