天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》 《屋顶间的哲学家》 Preface EMILE SOUVESTRE No one succeeds in obtaining a promi pla literature, or insurrounding himself with a faithful and steady circle of admirers drawnfrom the fickle masses of the publiless he possesses inality,stant variety, and a distinct personality. It is quite possible togain for a moment a few readers by imitating some inal feature inanother; but these soon vanish and the writer remains alone andfotten. Others, again, without belonging to any distinct group ofauthors, having found their standard in themselves, moralists andeducators at the same time, have obtained undying reition. Of the latter class, though little known outside of France, is EmileSouvestre, who was born in Morlaix, April 15, 1806, and died at ParisJuly 5, 1854. He was the son of a civil engineer, was educated at thecollege of Pontivy, and inteo follow his fathers career byentering the Polyteic School. His father, however, died in 1823, andSouvestre matriculated as a law-student at Rennes. But the young studentsooed himself eo literature. His first essay, a tragedy,Le Siege de Missolonghi (1828), ronounced failure. Disheartenedand disgusted he left Paris aablished himself fi
rst as a lawyer inMorlaix. Then he became proprietor of a neer, and was afterointed a professor i and in Mulhouse. In 1836 he tributedto the Revue des Deux Mondes some sketches of life in Brittany, whichobtained a brilliant success. Souvestre was soon made editor of La Revuede Paris, and in sequence early found a publisher for his first novel,LEchelle de Femmes, which, as was the case with his sed work,Riche et Pauvre, met with a very favorable reception. His reputationwas now made, aween this period and his death he gave to Franceabout sixty volumes--tales, novels, essays, history, and drama. A double purpose was always very spicuous in his books: he aspired tothe role of a moralist and educator, and was likewise a most impressivepainter of the life, character, and morals of the inhabitants ofBrittany. The most signifit of his books are perhaps Les Derniers Bretons(1835-1837, 4 vols.), Pierre Landais (1843, 2 vols.), Le Foyer Breton(1844, 2 vols.), Un Philosophe sooits, ed by the Academy(1850), fessions dun Ouvrier (1851), Recits et Souvenirs (1853),Souvenirs dun Vieillard (1854); also La Bretagtoresque (1845),and, finally, Causeries Historiques et Litteraires (1854, 2 vols.). Hisedies deserve honorable mention: Henri Hamelin, LOncle Baptiste(1842), La Parisienne, Le Mousse, et 1848, Souvestre ointedprofessor of the newly created school of administration, mostly devotedto popular lectures. He held this post till 1853, le99lib?cturing partly inParis, partly in Switzerland. His death, when paratively young, left a distinct gap ieraryworld. A life like his could not be extinguished without general sorrow. Although he was unduly modest, and never aspired to the role of a bea-light in literature, always seeking to remain in obscurity, the works ofEmile Souvestre must be placed in the first rank by their morality and bytheir instructive character. They will always and the entire resped applause of mankind. And thus it happens that, like many others, hewas only fully appreciated after his death. Even those of his freres who did not seem to esteem him, when alive,suddenly found out that they had experienced a great loss in his demise. They expressed it iional panegyrcs; poraneous literaturediscovered that virtue had flown from its bosom, and the French Academy,which had at its proper time ed his Philosophe sooits as awork tributing supremely to morals, kept his memreen by bestowingon his widow the "Prix Lambert," designed for the "families of authorswho by their iy, and by the probity of their efforts have welldeserved this token from the Republique des Lettres." JOSEPH BERTRAND CHAPTER I NEW-YEARS GIFTS January 1st The day of the month came into my mind as soon as I awoke. Another yearis separated from the of ages, and drops into the gulf of the past! The crowd hasten to wele her young sister. But while all looks areturoward the future, mi to the past. Everyone smiles uponthe new queen; but, in spite of myself, I think of her whom time has justed in her winding-sheet. The past year!--at least I know what shewas, and what she has given me; while this one es surrounded by allthe forebodings of the unknown. What does she hide in the clouds thatmantle her? Is it the storm or the sunshine? Just now it rains, and Ifeel my mind as gloomy as the sky. I have a holiday today; but what e do on a rainy day? I walk up and down my attic out of temper, and Idetermio light my fire. Unfortuhe matches are bad, the ey smokes, the wood goes out! I throw down my bellows in disgust, and sink into my old armchair. In truth, why should I rejoice to see the birth of a new year? All thosewho are already ireets, with holiday looks and smiling faces--dothey uand what makes them so gay? Do they even know what is themeaning of this holiday, or whenes the of New-Years gifts? Here my mind pauses to prove to itself its superiority over that of thevulgar. I make a parenthesis in my ill-temper in favor of my vanity, andI bring together all the evidence which my knowledge produce. (The old Romans divided the year into ten months only; it was NumaPompilius who added January and February. The former took its name fromJanus, to whom it was dedicated. As it opehe new year, theysurrous beginning with good omens, and thence came the ofvisits between neighbors, of wishing happiness, and of New-Years gifts. The presents given by the Romans were symbolic. They sisted s, dates, honeyb, as emblems of "the sweetness of the auspider which the year should begin its course," and a small pieoneycalled stips, which foreboded riches.) Here I close the parenthesis, aurn to my ill-humor. The littlespeech I have just addressed to myself has restored me my self-satisfa, but made me more dissatisfied with others. I could nowenjoy my breakfast; but the portress has fotten my ms milk, a of preserves is empty! Anyone else would have been vexed: as forme, I affect the most supreme indifferehere remains a hard crust,which I break by main strength, and which I carelessly nibble, as a manfar above the vanities of the world and of fresh rolls. However, I do not know why my thoughts should grow mloomy by reasonof the difficulties of mastication. I once read the story of anEnglishman who hanged himself because they had brought him his teawithout sugar. There are hours in life whbbr>.en the most trifling crosstakes the form of a calamity. Our tempers are like an lass, whichmakes the object small reat acc to the end you look through. Usually, the prospect that opens out before my window delights me. It isa mountain-range of roofs, with ridges crossing, interlag, and piledon one another, and upon which tall eys raise their peaks. It wasbut yesterday that they had an Alpine aspee, and I waited for thefirst snowstorm to see glaciers among them; to-day, I only see tiles andstone flues. The pigeons, which assisted my rural illusions, seem nomore than miserable birds which have mistaken the roof for the back yard;the smoke, which rises in light clouds, instead of making me dream of thepanting of Vesuvius, reminds me of kit preparations and dishwater;and lastly, the telegraph, that I see far off on the old tower ofMontmartre, has the effect of a vile gallows stretg its arms over thecity. My eyes, thus hurt by all they meet, fall upon the great mans housewhich faces my attic. The influence of New-Years Day is visible there. The servants have anair of eagerness proportioo the value of their New-Years gifts,received or expected. I see the master of the house crossing the courtwith the morose look of a man who is forced to be generous; and thevisitors increase, followed by shop porters who carry flowers, bandboxes,or toys. Suddenly the great gates are opened, and a new carriage, drawnby thhbred horses, draws up before the doorsteps. They are, withoutdoubt, the New-Years gift preseo the mistress of the house by herhusband; for she es herself to look at the new equipage. Very soos into it with a little girl, all streaming with laces, feathersas, and loaded with parcels which she goes to distribute as New-Years gifts. The door is shut, the windows are drawn up, the carriagesets off. Thus all the world are exging good wishes and presents to-day. Ialone have nothing to give or to receive. Poor Solitary! I do not evenknow one chosen being for whom I might offer a prayer. The my wishes for a happy New Year go and seek out all my unknownfriends--lost in the multitude which murmurs like the o at my feet! To you first, hermits in cities, for whom death and poverty have createda solitude in the midst of the crowd! unhappy laborers, who areo toil in melancholy, a your daily bread in silenddesertion, and whom God has withdrawn from the intoxig pangs of loveand friendship! To you, fond dreamers, who pass through life with your eyes turowardsome polar star, while you tread with indifference over the rich harvestsof reality! To you, ho fathers, who lengthen out the evening to maintain yourfamilies! to you, poor eeping and w by a cradle! to you,young men, resolutely set to open for yourselves a path in life, largeenough to lead through it the wife of your choice! to you, all bravesoldiers of work and of self-sacrifice! To you, lastly, whatever your title and your name, who love good, whopity the suffering; who walk through the world like the symbolical Virginof Byzantium, with both arms open to the human race! Here I am suddenly interrupted by loud and increasing chirpings. I lookabout me: my window is surrounded with sparrows pig up the crumbs ofbread whi my brown study I had just scattered on the roof. At thissight a flash of light broke upon my saddened heart. I deceived myselfjust now, when I plaihat I had nothing to give: thanks to me, thesparrows of this part of the town will have their New-Years gifts! Twelve oclock.--A knock at my door; a pirl es in, and greets meby first I do not recollect her; but she looks at me, andsmiles. Ah! it is Paulette! But it is almost a year since I have seenher, and Paulette is no lohe same: the other day she was a child,now she is almost a young woman. Paulette is thin, pale, and miserably clad; but she has always the sameopen and straightforward look--the same mouth, smiling at every word, asif to court your sympathy--the same voice, somewhat timid, yet expressingfondness. Paulette is not pretty--she is even thought plain; as for me,I think her charming. Perhaps that is not on her at, but on my own. Paulette appears to me as one of my happiest recolles. It was the evening of a public holiday. Our principal buildings wereilluminated with festoons of fire, a thousand flags waved in the nightwinds, and the fireworks had just shot forth their spouts of flame intothe midst of the Champ de Mars. Suddenly, one of those unatablealarms which strike a multitude with panic fell upon the dense crowd: they cry out, they rush on headlong; the weaker ones fall, and thefrightened crowd tramples them down in its vulsive struggles. Iescaped from the fusion by a miracle, and was hastening away, when thecries of a perishing child arrested me: I reehat human chaos,and, after unheard-of exertions, I brought Paulette out of it at theperil of my life. That was two years ago: sihen I had not seen the child again but atlong intervals, and I had almost fotten her; but Paulettes memory wasthat of a grateful heart, and she came at the beginning of the year tooffer me her wishes for my happiness. She brought me, besides, awallflower in full bloom; she herself had planted and reared it: it wassomething that belonged wholly to herself; for it was by her care, herperseverance, and her patiehat she had obtai. The wallflower had grown in a on pot; but Paulette, who is a bandbox-maker, had put it into a case of varnished paper, ored witharabesques. These might have been ier taste, but I did not feelthe attention and good-will the less. This ued present, the little girls modest blushes, thepliments she stammered out, dispelled, as by a sunbeam, the kind ofmist which had gathered round my mind; my thoughts suddenly ged fromthe leaden tints of evening to the brightest colors of dawn. I madePaulette sit down, and questioned her with a light heart. At first the little girl replied in monosyllables; but very sooables were turned, and it was I who interrupted with short interjesher long and fidential talk. The poor child leads a hard life. Shewas left an orphan long since, with a brother and sister, and lives withan old grandmother, who has &quht them up to poverty," as she alwayscalls it. However, Paulette now helps her to make bandboxes, her little sisterPerrine begins to use the needle, and> her brother Henry is appreoa printer. All would go well if it were not for losses and want of work--if it were not for clothes which wear out, for appetites which grer, and for the winter, when you ot get sunshine for nothing. Paulette plains that her dles go too quickly, and that her woodcosts too much. The firepla their garret is se that a fagotmakes no more show in it than a match; it is so he roof that thewind blows the rain down it, and in wi hails upon the hearth; sothey have left off using it. Heh they must be tent with ahen chafing-dish, upon which they cook their meals. The grandmotherhad often spoken of a stove that was for sale at the brokers close by;but he asked seven francs for it, and the times are too hard for suexpehe family, therefore, resign themselves to cold for ey! As Paulette spoke, I felt more and more that I was losing my fretfulnessand low spirits. The first disclosures of the little bandbox-makercreated within me a wish that soon became a plan. I questioned her abouther daily occupations, and she informed me that on leaving me she mustgo, with her brother, her sist??er, and grandmother, to the differentpeople for whom they work. My plan was immediately settled. I told thechild that I would go to see her in the evening, and I sent her away withfresh thanks. I placed the wallflower in the open window, where a ray of sunshine bidit wele; the birds were singing around, the sky had cleared up, andthe day, which began so lly, had bee bright. I sang as I movedabout my room, and, having hastily put on my hat and coat, I went out. Three oclock.--All is settled with my neighbor, the ey-doctor;he will repair my old stove, and answers for its being as good as new. At five oclock we are to set out, and put it up in Paulettesgrandmothers room. Midnight.--All has gone off well. At the hreed upon, I was at theold bandbox-makers; she was still out. My Piedmontese[In Paris a ey-sweeper is named "Piedmontese" or "Savoyard," as they usually e from that try.]fixed the stove, while I arranged a dozen logs in the great fireplace,taken from my wiock. I shall make up for them by warming myselfwith walking, or by going to bed earlier. My heart beat at every step that was heard oaircase; I trembledlest they should interrupt me in my preparations, and should thus spoilmy intended surprise. But no!--see everything ready: the lighted stovemurmurs gently, the little lamp burns upoable, and a bottle of oilfor it is provided on the shelf. The ey-doctor is gone. Now myfear lest they should e is ged into impatie their noting. At last I hear childrens voices; here they are: they push openthe door and rush in--but they all stop in astonishment. At the sight of the lamp, the stove, and the visitor, who stands therelike a magi in the midst of these wonders, they draw back almhtened. Paulette is the first to prehend it, and the arrival ofthe grandmother, who is more slowly mounting the stairs, fiheexplanation. Then e tears, ecstasies, thanks! But the wonders are not yet ehe little sister opens the oven, anddiscovers some chestnuts just roasted; the grandmother p.９9ｌｉｂ?uts her hand otles of cider arranged on the dresser; and I draw forth from thebasket that I have hidden a cold tongue, a pot of butter, and some freshrolls. Now their wourns into admiration; the little family have never seensuch a feast! They lay the cloth, they sit down, they eat; it is aplete ba for all, and each tributes his share to it. I hadbrought only the supper: and the bandbox-maker and her children suppliedthe enjoyment. What bursts of laughter at nothing! What a hubbub of questions whichwaited for no reply, of replies whiswered no question! The oldwoman herself shared in the wild merriment of the little ones! I havealways been struck at the ease with which the poor fet theirwretess. Being used to live only for the present, they make a gainof every pleasure as soon as it offers itself. But the surfeited richare more difficult to satisfy: they require time and everything to suitbefore they will sent to be happy. The evening has passed like a moment. The old woman told me the historyof her life, sometimes smiling, sometimes drying her eyes. Perrine sangan old ballad with her fresh young voice. Henry told us what he knows ofthe great writers of the day, to whom he has to carry their proofs. Atlast we were obliged to separate, not without fresh thanks on the part ofthe happy family. I have e home slowly, ruminating with a full heart, and pureenjoyment, on the simple events of my evening. It has given me mufort and mustru. Now, no New-Years Day will e amiss tome; I know that no one is so unhappy as to have nothing to give andnothing to receive. As I came in, I met my rieighbors new equipage. She, too, had justreturned from her evenings party; and, as she sprang from the carriage-step with feverish impatience, I heard her murmur "At last!" I, when I left Paulettes family, said "So soon!" CHAPTER II THE IVAL February 20th9９ｌiｂ? What a of doors! What is the meaning of these shouts andcries? Ah! I recollect: this is the last day of the ival, and themaskers are passing. Christianity has not been able to abolish the noisy baaliaivals of the pagan times, but it has ged the hat whichit has given to these "days of liberty" annouhe ending of thefeasts, and the month of fasting which should follow; -ival means,literally, "farewell to flesh!" It is a forty days farewell to the"blessed pullets and fat hams," so celebrated by Pantagruels minstrel. Man prepares for privation by satiety, and finishes his sin thhlybefore he begins to repent. Why, in all ages and among every people, do we meet with some ohese mad festivals? Must we believe that it requires su effort formen to be reasohat the weaker ones have need of rest atintervals? The monks of La Trappe, who are o silence by theirrule, are allowed to speak on a month, and on this day they all talkat once from the rising to the setting of the sun. Perhaps it is the same in the world. As we are obliged all the year tobe det, orderly, and reasonable, we make up for such a loraintduring the ival. It is a door opeo the ingruous fancies andwishes that have hitherto been crowded bato a er of our brain. For a moment the slaves bee the masters, as in the days of theSaturnalia, and all is given up to the "fools of the family." The shouts in the square redouble; the troops of masks increase--on foot,in carriages, and on horseback. It is now who attract the mostattention by making a figure for a few hours, or by exg curiosityor envy; to-morrow they will all return, dull and exhausted, to theemployments and troubles of yesterday. Alas! thought I with vexation, each of us is like these masqueraders;our whole life is often but an unsightly ival! A man has needof holidays, to relax his mind, rest his body, and open his heart. he not have them, then, with these coarse pleasures? Eists havebeen long inquiring what is the best disposal of the industry of thehuman race. Ah! if I could only discover the best disposal of itsleisure! It is easy enough to find it work; but who will find itrelaxation? W>ork supplies the daily bread; but it is cheerfulhatgives it a relish. O philoso i of pleasure! find usamusements without brutality, enjoyments without selfishness; in a word,i a ival that will please everybody, and bring shame to no one. Three oclock.--I have just shut my window, and stirred up my fire. Asthis is a holiday for everybody, I will make it one for myself, too. SoI light the little lamp over which, on grand occasions, I make a cup ofthe coffee that my portresss sht from the Levant, and I look inmy bookcase for one of my favorite authors. First, here is the amusing parson of Meudon; but his characters are toofond of talking slang:--Voltaire; but he disheartens men by alwaysbantering them:--Moliere; but he hinders ones laughter by making ohink:--Lesage; let us stop at him. Being profound rather than grave, hepreaches virtue while ridig vice; if bitterness is sometimes to befound in his writings, it is always in the garb of mirth: he sees themiseries of the world without despising it, and knows its cowardly trickswithout hating it. Let us call up all the heroes of his book.... Gil Blas, Fabrice,Sangrado, the Archbishop of Granada, the Duke of Lerma, Aurora, Scipio! Ye gay raceful figures, rise before my eyes, people my solitude;bring hither for my amusement the world-ival, of which you are thebrilliant maskers! Unfortunately, at the very moment I made this invocation, I recollectedI had a letter to write which could not be put off. One of my attieighbors came yesterday to ask me to do it. He is a cheerful old man,and has a passion for pictures and prints. He es home almost everyday with a drawing or painting--probably of little value; for I know helives penuriously, and eveter that I am to write for him showshis poverty. His only son, who was married in England, is just dead, andhis widow--left without any means, and with an old mother and a child--had written to beg for a home. M. Antoine asked me first to translatethe letter, and then to write a refusal. I had promised that he shouldhave this ao-day: before everything, let us fulfil our promises. The sheet of "Bath" paper is before me, I have dipped my pen into theink, and I rub my forehead to invite forth a sally of ideas, when Iperceive that I have not my diary. Noarisian who would speakEnglish without a diary is like a child without leading-strings; theground trembles under him, aumbles at the first step. I ruo the bookbinders, where I left my Johnson, who lives close by in thesquare. The door is half open; I hear low groans; I enter without knog,and I see the bookbinder by the bedside of his fellow-lodger. Thislatter has a violent fever and delirium. Pierre looks at him perplexedand out of humor. I learn from him that his rade was not able to getup in the m, and that sihen he has bee worse every hour. I ask whether they have sent for a doctor. "Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Pierre, roughly; "one must have money inones pocket for that, and this fellow has only debts instead ofsavings." "But you," said I, rather astonished; "are you not his friend?" "Friend!" interrupted the bookbinder. "Yes, as much as the shaft-horseis friend to the leader--on dition that each will take his share ofthe draught, a his feed by himself." "You do not intend, however, to leave him without any help?" "Bah! he may keep in his bed till to-morrow, as Im going to the ball." "You mean to leave him alone?" "Well! must I miss a party of pleasure at Courtville--[A Parisian summerresort.]--because this fellow is lightheaded?" asked Pierre, sharply. "I have promised to meet some friends at old Desnoyers. Those who aresick may take their broth; my physic is white wine." So saying, he untied a bundle, out of which he took the fane ofa waterman, and proceeded to dress himself in it. In vain I tried to awaken some fellow-feeling for the unfortunate man wholay groaning there close by him; beiirely taken up with thethoughts of his expected pleasure, Pierre would hardly so much as hearme. At last his coarse selfishness provoked me. I began reproaginstead of remonstrating with him, and I declared him responsible for thesequences which such a desertion must bring upon the sick man. At this the bookbinder, who was just going, stopped with an oath, andstamped his foot. "Am I to spend my ival iing water forfootbaths, pray?&q..; "You must not leave your rade to die without help!" I replied. "Let him go to the hospital, then!" "How he by himself?" Pierre seemed to make up his mind. "Well, Im going to take him," resumed he; "besides, I shall get rid ofhim sooner. e, get up, cobbr>9９ｌib.mrade!" He shook his rade, who had nottaken off his clothes. I observed that he was too weak to walk, but thebookbinder would not listen: he made him get up, and half dragged, halfsupported him to the lodge of the porter, who ran for a haey carriage. I saw the sick ma into it, almost fainting, with the impatientwaterman; and they both set off, one perhaps to die, the other to diCourtville Gardens! Six oclock.--I have been to knock at my neighbors door, who opehimself; and I have given him his letter, fi last, and directedto his sons widow. M. Antoihanked me gratefully, and made me sitdown. It was the first time I had been into the attic of the old amateur. Curtains stained with damp and hanging down in rags, a cold stove, a bedof straw, two broken chairs, posed all the furniture. At the end ofthe room were a great number of prints in a heap, and paintings withoutframes turned against the wall. At the moment I came in, the old man was making his dinner on some hardcrusts of bread, which he was soaking in a glass of eau sucree. Heperceived that my eyes fell upon his hermit fare, and he looked a littleashamed. "There is nothing to tempt you in my supper, neighbor," said he, with asmile. I replied that at least I thought it a very philosophical one for theival. M. Antoine shook his head, a on again with his supper. "Every one keeps his holidays in his own way," resumed he, beginningagain to dip a crust into his glass. "There are several sorts ofepicures, and not all feasts are meant tale the palate; there aresome also for the ears and the eyes." I looked involuntarily round me, as if to seek for the invisible bawhich could make up to him for such a supper. Without doubt he uood me; for he got up slowly, and, with themagisterial air of a man fident in what he is about to do, he rummagedbehind several picture frames, drew forth a painting, over which hepassed his hand, and silently placed it uhe light of the lamp. It represented a fine-looking old maed at table with his wife, hisdaughter, and his children, and singing to the apa of musiseared in the background. At first sight I reized the subject,which I had often admired at the Louvre, and I declared it to be asplendid copy of Jordaens. "A copy!" cried M. Antoine; "say an inal, neighbor, and an iouched by Rubens! Look closer at the head of the old man, the dressof the young woman, and the accessories. One t the pencil-strokes of the Hercules of painters. It is not only a masterpiece, sir;it is a treasure--a relic! The picture at the Louvre may be a pearl,this is a diamond!" Aing it against the stove, so as to place it in the best light,he fell again to soaking his crusts, without taking his eyes off thewonderful picture. One would have said that the sight of it gave thecrusts an ued relish, for he chewed them slowly, aied hisglass by little sips. His shrivelled features became smooth, hisnostrils expanded; it was indeed, as he said himself, "a feast for theeyes." "You see that I also have my treat," he resumed, nodding his head with anair of triumph. "Others may run after dinners and balls; as for me, thisis the pleasure I give myself for my ival." "But if this painting is really so precious," replied I, "it ought to beworth a high price." "Eh! eh!" said M. Antoine, with an air of proud indifference. "In goodtimes, a good judge might value it at somewhere about twenty thousandfrancs." I started back. "And you have bought it?" cried I. "For nothing," replied he, l his voice. "These brokers are asses;mine mistook this for a students copy; he let me have it for fiftylouis, ready mohis m I took them to him, and now he wishesto be off the bargain." "This m!" repeated I, involuntarily casting my eyes otertaining the refusal that M. Antoine had made me write to his sonshich was still otle table. He took no notiy exclamation, a on plating the workof Jordaens in aasy. "What a knowledge of chiaroscuro!" he murmured, biting his last crust indelight. "What relief! what fire! Where one find such transparencyof color! such magical lights! such force! suature!" As I was listening to him in silence, he mistook my astonishment foradmiration, and clapped me on the shoulder. "You are dazzled," said he merrily; "you did not expect such a treasure! What do you say to the bargain I have made?" "Pardon me," replied I, gravely; "but I think you might have doer." M. Antoine raised his head. "How!" cried he; "do you take me for a man likely to be deceived aboutthe merit or value of a painting?" "I her doubt your taste nor your skill; but I ot help thinkingthat, for the price of this picture of a family party, you might havehad--" "What then?" "The family itself, sir." The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of pt. In his eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable ofuanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them. He got up withoutanswering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in itshiding-place behind the prints. It was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, a away. Seven oclock.