trouble; such persons are always full of toleration, and it is to them
that my Memoirs are addressed.

I have written in French, and not in Italian, because the French language
is more universal than mine, and the purists, who may criticise in my
style some Italian turns will be quite right, but only in case it should
prevent them from understanding me clearly. The Greeks admired
Theophrastus in spite of his Eresian style, and the Romans delighted in
their Livy in spite of his Patavinity. Provided I amuse my readers, it
seems to me that I can claim the same indulgence. After all, every
Italian reads Algarotti with pleasure, although his works are full of
French idioms.

There is one thing worthy of notice: of all the living languages
belonging to the republic of letters, the French tongue is the only one
which has been condemned by its masters never to borrow in order to
become richer, whilst all other languages, although richer in words than
the French, plunder from it words and constructions of sentences,
whenever they find that by such robbery they add something to their own
beauty. Yet those who borrow the most from the French, are the most
forward in trumpeting the poverty of that language, very likely thinking
that such an accusation justifies their depredations. It is said that the
French language has attained the apogee of its beauty, and that the
smallest foreign loan would spoil it, but I make bold to assert that this
is prejudice, for, although it certainly is the most clear, the most
logical of all languages, it would be great temerity to affirm that it
can never go farther or higher than it has gone. We all recollect that,
in the days of Lulli, there was but one opinion of his music, yet Rameau
came and everything was changed. The new impulse given to the French
nation may open new and unexpected horizons, and new beauties, fresh