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"What an abandoned
wretch is this Julian! what, call my letter a joke! play at ball
with it, reply not a single line! But all your infidels are alike!
They dare not stand the test of argument; they know their weakness,
and try to turn it off with a jest. Full of vanity and boasting,
they venture not to examine even themselves. They philosophers,
indeed! worthy disciples of Democritus; who DID nothing but laugh,
and WAS nothing but a buffoon. I am rightly served, however, for
beginning a correspondence like this; and still more for writing a
second time."

At dinner, Tremerello took up my wine, poured it into a flask, and
put it into his pocket, observing: "I see that you are in want of
paper;" and he gave me some. He retired, and the moment I cast my
eye on the paper, I felt tempted to sit down and write to Julian a
sharp lecture on his intolerable turpitude and presumption, and so
take leave of him. But again, I repented of my own violence, and
uncharitableness, and finally resolved to write another letter in a
better spirit as I had done before.

I did so, and despatched it without delay. The next morning I
received a few lines, simply expressive of the writer's thanks; but
without a single jest, or the least invitation to continue the
correspondence. Such a billet displeased me; nevertheless I
determined to persevere. Six long letters were the result, for each
of which I received a few laconic lines of thanks, with some
declamation against his enemies, followed by a joke on the abuse he
had heaped upon them, asserting that it was extremely natural the
strong should oppress the weak, and regretting that he was not in
the list of the former. He then related some of his love affairs,
and observed that they exercised no little sway over his disturbed
imagination.

In reply to my last on the subject of Christianity, he said he had
prepared a long letter; for which I looked out in vain, though he
wrote to me every day on other topics--chiefly a tissue of obscenity
and folly.

I reminded him of his promise that he would answer all my arguments,
and recommended him to weigh well the reasonings with which I had
supplied him before he attempted to write. He replied to this
somewhat in a rage, assuming the airs of a philosopher, a man of
firmness, a man who stood in no want of brains to distinguish "a
hawk from a hand-saw." {16} He then resumed his jocular vein, and
began to enlarge upon his experiences in life, and especially some
very scandalous love adventures.



CHAPTER XL.



I bore all this patiently, to give him no handle for accusing me of
bigotry or intolerance, and in the hope that after the fever of
erotic buffoonery and folly had subsided, he might have some lucid
intervals, and listen to common sense. Meantime I gave him
expressly to understand that I disapproved of his want of respect
towards women, his free and profane expressions, and pitied those

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