--When I e in again, I find my water boiling over mylamp, and I busy myself in grinding my Mocha, aing out my coffee-things. The getting coffee ready is the most delicate and most attractive ofdomestic operations to one who lives alo is the grand work of abachelors housekeeping. Coffee is, so to say, just the mid-poiween bodily and spiritualnourishment. It acts agreeably, and at the same time, upon the sensesand the thoughts. Its very fragrance gives a sort of delightful activityto the wits; it is a genius that lends wings to our fancy, and transportsit to the land of the Arabian Nights. When I am buried in my old easy-chair, my feet on the fender before ablazing fire, my ear soothed by the singing of the coffee-pot, whichseems to gossip with my fire-irons, the sense of smell gently excited bythe aroma of the Arabian bean, and my eyes shaded by my cap pulled dowhem, it often seems as if each cloud of the fragrant steam took adistin. As in the mirages of the desert, in each as it rises, Isee some image of which my mind had been longing for the reality. At first the vapor increases, and its color deepens. I see a cottage ona hillside: behind is a garden shut in by a whitethorn hedge, and throughthe garden runs a brook, on the banks of which I hear the bees humming. Then the view opens still more. See those fields planted with apple-trees, in which I distinguish a plough and horses waiting for theirmaster! Farther on, in a part of the wood which rings with the sound ofthe axe, I perceive the woodsmans hut, roofed with turf and branches;and, in the midst of all these rural pictures, I seem to see a figure ofmyself gliding about. It is my ghost walking in my dream! The bubbling of the water, ready to boil over, pels me to break off mymeditations, in order to fill up the coffee-pot. I then remember that Ihave no cream; I take my tin off the hook and go down to themilkwomans. Mother Denis is a hale trywoman from Savoy, which she left when quiteyoung; and, trary to the of the Savoyards, she has not goneback to it again. She has her husband nor child, notwithstanding thetitle they give her; but her kindness, whiever sleeps, makes herworthy of the name of mother. A brave creature! Left by herself itle of life, she makes goodher humble pla it by w, singing, helping others, and leavingthe rest to God. At the door of the milk-shop I hear loud bursts of laughter. Ihe ers of the shop three childreting on the ground. Theywear the sooty dress of Savoyard boys, and in their hands they hold largeslices of bread and cheese. The you is besmeared up to the eyeswith his, and that is the reason of their mirth. Mother Denis points them out to me. "Look at the little lambs, how they enjoy themselves!" said she, puttingher hand on the head of the little glutton. "He has had no breakfast," puts in one of the others by way of excuse. "Poor little thing," said the milkwoman; "he is left alone ireetsof Paris, where he find no other father than the All-good God!" "And that is why you make yourself a mother to them?" I replied, gently. "What I do is little enough," said Mother Denis, measuring out my milk;"but every day I get some of them together out of the street, that forohey may have enough to eat. Dear children! their mothers will makeup for it in heaven. Not to mention that they recall my native mountainsto me: when they sing and dance, I seem to see our old father again." Here her eyes filled with tears. "So you are repaid by your recolles for the good you do them?" resumed I. "Yes! yes!" said she, "and by their happiness, too! The laughter ofthese little ones, sir, is like a birds song; it makes you gay, andgives you heart to live." As she spoke she cut some fresh slices of bread and cheese, and addedsome apples and a handful of nuts to them. "e, my little dears," she cried, "put these into your pockets againstto-morrow." Then, turning to me: "To-day I am ruining myself," added she; "but we must all have ourival." I came away without saying a word: I was too much affected. At last I have discovered what true pleasure is. After beholding theegotism of sensuality and of intellect, I have found the happy self-sacrifice of goodness. Pierre, M. Antoine, and Mother Denis had all kepttheir ival; but for the first two, it was only a feast for the sensesor the mind; while for the third, it was a feast for the heart. CHAPTER III WHAT WE MAY LEARN BY LOOKING OUT OF WINDOW March 3d A poet has said that life is the dream of a shadow: he would better havepared it to a night of fever! What alters of restlessness andsleep! what disfort! what sudden starts! what ever-returning thirst! what a chaos of mournful and fused fancies! We either sleep norwake; we seek in vain for repose, aop short on the brink ofa. Two thirds of humaence are wasted iation, and thelast third iing. When I say humaence, I mean my own! We are so made that each ofus regards himself as the mirror of the ..unity: asses in ourminds infallibly seems to us a history of the universe. Every man islike the drunkard who reports ahquake, because he feels himselfstaggering. And why am I uain aless--I, a poor day-laborer in the world--who fill an obscure station in a er of it, and whose work it availsitself of, without heeding the workman? I will tell you, my unseenfriend, for whom these lines are written; my unknown brother, on whom thesolitary call in sorrow; my imaginary fidant, to whom all monologuesare addressed and who is but the shadow of our own sce. A great event has happened in my life! A crossroad has suddenly openedin the middle of the monotonous way along which I was travelling quietly,and without thinking of it. T>o roads present themselves, and I mustchoose between them. One is only the tinuation of that I havefollowed till now; the other is wider, and exhibits wondrous prospects. On the first there is nothing to fear, but also little to hope; oher are great dangers and great fortune. Briefly, the question is,whether I shall give up the humble offi which I thought to die, forone of those bold speculations in which ce alone is banker! Eversince yesterday I have sulted with myself; I have pared the two andI remain undecided. Where shall I find light--who will advise me? Sunday, 4th.--See the sun ing out from the thick fogs of winter! Spring annous approach; a soft breeze skims over the roofs, and mywallflins to blow again. We are hat sweet season of fresh green, of which the poets of thesixteenth tury sang with so much feeling: Now the gladsome month of May. All things newly doth array;Fairest lady, let me too. In thy love my life renew. The chirping of the sparrows calls me: they claim the crumbs I scatter tothem every m. I open my window, and the prospect of roofs opensout before me in all its splendor. He who has lived only on a first floor has. no idea of the picturesquevariety of such a view. He has never plated these tile-coloredheights whitersect each other; he has not followed with his eyesthese gutter-valleys, where the fresh verdure of the attic gardens waves,the deep shadows which evening spreads over the slated slopes, and thesparkling of windows which the setting sun has kio a blaze offire. He has not studied the flora of these Alps of civilization,carpeted by lis and mosses; he is not acquainted with the myriadinhabitants that people them, from the microscopisect to the domesticcat--that reynard of the roofs who is always on the prowl, or in ambush;he has not withe thousand aspects of a clear or a cloudy sky; northe thousand effects of light, that make these upper regions a theatrewith ever-ging ses! How many times have my days of leisure passedaway in plating this wonderful sight; in disc its darker hter episodes; in seeking, in short, in this unknown world for theimpressions of travel that wealthy tourists look for lower! Nine oclock.--But why, then, have not my winged neighbors picked up thecrumbs I have scattered for them before my window? I see them fly away,e back, perch upon the ledges of the windows, and chirp at the sightof the feast they are usually so ready to devour! It is not my prese frightens them; I have aced them to eat out of my hand. Then,why this fearful suspense? In vain I look around: the roof is clear, thewindows near are closed. I crumble the bread that remains from mybreakfast to attract them by an ampler feast. Their chirpings increase,they bend down their heads, the boldest approach upon the wing, butwithout daring to alight. e, e, my sparrows are the victims of one of the foolish panicswhich make the funds fall at the Bourse! It is plain that birds are notmore reasohan men! With this refle I was about to shut my window, when suddenly Iperceived, in a spot of sunshine on my right, the shadow of two pricked-up ears; then a paw advahen the head of a tabby-cat showed itselfat the er of the gutter. The ing fellow was lying there in wait,hoping the crumbs would bring him some game. And I had accused my guests of cowardice! I was so sure that no dangercould mehem! I thought I had looked well everywhere! I had onlyfotten the er behind me! In life, as on the roofs, how many misfortunes e from having fottena single er! Ten oclock.--I ot leave my window; the rain and the cold have keptit shut so long that I must reoitre all the environs to be able totake possession of them again. My eyes sear succession all thepoints of the jumbled and fused prospect, passing on or stoppingacc to what they light upon. Ah! see the windows upon which they formerly loved to rest; they arethose of two unknown neighbors, whose different habits they have longremarked. One is a poor work-woman, who rises before sunrise, and whose profile isshadowed upon her little muslin window-curtain far into the evening; theother is a young songstress, whose vocal flourishes sometimes reach myattic by snatches. When their windows are open, that of the work-womandiscovers a humble but det abode; the other, aly furnishedroom. But to-day a crowd of tradespeople throng the latter: they takedown the silk hangings and carry off the furniture, and I now rememberthat the young singer passed under my window this m with her veildown, and walking with the hasty step of one who suffers some inwardtrouble. Ah! I guess it all. Her means are exhausted ifancies, or have been taken away by some ued misfortune, and nowshe has fallen from luxury to indigence. While the work-woman ma only to keep her little room, but also to furnish it with detfort by her steady toil, that of the singer is bee the property ofbrokers. The one sparkled for a moment on the wave of prosperity; theother sails slowly but safely along the coast of a humble and laboriousindustry. Alas! is there not here a lesson for us all? Is it really in hazardousexperiments, at the end of which we shall meet with wealth or ruin, thatthe wise man should employ his years of strength and freedom? Ought heto sider life as a regular employment which brings its daily wages,or as a game in which the future is determined by a few throws? Why seekthe risk of extreme ces? For what end hasten to riches by dangerousroads? Is it really certain that happiness is the prize of brilliantsuccesses, rather than of a wisely accepted poverty? Ah! if men but knewin what a small dwelling joy live, and how little it costs to furnishit! Twelve oclock.--I have been walking up and down my attic for a longtime, with my arms folded and my eyes on the ground! My doubts increase,like shadows encroag more and more on some bright space; my fearsmultiply; and the uainty bees every moment more painful to me! It is necessary for me to decide to-day, and before the evening! I holdthe diy future fate in my hands, and I dare not throw them. Three oclock.--The sky has bee cloudy, and a cold wind begins to blowfrom the west; all the windows which were opeo the sunshine of abeautiful day are shut again. Only on the opposite side of the street,the lodger on the last story has not yet left his baly. One knows him to be a soldier by his regular walk, his gray moustaches,and the ribbon that decorates his buttonhole. Indeed, one might haveguessed as much from the care he takes of the little garden which is theor of his baly in mid-air; for there are two things especiallyloved by all old soldiers--flowers and children. They have been so long,obliged to look upon the earth as a field of battle, and so long cut offfrom the peaceful pleasures of a quiet lot, that they seem to begin lifeat an age when others end it. The tastes of their early years, whichwere arrested by the stern duties of war, suddenly break out again withtheir white hairs, and are like the savings of youth which they spendagain in old age. Besides, they have been o be destroyers forso long that perhaps they feel a secret pleasure iing, and seeinglife spring up again: the beauty of weakness has a grad anattra the more for those who have been the agents of unbendingforce; and the watg over the frail germs of life has all the charmsof y for these old workmen of death. Therefore the cold wind has not driven my neighbor from his baly. He is digging up the earth in his green boxes, and carefully sowing theseeds of the scarlet nasturtium, volvulus, and sweet-pea. Hehhe will e every day to watch for their first sprouting, to protect theyoung shoots from weeds or is, te the strings for thetendrils to climb on, and carefully tulate their supply of water a! How much labor t in the desired harvest! For that, how many timesshall I see him brave cold or heat, wind or sun, as he does to-day! Butthen, i summer days, when the blinding dust whirls in cloudsthrough our streets, when the eye, dazzled by the glare of white stucows not where to rest, and the glowing roofs reflect their heat upon ust, the old soldier will sit in his arbor and perceive nothingbut green leaves and flowers around him, and the breeze will e cooland fresh to him through these perfumed shades. His assiduous care willbe rewarded at last. We must sow the seeds, ahe growth, if we would enjoy the flower. Four oclock.--The clouds that have been gathering in the horizon for along time are bee darker; it thunders loudly, and the rain pours down! Those who are caught in it fly in every dire, some laughing and s. I always find particular amusement in these helter-skelters, caused by asudden storm. It seems as if eae, when thus taken by surprise,loses the factitious character that the world or habit has given him,and appears in his true colors. See, for example, that big man with deliberate step, who suddenly fetshis indifference, made to order, and runs like a schoolboy! He is athrifty city gentleman, who, with all his fashionable airs, is afraid tospoil his hat. That pretty woman yonder, on the trary, whose looks are so modest,and whose dress is so elaborate, slas her pace with the increasingstorm. She seems to find pleasure in braving it, and does not think ofher velvet cloak spotted by the hail! She is evidently a lioness insheeps clothing. Here, a young man, who assing, stops to cate of the hailstonesin his hand, and examihem. By his quid business-like walk justnow, you would have taken him for a tax-gatherer on his rounds, when heis a young philosopher, studying the effects of electricity. And thoseschoolboys who leave their ranks to run after the sudden gusts of a Marchwhirlwind; those girls, just now so demure, but who now fly with burstsof laughter; those national guards, who quit the martial attitude oftheir days of duty to take refuge under a porch! The storm has causedall these transformations. See, it increases! The hardiest are obliged to seek shelter. I seeevery one rushing toward the shop in front of my window, which a billannounces is to let. It is for the fourth time within a few months. A year ago all the skill of the joiner and the art of the painter wereemployed iifying it, but their works are already destroyed by theleaving of so mas; the ices of the front are disfigured bymud; the arabesques on the doorway are spoiled by bills posted upoo annouhe sale of the effects. The splendid shop has lost some ofits embellishments with each ge of the tenant. See it y, a open to the passersby. How much does its fate resemble that of somany who, like it, only ge their occupation to hasten the faster toruin! I am struck by this last refle: sihe m everythio speak to me, and with the same warning tone. Everything says: "Takecare! be tent with your happy, though humble lot; happiness beretained only by stancy; do not forsake your old patrons for theprote of those who are unknown!" Are they the outward objects which speak thus, or does the warning efrom within? Is it not I myself who give this language to all thatsurrounds me? The world is but an instrument, to which we give sound atwill. But what does it signify if it teaches us wisdom? The low voicethat speaks in our breasts is always a friendly voice, for it tells uswhat we are, that is to say, what is our capability. Bad ductresults, for the most part, from mistaking our calling. There are somany fools and knaves, because there are so few men who know themselves. The question is not to discover what will suit us, but for what we aresuited! What should I do among these many experienced financial speculators? Iam only a poor sparrow, born among the housetops, and should always fearthe enemy croug in the dark er; I am a prudent workman, andshould think of the business of my neighbors who so suddenly disappeared;I am a timid observer, and should call to mind the flowers so slowlyraised by the old soldier, or the shht to ruin by stant geof masters. Away from me, ye bas, over which hangs the sword ofDamocles! I am a try mouse. Give me my nuts and hollow tree, and Iask nothing besides--except security. And why this insatiable craving for riches? Does a man drink more whenhe drinks from a large glass? Whenes that universal dread ofmediocrity, the fruitful mother of pead liberty? Ah! there is theevil which, above every other, it should be the aim of both publidprivate education to anticipate! If that were got rid of, what treasonswould be spared, what baseness avoided, what a of excess and crimewould be forever broken! We award the palm to charity, and to self-sacrifice; but, above all, let us award it to moderation, for it is thegreat social virtue. Eve does not create the others, it standsinstead of them. Six oclock.--I have written a letter of thanks to the promoters of thenew speculation, and have deed their offer! This decision hasrestored my peaind. I stopped singing, like the cobbler, as longas I eaihe hope of riches: it is gone, and happiness is eback! O beloved ale Poverty! pardon me for having for a moment wishedto fly from thee, as I would from Want. Stay here forever with thycharming sisters, Pity, Patience, Sobriety, and Solitude; be ye my queensand my instructors; teach me the stern duties of life; remove far from myabode the weakness of heart and giddiness of head which followprosperity. Holy Poverty! teach me to ehout plaining, toimpart without grudging, to seek the end of life higher than in pleasure,farther off than in power. Thou givest the body strength, thou makestthe mind more firm; and, thanks to thee, this life, to which the richattach themselves as to a rock, bees a bark of which death may cut thecable without awakening all our fears. tio sustain me, O thouwhom Christ hath called Blessed! CHAPTER IV April 9th The fine evenings are e back; the trees begin to put forth theirshoots; hyaths, jonquils, violets, and lilacs perfume the baskets ofthe flirls--all the world have begun their walks again on the quaysand boulevards. After dinner, I, too, desd from my attic to breathethe evening air. It is the hour when Paris is seen in all its beauty. During the day theplaster fronts of the houses weary the eye by their monotonous whiteness;heavily laden carts make the streets shake uheir huge wheels; theeager crowd, taken up by the one fear of losing a moment from business,cross and jostle one ahe aspect of the city altogether hassomething harsh, restless, and flurried about it. But, as soon as thestars appear, everything is ged; the glare of the white houses isquenched ihering shades; you hear no more any rolling but thatof the carriages on their way to some party of pleasure; you see only thelounger or the light-hearted passing by; work has given place to leisure. Now eaay breathe after the fierce race through the business ofthe day, and whatever strength remains to him he gives to pleasure! Seethe ballrooms lighted up, the theatres open, the eating-shops along thew9９lｉｂ.alks set out with dainties, and the twinkling lanterns of the neercriers. Decidedly Paris has laid aside the pen, the ruler, and theapron; after the day spent in work, it must have the evening forenjoyment; like the masters of Thebes, it has put off all serious mattertill tomorrow. I love to take part in this happy hour; not to mix in the general gayety,but to plate it. If the enjoyments of others embitter jealousminds, they strehe humble spirit; they are the beams of sunshine,which opewo beautiful flowers called trust and hope. Although alone in the midst of the smiling multitude, I do not feelmyself isolated from it, for its gayety is reflected upo is myown kind, my own family, who are enjoying life, and I take a brothersshare in their happiness. We are all fellow-soldiers in this earthlybattle, and what does it matter on whom the honors of the victory fall? If Fortune passes >by without seeing us, and pours her favors on others,let us sole ourselves, like the friend of Parmenio, by saying, "Those,too, are Alexanders." While making these refles, I was going on as e. Icrossed from one pavement to another, I retraced my steps, I stoppedbefore the shops or to read the handbills. How many things there are tolearn ireets of Paris! What a museum it is! Unknown fruits,fn arms, furniture of old times or other lands, animals of allclimates, statues of great men, es of distant nations! It is theworld seen in samples! Let us then look at this people, whose knowledge is gained from the shop-windows and the tradesmans display of goods. Nothing has been taughtthem, but they have a rude notion of everything. They have seenpineapples at Chevets, a palm-tree in the Jardin des Plantes, sugar-es selling on the Pont-Neuf. The Redskins, exhibited in the ValentineHall, have taught them to mimic the dance of the bison, and to smoke thecalumet of peace; they have seen Carters liohey know theprincipal national es tained in Babins colle; Goupilsdisplay of prints has placed the tiger-hunts of Afrid the sittingsof the English Parliament before their eyes; they have bee acquaih Queen Victoria, the Emperor of Austria, and Kossuth, at the office-door of the Illustrated News. We certainly instruct them, but notastonish them; for nothing is pletely o them. You may take theParis ragamuffin through the five quarters of the world, and at everywonder with which you think to surprise him, he will settle the matterwith that favorite and clusive answer of his class--"I know." But this variety of exhibitions, which makes Paris the fair of the world,does not offer merely a means of instru to him who walks through it;it is a tinual spur for rousing the imagination, a first step of theladder always set up before us in a vision. When we see them, how manyvoyages do we take in imagination, what adventures do we dream of, ictures do we sketch! I never look at that shop he ese baths,with its tapestry hangings of Florida jessamine, and filled withmagnolias, without seeing the forest glades of the New World, describedby the author of Atala, opening themselves out before me. Then, when this study of things and this discourse of reason begin totire you, look around you! What trasts of figures and faces you seein the crowd! What a vast field for the exercise of meditation! A half-seen glance, or a few words caught as the speaker passes by, open athousand vistas to your imagination. You wish to prehend what theseimperfect disclosures mean, and, as the antiquary endeavors to decipherthe mutilated inscription on some old mo, you build up a history oure or on a word! These are the stirring sports of the mind, whids in fi a relief from the wearisome dullness of the actual. Alas! as I was just now passing by the carriage-entrance of a greathouse, I noticed a sad subject for one of these histories. A man wassitting in the darkest er, with his head bare, and holding out hishat for the charity of those who passed. His threadbare coat had thatlook of ness which marks that destitution has bee by a longstruggle. He had carefully butto up to hide the want of a shirt. His face was half hid under his gray hair, and his eyes were closed, asif he wished to escape the sight of his own humiliation, and he remaie and motionless. Those who passed him took no notice of the beggar,who sat in silend darkness! They had been so lucky as to escapeplaints and importunities, and were glad to turn away their eyes too. Suddenly the great gate turned on its hinges; and a very low carriage,lighted with silver lamps and drawn by two black horses, came slowly out,and took the road toward the Faub St. Germain. I could justdistinguish, within, the sparkling diamonds and the flowers of a ball-dress; the glare of the lamps passed like a bloody streak over the paleface of the beggar, and showed his look as his eyes opened and followedthe rich mans equipage until it disappeared in the night. I dropped a small pieoney into the hat he was holding out, andpassed on quickly. I had just fallen uedly upowo saddest secrets of thedisease which troubles the age we live in: the envious hatred of him whosuffers want, and the selfish fetfulness of him who lives inaffluence. All the enjoyment of my walk was gone; I left off looking about me, aired into my ow. The animated and moving sight ireetsgave place to inward meditation upon all the painful problems which havebeen written for the last four thousand years at the bottom of each humanstruggle, but which are propounded more clearly than ever in our days. I pondered on the uselessness of so many tests, in which defeat andvictory only displace each other by turns, and on the mistakeswho have repeated from geion to geion the bloody history of and Abel; and, saddened with these mournful refles, I walked onas e, until the silence all around insensibly drew me outfrom my own thoughts. I had reached one of the remote streets, in which those who would live infort and without ostentation, and who love serious refle, delightto find a home. There were no shops along the dimly lighted street; oneheard no sounds but of distant carriages, and of the steps of some of theinhabitants returning quietly home. I instantly reized the street, though I had been there only oncebefore. That was two years ago. I was walking at the time by the side of theSeio which the lights on the quays and bridges gave the aspect of alake surrounded by a garland of stars; and I had reached the Louvre, whenI was stopped by a crowd collected he parapet they had gatheredround a child of about six, who was g, and I asked the cause of histears. "It seems that he was sent to walk iuileries," said a mason, whowas returning from his work with his trowel in his hand; "the servant whotook care of him met with some friends there, and told the child to waitfor him while he went to get a drink; but I suppose the drink made himmore thirsty, for he has not e back, and the child ot find his wayhome." "Why do they not ask him his name, and where he lives?" "They have been doing it for the last hour; but all he say is, thathe is called Charles, and that his father is Monsieur Duval--there aretwelve hundred Duvals in Paris." "Then he does not know in art of the town he lives?" "I should not think, indeed! Dont you see that he is a gentlemanschild? He has never go except in a carriage or with a servant; hedoes not know what to do by himself." Here the mason was interrupted by some of the voices rising above theothers. "We ot leave him ireet," said some. "The child-stealers would carry him off," tihers. "We must take him to the overseer." "Or to the police-office." "Thats the thing. e, little one!" But the child, frightened by these suggestions of danger, and at thenames of polid overseer, cried louder, and drew back toward theparapet. In vairied to persuade him; his fears made him resistthe more, and the most eager began to get weary, when the voice of alittle boy was heard through the fusion. "I know him well--I do," said he, looking at the lost child; "he belongsin our part of the town." "art is it?" "Yonder, oher side of the Boulevards--Rue des Magasins." "And you have seen him before?" "Yes, yes! he belongs to the great house at the end of the street, wherethere is an iron gate with gilt points." The child quickly raised his head, and stopped g. The little boyanswered all the questions that were