es gave
rise to a slight element of discord, but a stranger would never have
noticed it if he had not been told.

Fifty years ago a wise man said to me: "Every family is troubled by some
small tragedy, which should be kept private with the greatest care. In
fine, people should learn to wash their dirty linen in private."

The marchioness paid me great attention during the five days I spent at
Pesaro. In the day she drove me from one country house to another, and at
night she introduced me to all the nobility of the town.

The marquis might have been fifty then. He was cold by temperament, had
no other passion but that of study, and his morals were pure. He had
founded an academy of which he was the president. Its design was a fly,
in allusion to his name Mosca, with the words 'de me ce', that is to say,
take away 'c' from 'musca' and you have 'musa'.

His only failing was that which the monks regard as his finest quality,
he was religious to excess, and this excess of religion went beyond the
bounds where 'nequit consistere rectum'.

But which is the better, to go beyond these bounds, or not to come up to
them? I cannot venture to decide the question. Horace says,--

"Nulla est mihi religio!"

and it is the beginning of an ode in which he condemns philosophy for
estranging him from religion.

Excess of every kind is bad.

I left Pesaro delighted with the good company I had met, and only sorry I
had not seen the marquis's brother who was praised by everyone.

CHAPTER XX

A Jew Named Mardocheus Becomes My Travelling Companion--He Persuades Me
to Lodge in His House--I Fall in Love With His Daughter Leah--After a
Stay of Six Weeks I Go to Trieste

Some time elapsed before I had time to examine the Marquis of Mosca's
collection of Latin poets, amongst which the 'Priapeia' found no place.

No doubt this work bore witness to his love for literature but not to his
learning, for there was nothing of his own in it. All he had done was to
classify each fragment in chronological order. I should have liked to see
notes, comments, explanations, and such like; but there was nothing of
the kind. Besides, the type was not elegant, the margins were poor, the
paper common, and misprints not infrequent. All these are bad faults,
especially in a work which should have become a classic. Consequently,
the book was not a profitable one; and as the marquis was not a rich man
he was occasionally reproached by his wif