AUTHOR. My dear friend, I am old, I am attacked by a fit of wisdom. Miserere mei.
FRIEND. Gourmands will read you because you do them justice, and assign them their suitable rank in society.
AUTHOR. Well, that is true. It is strange that they have so long been misunderstood; I look on the dear Gourmands with paternal affection. They are so kind and their eyes are so bright.
FRIEND. Besides, did you not tell me such a book was needed in every library.
AUTHOR. I did. It is the truth—and I would die sooner than deny it.
FRIEND: Ah! you are convinced! You will come home with me?
AUTHOR. Not so. If there be flowers in the author's path, there are also thorns. The latter I leave to my heirs.
FRIEND. But then you disinherit your friends, acquaintances and cotemporaries. Dare you do so?
AUTHOR. My heirs! my heirs! I have heard that shades of the departed are always flattered by the praise of the living; this is a state of beatitude I wish to reserve myself for the other world.
FRIEND. But are you sure that the praise you love so, will come to the right address? Are you sure of the exactness of your heirs?