put to him, and gave such details asleft no room for doubt. The other child uood him, for he went upto him as if to put himself under his prote. "Then you take him to his parents?" asked the mason, who hadlistened with real io the little boys at. "I dont care if I do," replied he; "its the way Im going." "Then you will take charge of him?" "He has only to e with me." And, taking up the basket he had put down on the pavement, he set offtoward the pate of the Louvre. The lost child followed him. "I hope he will take him right," said I, when I saw them go away. "Never fear," replied the mason; "the little one in the blouse is thesame age as the other; but, as the saying is, he knows black from white;poverty, you see, is a famous sistress!" The crowd dispersed. For my part, I went toward the Louvre; the thoughtcame into my head to follow the two children, so as to guard against anymistake. I was not long iaking them; they were walking side by side,talking, and already quite familiar with each other. The trast intheir dress then struck me. Little Duval wore one of those fancifulchildrens dresses which are expensive as well as in good taste; his coatwas skilfully fitted to his figure, his trousers came down in plaits fromhis waist to his boots of polished leather with mother-of-pearl buttons,and his ris were half hid by a velvet cap. The appearance of hisguide, on the trary, was that of the class who dwell oremeborders of poverty, but who there maintain their ground with nosurrender. His old blouse, patched with pieces of different shades,indicated the perseverance of , I soonperceived she was his mother. Not seeiher the servant or child return, she had sent in search ofthem in every dire, and was waiting for them in intense ay. I explaio her in a few words what had happened. She thanked mewarmly, and looked round for the little boy who had reized andbrought back her son; but while we were talking, he had disappeared. It was for the first time sihen that I had e into this part ofParis. Did the mother tinue grateful? Had the childre again,and had the happy ce of their first meeting lowered betweehatbarrier which may mark the different ranks of men, but should not dividethem? While putting these questions to myself, I slaed my pace, and fixedmy eyes on the great gate, which I just perceived. Suddenly I saw itopen, and two children appeared at the entrance. Although much grown,I reized them at first sight; they were the child who was fouhe parapet of the Louvre, and his young guide. But the dress of thelatter was greatly ged: his blouse of gray cloth was , and evenspruce, and was fastened round the waist by a polished leather belt; hewore strong shoes, but made for his feet, and had on a new cloth cap. Just at the moment I saw him, he held in his two hands an enormous bunchof lilacs, to which his panion was trying to add narcissuses andprimroses; the two children laughed, and parted with a friendly good-by. M. Duvals son did not go in till he had seeher turn the erof the street. Then I accosted the latter, and reminded him of our former meeting; helooked at me for a moment, and then seemed to recollect me. "Five me if I do not make you a bow," said he, merrily, "but I wantboth my hands for the nosegay Monsieur Charles has given me." "You are, then, bee great friends?" said I. "Oh! I should think so," said the child; "and now my father is richtoo!" "Hows that?" "Monsieur Duval lent him some money; he has taken a shop, where he workson his own at; and, as for me, I go to school." "Yes," replied I, remarking for the first time the cross that decoratedhis little coat; "and I see that you are head-boy!" "Monsieur Charles helps me to learn, and so I am e to be the first inthe class." "Are you now going to your lessons?" "Yes, and he has given me some lilacs; for he has a garden where we playtogether, and where my mother always have flowers." "Then it is the same as if it were partly your own." "So it is! Ah! they are good neighbors indeed. But here I am; good-by,sir." He o me with a smile, and disappeared. I went on with my walk, still pensive, but with a feeling of relief. If I had elsewhere withe painful trast between affluendwant, here I had found the true union of riches and poverty. Heartygood-will had smoothed down the med inequalities on both sides,and had opened a road of true neighborhood and fellowship between thehumble workshop and the stately mansion. Instead of hearkening to thevoice of i, they had both listeo that of self-sacrifid there was no place left for pt or envy. Thus, instead of thebeggar in rags, that I had seen at the other door cursing the rich man,I had fouhe happy child of the laborer loaded with flowers andblessing him! The problem, so difficult and so dangerous to examiowith nard but for the rights of it, I had just seen solved by love. CHAPTER V PENSATION Sunday, May 27th Capital cities have ohing peculiar to them: their days of rest seemto be the signal feneral dispersion and flight. Like birds thatare just restored to liberty, the people e out of their stone cages,and joyfully fly toward the try. It is who shall find a greenhillock for a seat, or the shade of a wood for a shelter; they gather Mayflowers, they run about the fields; the town is fotten until theevening, when they return with sprigs of blooming hawthorn in their hats,and their hearts gladdened by pleasant thoughts and recolles of thepast day; the day they return again to their harness and to work. These rural adventures are most remarkable at Paris. When the fiher es, clerks, shop keepers, and wmen look forwardimpatiently for the Sunday as the day f a few hours of thispastoral life; they walk through six miles of grocers shops and public-houses in the faubs, in the sole hope of finding a real turnip-field. The father of a family begins the practical education of his son byshowing him wheat which has not taken the form of a loaf, and cabbage "inits wild state." Heaven only knows the enters, the discoveries, theadvehat are met with! arisian has not had his Odyssey inan excursion through the suburbs, and would not be able to write apanion to the famous Travels by Land and by Sea from Paris to St. Cloud? We do not now speak of that floating population from all parts, for whomour French Babylon is the caravansary of Europe: a phalanx of thinkers,artists, men of business, and travellers, who, like Homers hero, havearrived in their intellectual try after beholding "many peoples andcities;" but of the settled Parisian, who keeps his appointed place, andlives on his own floor like the oyster on his rock, a curious vestige ofthe credulity, the slowness, and the simplicity of bygone ages. For one of the singularities of Paris is, that it uwentypopulations pletely different in character and manners. By theside of the gypsies of erd of art, who wahrough all theseveral stages of fortune or fancy, live a quiet race of people with anindependence, or with regular work, whose existence resembles the dialof a clock, on which the same hand points by turns to the same hours. If no other city show more brilliant and more stirring forms of life,no other tains more obscure and more tranquil ones. Great cities arelike the sea: storms agitate only the surface; if you go to the bottom,you find a region inaccessible to the tumult and the noise. For my part, I have settled on the verge of this region, but do notactually live in it. I am removed from the turmoil of the world, andlive in the shelter of solitude, but without being able to disect mythoughts from the struggle going on. I follow at a distance all itsevents of happiness rief; I join the feasts and the funerals; for how he who looks on, and knows asses, do other than take part? Ignorance alone keep us strao the life around us: selfishself will not suffice for that. These refles I made to myself in my atti the intervals of thevarious household works to which a bachelor is forced when he has noother servant than his own ready will. While I ursuing mydedus, I had blacked my boots, brushed my coat, and tied my cravat;I had at last arrived at the important moment when we pronounplatly that all is finished, and that well. A grand resolve had just decided me to depart from my usual habits. The evening before, I had seen by the advertisements that the daywas a holiday at Sevres, and that the a manufactory would be open tothe public. I was tempted by the beauty of the m, and suddenlydecided to go there. On my arrival at the station on the left bank, I noticed the crowdhurrying on in the fear of being late. Railroads, besides many otheradvantages, possess that of teag the French punctuality. They willsubmit to the clock when they are vihat it is their master;they will learn to wait when they find they will not be waited for. Social virtues, are, in a great degree, good habits. How many greatqualities are grafted into nations by their geographical position, bypolitiecessity, and by institutions! Avarice was destroyed for atime among the Lacedaemonians by the creation of an iron age, tooheavy and too bulky to be vely hoarded. I found myself in a carriage with two middle-aged women belonging to thedomestid retired class of Parisians I have spoken of above. A fewcivilities were suffit to gaiheir fidence, and after someminutes I was acquainted with their whole history. They were two poor sisters, left orphans at fifteen, and had lived eversince, as those who work for their livelihood must live, by ey andprivation. For the last twenty or thirty years they had worked injewelry in the same house; they had seen ten masters succeed one another,and make their fortunes in it, without any ge in their own lot. Theyhad always lived in the same room, at the end of one of the passages inthe Rue St. Denis, where the air and the sun are unknown. They begantheir work before daylight, went on with it till after nightfall, and sawyear succeed to year without their lives being marked by any other eventsthan the Sunday service, a walk, or an illness. The younger of these worthy work-women was forty, and obeyed her sisteras she did when a child. The elder looked after her, took care of her,and scolded her with a mothers tenderness. At first it was amusing;afterward one could not help seeing something affeg iwogray-haired children, one uo leave off the habit of obeying, theother that of proteg. And it was not in that alohat my two panions seemed youhantheir years; they knew so little that their wonder never ceased. We hadhardly arrived at Clamart before they involuntarily exclaimed, like theking in the childrens game, that they "did not think the world was sogreat"! It was the first time they had trusted themselves on a railroad, and itwas amusing to see their sudden shocks, their alarms, and theirceous determinations: everything was a marvel to them! They hadremains of youth within them, which made them sensible to things whichusually only strike us in childhood. Poor creatures! they had still thefeelings of ane, though they had lost its charms. But was there not something holy in this simplicity, which had beenpreserved to them by abstinence from all the joys of life? Ah! accursedbe he who first had the had ce to attach ridicule to that name of"old maid," which recalls so many images of grievous deception, ofdreariness, and of abando! Accursed be he who find a subjectfor sarcasm in involuntary misfortune, and who gray hairs withthorns! The two sisters were called Frances and Madeleihis days journeywas a feat of ce without example in their lives. The fever of thetimes had ied them unawares. Yesterday Madeleine had suddenlyproposed the idea of the expedition, and Frances had accepted itimmediately. Perhaps it would have beeer not to yield to the greattemptation offered by her younger sister; but "we have our follies at allages," as the prudent Frances philosophically remarked. As forMadeleihere are s or doubts for her; she is the life-guardsman of the establishment. "We really must amuse ourselves," said she; "we live but once." And the elder sister smiled at this Epicurean maxim. It was evident thatthe fever of independence was at its crisis in both of them. And in truth it would have been a great pity if any scruple hadinterfered with their happiness, it was so frank and genial! The sightof the trees, which seemed to fly on both sides of the road, caused themunceasing admiration. The meeting a train passing in the trarydire, with the noise and rapidity of a thunderbolt, made them shuttheir eyes and utter a cry; but it had already disappeared! They lookaround, take ce again, and express themselves full of astonishmentat the marvel. Madeleine declares that such a sight is worth the expense of the journey,and Frances would have agreed with her if she had not recollected, withsome little alarm, the deficit which su expense must make in theirbudget. The three francs spent upon this single expeditiohesavings of a whole week of work. Thus the joy of the elder of the twosisters was mixed with remorse; the prodigal child now and then turs eyes toward the back street of St. Denis. But the motion and the succession of objects distract her. See thebridge of the Val surrounded by its lovely landscape: on the right, Pariswith its grand mos, which rise through the fog, or sparkle in thesun; on the left, Meudon, with its villas, its woods, its vines, and itsroyal castle! The two work-women look from one window to the other withexclamations of delight. One fellow-passenger laughs at their childishwonder; but to me it is deeply toug, for I see in it the sign of along and monotonous seclusion: they are the prisoners of work, who haverecovered liberty and fresh air for a few hours. At last the train stops, a out. I show the two sisters the paththat leads to Sevres, between the railway and the gardens, and they go onbefore, while I inquire about the time of returning. I soon join them again at the station, where they have stopped atthe little garden belonging to the gatekeeper; both are already in deepversation with him while he digs his garden-borders, and marks out theplaces for flower-seeds. He informs them that it is the time for hoeingout weeds, for making grafts and layers, for sowing annuals, and fordestroying the is on the rose-trees. Madeleine has on the sill ofher windoooden boxes, in which, for want of air and sun, she hasnever been able to make anything grow but mustard and cress; but shepersuades herself that, thanks to this information, all other plants mayheh thrive in them. At last the gatekeeper, who is sowing aborder with mige, gives her the rest of the seeds which he does notwant, and the old maid goes off delighted, and begins to act ainthe dream of Paired and her ilk, with these flowers of herimagination. On reag the grove of acacias, where the fair was going on, I lostsight of the two sisters. I went alone among the sights: there werelotteries going on, mountebank shows, places for eating and drinking, andfor shooting with the cross-bow. I have always been struck by the spiritof these out-of-door festivities. In drawing-room eais, peopleare cold, grave, often listless, and most of those who go there arebrought together by habit or the obligations of society; in the tryassemblies, on the trary, you only find those who are attracted by thehope of enjoyment. There, it is a forced scription; here, they arevolunteers fayety! Then, how easily they are pleased! How far thiscrowd of people is yet from knowing that to be pleased with nothing, andto look down ohing, is the height of fashion and good taste! Doubtless their amusements are often coarse; elegand refi arewanting in them; but at least they have heartiness. Oh, that the heartyenjoyments of these merry-makings could be retained in union with lessvulgar feeling! Formerly religion stamped its holy character on thecelebration of try festivals, and purified the pleasures withoutdepriving them of their simplicity. The hour arrives at which the doors of the porcelain manufactory and themuseum of pottery are open to the public. I meet Frances and Madeleineagain in the first room. Frighte finding themselves in the midstof such regal magnifice, they hardly dare walk; they speak in a lowtone, as if they were in a church. "We are in the kings house," said the eldest sister, fetting thatthere is no longer a king in France. I ence them to go on; I walk first, and they make up their minds tofollow me. What wonders are brought together in this colle! Here we see claymoulded into every shape, tinted with every color, and bined withevery sort of substance! Earth and wood are the first substances worked upon by man, and seem moreparticularly meant for his use. They, like the domestiimals, are theessential accessories of his life; therefore there must be a moreintimate e between them and us. Stone aals require longpreparations; they resist our first efforts, and beloo theindividual than to unities. Earth and wood are, on the trary, theprincipal instruments of the isolated being who must feed and shelterhimself. This, doubtless, makes me feel so muterested in the colle I amexamining. These cups, shly modelled by the savage, admit me to aknowledge of some of his habits; these elega incorrectly formedvases of the Indian tell me of a deing intelligence,--in which stillglimmers the twilight of what was once bright sunshihese jars,loaded with arabesques, show the fancy of the Arab rudely and ignorantlycopied by the Spaniard! We fihe stamp of every race, everytry, and every age. My panions seemed little ied in these historical associations;they looked at all with that credulous admiration which leaves no roomfor examination or discussion. Madeleihe name written underevery piece of workmanship, and her sister answered with an exclamationof wonder. In this way we reached a little courtyard, where they had thrown away thefragments of some broken a. Frances perceived a colored saucer almost whole, of which she tookpossession as a record of the visit she was making; heh she wouldhave a spe of the Sevres a, "which is only made for kings!" I would not undeceive her by tellihat the products of themanufactory are sold all over the world, and that her saucer, before itwas cracked, was the same as those that are bought at the shops forsixpence! Why should I destroy the illusions of her humble existence? Are we to break down the hedge-flowers that perfume our paths? Thingsare ofte nothing in themselves; the thoughts we attach to them alonegive them value. To rectify i mistakes, in order to recover someuseless reality, is to be like those learned men who will see nothing ina plant but the chemical elements of which it is posed. On leaving the manufactory, the two sisters, who had taken possession ofme with the freedom of artlessness, invited me to share the luheyhad brought with them. I deed at first, but they insisted with somuch good-nature, that I feared to pain them, and with some awkwardnessgave way. We had only to look for a ve spot. I led them up the hill, andwe found a plot of grass enamelled with daisies, and shaded by twowalnut-trees. Madeleine could not tain herself for joy. All her life she haddreamed of a dinner out on the grass! While helping her sister to takethe provisions from the basket, she tells me of all her expeditions intothe try that had been planned, and put off. Frances, oherhand, was brought up at Montmorency, and before she became an orphan shehad often gone back to her nurses house. That which had the attraof y for her sister, had for her the charm of recolle. Shetold of the vintage harvests to which her parents had takeherides on Mother Lurets dohat they could not make go to the rightwithout pulling him to the left; the cherry-gathering; and the sails onthe lake in the innkeepers boat. These recolles have all the charm and freshness of childhood. Frances recalls to herself less what she has seen than what she has felt. Whi.le she is talking the cloth is laid, a down under a tree. Before us winds the valley of Sevres, its many-storied houses abuttingupon the gardens and the slopes of the hill; oher side spreadsout the park of St. Cloud, with its magnifit clumps of treesinterspersed with meadows; above stretch the heavens like an immenseo, in which the clouds are sailing! I look at this beautifultry, and I listen to these good old maids; I admire, and I amied; and time passes gently on without my perceiving it. At last the sus, and we have to think of returning. While Madeleineand Frances clear away the dinner, I walk down to the manufactory to askthe hour. The merrymaking is at its height; the blasts of the trombonesresound from the band uhe acacias. For a few moments I fetmyself with looking about; but I have promised the two sisters to takethem back to the Bellevue station; the train ot wait, and I makehaste to climb the path again which leads to the walnut-trees. Just before I reached them, I heard voices oher side of thehedge. Madeleine and Frances were speaking to a pirl whose clotheswere burned, her hands blaed, and her face tied up with bloodstainedbandages. I saw that she was one of the girls employed at the gunpowdermills, which are built further up on the on. An explosion had takenplace a few days before; the girls mother and elder sister were killed;she herself escaped by a miracle, and was now left without any means ofsupport. She told all this with the resigned and unhopeful manner of onewho has always been aced to suffer. The two sisters were muchaffected; I saw them sulting with each other in a low tohenFraook thirty sous out of a little coarse silk purse, which was allthey had left, and gave them to the pirl. I hastened on to thatside of the hedge; but, before I reached it, I met the two old sisters,who called out to me that they would not return by the railway, but onfoot! I then uood that the mohey had meant for the journey had justbeen given to the beggar! Good, like evil, is tagious: I run to thepoor wounded girl, give her the sum that was to pay for my own place, aurn to Frances and Madeleine, ahem I will walk with them. .......................... I am just e back from taking them home; and have left them delightedwith their day, the recolle of which will long make them happy. This m I itying those whose lives are obscure and joyless;now, I uand that God has provided a pensation with every trial. The smallest pleasure derives from rarity a relish otherwise unknown. Enjoyment is only what we feel to be such, and the luxurious man feels nolonger: satiety has destroyed his appetite, while privation preserves tothe other that first of earthly blessings: the being easily made happy. Oh, that I could persuade every one of this! that so the rich might notabuse their riches, and that the pht have patience. If happinessis the rarest of blessings, it is because the reception of it is therarest of virtues. Madeleine and Frances! ye poor old maids whose ce, resignation, andgenerous hearts are your only wealth, pray for the wretched who givethemselves up to despair; for the unhappy who hate and envy; and for theunfeeling into whose enjoyments no pity enters. . CHAPTER VI UNCLE MAURICE Juh, Four Oclock A.M. I am not surprised at hearing, when I awake, the birds singing sojoyfully outside my window; it is only by living, as they and I do, in atop story, that one es to know how cheerful the ms really are upamong the roofs. It is there that the sun sends his first rays, and thebreeze es with the fragrance of the gardens and woods; there that awandering butterfly sometimes ventures among the flowers of the attid that the songs of the industrious work-woman wele the dawn of day. The lower stories are still deep in sleep, silence, and shadow, whilehere labor, light, and song already reign. What life is around me! See the swallow returning from her search forfood, with her beak full of is for her young ohe sparrowsshake the dew from their wings while they chase one another in thesunshine; and my neighbors throw open their windows, and wele them with their fresh faces! Delightful hour of waking, whehiurns to feeling and to motion; when the first light of daystrikes upoion, and brings it to life again, as the magidstruck the palace of the Sleepiy in the wood! It is a moment ofrest from every misery; the sufferings of the sick are allayed, and abreath of hope enters into the hearts of the despairing. But, alas! itis but a short respite! Everything will soon resume its wonted course: the great human mae, with its long strains, its deep gasps, itscollisions, and its crashes, will be again put in motion. The tranquillity of this first m hour reminds me of that of ourfirst years of life. Then, too, the sun shines brightly, the air isfragrant, and the illusions of youth-those birds of our lifes m-sing around us. Why do they fly away when we are older? Where do thissadness and this solitude, which gradually steal upon us, e from? Thecourse seems to be the same with individuals and with unities: atstarting, so readily made happy, so easily ented; and at the goal,the bitter disappoi or reality! The road, which began amonghawthorns and primroses, ends speedily is or in precipices! Whyis there so much fide first, so much doubt at last? Has, then,the knowledge of life no other end but to make it unfit for happiness? Must we n ourselves to ignorance if we would preserve hope? Is theworld and is the individual man intended, after all, to fi only iernal childhood? How many times have I asked myself these questions! Solitude has theadvantage or the danger of making us tinually search more deeply intothe same ideas. As our discourse is only with ourself, we always givethe same dire to the versation; we are not called to turn it tothe subject which occupies another mind, or is anothers feelings;and so an involuntary ination makes us return forever to knock at thesame doors! I interrupted my refles to put my atti order. I hate the lookof disorder, because it shows either a pt for details or anunaptness for spiritual life. Te the things among which we haveto live, is to establish the relation of property and of use between themand us: it is to lay the foundation of those habits without which mantends to the savage state. What, in fact, is social anization but aseries of habits, settled in accordah the dispositions of ournature? I distrust both the intelled the morality of those people to whomdisorder is of no sequence--who live at ease in an Augean stable. What surrounds us, reflects more or less that which is within us. Themind is like one of those dark lanterns which, in spite of everything,still throw some light around. If our tastes did not reveal ourcharacter, they would be no loastes, but instincts. While I was arranging everything in my attic, my eyes rested ole almanaging over my ey-piece. I looked for the day ofthe month, and I saw these words written in large letters: "FETE DIEU!" It is to-day! In this great city, where there are no longer any publicreligious solemhere is nothing to remind us of it; but it is,in truth, the period so happily chosen by the primitive church. "The daykept in honor of the Creator," says Chateaubriand, "happens at a timewhen the heaven and the earth declare His power, when the woods andfields are full of new life, and all are united by the happiest ties;there is not a single widowed plant in the fields." What recolles these words have just awakened! I left off what I wasabout, I leaned my elbows on the windowsill, and, with my head between mytwo hands, I went ba thought to the little towhe first daysof my childhood were passed. The Fete Dieu was then one of the great events of my life! It wasnecessary to be diligent and obedient a long time beforehand, to deserveto share in it. I still recollect with what raptures of expectation Igot up on the m of the day. There was a holy joy in the air. Theneighbors, up earlier than usual, hung cloths with flowers ures,worked in tapestry, along the streets. I went from oo another, byturns admiring religious ses of the Middle Ages, mythologipositions of the Renaissance, old battles iyle of Louis XIV,and the Arcadias of Madame de Pompadour. All this world of phantomsseemed to be ing forth from the dust of past ages, to assist--silentand motionless--at the holy ceremony. I looked, alternately in fear andwonder, at those terrible warriors with their swords always raised, thosebeautiful huntresses shooting the arrow whiever left the bow, andthose shepherds in satin breeches allaying the flute at the feet ofthe perpetually smiling shepherdess. Sometimes, when the wind blewbehind these hanging pictures, it seemed to me that the figuresthemselves moved, and I watched to see them detach themselves from thewall, and take their places in the procession! But these impressionswere vague and transitory. The feeling that predominated over everyother was that of an overflowi quiet joy. In the midst of all thefloating draperies, the scattered flowers, the voices of the maidens, andthe gladness which, like a perfume, exhaled from everything, you felttransported in spite of yourself. The joyful sounds of the festival wererepeated in your heart, in a thousand melodious echoes. You were moreindulgent, more holy, more loving! Fod was not only mainghimself