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.