without, but also within us. And thears for the occasion! the flowery arbors! the triumphalarches made of green boughs! What petition among the differentparishes for the ere of the resting-places where the procession wasto halt! It was who should tribute the rarest and the most beautifulof his possessions! It was there I made my first sacrifice! The wreaths of flowers were arrahe dles lighted, and theTabernacle dressed with roses; but one was wanting fit to thewhole! All the neighb gardens had been ransacked. I alonepossessed a flower worthy of such a place. It was on the rose-tree givenme by my mother on my birthday. I had watched it for several months, andthere was no other bud to blow oree. There it was, half open, inits mossy , the object of such long expectations, and of all achilds pride! I hesitated for some moments. No one had asked me forit; I might easily avoid losing it. I should hear no reproaches, but onerose noiselessly within me. When every one else had given all they had,ought I aloo keep back my treasure? Ought I te to God ohe gifts which, like all the rest, I had received from him? At thislast thought I plucked the flower from the stem, and took it to put atthe top of the Tabernacle. Ah! why does the recolle of thissacrifice, which was so hard a so sweet to me, now make me smile? Is it so certain that the value of a gift is in itself, rather than iention? If the cup of cold water in the gospel is remembered tothe poor man, why should not the flower be remembered to the child? Letus not look down upon the childs simple act of generosity; it is thesewhich ac the soul to self-denial and to sympathy. I cherished thismoss-rose a long time as a sacred talisman; I had reason to cherish italways, as the record of the first victory won over myself. It is now many years since I withe celebration of the FeteDieu; but should I again feel in it the happy sensations of former days? I still remember how, when the procession had passed, I walked throughthe streets strewed with flowers and shaded with green boughs. I feltintoxicated by the lingering perfumes of the inse, mixed with thefragrance of syringas, jessamine, and roses, and I seemed no lootouch the ground as I went along. I smiled at everything; the wholeworld aradise in my eyes, and it seemed to me that God was floatingin the air! Moreover, this feeling was not the excitement of the moment: it might bemore intense oain days, but at the same time it tihroughthe ordinary course of my life. Many years thus passed for me in anexpansion of heart, and a trustfulness which prevented sorrow, if notfrom ing, at least from staying with me. Sure of not being alone,I soon took heart again, like the child who recovers its ce, becauseit hears its mothers voice close by. Why have I lost that fideny childhood? Shall I never feel again so deeply that God is here? How strahe association of our thoughts! A day of the month recallsmy infancy, and see, all the recolles of my former years are growingup around me! Why was I so happy then? I sider well, and nothing issensibly ged in my dition. I possess, as I did theh andmy daily bread; the only difference is, that I am now responsible formyself! As a child, I accepted life when it came; another cared andprovided for me. So long as I fulfilled my present duties I eacewithin, and I left the future to the prudeny father! My destinywas a ship, in the direg of which I had no share, and in which Isailed as a on passehere was the whole secret of childhoodshappy security. Sihen worldly wisdom has deprived me of it. Whenmy lot was intrusted to my own and sole keeping, I thought to make myselfmaster of it by means of a long insight into the future. I have filledthe present hour with aies, by occupying my thoughts with thefuture; I have put my judgment in the place of Providence, and the happychild is ged into the anxious man. A melancholy course, yet perhaps an important lesson. Who knows that,if I had trusted more to Him who rules the world, I should not have beenspared all this ay? It may be that happiness is not possible herebelow, except on dition of living like a child, giving ourselves up tothe duties of each day as it es, and trusting in the goodness of ourheavenly Father for all besides. This reminds me of my Uncle Maurice! Whenever I have thenmyself in all that is good, I turn my thoughts to him; I see agaile expression of his half-smiling, half-mournful face; I hear hisvoice, always soft and soothing as a breath of summer! The remembranceof him protects my life, and gives it light. He, too, was a saint andmartyr here below. Others have pointed out the path of heaven; he hastaught us to see those of earth aright. But, except the angels, who are charged with noting down the sacrificesperformed i, and the virtues which are never known, who has everheard of my Uncle Maurice? Perhaps I alone remember his name, and stillrecall his history. Well! I will write it, not for others, but for myself! They say that,at the sight of the Apollo, the body erects itself and assumes a mtitude: in the same way, the soul should feel itself raisedand ennobled by the recolle of a good mans life! A ray of the rising sun lights up the little table on which I write; thebreeze brings me in the st of the mige, and the swallows wheelabout my window with joyful twitterings. The image of my Uncle Mauricewill be in its proper place amid the songs, the sunshine, and thefragrance. Seven oclock.--It is with mens lives as with days: some dawn radiantwith a thousand colors, others dark with gloomy clouds. That of my UncleMaurice was one of the latter. He was so sickly, when he came into theworld, that they thought he must die; but notwithstanding theseanticipations, which might be called hopes, he tio live,suffering and deformed. He was deprived of all joys as well as of all the attras ofchildhood. He pressed because he was weak, and laughed at for hisdeformity. In vaitle hunchback opened his arms to the world: the world scoffed at him, a its way. However, he still had his mother, and it was to her that the childdirected all the feelings of a heart repelled by others. With her hefound shelter, and was happy, till he reached the age when a man musttake his pla life; and Maurice had to tent himself with thatwhich others had refused with pt. His education would havequalified him for any course of life; and he became an octroi-clerk--[The octroi is the tax on provisions levied at the entrance of the town]--in one of the little toll-houses at the entrance of his native town. He was always shut up in this dwelling of a few feet square, with norelaxation from the office ats but reading and his mothers visits. On fine summer days she came to work at the door of his hut, uheshade of a clematis planted by Maurice. And, even when she was silent,her presence leasant ge for the hunchback; he heard theking of her long knitting-needles; he saw her mild and mournfulprofile, which reminded him of so many ceously-borrials; hecould every now and the his hand affeately on that bowed ned exge a smile with her! This fort was soon to be taken from him. His old mother fell sid at the end of a few days he had to give up all hope. Maurice wasovere at the idea of a separation which would heh leave himalone oh, and abandoned himself to boundless grief. He k bythe bedside of the dying woman, he called her by the fo names, hepressed her in his arms, as if he could so keep her in life. His mothertried to return his caresses, and to answer him; but her hands were cold,her voice was already gone. She could only press her lips against theforehead of her son, heave a sigh, and close her eyes forever! They tried to take Maurice away, but he resisted them and threw himselfon that now motionless form. "Dead!" cried he; "dead! She who had never left me, she who was theonly one in the world who loved me! You, my mother, dead! What thenremains for me here below?" A stifled voice replied: "God!" Maurice, startled, raised himself! Was that a last sigh from the dead,or his own sce, that had answered him? He did not seek to know,but he uood the answer, and accepted it. It was then that I first knew him. I ofteo see him in his littletoll-house. He joined in my childish games, told me his fi stories,a me gather his flowers. Deprived as he was of all externalattractiveness, he showed himself full of kio all who came tohim, and, though he never would put himself forward, he had a wele foreveryone. Deserted, despised, he submitted to everything with a geience; and while he was thus stretched on the cross of life, amid theinsults of his executioners, he repeated with Christ, "Father, fivethem, for they know not what they do." No other clerk showed so much hoy, zeal, and intelligence; but thosewho otherwise might have promoted him as his services deserved wererepelled by his deformity. As he had no patrons, he found his claimswere always disregarded. They preferred before him those who were betterable to make themselves agreeable, and seemed to be granting him a favorwheing him keep the humble office whiabled him to live. UncleMaurice bore injustice as he had borne pt; unfairly treated by men,he raised his eyes higher, and trusted in the justice of Him who otbe deceived. He lived in an old house in the suburb, where many work-people, as poorbut not as forlorn as he, also lodged. Among these neighbors there was asingle woman, who lived by herself in a little garret, into which cameboth wind and rain. She was a young girl, pale, silent, and with nothingto reend her but her wretess and her resignation to it. She wasnever seen speaking to any other woman, and no song cheered her garret. She worked without i and without relaxation; a depressing gloomseemed to envelop her like a shroud. Her deje affected Maurice; heattempted to speak to her; she replied mildly, but in few words. It waseasy to see that she preferred her silend her solitude to the littlehunchbacks good-will; he perceived it, and said no more. But Toies needle was hardly suffit for her support, aly work failed her! Maurice learhat the pirl was inwant of everything, and that the tradesmen refused to give her credit. He immediately went to them privately and eo pay them for whatthey supplied Toih. Things went on in this way for several months. The young dressmakertinued out of work, until she was at last frighte the bills shehad tracted with the shopkeepers. When she came to an explanationwith them, everything was discovered. Her first impulse was to run toUncle Maurice, and thank him on her knees. Her habitual reserve hadgiven way to a burst of deepest feeling. It seemed as if gratitude hadmelted all the ice of that numbed heart. Being now no longer embarrassed with a secret, the little hunchback couldgive greater efficacy to his good offices. Toie became to him asister, for whose wants he had a right to provide. It was the first timesihe death of his mother that he had been able to share his lifewith ahe young woman received his attentions with feeling, butwith reserve. All Maurices efforts were insuffit to dispel hergloom: she seemed touched by his kindness, and sometimes expressed hersense of it with warmth; but there she stopped. Her heart was a closedbook, which the little hunchback might bend over, but could not read. Intruth he cared little to do so; he gave himself up to the happiness ofbeing no longer alone, and took Toie such as her lobbr>?ng trials had madeher; he loved her as she was, and wished for nothing else but still toenjoy her pany. This thought insensibly took possession of his mind, to the exclusion ofall besides. The pirl was as forlorn as himself; she had beeaced to the deformity of the hunchback, and she seemed to look onhim with an affeate sympathy! What more could he wish for? Untilthen, the hopes of making himself acceptable to a helpmate had beenrepelled by Maurice as a dream; but ce seemed willing to make it areality. After much hesitatioook ce, and decided to speak toher. It was evening; the little hunchback, in much agitation, directed hissteps toward the work-womans garret just as he was about to enter, hethought he heard a strange voice pronoung the maidens name. Hequickly pushed open the door, and perceived Toie weeping, and leaningon the shoulder of a young man in the dress of a sailor. At the sight of my uncle, she disengaged herself quickly, and ran to him,g out: "Ah! e in--e in! It is he that I thought was dead: it is Julien;it is my betrothed!" Maurice tottered, and drew back. A single word had told him all! It seemed to him as if the ground shook and his heart was about to break;but the same voice that he had heard by his mothers deathbed againsounded in his ears, and he soon recovered himself. God was still hisfriend! He himself apahe newly-married pair on the road when they leftthe town, and, after wishing them all the happiness which was deohim, he returned with resignation to the old house in the suburb. It was there that he ended his life, forsaken by men, but not as he saidby the Father which is in heaven. He felt His presence everywhere; itwas to him in the place of all else. When he died, it was with a smile,and like an exile setting out for his own try. He who had soledhim in poverty and ill-health, when he was suffering from injustidforsaken by all, had made death a gain and blessing to him. Eight oclock.--All I have just written has pained me! Till now I havelooked into life for instru how to live. Is it then true that humanmaxims are not always suffit? that beyond goodness, prudence,moderation, humility, self-sacrifice itself, there is one great truth,which alone face great misfortunes? and that, if man has need ofvirtues for others, he has need ion for himself? When, in youth, we drink our wih a merry heart, as the Scriptureexpresses it, we think we are suffit for ourselves; strong, happy,and beloved, we believe, like Ajax, we shall be able to escape everystorm in spite of the gods. But later in life, when the back is bowed,when happiness proves a fading flower, and the affes grow chill-then, in fear of the void and the darkness, we stretch out our arms, likethe child overtaken by night, and we call for help to Him who iseverywhere. I was asking this m why this growing fusion alike for societyand for the individual? In vain does human reason from hour to hht some or the roadside: the night tio grow everdarker! Is it not because we are tent to withdraw farther and fartherfrom God, the Sun of spirits? But what do these hermits reveries signify to the world? The inwardturmoils of most meifled by the outward ones; life does not givethem time to question themselves. Have they time to know what they are,and what they should be, whose whole thoughts are in the lease orthe last price of stock? Heaven is very high, and wise men look only atthe earth. But I--poor savage amid all this civilization, who seek her power norriches, and who have found in my own thoughts the home and shelter of myspirit--I go back with impunity to these recolles of mychildhood; and, if this reat city no longer honors the name of Godwith a festival, I will strive still to keep the feast to Him in myheart. CHAPTER VII THE PRICE OF POWER AND THE WORTH OF FAME Sunday, July 1st. Yesterday the month dedicated to Juno (Junius, June) by the Romans ended. To-day we enter on July. In a Rome this latter month was called Quihe fifth),because the year, which was then divided into only ten parts, began inMarch. When Numa Pompilius divided it into twelve months this name ofQuintiles reserved, as well as those that followed--Sexteles,September, October, November, December--although these designations didnot accord with the newly arranged order of the months. At last, after atime the month Quintiles, in which Julius Caesar was born, was calledJulius, whence we have July. Thus this name, placed in the dar, isbee the imperishable record of a great man; it is an immortal epitaphon Times highway, engraved by the admiration of man. How many similar inscriptions are there! Seas, tis, mountains,stars, and mos, have all in succession served the same purpose! Wehave turhe whole world into a Golden Book, like that in which thestate of Venice used to enroll its illustrious names and its great deeds. It seems that mankind feels a y for h itself in its elees, and that it raises itself in its own eyes by choosing heroes fromamong its own race. The human family love to preserve the memory; of theparvenus of glory, as we cherish that of a great aor, or of abeor. In fact, the talents grao a single individual do not behimself alone, but are gifts to the world; everyone shares them, foreveryone suffers or bes by his as. Genius is a lighthouse,meant to give light from afar; the man who bears it is but the rock uponwhich this lighthouse is built. I love to dwell upohoughts; they explain to me in what sistsour admiration flory. When glory has beed men, that admirationis gratitude; when it is only remarkable in itself, it is the pride ofrace; as men, we love to immortalize the most shining examples ofhumanity. Who knows whether we do not obey the same instin submitting to thehand of power? Apart from the requirements of a gradation of ranks, orthe sequences of a quest, the multitude delight to surround theirchiefs with privileges--whether it be that their vanity makes them thusto aggrandize one of their owions, or whether they try to cealthe humiliation of subje by exaggerating the importance of those whorule them. They wish to honor themselves through their master; theyelevate him on their shoulders as on a pedestal; they surround him with ahalo of light, in order that some of it may be reflected upon themselves. It is still the fable of the dog who tents himself with the andcollar, so that they are of gold. This servile vanity is not less natural or less on than the vanity ofdominion. Whoever feels himself incapable of and, at least desiresto obey a powerful chief. Serfs have been known to sider themselvesdishonored when they became the property of a mere t after havihat of a prince, and Saint-Simoions a valet who would onlywait upon marquises. July 7th, seven oclock P. M.--I have just now been up the Boulevards;it was the opera night, and there was a crowd of carriages in the RueLepelletier. The foot-passengers who were stopped at a crossingreized the persons in some of these as we went by, aioheir hey were those of celebrated or powerful men, thesuccessful ones of the day. Near me there was a man looking on with hollow cheeks and eager eyes,whose thin black coat was threadbare. He followed with envious looksthese possessors of the privileges of power or of fame, and I read on hislips, which curled with a bitter smile, all that passed in his mind. "Look at them, the lucky fellows!" thought he; "all the pleasures ofwealth, all the enjoyments of pride, are theirs. Their names arerenowned, all their wishes fulfilled; they are the sns of theworld, either by their intellect or their power; and while I, poor andunknown, toil painfully along the road below, they wing their way overthe mountain-tops gilded by the broad sunshine of prosperity." I have e home ihought. Is it true that there are theseinequalities, I do not say in the fortunes, but in the happiness of men? Do genius and authority really wear life as a , while the greaterpart of mankind receive it as a yoke? Is the difference of rank but adifferent use of mens dispositions and talents, or a real inequality intheir destinies? A solemion, as it regards the verification ofGods impartiality. July 8th, noon.--I went this m to call upon a friend from the sameprovince as myself, who is the first usher-in-waiting to one of ourministers. I took him some letters from his family, left for him by atraveller just e from Brittany. He wished me to stay. "To-day," said he, "the Minister gives no audience: he takes a day ofrest with his family. His younger sisters are arrived; he will take themthis m to St. Cloud, and in the evening he has invited his friendsto a private ball. I shall be dismissed directly for the rest of theday. We diogether; read the news while you are waiting for me." I sat down at a table covered with neers, all of which I looked overby turns. Most of them tained severe criticisms on the last politicalacts of the minister; some of them added suspis as to the honor ofthe minister himself. Just as I had finished reading, a secretary came for them to take them tohis master. He was then about to read these accusations, to suffer silently the abuseof all those tongues which were holding him up to indignation or tos! Like the Roman victor in his triumph, he had to eheinsults of him who followed his car, relating to the crowd his follies,his ignorance, or his vices. But, among the arrows shot at him from every side, would no one be foundpoisoned? Would not one reae spot in his heart where the woundwould be incurable? What is the worth of a life exposed to the attacksof envious hatred or furious vi? The Christians yielded only thefragments of their flesh to the beasts of the amphitheatres; the man inpives up his peace, his affes, his honor, to the cruel bitesof the pen. While I was musing upon these dangers of greatness, the usher enteredhastily. Important news had been received: the minister is just summoo the cil; he will not be able to take his sisters to St. Cloud. I saw, through the windows, the young ladies, who were waiting at thedoor, sorrowfully go upstairs again, while their brother went off to thecil. The carriage, which should have gone filled with so much familyhappiness, is just out of sight, carrying only the cares of a statesmanin it. The usher came back distented and disappoihe more or less ofliberty which he is allowed to enjoy, is his barometer of the politicalatmosphere. If he gets leave, all goes well; if he is kept at his post,the try is in danger. His opinion on public affairs is but acalculation of his own i. My friend is almost a statesman. I had some versation with him, aold me several curiousparticulars of public life. The new minister has old friends whose opinions he opposes, though hestill retains his personal regard for them. Though separated from themby the colors he fights uhey remain united by old associations;but the exigencies of party forbid him to meet them. If theirintercourse tinued, it would awaken suspi; people would imagi some dishonorable bargain was going on; his friends would be held tobe traitors desirous to sell themselves, ahe corrupt ministerprepared to buy them. He has, therefore, been obliged to break offfriendships of twenty years standing, and to sacrifice attats whichhad bee a sed nature. Sometimes, however, the miill gives way to his old feelings; hereceives or visits his friends privately; he shuts himself up with them,and talks of the times when they could be open friends. By dint ofprecautions they have hitherto succeeded in cealing this blot offriendship against policy; but sooner or later the neers will beinformed of it, and will denounce him to the try as an object ofdistrust. For whether hatred be ho or disho, it never shrinks from anyaccusation. Sometimes it even proceeds to crime. The usher assured methat several warnings had been given the minister which had made him fearthe vengeance of an assassin, and that he no longer ventured out on foot. Then, from ohing to another, I learned what temptations came in tomislead or overe his judgment; how he found himself fatally led intoobliquities which he could not but deplore. Misled by passion, over-persuaded by eies, or pelled for reputations sake, he has manytimes held the balah an unsteady hand. How sad the dition ofhim who is in authority! Not only are the miseries of power imposed uponhim, but its vices also, whiot tent with t, succeed incorrupting him. We prolonged our versation till it was interrupted by the ministersreturhrew himself out of the carriage with a handful of papers,and with an anxious manner went into his own room. An instant afterwardhis bell was heard; his secretary was called to send off notices to allthose invited for the evening; the ball would not take place; they spokemysteriously of bad ransmitted by the telegraph, and in suchcircumstances aertai would seem to insult the public sorrow. I took leave of my friend, and here I am at home. What I have just seenis an ao my doubts the other day. Now I know with angs menpay for their dignities; now I uandThat Fortune sells what we believe she gives. This explains to me the reason why Charles V aspired to the repose of thecloister. A I have only gla some of the sufferings attached to power. What shall I say of the falls in which its possessors are precipitatedfrom the heights of heaven to the very depths of the earth? of that pathof pain along which they must forever bear the burden of theirresponsibility? of that of des and ennuis whipassesevery act of their lives, and leaves them so little liberty? The partisans of despotism adhere with reason to forms and ceremonies. If men wish to give unlimited power to their fellow-man, they must keephim separated from ordinary humanity; they must surround him with atinual worship, and, by a stant ceremonial, keep up for him thesuperhuman part they have granted him. Our masters ot remainabsolute, except on dition of being treated as idols. But, after all, these idols are men, and, if the exclusive life they mustlead is an insult to the dignity of others, it is also a torment tothemselves. Everyone knows the law of the Spanish court, which used tulate, hour by hour, the as of the king and queen; "so that," says Voltaire, "by reading it one tell all that the sns ofSpain have done, or will do, from Philip II to the day of judgment." Itwas by this lahilip III, when sick, was obliged to endure suexcess of heat that he died in sequence, because the Duke of Uzeda,who alone had the right to put out the fire in the royal chamber,happeo be absent. When the wife of Charles II was run away with on a spirited horse, shewas about to perish before anyone dared to save her, because etiquetteforbade them to touch the queen. Two young officers endaheirlives for her by stopping the horse. The prayers and tears of her whomthey had just snatched from death were necessary to obtain pardon fortheir crime. Every one knows the ae related by Madame Campan ofMarie Antoie, wife of Louis XVI. One day, being at her toilet, whenthe chemise was about to be preseo her by one of the assistants, alady of very a family entered and claimed the honor, as she had theright by etiquette; but, at the moment she was about to fulfil her duty,a lady of higher rank appeared, and iurn took the garment she wasabout to offer to the queen; when a third lady of still higher title cameiurn, and was followed by a fourth, who was no other than thekings sister. The chemise was in this manner passed from hand to hand,with ceremonies, courtesies, and pliments, before it came to thequeen, who, half naked and quite ashamed, was shivering with cold for thegreat honor of etiquette. 12th, seven oclock, P.M.--On ing home this evening, I saw, standingat the door of a house, an old man, whose appearand featuresreminded me of my father. There was the same beautiful smile, the samedeep arating eye, the same noble bearing of the head, and thesame careless attitude. I began living ain the first years of my life, and recalling tomyself the versations of that guide whom God in his mercy had givenme, and whom in his severity he had too soon withdrawn. When my father spoke, it was not only t our two minds together byan interge of thought, but his words always tained instru. Not that he endeavored to make me feel it so: my father feared everythingthat had the appearance of a lesson. He used to say that virtue ake herself devoted friends, but she did not take pupils: therefore hewas not desirous to teach goodness; he tented himself with sowing theseeds of it, certain that experience would make them grow. How often has good grain fallen thus into a er of the heart, and,when it has been long fotten, all at o forth the blade and einto ear! It is a treasure laid aside in a time of ignorance, and we donot know its value till we find ourselves in need of it. Among the stories with which he enlivened our walks or our evenings,there is one whiow returns to my memory, doubtless because the timeis e to derive its lesson from it. My father, who re the age of twelve to one of thosetrading collectors who call themselves naturalists, because they put allcreation under glasses that they may sell it by retail, had always led alife of poverty and labor. Obliged to rise before daybreak, by turnsshop-boy, clerk, and laborer, he was made to bear alone all the work of atrade of which his master reaped all the profits. In truth, this latterhad a peculiar talent for making the most of the labor of other people. Though unfit himself for the execution of any kind of work, no one ker how to sell it. His words were a , in which people foundthemselves taken before they were aware. And since he was devoted tohimself alone, and looked on the producer as his enemy, and the buyer asprey, he used them both with that obstinate perseverance which avariceteaches. My father was a slave all the week, and could call himself his own onlyon Sunday. The master naturalist, who used to spend the day at the houseof an old female relative, then gave him his liberty on dition that hedined out, and at his own expense. But my father used secretly to takewith him a crust of bread, which he hid in his botanizing-box, and,leaving Paris as soon as it was day, he would wander far into the valleyof Montmorency, the wood of Meudon, or among the windings of the Marne. Excited by the fresh air, the peing perfume of the growiation, or the fragrance of the honeysuckles, he would walk on untilhunger or fatigue made itself felt. Then he would sit under a hedge, orby the side of a stream, and would make a rustic feast, by turns onwatercresses, wood strawberries, and blackberries picked from the hedges;he would gather a few plants, read a few pages of Florian, then iest vogue, of Gessner, who was just translated, or of Jean Jacques,of whom he possessed three old volumes. The day was thus passedalternately in activity a, in pursuit aation, until thedeing sun warned him to take again the road to Paris, where he wouldarrive, his feet torn and dusty, but his mind invigorated for a wholeweek. One day, as he was going toward the wood of Viroflay, he met, close toit, a stranger who was occupied in botanizing and in s the plantshe had just gathered. He was an elderly man with an ho face; but hiseyes, which were rather deep-set under his eyebrows, had a somewhatuneasy and timid expression. He was dressed in a brown cloth coat, agray waistcoat, black breeches, and worsted stogs, and held an ivory-headed e under his arm. His appearance was that of a small retiredtradesman who was living on his means, and rather below the golden meanof Horace. My father, who had great respect fe, civilly raised his hat to himas he passed. In doing so, a plant he held fell from his hand; thestraooped to take it up, and reized it. "It is a Deutaria heptaphyllos," said he; "I have not yet seen any ofthem in these woods; did you find it near here, sir?" My father replied that it was to be found in abundan the top of thehill, toward Sevres, as well as the great Laserpitium. "That, too!" repeated the old man more briskly. "Ah! I shall go andlook for them; I have gathered them formerly on the hillside of Robaila." My father proposed to take him. The stranger accepted his proposal withthanks, and hasteo collect together the plants he had gathered; butall of a sudden he appeared seized with a scruple. He observed to hispanion that the road he was going was half the hill, and led inthe dire of the castle of the Dames Royales at Bellevue; that bygoing to the top he would sequently turn out of his road, and that itwas nht he should take this trouble for a stranger. My father insisted upon it with his habitual good-nature; but, the merness he showed, the more obstihe old man refused; it evenseemed to my father that his good iion at last excited hissuspi. He therefore tented himself with pointing out the road tothe stranger, whom he saluted, and he soon lost sight of him. Many hours passed by, ahought no more of the meeting. He hadreached the copses of Chaville, where, stretched on the ground in a mossyglade, he read once more the last volume of Emile. The delight ofreading it had so pletely absorbed him that he had ceased to see orhear anything around him. With his cheeks flushed and his eyes moist,he repeated aloud a passage which had particularly affected him. An exclamation uttered close by him awoke him from his ecstasy; he raisedhis head, and perceived the tradesman-looking person he had met before onthe crossroad at Viroflay. He was loaded with plants, the colle of which seemed to have put himinto high good-humor. "A thousand thanks, sir," said he to my father. "I have found all thatyou told me of, and I am ied to you for a charming walk." My father respectfully rose, and made a civil reply. The stranger hadgrown quite familiar, and even asked if his young "brother botanist" didnot think of returning to Paris. My father replied in the affirmative,and opened his tin box to put his book ba it. The stranger asked him with a smile if he might without impertinence askthe name of it. My father answered that it was Rousseaus Emile. The stranger immediately became grave. They walked for some time side by side, my father expressing, with thewarmth of a heart still throbbing with emotion, all that this work hadmade him feel; his panion remaining cold and silent. The formerextolled the glory of the great Genevese writer, whose genius had madehim a citizen of the world; he expatiated on this privilege of greatthinkers, whn in spite of time and space, and gather together apeople of willing subjects out of all nations; but the stranger suddenlyinterrupted him: "And how do you know," said he, mildly, "whether Jean Jacques would notexge the reputation which you seem to envy for the life of one of thewood-cutters whose eys smoke we see? What has fame brought himexcept persecution? The unknown friends whom his books may have made forhim tent themselves with blessing him in their hearts, while thedeclared ehat they have drawn upon him pursue him with violend calumny! His pride has been flattered by success: how many times hasit been wounded by satire? And be assured that human pride is like theSybarite who revented from sleeping by a crease in a roseleaf. Theactivity of a vigorous mind, by which the world profits, almost alwaysturns against him who possesses it. He expects more from it as he growsolder; the ideal he pursues tinually disgusts him with the actual; heis like a man who, with a too-refined sight, diss spots and blemishesin the most beautiful face. I will not speak of stroemptations andof deeper downfalls. Genius, you have said, is a kingdom; but whatvirtuous man is not afraid of being a king? He who feels only his greatpowers, is--with the weaknesses and passions of our nature--preparing freat failures. Believe me, sir, the unhappy man who wrote this book isno object of admiration or of envy; but, if you have a feeli,pity him!" My father, asto the excitement with which his panionpronouhese last words, did not know what to answer. Just then they reached the paved road which led from Meudon Castle tothat of Versailles; a carriage assing. The ladies who were in it perceived the old man, uttered an exclamationof surprise, and leaning out of the window repeated: "There is Jean Jacques--there is Rousseau!" Then the carriage disappeared in the distance. My father remained motionless, founded, and amazed, his eyes wideopen, and his hands clasped. Rousseau, who had shuddered on hearing his name spoken, turowardhim: "You see," said he, with the bitter misanthropy which his latermisfortunes had produced in him, "Jean Jacques ot even hide himself: he is an object of curiosity to some, of malignity to others, and to allhe is a public thing, at which they point the finger. It would signifyless if he had only to submit to the impertinence of the idle; but, assoon as a man has had the misfortuo make himself a name, he beespublic property. Every one rakes into his life, relates his most trivialas, and insults his feelings; he bees like those walls, whichevery passer-by may deface with some abusive writing. Perhaps you willsay that I have myself enced this curiosity by publishing myfessions. But the world forced me to it. They looked into my housethrough the blinds, and they slandered me; I have opehe doors andwindows, so that they should at least know me such as I am. Adieu, sir. Whenever you wish to know the worth of fame, remember that you have seenRousseau." Nine oclock.--Ah! now I uand my fathers story! It tains theao one of the questions I asked myself a week ago. Yes, I hat fame and power are gifts that are dearly bought; and that, whenthey dazzle the soul, both are ofte, as Madame de Stael says, but undeuil eclatant de bonheur! Tis better to be lowly born,And rah humble livers in tent,Than to be perkd up in a glistering grief,And wear a golden sorrow. [Henry VIII., Act II., Se 3.] CHAPTER VIII MISANTHROPY AArong> August 3d, Nine Oclock P.M. There are days whehing appears gloomy to us; the world, like thesky, is covered by a dark fog. Nothing seems in its place; we see onlymisery, improvidence, and cruelty; the world seems without God, and givenup to all the evils of ce. Yesterday I was in this unhappy humor. After a long walk in thefaubs, I returned home, sad and dispirited. Everything I had seen seemed to accuse the civilization of which we areso proud! I had wandered into a little by-street, with which I was notacquainted, and I found myself suddenly in the middle of those dreadfulabodes where the poor are born, to languish and die. I looked at thosedeg walls, which time has covered with a foul leprosy; thosewindows, from which dirty rags hang out to dry; those fetid gutters,which coil along the fronts of the houses like venomous reptiles! I felt oppressed with grief, and hastened on. A little farther on I was stopped by the hearse of a hospital; a deadman, nailed down in his deal coffin, was going to his last abode, withoutfuneral pomp or ceremony, and without fo.９9liｂ.llowers. There was not here eventhat last friend of the outcast--the dog, which a painter has introducedas the sole attendant at the paupers burial! He whom they werepreparing to it to the earth was going to the tomb, as he had lived,alone; doubtless no one would be aware of his end. In this battle ofsociety, what signifies a soldier the less? But what, then, is this human society, if one of its members thusdisappear like a leaf carried away by the wind? The hospital was near a barrack, at the entrance of whien, women,and children were quarrelling for the remains of the coarse bread whichthe soldiers had given them in charity! Thus, beings like ourselvesdaily wait iution on our passion till we give them leave tolive! Whole troops of outcasts, in addition to the trials imposed on allGods children, have to ehe pangs of cold, hunger, andhumiliation. Unhappy human oh! Where man is in a worsedition than the bee in its hive, or the ant in its subterranean city! Ah! what then avails our reason? What is the use of so many highfaculties, if we are her the wiser nor the happier for them? Whichof us would not exge his life of labor and trouble with that of thebirds of the air, to whom the whole world is a life of joy? How well I uand the plaint of Mao, in the popular tales of theFoyer Breton who, when dying of hunger and thirst, says, as he looks atthe bullfinches rifling the fruit-trees: "Alas! those birds are happier than Christians; they have no need ofinns, or butchers, or bakers, ardeners. Gods heaven belongs tothem, ah spreads a tinual feast before them! The tiny fliesare their game, ripe grass their fields, and hips and haws theirstore of fruit. They have the right of taking everywhere, without payingor asking leave: thus es it that the little birds are happy, and singall the livelong day!" But the life of man in a natural state is like that of the birds; heequally enjoys nature. "The earth spreads a tinual feast before him." What, then, has he gained by that selfish and imperfect association whis a nation? Would it not be better for every oain tothe fertile bosom of nature, and live there upon her bounty in peadliberty? August 20th, four oclock A.M.--The dawn casts a red glow on my bed-curtains; the breeze brings in the fragrance of the gardens below. HereI am again leaning on my elbows by the windows, inhaling the freshnessand gladness of this first wakening of the day. My eye alasses over the roofs filled with flowers, warbling, andsunlight, with the same pleasure; but to-day it stops at the end of abuttress which separates our house from the . The storms have stripped the top of its plaster c, and dustcarried by the wind has collected in the crevices, and, being fixed thereby the rain, has formed a sort of aerial terrace, where some green grasshas sprung up. Among it rises a stalk of wheat, which to-day issurmounted by a sickly ear that droops its yellow head. This poor stray crop on the roofs, the harvest of which will fall to theneighb sparrows, has carried my thoughts to the rich crops which arenow fallih the sickle; it has recalled to me the beautiful walksI took as a child through my native province, whehreshing-floorsat the farmhouses resounded from every part with the sound of a flail,and when the carts, loaded with golden sheaves, came in by all the roads. I still remember the songs of the maidens, the cheerfulness of the oldmen, the opeed merriment of the laborers. There was, at thattime, something in their looks both of pride and feeling. The lattercame from thankfulo God, the former from the sight of the harvest,the reward of their labor. They felt indistinctly the grandeur and theholiness of their part in the general work of the world; they looked withpride upon their mountains of -sheaves, and they seemed to say, o God, it is we who feed the world! What a wonderful order there is in all human labor! While the husbandman furrows his land, and prepares for every one hisdaily bread, the town artizan, far away, weaves the stuff in which he isto be clothed; the miner seeks underground the iron for his plow; thesoldier defends him against the ihe judge takes care that thelaw protects his fields; the tax-ptroller adjusts his privateis with those of the public; the mert occupies himself inexging his products with those of distant tries; the men ofsd of art add every day a few horses to this ideal team, whichdraws along the material world, as steam impels the gigantic trains ofour iron roads! Thus all uogether, all help one ahe toilof eae bes himself and all the world; the work has beenapportioned among the different members of the whole of society by atacit agreement. If, in this apportio, errors are itted, ifcertain individuals have not been employed acc to their capacities,those defects of detail diminish in the sublime ception of the whole. The poorest man included in this association has his place, his work, hisreason for being there; each is something in the whole. There is nothing like this for man iate of nature. As he dependsonly upon himself, it is necessary that he be suffit for everything. All creation is his property; but he finds in it as many hindrances ashelps. He must surmount these obstacles with the sirength thatGod has given him; he ot re on any other aid than dopportunity. No one reaps, manufactures, fights, or thinks for him; heis nothing to any one. He is a unit multiplied by the cipher of his ownsingle powers; while the civilized man is a unit multiplied by the wholeof society. But, notwithstanding this, the other day, disgusted by the sight of somevices iail, I cursed the latter, and almost ehe life of thesavage. One of the infirmities of our nature is always to mistake feeling forevidence, and to judge of the season by a cloud or a ray of sunshine. Was the misery, the sight of which made me regret a savage life, reallythe effect of civilization? Must we accuse society of having createdthese evils, or aowledge, on the trary, that it has alleviatedthem? Could the women and children, who were receiving the coarse breadfrom the soldier, hope in the desert for more help or pity? That deadman, whose forsaken state I deplored, had he not found, by the cares of ahospital, a coffin and the humble grave where he was about to rest? Alone, and far from men, he would have died like the wild beast in hisden, and would now be serving as food for vultures! These bes ofhuman society are shared, then, by the most destitute. Whoever eats thebread that another has reaped and kneaded, is under an obligation to hisbrother, and ot say he owes him nothing iurn. The poorest of ushas received from society much more than his own sirength wouldhave permitted him to wrest from nature. But ot society give us more? Who doubts it? Errors have beenitted in this distribution of tasks and workers. Time will diminishthe number of them; with new lights a better division will arise; theelements of society go on toerfe, like everything else. Thedifficulty is to know how to adapt ourselves to the slow step of time,whose progress ever be forced on without danger. August 14th, six oclock A.M.--My garret window rises upon the roof likea massive watch-tower. The ers are covered by large sheets of lead,which run into the tiles; the successive a of cold a has madethem rise, and so a crevice has been formed in an angle on the rightside. There a sparrow has built her . I have followed the progress of this aerial habitation from the firstday. I have seen the bird successively bring the straw, moss, and wooldesigned for the stru of her abode; and I have admired thepersevering skill she expended in this difficult work. At first, my newneighbor spent her days in fluttering over the poplar in the garden, andin chirping along the gutters; a fine ladys life seemed the only oosuit her. Then all of a sudden, the y of preparing a shelter forher brood transformed our idler into a worker; she no lave herselfeither rest or relaxation. I saw her always either flying, fetg, orcarrying; her rain nor sun stopped her. A striking example of thepower of y! We are ied to it not only for most of ourtalents, but for many of our virtues! Is it not y that has given the people of less favored climatesthat stant activity which has placed them so quickly at the head ofnations? As they are deprived of most of the gifts of nature, they havesupplied them by their industry; y has sharpeheiruanding, endurance awakeheir fht. While elsewhere man,warmed by an ever brilliant sun, and loaded with the bounties of theearth, was remaining pnorant, and naked, in the midst of gifts hedid not attempt to explore, here he was forced by y to wrest hisfood from the ground, to build habitations to defend himself from theintemperance of the weather, and to warm his body by clothing himselfwith the wool of animals. Work makes him both more intelligent and morerobust: disciplined by it, he seems to mount higher on the ladder ofcreation, while those more favored by nature remain oep o the brutes. I made these refles while looking at the bird, whose instinct seemedto have beore acute since she had been occupied in work. At lastthe was finished; she set up her household there, and I followed herthrough all the phases of her ence. When she had sat on the eggs, and the young ones were hatched, she fedthem with the most attentive care. The er of my window had bee astage of moral a, which fathers and mothers might e to takelessons from. The little ones soon became large, and this m I haveseeake their first flight. One of them, weaker thahers,was not able to clear the edge of the roof, and fell into the gutter. Icaught him with some difficulty, and placed him again oile infront of his house, but the mother has not noticed him. Once freed fromthe cares of a family, she has resumed her wandering life among the treesand along the roofs. In vain I have kept away from my window, to takefrom her every excuse for fear; in vain the feeble little bird has calledto her with plaintive cries; his bad mother has passed by, singing andfluttering with a thousand airs and graces. Only the father ear; he looked at his offspring with pt, and then disappeared,o return! I crumbled some bread before the little orphan, but he did not know howto peck it with his bill. I tried to catch him, but he escaped into theforsake. What will bee of him there, if his mother does note back! August 15th, six oclock.--This m, on opening my window, I foutle bird dying upoiles; his wounds showed me that he hadbeen driven from the by his unworthy mother. I tried in vain towarm him again with my breath; I felt the last pulsations of life; hiseyes were already closed, and his wings hung down! I placed him on theroof in a ray of sunshine, and I closed my window. The struggle of lifeagainst death has always something gloomy in it: it is a warning to us. Happily I hear some one in the passage; without doubt it is my oldneighbor; his versation will distract my thoughts. It was my portress. Excellent woman! She wished me to read a letterfrom her son the sailor, and begged me to a for her. I kept it, to copy it in my journal. Here it is: "DEAR MOTHER: This is to tell you that I have been very well eversihe last time, except that last week I was nearly drowned withthe boat, which would have been a great loss, as there is not abetter craft anywhere. "A gust of wind capsized us; and just as I came up above water, Isaw the captain sinking. I went after him, as was my duty, and,after diving three times, I brought him to the surface, whichpleased him much; for when we were hoisted on board, and he hadrecovered his senses, he threw his arms round my neck, as he wouldhave doo an officer. "I do not hide from you, dear mother, that this has delighted me. But it isnt all; it seems that fishing up the captain has remihem that I had a good character, and they have just told me that Iam promoted to be a sailor of the first class! Directly I k,I cried out, My mother shall have coffee twice a day! And really,dear mother, there is nothing now to hinder you, as I shall now havea larger allowao send you. "I include by begging you to take care of yourself if you wish to dome good; for nothing makes me feel so well as to think that you wantfor nothing. "Your son, from the bottom of my heart, JACQUES." This is the ahat the portress dictated to me: "MY GOOD JACQUOT: It makes me very happy to see that your heart isstill as true as ever, and that you will never shame those who havebrought you up. I need not tell you to take care of your life,because you know it is the same as my own, and that without you,dear child, I should wish for nothing but the grave; but we are notbound to live, while we are bound to do our duty. "Do not fear for my health, good Jacques; I was never better! I donot grow old at all, for fear of making you unhappy. I wantnothing, and I live like a lady. I even had some money over thisyear, and as my drawers shut very badly, I put it into the savings bank, where I have opened an at in your name. So, when youe back, you will find yourself with an ine. I have alsofurnished your chest with new linen, and I have knitted you threenew sea-jackets. "All your friends are well. Your cousin is just dead, leaving hiswidow in difficulties. I gave her your thirty francs remittand said tbbr>hat you had sent it her; and the poor woman remembers youday and night in her prayers. So, you see, I have put that money inanother sort of savings bank; but there it is our hearts that getthe i. "Good-bye, dear Jacquot. Write to me often, and always remember thegood God, and your old mother, "PHROSINE MILLOT." Good son, and worthy mother! how such examples bring us back to a lovefor the human race! In a fit of fanciful misanthropy, we may envy thefate of the savage, and prefer that of the bird to such as he; butimpartial observation soon does justice to such paradoxes. We find, onexamination, that in the mixed good and evil of human nature, the good sofar abounds that we are not in the habit of notig it, while the evilstrikes us precisely on at of its being the exception. If nothingis perfeothing is so bad as to be without its pensation or itsremedy. iritual riches are there in the midst of the evils ofsociety! how much does the moral world redeem the material! That which will ever distinguish man from the rest of creation, is hispower of deliberate affe and of enduring self-sacrifice. The motherwho took care of her brood in the er of my window devoted to them thenecessary time for aplishing the laws whisure the preservationof her kind; but she obeyed an instinct, and not a rational choice. Whenshe had aplished the mission appointed her by Providence, she castoff the duty as we get rid of a burden, and she returned again to herselfish liberty. The other mother, on the trary, will go on with hertask as long as God shall leave her here below: the life of her son willstill remain, so to speak, joio her own; and when she disappearsfrom the earth, she will leave there that part of herself. Thus, the affeake for our species aence separate from allthe rest of creation. Thanks to them, we enjoy a sort of terrestrialimmortality; and if other beings succeed one another, man alouates himself. CHAPTER IX THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT This m, while I was arranging my books, Menevieve came in,and brought me the basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For thenearly twenty years that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt inher little fruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, butMenevieve has but little ; to leave her would do her harm,and cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of ouracquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; mypatronage has bee her property. She has put the basket upon my table, and as I want her husband, who is ajoio add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone downstairs agaiely to send him to me. At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her voice: but, now that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not as jovial asusual. Menevieve be in trouble about anything? Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, thatshe might think she had received her full share already. Were I to livea hundred years, I should never fet the circumstances which made herknown to me, and which obtained for her my respect. It was at the time of my first settling in the faub. I had noticedher empty fruit-shop, whiobody came into, and, being attracted by itsforsaken appearance, I made my little purchases in it. I have alwaysinstinctively preferred the poor shops; there is less choi them, butit seems to me that my purchase is a sign of sympathy with a brother iy. These little dealings are almost always an anchor of hope tothose whose very existence is in peril--the only means by whieorphan gains a livelihood. There the aim of the tradesman is not toenrich himself, but to live! The purchase you make of him is more thanan exge--it is a good a. Menevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost thatfresh bloom of youth which suffering causes to wither so soon among thepoor. Her husband, a clever jradually left off w tobee, acc to the picturesque expression of the workshops, aworshipper of Saint Monday. The wages of the week, which was alwaysreduced to two or three w days, were pletely dedicated by him tothe worship of this god of the Barriers,--[The cheap wine shops areoutside the Barriers, to avoid the octroi, or municipal excise.]--andGenevieve was obliged herself to provide for all the wants of thehousehold. One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, I hearda sound of quarrelling in the back shop. There were the voices ofseveral women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, broken bysobs. On looking farther in, I perceived the fruit-woman holding a childin her arms, and kissing it, while a try nurse seemed to be claimingher wages from her. The poor woman, who without doubt had exhaustedevery explanation and every excuse, was g in silence, and one of herneighbors was trying in vain to appease the trywomaed bythat love of money which the evils of a hard peasant life but too wellexcuse, and disappointed by the refusal of her expected wages, the nursewas laung forth in recriminations, threats, and abuse. In spite ofmyself, I listeo the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and notthinking of going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door. The joiner had just e from the Barriers, where he had passed part ofthe day at a public-house. His blouse, without a belt, and u thethroat, showed none of the ains of work: in his hand he held hiscap, which he had just picked up out of the mud; his hair was indisorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor of drunkenness in his face. Hecame reeling in, looked wildly around him, and called Genevieve. She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but at thesight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steady himself, shepressed the child in her arms, a over it with tears. The trywoman and the neighbor had followed her. "e! e!" cried the former in a rage, "do you io pay me,after all?" "Ask the master for the money," ironically answered the woman from the door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against theter. The trywoman looked at him. "Ah! he is the father," returned she. "Well, what idle beggars! not tohave a penny to pay ho people; aipsy with wine in that way." The drunkard raised his head. "What! what!" stammered he; "who is it that talks of wine? Ive hadnothing but brandy! But I am going back again to get some wine! Wife,give me your mohere are some friends waiting for me at the Perela Tuille." Genevieve did not answer: he went round the ter, opehe till, andbegan to rummage in it. "You see where the money of the house goes!" observed the neighbor tothe trywoman; "how the poor unhappy ay you wheakesall?" "Is that my fault?" replied the nurse, angrily. "They owe to me, andsomehow or other they must pay me!" Aing loose her tongue, as these women out of the try do, shebegaing at length all the care she had taken of the child, and allthe expe had been to her. In proportion as she recalled all shehad done, her words seemed to vince her more than ever of her rights,and to increase her ahe poor mother, who no doubt feared that herviolence would frighten the child, returned into the back shop, and putit into its cradle. Whether it is that the trywoman saw in this act a determination toescape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I ot say; butshe rushed into the room, where I heard the sounds of quarrelling,with which the cries of the child were soon mihe joiner, who wasstill rummaging iill, was startled, and raised his head. At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in her armsthe baby that the trywoman was trying to tear from her. She rantoward the ter, and throwing herself behind her hus藏书网band, cried: "Michael, defend your son!" The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with a start. "My son!" stammered he; "what son?" His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passed overhis features. "Robert," resumed he; "it is Robert!" He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, buthe tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage. "My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she. "It is I whohave fed and brought it up: if you dont pay me for what has made itlive, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall not gountil I have my due, or the baby." "And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressing Rainst her bosom. "Take it to the Foundling!" replied the trywoman, harshly; "thehospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the food of itslittle ones." At the word "Foundling," Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror. Withher arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, awo hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, and remaih her back against it, like a lioness defending her young. Theneighbor and I plated this se, without knowing how we couldinterfere. As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making a visibleeffort to prehend it all. When his eye rested upon Genevieve and thechild, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; but wheuroward us,he again became stupid aating. At last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he cried out, "Wait!" And going to a tub filled with water, he plunged his fato it severaltimes. Every eye was turned upon him; the trywoman herself seemedastonished. At length he raised his dripping head. This ablution hadpartly dispelled his drunkenness; he looked at us for a moment, theuro Genevieve, and his face brightened up. "Robert!" cried he, going up to the child, and taking him in his arms. "Ah! give him me, wife; I must look at him." The mother seemed to give up his son to him with reluce, and stayedbefore him with her arms extended, as if she feared the child would havea fall. The nurse began again iurn to speak, and renewed herclaims, this time threatening to appeal to law. At first Michaellisteo her attentively, and when he prehended her meaning, hegave the child back to its mother. "How much do we owe you?" asked he. The trywoman began to re up the different expenses, whichamouo nearly thirty francs. The joiner felt to the bottom of hispockets, but could find nothing. His forehead became tracted byfrowns; low curses began to escape him. All of a sudden he rummaged inhis breast, drew forth a large watch, and holding it up above his head: "Here it is--heres your money!" cried he with a joyful laugh; "a watch,a good one! I always said it would keep for a drink on a dry day; but itis not I who will drink it, but the young one. Ah! ah! ah! go a for me, neighbor, and if that is not enough, I have my earrings. Eh! Genevieve, take them off for me; the earrings will square all! Theyshall not say you have been disgraced on at of the child--no, noteven if I must pledge a bit of my flesh! My watch, my earrings, and myring--get rid of all of them for me at the goldsmiths; pay the woman,ahe little fool go to sleep. Give him me, Genevieve; I will puthim to bed." And, taking the baby from the arms of his mother, he carried him with afirm step to his cradle. It was easy to perceive the ge which took pla Michael from thisday. He cut all his old drinking acquaintances. He went early everym to his work, aurned regularly in the evening to finish theday with Genevieve and Robert. Very soon he would not leave them at all,and he hired a plaear the fruit-shop, and worked in it on his ownat. They would soon have been able to live in fort, had it not been forthe expenses which the child required. Everything was given up to hiseducation. He had gohrough the regular school training, had studiedmathematics, drawing, and the carperade, and had only begun towork a few months ago. Till now, they had been exhausting every resourcewhich their laborious industry could provide to push him forward in hisbusiness; and, happily, all these exertions had not proved useless: theseed had brought forth fruit, and the days of harvest were close by. While I was thus recalling these remembrao my mind, Michael hade in, and was occupied in fixing shelves where they were wanted. During the time I was writing the notes of my journal, I was alsoscrutinizing the joiner. The excesses of his youth and the labor of his manhood have deeply markedhis face; his hair is thin and gray, his shoulders stoop, his legs areshrunken and slightly bent. There seems a sort of weight in his wholebeing. His very features have an expression of sorrow and despondency. He answers my questions by monosyllables, and like a man who wishes toavoid versation. Whenes this deje, when one would think hehad all he could wish for? I should like to know! Ten oclock.--Michael is just gone downstairs to look for a tool he hasfotten. I have at last succeeded in drawing from him the secret ofhis and Genevieves sorrow. Their son Robert is the cause of it! Not that he has turned out ill after all their care--not that he is idleor dissipated; but both were in hopes he would never leave them any more. The presence of the young man was to have renewed and made glad theirlives once more; his mother ted the days, his father preparedeverything to receive their dear associate ioils; and at themoment when they were thus about to be repaid for all their sacrifices,Robert had suddenly informed them that he had just engaged himself to atractor at Versailles. Every remonstrand every prayer were useless; he brought forward they of initiating himself into all the details of an importanttract, the facilities he should have in his new position of improvinghimself in his trade, and the hopes he had of turning his knowledge toadva, last, when his mother, having e to the end of herarguments, began to cry, he hastily kissed her, a away that hemight avoid any further remonstrances. He had been absent a year, and there was nothing to give them hopes ofhis return. His parents hardly saw him once a month, and then he onlystayed a few moments with them. "I have been punished where I had hoped to be rewarded," Michael said tome just now. "I had wished for a saving and industrious son, and God hasgiven me an ambitious and avaricious one! I had always said to myselfthat when once he was grown up we should have him always with us, torecall our youth and to enliven our hearts. His mother was alwaysthinking of getting him married, and having children again to care for. You know women always will busy themselves about others. As for me, Ithought of him w near my bench, and singing his new songs; for hehas learnt musid is one of the best singers at the Orpheon. A dream, sir, truly! Directly the bird was fledged, he took to flight,and remembers her father nor mother. Yesterday, for instance, wasthe day we expected him; he should have e to supper with us. NoRobert to-day, either! He has had some plan to finish, or some bargainte, and his old parents are put down last in the ats, afterthe ers and the joiners work. Ah! if I could have guessed how itwould have turned out! Fool! to have sacrificed my likings and my money,for nearly twenty years, to the education of a thankless son! Was it forthis I took the trouble to cure myself of drinking, to break with myfriends, to bee an example to the neighborhood? The jovial goodfellow has made a goose of himself. Oh! if I had to begin again! No,no! you see women and children are our bahey soften our hearts;they lead us a life of hope and affe; we pass a quarter of our livesin f the growth of a grain of which is to be everything tous in our old age, and when the harvest-time es--good-night, the earis empty!" While he eaking, Michaels voice became hoarse, his eyes fierd his lips quivered. I wished to answer him, but I could only think ofonplace solations, and I remained silent. The joiner pretended heneeded a tool, a me. Poor father! Ah! I know those moments of temptation when virtue hasfailed to reward us, and we regret having obeyed her! Who has not feltthis weakness in hours of trial, and who has not uttered, at least ohe mournful exclamation of Brutus? But if virtue is only a word, what is there then in life that is trueand real? No, I will not believe that goodness is in vain! It does notalways give the happiness we had hoped for, but it brings some other. In the world everything is ruled by order, and has its proper andnecessary sequences, and virtue ot be the sole exception to thegeneral law. If it had been prejudicial to those who practised it,experience would have avehem; but experience has, on the trary,made it more universal and more holy. We only accuse it of being afaithless debtor because we demand an immediate payment, and one apparentto our senses. We always sider life as a fairytale, in which everygood aust be rewarded by a visible wonder. We do not accept aspayment a peaceful sce, self-tent, ood name amoreasures that are more precious than any other, but the value of whichwe do not feel till after we have lost them! Michael is e back, and has returo his work. His son has not yetarrived. By telling me of his hopes and his grievous disappois, he becameexcited; he unceasingly went ain the same subject, always addingsomething to his griefs. He had just wound up his fidential discourseby speaking to me of a joiners business which he had hoped to buy, andwork to good at with Roberts help. The present owner had made afortune by it, and, after thirty years of business, he was thinking ofretiring to one of the oral cottages iskirts of the city,a usual retreat for the frugal and successful wman. Michael hadnot ihe two thousand francs which must be paid down; but perhapshe could have persuaded Master Benoit to wait. Roberts presence wouldhave been a security for him, for the young man could not fail to ihe prosperity of a workshop; besides sd skill, he had the powerof iion and bringing to perfe. His father had discovered amonghis drawings a new plan for a staircase, which had occupied his thoughtsfor a long time; and he even suspected him of having engaged himself tothe Versailles tractor for the very purpose of exeg it. Theyouth was tormented by this spirit of iion, which took possession ofall his thoughts, and, while devoting his mind to study, he had no timeto listen to his feelings. Michael told me all this with a mixed feeling of pride aion. Isaw he roud of the son he was abusing, and that his very pride madehim more sensitive to that sons . Six oclock P.M.--I have just finished a happy day. How mas havehappened within a few hours, and what a ge fenevieve and Michael! He had jus藏书网t finished fixing the shelves, and telling me of his son, whileI laid the cloth for my breakfast. Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, the door opened, andGenevieve entered with Robert. The jave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed itimmediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance of displeasure. The young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself into hisarms in an opeed manner, which surprised me. Genevieve, whoseface shoh happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and to restrainherself with difficulty. I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with ease andcivility. "I expected you yesterday," said Michael Arout, rather dryly. "Five me, father," replied the young workman, "but I had business atSt. Ger９９lib?mains. I was not able to e back till it was very late, ahe master kept me." The joiner looked at his son sidewise, and then took up his hammer again. "All right," muttered he, in a grumbling tone; "when we are with otherpeople we must do as they wish; but there are some who would like betterto eat brown bread with their own khan partridges with the silverfork of a master." "And I am one of those, father," replied Robert, merrily, "but, as theproverb says, "you must shell the peas before you eat them." It wasnecessary that I should first work in a great workshop--" "To go on with your plan of the staircase," interrupted Michael,ironically. "You must now say Monsieur Raymonds plan, father," replied Robert,smiling. "Why?" "Because I have sold it to him." The joiner, who laning a board, turned round quickly. "Sold it!" cried he, with sparkling eyes. "For the reason that I was not riough to give it him." Michael threw down the board and tool. "There he is again!" resumed he, angrily; "his good genius puts ao his head which would have made him known, and he goes and sells itto a rich man, who will take the honor of it himself." "Well, what harm is there done?" asked Genevieve. "What harm!" cried the joiner, in a passion. "You uand nothingabout it--you are a woman; but he--he knows well that a true workmannever gives up his own iions for money, no more than a soldier wouldgive up his cross. That is his glory; he is bound to keep it for thehonor it does him! Ah, thunder! if I had ever made a discovery, ratherthan put it up at au I would have sold one of my eyes! Dont yousee that a new iion is like a child to a workmaakes care ofit, he brings it up, he makes a way for it in the world, and it is only apoor creature who sells it." Robert colored a little. "You will think differently, father," said he, "when you know why I soldmy plan." "Yes, and you will thank him for it," added Genevieve, who could nolonger keep silence. "Never !" replied Michael. "But, wretched man!" cried she, "he sold it only for our sakes!" The joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment. It wasnecessary to e to an explanation. The latter related how he hadentered into a iation with Master Benoit, who had positively refusedto sell his business unless one half of the two thousand francs werefirst paid down. It was in the hopes of obtaining this sum that he hadgoo work with the tractor at Versailles; he had had an opportunity his iion, and of finding a purchaser. Thanks to the moneyhe received for it, he had just cluded the bargain with Benoit, andhad brought his father the key of the new work-yard. This explanation was given by the young workman with so much modesty andsimplicity that I was quite affected by it. Genevieve cried; Michaelpressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace he seemed to ask hispardon for having unjustly accused him. All was now explained with honor to Robert. The duct which hisparents had ascribed to indifference really sprang from affe; he hadher obeyed the voibition nor of avarior even the noblerinspiration of iive genius: his whole motive and single aim had beenthe happiness of Genevieve and Michael. The day for proving hisgratitude had e, and he had returhem sacrifice for sacrifice! After the explanations and exclamations of joy were over, all three wereabout to leave me; but, the cloth being laid, I added three more places,ahem to breakfast. The meal rolohe fare was only tolerable; but the over-flowings of affeade it delicious. Never had I better uoodthe unspeakable charm of family love. What calm enjoyment in thathappiness which is always shared with others; in that unity ofis whiites such various feelings; in that associatioences whis one single being of so many! What is man withoutthose home affes, which, like so many roots, fix him firmly ih, a him to imbibe all the juices of life? Energy,happiness--do not all these e from them? Without family life wherewould man learn to love, to associate, to deny himself? A unity inlittle, is it not this which teaches us how to live in the great one? Such is the holiness of home, that, to express our relation with God, wehave been obliged to borrow the words ied for our family life. Menhave hemselves the sons of a heavenly Father! Ah! let us carefully preserve these s of domestiion. Do us unbind the human sheaf, and scatter its ears to all the capricesof d of the winds; but let us rather enlarge this holy law; letus carry the principles and the habits of home beyo bounds; and,if it may be, let us realize the prayer of the Apostle of the Gentileswhen he exclaimed to the newborn children of Christ: "Be ye like-minded,having the same love, being of one accord, of one mind." CHAPTER X OUR TRY October 12th, Seven Oclock A.M. The nights are already bee cold and long; the sun, shining through mycurtains, no more wakens me long before the hour for work; and even whenmy eyes are open, the pleasant warmth of the bed keeps me fast under myterpane. Every m there begins a long argumeween myactivity and my indolence; and, snugly ed up to the eyes, I waitlike the Gas, until they have succeeded in ing to an agreement. This m, however, a light, which shone from my door upon my pillow,awoke me earlier than usual. In vain I turned on my side; thepersevering light, like a victorious enemy, pursued me into everyposition. At last, quite out of pat9９ｌiｂ.ience, I sat up and hurled mynightcap to the foot of the bed! (I will observe, by way of parenthesis, that the various evolutions ofthis pacific headgear seem to have been, from the remotest time, symbolsof the vehemeions of the mind; for our language has borrowed itsmost ages from them.) But be this as it may, I got up in a very bad humrumbling at my newneighbor, who took it into his head to be wakeful when I wished to sleep. We are all made thus; we do not uand that others may live on theirown at. Eae of us is like the earth, acc to the oldsystem of Ptolemy, and thinks he have the whole universe revolvearound himself. On this point, to make use of the metaphor alluded to: Tous les hommes ont la tete dans le meme bo. I had for the time being, as I have already said, thrown mio theother end of my bed; and I slowly disengaged my legs from the warmbedclothes, while making a host of evil refles upon theinvenience of having neighbors. For more than a month I had not had to plain of those whom ce hadgiven me; most of them only came in to sleep, a away again onrising. I was almost always alone on this top story--aloh theclouds and the sparrows! But at Paris nothing lasts; the current of life carries us along, likethe seaweed torn from the rock; the houses are vessels which take merepassengers. How many different faces have I already seen pass along thelanding-place belonging to our attics! How many panions of a few dayshave disappeared forever! Some are lost in that medley of the livingwhich whirls tinually uhe sce of y, and others inthat resting-place of the dead, who sleep uhe hand of God! Peter the bookbinder is one of these last. ed up in selfishness, helived alone and friendless, and he died as he had lived. His loss washer mourned by any one, nor disarranged anything in the world; therewas merely a ditch filled up in the graveyard, and an attic emptied inour house. It is the same which my new neighbor has inhabited for the last few days. To say truly (now that I am quite awake, and my ill humor is goh mynightcap)--to say truly, this new neighbor, although rising earlier thansuits my idleness, is not the less a very good man: he carries hismisfortunes, as few know how to carry their good fortunes, withcheerfulness and moderation. But fate has cruelly tried him. Father Chaufour is but the wrean. In the place of one of his arms hangs ay sleeve; his left legis made by the turner, and he drags the right along with difficulty; butabove these ruins rises a calm and happy face. While looking upon histenance, radiant with a serene energy, while listening to his voice,the tone of which has, so to speak, the at of goodness, we see thatthe soul has remaiire in the half-destroyed c. Thefortress is a little damaged, as Father Chaufour says, but the garrisonis quite hearty. Decidedly, the more I think of this excellent man, the more I reproachmyself for the sort of maledi I bestowed on him when I awoke. We are generally too indulgent in our secret wrongs toward our neighbor. All ill-will which does not pass the region of thought seems ious, and, with our clumsy justice, we excuse without examination the sinwhich does not betray itself by a! But are we then bound to others only by the enfort of laws? Besidesthese external relations, is there not a real relation of feeliweenmen? Do we not owe to all those who live uhe same heaven asourselves the aid not only of our acts but of our purposes? Ought notevery human life to be to us like a vessel that we apany with ourprayers for a happy voyage? It is not enough that men do not harm oher; they must also help and love one ahe papalbeion, Urbi et orbi! should be the stant cry from all hearts. To n him who does not deserve it, even in the mind, even by apassing thought, is to break the great law, that which has establishedthe union of souls here below, and to which Christ has given the sweetname of charity. These thoughts came into my mind as I finished dressing, and I said tomyself that Father Chaufour had a right to reparation from me. To makeamends for the feeling of ill-will I had against him just now, I owed himsome explicit proof of sympathy. I heard him humming a tune in his room;he was at work, and I determihat I would make the first neighborlycall. Eight oclock P.M.--I found Father Chaufour at a table lighted by alittle smoky lamp, without a fire, although it is already cold, andmaking large pasteboard boxes; he was humming a popular song in a lowtone. I had hardly ehe room wheered an exclamation ofsurprise and pleasure. "Eh! is it you, neighbor? e in, then! I did not think you got up soearly, so I put a damper on my music; I was afraid of waking you." Excellent man! while I was sending him to the devil he uttinghimself out of his way for me! This thought touched me, and I paid my pliments on his having bey neighbor with a warmth which opened his heart. "Faith! you seem to me to have the look of a good Christian," said he ina voice of soldierlike cordiality, and shaking me by the hand. "I do notlike those people who look on a landing-place as a frontier line, aheir neighbors as if they were Cossacks. When men snuff the sameair, and speak the same lingo, they are not meant to turn their backs toeach other. Sit down there, neighbor; I doo order you; onlytake care of the stool; it has but three legs, and we must put good-willin place of the fourth." "It seems that that is a treasure which there is no want of here," Iobserved. "Good-will!" repeated Chaufour; "that is all my mother left me, and Itake it no son has received a better iaherefore they used tocall me Monsieur tent iteries." "You are a soldier, then?" "I served ihird Artillery uhe Republid afterward in theGuard, through all the otions. I was at Jemappes and at Waterloo; soI was at the christening and at the burial of lory, as one may say!" I looked at him with astonishment. "And how old were you then, at Jemappes?" asked I. "Somewhere about fifteen," said he. "How came you to think of being a soldier so early?" "I did not really think about it. I then worked at toy-making, and neverdreamed that France would ask me for anything else than to make herdraught-boards, shuttlecocks, and cups and balls. But I had an old u Vines whom I went to see from time to time--a Fontenoy veteran inthe same rank of life as myself, but with ability enough to have risen tothat of a marshal. Unluckily, in those days there was no way for onpeople to get on. My uncle, whose services would have got him made aprinder the other, had theired with the mere rank of sub-lieutenant. But you should have seen him in his uniform, his cross ofSt. Louis, his wooden leg, his white moustaches, and his nobletenance. You would have said he ortrait of one of those oldheroes in powdered hair which are at Versailles! "Every time I visited him, he said something which remained fixed in mymemory. But one day I found him quite grave. "Jerome, said he, do you know what is going on on the frontier? "No, lieutenant, replied I. "Well, resumed he, our try is in danger! "I did not well uand him, a seemed something to me. "Perhaps you have hought what your try means, tinued he,plag his hand on my shoulder; `it is all that surrounds you, all thathas brought you up and fed you, all that you have loved! This groundthat you see, these houses, these trees, those girls who go along therelaughing--this is your try! The laws which protect you, the breadwhich pays for your work, the words you interge with others, the joyand grief whie to you from the men and things among which you live--this is your try! The little room where you used to see yourmother, the remembrances she has left you, the earth where she rests--this is your try! You see it, you breathe it, everywhere! Think toyourself, my son, of yhts and your duties, your affes andyour wants, your past and your present blessings; write them all under asingle name--and that name will be your try! "I was trembling with emotion, and great tears were in my eyes. "Ah! I uand, cried I; it is our home in large; it is that partof the world where God has placed our body and our soul. "You are right, Jerome, tihe old soldier; so you prehendalso what we owe it. "Truly, resumed I, we owe it all that we are; it is a question oflove. "And of hoy, my son, cluded he. The member of a family whodoes not tribute his share of work and of happiness fails in his duty,and is a bad kinsman; the member of a partnership who does not enrich itwith all his might, with all his ce, and with all his heart,defrauds it of what belongs to it, and is a disho man. It is thesame with him who enjoys the advantages of having a try, and does notaccept the burdens of it; he forfeits his honor, and is a bad citizen! "And what must one do, lieutenant, to be a good citizen? asked I. "Do for your try what you would do for your father and mother, saidhe. "I did not a the moment; my heart was swelling, and the bloodboiling in my veins; but ourning along the road, my uncles wordswere, so to speak, written up before my eyes. I repeated, Do for yourtry what you would do for your father and mother. And my try isin danger; an enemy attacks it, while I--I turn cups and balls! "This thought tormented me so much all night that the day I returo Vines to annouo the lieutenant that I had just enlisted, andwas going off to the frohe brave man pressed upon me his crossof St. Louis, and I went aroud as an ambassador. "That is how, neighbor, I became a volunteer uhe Republic before Ihad cut my wisdom teeth." All this was told quietly, and in the cheerful spirit of him who looksupon an aplished duty her as a merit nrievance. While he spoke, Father Chaufrew animated, not on at of himself,but of the general subject. Evidently that which occupied him in thedrama of life was not his own part, but the drama itself. This sort of disiedouched me. I prolonged my visit, andshowed myself as frank as possible, in order to win his fidenreturn. In an hours time he knew my position and my habits; I was onthe footing of an old acquaintance. I even fessed the ill-humor the light of his lamp put me into a shorttime before. He took what I said with the toug cheerfulness whies from a heart in the right place, and which looks upohing onthe good side. He her spoke to me of the y which obliged himto work while I could sleep, nor of the deprivations of the old soldierpared to the luxury of the young clerk; he only struck his forehead,accused himself of thoughtlessness, and promised to put list round hisdoor! O great aiful soul! with whom nothing turns to bitterness, anderemptory only in duty and benevolence! October 15th.--This m I was looking at a little engraving I hadframed myself, and hung over my writing-table; it is a design ofGavarnis; in which, in a grave mood, he has represented a veteran and ascript. By often plating these two figures, so different in expression, andso true to life, both have bee living in my eyes; I have seen themmove, I have heard them speak; the picture has bee a real se, atwhich I am present as spectator. The veteran advances slowly, his hand leaning on the shoulder of theyoung soldier. His eyes, closed for ever, no longer perceive the sunshining through the fl chestnut-trees. In the place of his rightarm hangs ay sleeve, and he walks with a woodehe sound ofwhi the pavement makes those who pass turn to look. At the sight of this a wreck from our patriotic wars, the greaternumber shake their heads in pity, and I seem to hear a sigh or animprecation. "See the worth of glory!" says a portly mert, turning away his eyesin horror. "What a deplorable use of huma9９ｌｉｂ.n life!" rejoins a young man who carries avolume of philosophy under his arm. "The trooper would better not have left his plow," adds a tryman,with a ing air. "Poor old man!" murmurs a woman, almost g. The veteran has heard, and he knits his brow; for it seems to him thathis guide has grown thoughtful. The latter, attracted by what he hearsaround him, hardly ahe old mans questions, and his eyes, vaguelylost in space, seem to be seeking there for the solution of some problem. I seem to see a twitg in the gray moustaches of the veteraopsabruptly, and, holding back his guide with his remaining arm: "They all pity me," says he, "because they do not uand it; but if Iwere to ahem--" "What would you say to them, father?" asks the young man, withcuriosity. "I should say first to the woman who weeps when she looks at me, to keepher tears for other misfortunes; for eay wounds calls to mind somestruggle for my colors. There is room for doubting how some men havedoheir duty; with me it is visible. I carry the at of myservices, written with the enemys steel and lead, on myself; to pity mefor having done my duty is to suppose I would better have been false toit." "And what would you say to the tryman, father?" "I should tell him that, to drive the plow in peace, we must first securethe try itself; and that, as long as there are fners ready toeat our harvest, there must be arms to defend it." "But the young student, too, shook his head when he lamented such a useof life." "Because he does not know what self-sacrifid suffering teach. The books that he studies ut in practice, though we never readthem: the principles he applauds we have defended with powder andbayo." "And at the price of your limbs and your blood. The mert said, whenhe saw your maimed body, See the worth of glory!" "Do not believe him, my son: the true glory is the bread of the soul; itis this whiourishes self-sacrifice, patience, and ce. TheMaster of all has bestowed it as a tie the more between men. When wedesire to be distinguished by our brethren, do we not thus prove ouresteem and our sympathy for them? The longing for admiration is but oneside of love. No, no; the true glory ever be too dearly paid for! That which we should deplore, child, is not the infirmities which prove agenerous self-sacrifice, but those which our vices or our imprudence havecalled forth. Ah! if I could speak aloud to those who, when passing,cast looks of pity upon me, I should say to the young man whose excesseshave dimmed his sight before he is old, What have you doh youreyes? To the slothful man, who with difficulty drags along hiseed mass of flesh, What have you doh your feet? To the oldman, who is punished for his intemperance by the gout, What have youdoh your hands? To all, What have you doh the days Godgranted you, with the faculties you should have employed for the good ofyour brethren? If you ot answer, bestow no more of your pity uponthe old soldier maimed in his trys cause; for he--he at least--show his scars without shame." October 16th.--The little engraving has made me preheer themerits of Father Chaufour, and I therefore esteem him all the more. He has just now left my attic. There no longer passes a single daywithout his ing to work by my fire, or my going to sit and talk by hisboard. The old artilleryman has seen much, and likes to tell of it. For twentyyears he was an armed traveller throughout Europe, and he fought withouthatred, for he ossessed by a sihought--the honor of thenational flag! It might have been his superstition, if you will; but itwas, at the same time, his safeguard. The word FRANCE, which was then resounding so gloriously through theworld, served as a talisman to him against all sorts of temptation. Tohave to support a great name may seem a burden to vulgar minds, but it isan encement to vigorous ones. "I, too, have had many moments," said he to me the other day, "when Ihave beeed to make friends with the devil. War is not preciselythe school for rural virtues. By dint of burning, destroying, andkilling, you grow a little tough as regards your feelings; and, when thebayo has made you king, the notions of an autocrat e into your heada little strongly. But at these moments I called to mind that trywhich the lieutenant spoke of to me, and I whispered to myself the well-known phrase, Toujours Francais! It has been laughed at since. Peoplewho would make a joke of the death of their mother have tur intoridicule, as if the name of our try was not also a noble and abinding thing. For my part, I shall never fet from how many folliesthe title of Fren has kept me. When, overe with fatigue, I havefound myself in the rear of the colors, and when the musketry wasrattling in the front ranks, many a time I heard a voice, which whisperedin my ear, Leave the others to fight, and for today take care of yourown hide! But then, that word Francais! murmured within me, and Ipressed forward to help my rades. At other times, when, irritated byhunger, cold, and wounds, I have arrived at the hovel of some Meinherr,I have been seized by an it９9ｌib?g to break the masters back, and to burnhis hut; but I whispered to myself, Francais! and this name would notrhyme with either indiary or murderer. I have, in this assedthrough kingdoms from east to west, and from north to south, alwaysdetermined not t disgrace upon my trys flag. The lieutenant,you see, had taught me a magic word--My try! Not only must we defendit, but we must also make it great and loved." October 17th.--To-day I have paid my neighbor a long visit. A ceexpressiohe way to his telling me more of himself than he had yetdone. I asked him whether both his limbs had been lost in the same battle. "No, no!" replied he; "the on only took my leg; it was the Clamartquarries that my arm went to feed." And when I asked him for the particulars-- "Thats as easy as to say good-m," tinued he. "After the greatbreak-up at Waterloo, I stayed three months in the camp hospital to givemy woodeime to grow. As soon as I was able to hobble a little,I took leave of headquarters, and took the road to Paris, where I hopedto find some relative or friend; but no--all were gone, or underground. I should have found myself less stra Vienna, Madrid, or Berlin. And although I had a leg the less to provide for, I was he betteroff; my appetite had e back, and my last sous were taking flight. "I had indeed met my old el, who recollected that I had helped himout of the skirmish at Montereau by giving him my horse, and he hadoffered me bed and board at his house. I khat the year before hehad married a castle and no few farms, so that I might bee permacoat-brusher to a millionaire, which was not without its temptations. It remaio see if I had not anythier to do. One evening I setmyself to reflect upon it. "Let us see, Chaufour, said I to myself; the question is to act like aman. The els place suits you, but ot you do anythier? Your body is still in good dition, and your arms strong; do you notowe all your strength to your try, as your Vines uncle said? Whynot leave some old soldier, more cut up than you are, to get his hospitalat the els? e, trooper, you are still fit for aoutcharge or two! You must not lay up before your time. "Whereupon I went to thank the el, and to offer my services to anold artilleryman, who had gone back to his home at Clamart, and who hadtaken up the quarrymans pick again. "For the first few months I played the scripts part--that is to say,there was more stir than work; but with a good will ohe betterof stones, as of everything else. I did no.t bee, so to speak, theleader of a n, but I brought up the rank among the good workmen,and I ate my bread with a good appetite, seeing I had ear with agood will. For even underground, you see, I still kept my pride. Thethought that I was w to do my part in ging rocks into housespleased my heart. I said to myself, Ce, Chaufour, my old boy; youare helping to beautify your try. And that kept up my spirit. "Unfortunately, some of my panions were rather too sensible to thecharms of the brandy-bottle; so much so, that one day one of them, whocould hardly distinguish his right hand from his left, thought proper tostrike a light close to a charged mihe mine exploded suddenly, a a shower of stone grape among us, which killed three men, andcarried away the arm of which I have now only the sleeve." "So you were again without means of living?" said I to the old soldier. "That is to say, I had to ge them," replied he, quietly. "Thedifficulty was to find one which would do with five fingers instead often; I found it, however." "How was that?" "Among the Paris street-sweepers." "What! you have been one--" "Of the pioneers of the health force for a while, neighbor, and that wasnot my worst time either. The corps of sweepers is not so low as it isdirty, I tell you! There are old actresses in it who could neverlearn to save their money, and ruined merts from the exge; weeven had a professor of classics, who for a little drink would reciteLatin to you, reek tragedies, as you chose. They could not havepeted for the Monthyon prize; but we excused faults on at ofpoverty, and cheered our poverty by ood-humor and jokes. I was asragged and as cheerful as the rest, while trying to be somethier. Even in the mire of the gutter I preserved my faith that nothing isdishonorable which is useful to our try. "Chaufour, said I to myself with a smile, after the sword, the hammer;after the hammer, the broom; yoing downstairs, my old boy, butyou are still serving your try." "However, you ended by leaving your new profession? said I." "A reform was required, neighbor. The street-sweepers seldom have theirfeet dry, and the damp at last made the wounds in my good leg open again. I could no longer follow the regiment, and it was necessary to lay downmy arms. It is now two months since I left off w in the sanitarydepartment of Paris. "At the first moment I was daunted. Of my four limbs, I had now only myright hand, and even that had lost its strength; so it was necessary tofind some gentlemanly occupation for it. After trying a little ofeverything, I fell upon card-box making, and here I am at cases for thelad buttons of the national guard; it is work of little profit, butit is within the capacity of all. By getting up at four and w tilleight, I earn sixty-five times; my lodging and bowl of soup take fiftyof them, and there are three sous over for luxuries. So I am richer thanFrance herself, for I have no deficit in my budget; and I tioserve her, as I save her lad buttons." At these words Father Chaufour looked at me with a smile, and with hisgreat scissors began cutting the green paper again for his cardboardcases. My heart was touched, and I remained lost in thought. Here is still another member of that sacred phalanx who, itle oflife, always mar front for the example and the salvation of theworld! Each of these brave soldiers has his war-cry; for this o is"try," for that "Home," for a third "Mankind;" but they all followthe same standard--that of duty; for all the same divine law reigns--thatof self-sacrifice. To love something more than ones self--that is thesecret of all that is great; to know how to live for others--that is theaim of all noble souls. CHAPTER XI MORAL USE OF IORIES November 13th, Nine Oclock P.M. I had well stopped up the ks of my window; my little carpet wasnailed down in its place; my lamp, provided with its shade, cast asubdued light around, and my stove made a low, murmuring sound, as ifsome live creature was sharing my hearth with me. All was silent around me. But, out of doors the snow and raiheroofs, and with a low, rushing sound ran along the gurgling gutters;sometimes a gust of wind forced itself beh the tiles, which rattledtogether like castas, and afterward it was lost in the empty corridor. Then a slight and pleasurable shiver thrilled through my veins: I drewthe flaps of my old wadded dressing-gown around me, I pulled mythreadbare velvet cap over my eyes, and, letting myself sink deeper intomy easy-chair, while my feet basked in the heat and light which shohrough the door of the stove, I gave myself up to a sensation ofenjoyment, made more lively by the sciousness of the storm which ragedwithout. My eyes, swimming in a sort of mist, wandered over all thedetails of my peaceful abode; they passed from my prints to my bookcase,resting upotle tz sofa, the white curtains of the iroead, and the portfolio of loose papers--those archives .99ｌib?of theattics; and theurning to the book I held in my hand, they attemptedto seize once more the thread of the reading which had been thusinterrupted. In fact, this book, the subject of which had at first ied me, hadbee painful to me. I had e to the clusion that the pictures ofthe writer were too sombre. His description of the miseries of the worldappeared exaggerated to me; I could not believe in such excess of povertyand of suffering; her God nor man could show themselves so harshtoward the sons of Adam. The author had yielded to an artistictemptation: he was making a show of the sufferings of humanity, as Neroburned Rome for the sake of the picturesque. Taken altogether, this poor human house, so often repaired, so muchcriticised, is still a pretty good abode; we may find enough in it tosatisfy our wants, if we know how to set bounds to them; the happiness ofthe wise man costs but little, and asks but little space. These soling refles became more and more fused. At last mybook fell on the ground without my having the resolution to stoop andtake it up again; and insensibly overe by the luxury of the silehe subdued light, and the warmth, I fell asleep. I remained for some time lost in the sort of insensibility belonging toa first sleep; at last some vague and brokeions came over me. It seemed to me that the day grew darker, that the air became colder. I half perceived bushes covered with the scarlet berries which foretellthe ing of winter. I walked on a dreary road, bordered here and therewith jurees white with frost. Then the se suddenly ged. I was in the diligehe cold wind shook the doors and windows; thetrees, loaded with snow, passed by like ghosts; in vain I thrust mybenumbed feet into the crushed straw. At last the carriage stopped, and,by one of those stage effects so on in sleep, I found myself alone ina barn, without a fireplace, and open to the winds on all sides. I sawagain my mentle face, known only to me in my early childhood,the noble and stern tenany father, the little fair head of mysister, who was taken from us at ten years old; all my dead family livedagain arouhey were there, exposed to the bitings of the cold andto the pangs of hunger. My mother prayed by the resigned old man, and mysister, rolled up on ss of which they had made her a bed, wept insilence, and held her naked feet in her little blue hands. It age from the book I had just read transferred into my owence. My heart pressed with inexpressible anguish. Crouched in a er,with my eyes fixed upon this dismal picture, I felt the cold slowlycreeping upon me, and I said to myself with bitterness: "Let us die, since poverty is a dungeon guarded by suspi, apathy, andpt, and from which it is vain to try to escape; let us die, sihere is no place for us at the ba of the living!" And I tried to rise to join my main, and to wait at her feet forthe hour of release. This effort dispelled my dream, and I awoke with a start. I looked around me; my lamp was expiring, the fire in my stoveextinguished, and my half-opened door was letting in an icy wind. I got up, with a shiver, to shut and double-lock it; then I made forthe alcove, ao bed in haste. But the cold kept me awake a long time, and my thoughts tiheinterrupted dream. The pictures I had lately accused of exaggeration now seemed but a toofaithful representation of reality; and I went to sleep without beingable to recover my optimism--or my warmth. Thus did a cold stove and a badly closed door alter my point of view. All went well when my blood circulated properly; all looked gloomy whenthe cold laid hold on me. This reminds me of the story of the duchess who was obliged to pay avisit to the neighb vent on a winters day. The vent oor, there was no wood, and the monks had nothing but their disciplineand the ardor of their prayers to keep out the cold. The duchess, whowas shivering with cold, returned home, greatly pitying the poor monks. While the servants were taking off her cloak and adding two more logs toher fire, she called her steward, whom she ordered to send some wood tothe vent immediately. She then had her couch moved close to thefireside, the warmth of which soon revived her. The recolle of whatshe had just suffered eedily lost in her present fort, wheeward came in again to ask how many loads of wood he was to send. "Oh! you may wait," said the great lady carelessly; "the weather is verymuch milder." Thus, mans judgments are formed less from reason than from sensation;and as sensation es to him from the outward world, so he finds himselfmore or less us influence; by little and little he imbibes aportion of his habits and feelings from it. It is not, then, without cause that, when we wish to judge of a strangerbeforehand, we look for indications of his character in the circumstanceswhich surround him. The things among which we live are necessarily madeto take our image, and we unsciously leave in them a thousandimpressions of our minds. As we judge by ay bed of the heightand attitude of him who has slept in it, so the abode of every mandiscovers to a close observer the extent of his intelligend thefeelings of his heart. Bernardi.-Pierre has related the story ofa young girl who refused a suitor because he would never have flowers ordomestiimals in his house. Perhaps the sentence was severe, but notwithout reason. resume that a man insensible to beauty and tohumble affeust be ill prepared to feel the enjoyments of a happymarriage. 14th, seven oclock P.M.--This m, as I ening my journal towrite, I had a visit from our old cashier. His sight is not so good as it was, his hand begins to shake, and thework he was able to do formerly is now being somewhat laborious tohim. I had uaken to write out some of his papers, and he came forthose I had finished. We versed a long time by the stove, while he was drinking a cup ofcoffee which I made him take. M. Rateau is a sensible man, who has observed mud speaks little; sothat he has always something to say. While looking over the ats I had prepared for him, his look fellupon my journal, and I was obliged to aowledge that in this way Iwrote a diary of my as and thoughts every evening for private use. From ohing to another, I began speaking to him of my dream the daybefore, and my refles about the influence of outward objects uponour ordinary ses. He smiled. "Ah! you, too, have my superstitions," he said, quietly. "I have alwaysbelieved, like you, that you may know the game by the lair: it is onlynecessary to have tad experience; but without them we itourselves to many rash judgments. For my part. I have been guilty ofthis more than once, but sometimes I have also drawn a right clusion. I recollect especially an adventure which goes as far back as the firstyears of my youth--" He stopped. I looked at him as if I waited for his story, aold itme at once. At this time he was still but third clerk to an attor Orleans. Hismaster had sent him to Mis on different affairs, aeoreturn in the diligehe same evening, after having received theamount of a bill at a neighb town; but they kept him at the debtorshouse, and when he was able to set out the day had already closed. Fearing not to be able to reach Mis in good time, he took acrossroad they pointed out to him. Unfortuhe fog increased,no star was visible in the heavens, and the darkness became so great thathe lost his road. He tried to retrace his steps, passed twentyfootpaths, and at last was pletely astray. After the vexation of losing his pla the diligence, came the feelingof uneasiness as to his situation. He was alone, on foot, lost in aforest, without any means of finding his right road again, and with asiderable sum of money about him, for which he was responsible. Hisay was increased by his inexperiehe idea of a forest wasected in his mind with so many adventures of robbery and murder,that he expected some fatal enter every instant. To say the truth, his situation was not encing. The place was notsidered safe, and for some time past there had been rumors of thesudden disappearance of several horse-dealers, though there was no traceof any crime having been itted. Our young traveller, with his eyes staring forward, and his earslistening, followed a footpath which he supposed might take him to somehouse or road; but woods always succeeded to woods. At last he perceiveda light at a distance, and in a quarter of an hour he reached thehighroad. A single house, the light from which had attracted him, appeared at alittle distance. He was going toward the entrae of the courtyard,wherot of a horse made him turn his head. A man on horseback hadjust appeared at the turning of the road, and in an instant was close tohim. The first words he addressed to the young man showed him to be the farmerhimself. He related how he had lost himself, and learned from thetryman that he was on the road to Pithiviers. Mis was threeleagues behind him. The fog had insensibly ged into a drizzling rain, which was beginningto wet the young clerk through; he seemed afraid of the distance he hadstill to go, and the horseman, who saw his hesitation, invited him toe into the farmhouse. It had something of the look of a fortress. Surrounded by a pretty highwall, it could not be seen except through the bars of the great gate,which was carefully closed. The farmer, who had got off his horse, didnot go near it, but, turning to the right, reached another entranceclosed in the same way, but of which he had the key. Hardly had he passed the threshold when a terrible barking resoundedfrom ead of the yard. The farmer told his guest to fear nothing,and showed him the dogs ed up to their kennels; both were of araordinary size, and so savage that the sight of their master himselfcould not quiet them. A boy, attracted by their barking, came out of the house and took thefarmers horse. The latter begaioning him about some orders hehad given before he left the house, aoward the stable to seethat they had beeed. Thus left alone, our clerk looked about him. A lantern which the boy had placed on the ground cast a dim light overthe courtyard. All around seemed empty aed. Not a trace wasvisible of the disorder often seen in a try farmyard, and which showsa temporary cessation of the work which is soon to be resumed again. her a cart fottehe horses had been unharnessed, norsheaves of heaped up ready for threshing, nor a plow overturned in aer and half hidden uhe freshly-cut clover. The yard was swept,the barns shut up and padlocked. Not a single vine creeping up thewalls; everywhere stone, wood, and iron! He took up the lantern a up to the er of the house. Behindwas a sed yard, where he heard the barking of a third dog, and acovered wall was built in the middle of it. Our traveller looked in vain for the little farm garden, where pumpkinsof different sorts creep along the ground, or where the bees from thehives hum uhe hedges of honeysuckle and elder. Verdure and flowerswere o be seen. He did not even perceive the sight of apoultry-yard eon-house. The habitation of his host was everywherewanting in that which makes the grad the life of the try. The young man thought that his host must be of a very careless or a verycalculating disposition, to cede so little to domestijoyments andthe pleasures of the eye; and judging, in spite of himself, by what hesaw, he could not help feeling a distrust of his character. In the mean time the farmer returned from the stables, and made him ehe house. The inside of the farmhouse correspoo its outside. The whitewashedwalls had no other orhan a row of guns of all sizes; the massivefurniture hardly redeemed its clumsy appearance by its great solidity. The liness was doubtful, and the absence of all minor veniencesproved that a womans care was wanting in the household s. Theyoung clerk learhat the farmer, in fact, lived here with no ohis two sons. Of this, ihe signs were plain enough. A table with the clothlaid, that no one had takerouble to clear away, was left hewindow. The plates and dishes were scattered upon it without any order,and loaded with potats and half-picked bones. Several emptybottles emitted an odor of brandy, mixed with the pu smell oftobaoke. After seating his guest, the farmer lighted his pipe, and his two sonsresumed their work by the fireside. Now and then the silence was justbroken by a short remark, answered by a word or an exclamation; and thenall became as mute as before. "From my childhood," said the old cashier, "I had been very sensible tothe impression of outward objects; later in life, refle had taughtme to study the causes of these impressions rather than to drive themaway. I set myself, then, to examine everything arouh greatattention. "Below the guns, I had remarked oering, some wolftraps weresuspended, and to one of them still hung the mangled remains of a wolfspaw, which they had not yet taken off from the iroh. The blaedeypiece was ored by an owl and a raven nailed on the wall,their wiended, and their throats with a huge nail through each; afoxs skin, freshly flayed, read before the window; and a larderhook, fixed into the principal beam, held a headless goose, whose bodyswayed about over our heads. "My eyes were offended by all these details, and I turhem again uponmy hosts. The father, who sat opposite to me, only interrupted hissmoking to pour out his drink, or address some reprimand to his sons. The eldest of these was scraping a deep bucket, and the bloody scrapings,which he threw into the fire every instant, filled the room with adisagreeable fetid smell; the sed son was sharpening some butchersknives. I learned from a word dropped from the father that they werepreparing to kill a pig the day. "These occupations and the whole aspect of things ihe house toldof such habitual coarseness in their way of living as seemed to explain,while it formed the fitting terpart of, the forbidding gloominess ofthe outside. My astonishment by degrees ged into disgust, and mydisgust into uneasiness. I ot detail the whole of ideas whichsucceeded one another in my imagination; but, yielding to an impulse Icould not overe, I got up, declaring I would go on my road again. "The farmer made some effort to keep me; he spoke of the rain, of thedarkness, and of the length of the way. I replied to all by the absolutey there was for my being at Mis that very night; andthanking him for his brief hospitality, I set off again in a haste whichmight well have firmed the truth of my words to him. "However, the freshness of the night and the exercise of walking did notfail to ge the dires of my thoughts. When away from the objectswhich had awakened such lively disgust in me, I felt it graduallydiminishing. I began to smile at the susceptibility of my feelings,and then, in proportion as the rain became heavier and colder, thesestrictures on myself assumed a tone of ill-temper. I silently accusedmyself of the absurdity of mistakiion for admonitions of myreason. After all, were not the farmer and his sons free to live aloo hunt, to keep dogs, and to kill a pig? Where was the crime of it? With less nervous susceptibility, I should have accepted the shelter theyoffered me, and I should now be sleeping snugly on a truss of straw,instead of walking with difficulty through the cold and drizzling rain. I thus tio reproach myself, until, toward m, I arrived atMis, jaded and benumbed with cold. "When, however, I got up refreshed, toward the middle of the day,I instinctively returo my first opinion. The appearance of thefarmhouse preseself to me uhe same repulsive colors whichthe evening before had determined me to make my escape from it. Reasonitself remained silent when reviewing all those coarse details, and wasforced tnize ihe indications of a low nature, or else thepresence of some baleful influence. "I went away the day without being able to learn anything ingthe farmer or his sons; but the recolle of my adventure remaineddeeply fixed in my memory. "Ten years afterward I was travelling in the diligehrough thedepartment of the Loiret; I was leaning from the window, and looking atsome coppice ground now for the first time brought under cultivation, andthe mode of clearing whie of my travelling panions was explainingto me, when my eyes fell upon a walled inclosure, with an iron-barredgate. I I perceived a house with all the blinds closed, andwhich I immediately recollected; it was the farmhouse where I had beeered. I eagerly poi out to my panion, and asked who livedin it. "Nobody just now, replied he. "But was it not kept, some years ago, by a farmer and his two sons? "The Turreaus; said my travelling panion, looking at me; did youknow them? "I saw them once. "He shook his head. "Yes, yes! resumed he; for many years they lived there like wolves intheir den; they merely knew how to till land, kill game, and drink. Thefather mahe house, but men living alone, without women to lovethem, without children to soften them, and without God to make them thinkof heaven, always turn into wild beasts, you see; so one m theeldest son, who had been drinking too much brandy, would not harheplow-horses; his father struck him with his whip, and the son, who wasmad drunk, shot him dead with his gun." 16th, P.M.--I have been thinking of the story of the old cashier thesetwo days; it came so opportunely upon the refley dream hadsuggested to me. Have I not an important lesson to learn from all this? If our sensations have an intestable influence upon our judgments,how es it that we are so little careful of those things which awakenor modify these sensations? The external world is always reflected in usas in a mirror, and fills our minds with pictures which, unsciously toourselves, bee the germs of our opinions and of our rules of duct. All the objects which surround us are then, iy, so many talismanswhence good and evil influences are emitted, and it is for us to choosethem wisely, so as to create a healthy atmosphere for our minds. Feeling vinced of this truth, I set about making a survey of my attic. The first obje which my eyes rest is an old map of the history ofthe principal monastery in my native province. I had unrolled it withmuch satisfa, and placed it on the most spicuous part of thewall. Why had I given it this place? Ought this sheet of old worm-eatenpart to be of so much value to me, who am her an antiquary nor ascholar? Is not its real importan my sight that one of the abbotswho fou bore my name, and that I shall, perce, be able to makemyself a genealogical tree of it ..for the edification of my visitors? While writing this, I feel my own blushes. e, down with the map! let us banish it into my deepest drawer. As I passed my glass, I perceived several visiting cards platlydisplayed in the frame. By what ce is it that there are only hat make a show among them? Here is a Polish t--a retired el--the deputy of my department. Quick, quick, into the fire with theseproofs of vanity! a us put this card in the handwriting of ouroffice-boy, this dire for cheap dinners, and the receipt of thebroker where I bought my last armchair, in their place. Theseindications of my poverty will serve, as Montaigne says, mater masuperbe, and will always make me recollect the modesty in which thedignity of the lowly sists. I have stopped before the prints hanging upon the wall. This large andsmiling Pomona, seated on sheaves of , and whose basket isoverflowing with fruit, only produces thoughts of joy and plenty; I waslooking at her the other day, when I fell asleep denying such a thing asmisery. Let us give her as panion this picture of Winter, in whicheverything tells of sorrow and suffering: one picture will modify theother. And this Happy Family of Greuzes! What joy in the childrens eyes! What sweet repose in the young womans face! What religious feeling inthe grandfathers tenance! May God preserve their happio them! but let us hang by its side the picture of this mother, who weeps over ay cradle. Human life has two faces, both of which we must dare toplate iurn. Let me hide, too, these ridionsters whient myeypiece. Plato has said that "the beautiful is nothing else thanthe visible form of the good." If it is so, the ugly should be thevisible form of the evil, and, by stantly beholding it, the mindinsensibly deteriorates. But above all, in order to cherish the feelings of kindness and pity, letme hang at the foot of my bed this affeg picture of the Last Sleep! Never have I been able to look at it without feeling my heart touched. An old woman, clothed in rags, is lying by a roadside; her stick is ather feet, and her head rests upon a stone; she has fallen asleep; herhands are clasped; murmuring a prayer of her childhood, she sleeps herlast sleep, she dreams her last dream! She sees herself, again a strong and happy child, keeping the sheep onthe on, gathering the berries from the hedges, singing, curtsying topassers-by, and making the sign of the cross when the first star appearsin the heavens! Happy time, filled with fragrand sunshine! Shewants nothi, for she is ignorant of what there is to wish for. But see her grown up; the time is e for w bravely: she must cutthe , thresh the wheat, carry the bundles of fl clover orbranches of withered leaves to the farm. If her toil is hard, hopeshines like a sun over everything and it wipes the drops of sweat away. The growing girl already sees that life is a task, but she still sings asshe fulfills it. By-and-bye the burden bees heavier; she is a wife, she is a mother! She must eize the bread of to-day, have her eye upon the morrow,take care of the sick, and sustain the feeble; she must act, in short,that part of ahly Providence, so easy when God gives us his aid,so hard when he forsakes us. She is still strong, but she is anxious;she sings no longer! Yet a few years, and all is overcast. The husbands health is broken;his wife sees him pine away by the now fireless hearth; cold and hungerfinish what siess had begun; he dies, and his widow sits on the groundby the coffin provided by the charity of others, pressiwo half-naked little ones in her arms. She dreads the future, she weeps, and shedroops her head. At last the future has e; the children are grown up, but they are nolonger with her. Her son is fighting under his trys flag, and hissister is gone. Both have been lost to her for a long time--perhapsforever; and the strong girl, the brave wife, the ceous mother, isheh only a poor old beggar-woman, without a family, and without ahome! She weeps no more, sorrow has subdued her; she surrenders, andwaits for death. Death, that faithful friend of the wretched, is e: not hideous andwith mockery, as superstition represents, but beautiful, smiling, anded with stars! The gentle phantom stoops to the beggar; its palelips murmur a few airy words, whinouo her the end of herlabors; a peaceful joy es over the aged beggarwoman, and, leaning onthe shoulder of the great Deliverer, she has passed unsciously fromher last earthly sleep to her eternal rest. Lie there, thou poor way-wearied woman! The leaves will serve thee for awinding-sheet. Night will shed her tears of dew over thee, and the birdswill sing sweetly by thy remains. Thy visit here below will not haveleft more trace than their flight through the air; thy name is alreadyfotten, and the only legacy thou hast to leave is the hawthorn sticklying fotten at thy feet! Well! some one will take it up--some soldier of that great human hostwhich is scattered abroad by misery or by vice; for thou art not aion, thou art an instance; and uhe same sun which shines sopleasantly upon all, in the midst of these fl vineyards, this ripe, and these wealthy cities, entire geions suffer, succeed eachother, and still bequeath to each the beggars stick! The sight of this sad picture shall make me mrateful for what Godhas given me, and more passionate for those whom he has treated withless indulge shall be a lesson and a subject for refle forme. Ah! if we would watch for everything that might improve and instruct us;if the arras of our daily life were so disposed as to be astant school for our minds! but ofte we take no heed of them. Man is aernal mystery to himself; his own person is a house intowhich he never enters, and of which he studies the outside alone. Eachof us need have tinually before him the famous inscription whistructed Socrates, and which was engraved on the walls of Delphi by anunknown hand: KNOW THYSELF. CHAPTER XII THE END OF THE YEAR December 30th, P.M. I was in bed, and hardly recovered from the delirious fever which hadkept me for so loween life ah. My weakened brain was makingefforts to recover its activity; my thoughts, like rays of lightstruggling through the clouds, were still fused and imperfect; attimes I felt a return of the dizziness which made a chaos of all myideas, and I floated, so to speak, between alters of mentalwandering and sciousness. Sometimes everything seemed plain to me, like the prospect which, fromthe top of some high mountain, opens before us in clear weather. Wedistinguish water, woods, villages, cattle, evetage perched onthe edge of the ravihen suddenly there es a gust of wind ladenwith mist, and all is fused and indistinct. Thus, yielding to the oscillations of a half-recovered reason, I allowedmy mind to follow its various impulses without troubling myself toseparate the real from the imaginary; I glided softly from oo theother, and my dreams and waking thoughts succeeded closely upoher. Now, while my mind is wandering in this uled state, see, underhe clock which measures the hours with its loud tig, a female figureappears before me! At first sight I saw enough to satisfy me that she was not a daughter ofEve. In her eye was the last flash of an expiring star, and her face hadthe pallor of an heroic death-struggle. She was dressed in a drapery ofa thousand ging colors of the brightest and the most sombre hues, andheld a withered garland in her hand. After having plated her for some moments, I asked her name, andwhat brought her into my attic. Her eyes, which were following themovements of the clock, turoward me, and she replied: "You see ihe year which is just drawing to its end; I e toreceive your thanks and your farewell." I raised myself on my elbow in surprise, which soon gave place to bitterrese. "Ah! you want thanks," cried I; "but first let me know what for? "When I weled your ing, I was still young and vigorous: you havetaken from me each day some little of my strength, and you have ended byinflig an illness upon me; already, thanks to you, my blood is lesswarm, my muscles less firm, and my feet less agile than before! You haveplahe germs of infirmity in my bosom; there, where the summerflowers of life were growing, you have wickedly sowtles of oldage! "And, as if it were not enough to weaken my body, you have alsodimihe powers of my soul; you have extinguished her enthusiasm;she is beore sluggish and more timid. Formerly her eyes took inthe whole of mankind in their generous survey; but you have made hernearsighted, and now she hardly sees beyond herself! "That is what youhave done for my spiritual being: then as to my outward existence, see towhat grief, , and misery you have reduced it! "For the many daysthat the fever has kept me ed to this bed, who has taken care ofthis home in which I placed all my joy? Shall I not find my closetsempty, my bookcase ,stripped, all my poor treasures lost throughnegligence or dishoy? Where are the plants I cultivated, the birds Ifed? All are gone! my attic is despoiled, silent and solitary! "As itis only for the last few moments that I have returo a sciousnessof what surrounds me, I am even ignorant who has nursed me during my longillness! Doubtless some hireling, who will leave when all my means ofrepense are exhausted ! "And what will my masters, for whom I ambound to work, have said to my abse this time of the year, whenbusiness is most pressing, they have dohout me, will they everied to do so? Perhaps I am already superseded in the humblesituation by which I earned my daily bread! And it is thou-thou alone,wicked daughter of Time--who hast brought all these misfortunes upon me: strength, health, fort, work--thou hast taken all from me. I haveonly received e and loss from thee, ahou darest to claim mygratitude! "Ah! die then, sihy day is e; but die despised and cursed; andmay I write on thy tomb the epitaph the Arabia inscribed upon thatof a king: "Rejoice, thou passer-by: he whom we have buried hereot live again." ....................... I was wakened by a hand taking mine; and opening my eyes, I reizedthe doctor. After havi my pulse, he nodded his head, sat down at the foot ofthe bed, and looked at me, rubbing his h his snuffbox. I havesince learhat this was a sign of satisfa with the doctor. "Well! so we wanted old snub-o carry us off?" said M. Lambert, inhis half-joking, half-scolding way. "What the deuce of a hurry we werein! It was necessary to hold you back with both arms at least!" "Then you had given me up, doctor?" asked I, rather alarmed. "Not at all," replied the old physi. "We t give up what we havenot got; and I make it a rule o have any hope. We are butinstruments in the hands of Providence, and each of us should say, withAmbroise Pare: I tend him, God cures him!" "May He be blessed then, as well as you," cried I; "and may my healthe back with the new year!" M. Lambert shrugged his shoulders. "Begin by asking yourself for it," resumed he, bluntly. "God has givenit you, and it is your own sense, and not ce, that must keep it foryou. One would think, to hear people talk, that siess es upon uslike the rain or the sunshine, without one having a word to say ier. Before we plain of being ill we should prove that we deserveto be well." I was about to smile, but the doctor looked angry. "Ah! you think that I am joking," resumed he, raising his voice; "buttell me, then, which of us gives his health the same attention that hegives to his business? Do you eize your strength as you eizeyour money? Do you avoid excess and impruden the one case with thesame care as extravagance or foolish speculations iher? Do youkeep as regular ats of your mode of living as you do of your ine? Do you sider every evening what has been wholesome or unwholesome foryou, with the same care that y to the examination of yourexpenditure? You may smile; but have you nht this illness onyourself by a thousand indiscretions?" I began to pro..test against this, and asked him to point out theseindiscretions. The old doctor spread out his fingers, and began tore upon them one by one. "Primo," cried he, "want of exercise. You live here like a mouse in acheese, without air, motion, or ge. sequently, the bloodcirculates badly, the fluids thi, the muscles, being inactive, do notclaim their share of nutrition, the stomach flags, and the brain growsweary. "Sedular food. Caprice is your cook; your stomach a slavewho must accept what you give it, but who presently takes a sullenrevenge, like all slaves. "Tertio. Sitting up late. Instead of using the night for sleep, youspend it in reading; your bedstead is a bookcase, your pillows a desk! At the time when the wearied brain asks for rest, you lead it throughthese noal ies, and you are surprised to find it the worse forthem the day. "Quarto. Luxurious habits. Shut up in your attic, you insensiblysurround yourself with a thousand effeminate indulgences. You must havelist for your door, a blind for your window, a carpet for your feet, aneasy-chair stuffed with wool for your back, your fire lit at the firstsign of cold, and a shade to your lamp; and thanks to all theseprecautions, the least draught makes you catch cold, on chairs giveyou , and you must ectacles to support the light of day. You have thought you were acquiring forts, and you have onlytracted infirmities. "Quinto" "Ah! enough, enough, doctor!" cried I. "Pray, do not carry yourexamination farther; do not attach a sense of remorse to eaypleasures." The old doctor rubbed his h his snuffbox. "You see," said he, mently, and rising at the same time, "you wouldescape from the truth. You shrink from inquiry--a proof that yuilty. Habemus fitentem reum! But at least, my friend, do not goon laying the blame on Time, like an old woman." Thereupon he agai my pulse, and took his leave, declaring that hisfun was at an end, and that the rest depended upon myself. When the doctor was gone, I set about refleg upon what he had said. Although his words were too sweeping, they were not the less true in themain. How often we accuse ce of an illness, the in of which weshould seek in ourselves! Perhaps it would have been wiser to let himfinish the examination he had begun. But is there not another of more importahat which s thehealth of the soul? Am I so sure of having ed no means ofpreserving that during the year which is now ending? Have I, as one ofGods soldiers upoh, kept my ce and my arms effit? ShallI be ready for the great review of souls which must pass before Him WHOIS in the dark valley of Jehoshaphat? Darest thou examihyself, O my soul! and see how often thou hasterred? First, thou hast erred through pride! for I have not duly valued thelowly. I have drunk too deeply of the intoxig wines of genius, andhave found no relish in pure water. I have disdaihose words whichhad no other beauty than their siy; I have ceased to love mensolely because they are men--I have loved them for their endowments; Ihave tracted the world within the narrow pass of a pantheon, and mysympathy has been awakened by admiration only. The vulgar crowd, which Iought to have followed with a friendly eye because it is posed of mybrothers in hope rief, I have let pass by with as mudifferenceas if it were a flock of sheep. I am indignant with him who rolls inriches and despises the man poor in worldly wealth; a, vain of mytrifling knowledge, I despise him who is poor in mind--I s thepoverty of intellect as others do that of dress; I take credit fiftwhich I did not bestow on myself, and turn the favor of fortuo aon with which to attack others. Ah! if, in the worst days of revolutions, ignorance has revolted andraised a cry of hatred against genius, the fault is not alone in theenvious malice of ignorance, but es in part, too, from theptuous pride of knowledge. Alas! I have too pletely fotten the fable of the two sons of themagi of Bagdad. One of them, struck by an irrevocable decree of destiny, was born blind,while the other enjoyed all the delights of sight. The latter, proud ofhis own advantages, laughed at his brothers blindness, and disdained himas a panion. One m the blind boy wished to go out with him. "To urpose," said he, "sihe gods have put nothing in oween us? For me creation is a stage, where a thousand charming sesand wonderful actors appear in succession; for you it is only an obscureabyss, at the bottom of which you hear the fused murmur of aninvisible world. tihen alone in your darkness, and leave thepleasures of light to those upon whom the day-star shines." With these words he went away, and his brother, left alone, began to crybitterly. His father, who heard him, immediately ran to him, and triedto sole him by promising to give him whatever he desired. " you give me sight?" asked the child. "Fate does not permit it," said the magi. "Then," cried the blind boy, eagerly, "I ask you to put out the sun!" Who knows whether my pride has not provoked the same wish on the part ofsome one of my brothers who does not see? But how much oftener have I erred through levity and want of thought! How many resolutions have I taken at random! how many judgments have Ipronounced for the sake of a witticism! how many mischiefs have I notdohout any sense of my responsibility! The greater part of menharm one another for the sake of doing something. We laugh at the honorof one, and promise the reputation of another, like an idle man whosaunters along a hedgerow, breaking the young branches aroying themost beautiful flowers. And, heless, it is by this very thoughtlesshat the fame ofsome men is created. It rises gradually, like one of those mysteriousmounds in barbarous tries, to which a stone is added by everypasserby; eae brings something at random, and adds it as he passes,without being able himself to see whether he is raising a pedestal ibbet. Who will dare look behind him, to see his rash judgments held upthere to view? Some time ago I was walking along the edge of the green mound on whichthe Montmartre telegraph stands. Below me, along one of the zigzag pathswhich wind up the hill, a man and a girl were ing up, and arrested myattention. The man wore a shaggy coat, which gave him some resemblao a wild beast; and he held a thick sti his hand, with which hedescribed various strange figures in the air. He spoke very loud, and ina voice which seemed to me vulsed with passion. He raised his eyesevery now and then with an expression of savage harshness, and itappeared to me that he was reproag and threatening the girl, and thatshe was listening to him with a submissiveness which touched my heart. Two or three times she ventured a few words, doubtless iempt tojustify herself; but the man in the greatcoat began again immediatelywith his loud and angry voice, his savage looks, and his threateningevolutions in the air. I followed him with my eyes, vainly endeavto catch a word as he passed, until he disappeared behind the hill. I had evidently just seen one of those domestic tyrants whose sullentempers are excited by the patience of their victims, and who, thoughthey have the power to bee the benefit gods of a family, chooserather to be their tormentors. I cursed the unknown savage in my heart, and I felt indignant that thesecrimes against the sacred peace of home could not be punished as theydeserve, when I heard his voice approag nearer. He had turhepath, and soon appeared before me at the top of the slope. The first glance, and his first words, explained everything to me: inplace of what I had taken for the furious tones and terrible looks of anangry man, and the attitude of a frightened victim, I had before me onlyan ho citizen, who squinted and stuttered, but who was explaining thema of silkworms to his attentive daughter. I turned homeward, smiling at my mistake; but before I reached myfaub I saw a crowd running, I heard calls for help, and everyfinger pointed in the same dire to a distant n of flame. A manufactory had taken fire, and everybody was rushing forward toassist iinguishing it. I hesitated. Night was ing on; I felt tired; a favorite book wasawaiting me; I thought there would be no want of help, and I went on myway. Just before I had erred from want of sideration; now it was fromselfishness and cowardice. But what! have I not on a thousand other occasions fotteieswhich bind us to our fellowmen? Is this the first time I have avoidedpaying society what I owe it? Have I not always behaved to my panionswith injustice, and like the lion? Have I not claimed successively everyshare? If any one is so ill-advised as to ask me to return some littleportion, I get provoked, I am angry, I try to escape from it by everymeans. How many times, when I have perceived a beggar sitting huddled upat the end of the street, have I not go of my way, for fear thatpassion would impoverish me by f me to be charitable! How oftenhave I doubted the misfortunes of others, that I might with justiceharden my heart against them. With what satisfa have I sometimes verified the vices of the poorman, in order to show that his misery is the punishment he deserves! Oh! let us not go farther--let us not go farther! I interrupted thedoctors examination, but how much sadder is this one! We pity thediseases of the body; we shudder at those of the soul. I was happily disturbed in my reverie by my neighbor, the old soldier. Now I think of it, I seem always to have seen, during my fever, thefigure of this good old man, sometimes leaning against my bed, andsometimes sitting at his table, surrounded by his sheets of pasteboard. He has just e in with his glue-pot, his quire of green paper, and hisgreat scissors. I called him by his name; he uttered a joyfulexclamation, and came near me. "Well! so the bullet is found again!" cried he, taking my two hands intothe maimed one which was left him; "it has not been without trouble,I tell you; the campaign has been long enough to win two clasps in. I have seen no few fellows with the fever batter windmills during myhospital days: at Leipsic, I had a neighbor who fancied a ey was onfire in his stomach, and who was always calling for the fire-engines; butthe third day it all went out of itself. But with you it has lastedtwe days--as long as one of the Little Corporals campaigns." "I am not mistaken then; you were near me?" "Well! I had only to cross the passage. This left hand has not made youa bad nurse for want of the right; but, bah! you did not know what handgave you drink, and it did not prevent that beggar of a fever from beingdrowned--for all the world like Poniatowski in the Elster." The old soldier began to laugh, and I, feeling too much affected tospeak, pressed his hand against my breast. He saw my emotion, andhasteo put ao it. "By-the-bye, you know that from to-day you have a right to draw yourrations again," resumed he gayly; "four meals, like the German meinherrs--nothing more! The doctor is your house steward." "We must find the cook, too," replied I, with a smile. "She is found," said the veteran. "Who is she?" "Genevieve." "The fruit-woman?" "While I am talking she is cooking for you, neighbor; and do not fear herspariher butter or trouble. As long as life ah werefighting for you, the ho assed her time in going up and downstairs to learn which way the battle went. And, stay, I am sure this isshe." In fact we heard steps in the passage, and he went to open the door. "Oh, well!" tinued he, "it is Mother Millot, our portress, another ofyood friends, neighbor, and whose poultices I reend to you. e in, Mother Millot--e in; we are quite bonny boys this m,and ready to step a mi if we had our dang-shoes." The portress came in, quite delighted. She brought my linen, washed andmended by herself, with a little bottle of Spanish wihe gift of hersailor son, a freat occasions. I would have thanked her, butthe good woman imposed silence upon me, uhe pretext that the doctorhad forbiddeo speak. I saw her arrange everything in my drawers,the appearance of which struck me; an attentive hand had evidentlybeen there, and day by day put straight the unavoidable disordersequent on siess. As she finished, Genevieve arrived with my dinner; she was followed byMother Denis, the milk-womahe way, who had learned, at the sametime, the danger I had been in, and that I was now beginning to bevalest. The good Savoyard brought me a new-laid egg, which sheherself wished to see me eat. It was necessary to relate minutely all my illo her. At everydetail she uttered loud exclamations; then, when the portress warned herto be less noisy, she excused herself in a whisper. They made a circlearouo see me eat my dinner; each mouthful I took was apaniedby their expressions of satisfa and thankfulness. Never had theKing of France, when he dined in public, excited such admiration amongthe spectators. As they were taking the dinner away, my colleague, the old cashier,entered in his turn. I could not prevent my heart beating as I reized him. How would theheads of the firm look upon my absence, and what did he e to tell me? I waited with inexpressible ay for him to speak; but he sat down byme, took my hand, and began rejoig over my recovery, without saying aword about our masters. I could not ehis uainty any longer. "And the Messieurs Durmer," asked I, hesitatingly, "how have they taken--the interruption to my work?" "There has been no interruption," replied the old clerk, quietly. "What do you mean?" "Eae in the office took a share of your duty; all has gone on asusual, and the Messieurs Durmer have perceived no difference." This was too much. After so many instances of affe, this filled upthe measure. I could not restrain my tears. Thus the few services I had been able to do for others had beenaowledged by them a hundredfold! I had sown a little seed, and everygrain had fallen on good ground, and brought forth a whole sheaf. Ah! this pletes the lesson the dave me. If it is true that thediseases, whether of the mind or body, are the fruit of our follies andour vices, sympathy and affe are also the rewards of our having doneour duty. Every one of us, with Gods help, and within the narrow limitsof human capability, himself makes his own disposition, character, andperma dition. Everybody is gohe old soldier has brought me back my flowers and mybirds, and they are my only panions. The setting sun reddens my half-closed curtains with its last rays. My brain is clear, and my heartlighter. A thin mist floats before my eyes, and I feel myself in thathappy state which precedes a refreshing sleep. Yonder, opposite the bed, the pale goddess in her drapery of a thousandging colors, and with her withered garland, again appears before me;but this time I hold out my hand to her with a grateful smile. "Adieu, beloved year! whom I but now unjustly accused. That which Ihave suffered must not be laid to thee; for thou wast but a tract throughwhich God had marked out my road--a ground where I had reaped the harvestI had sown. I will love thee, thou wayside shelter, for those hours ofhappihou hast seen me enjoy; I will love thee even for thesuffering thou hast seen me endure. her happiness nor suffering camefrom thee; but thou hast been the se for them. Desd again then, inpeace, iernity, and be blest, thou who hast left me experiehe place of youth, sweet memories instead of past time, and gratitude aspayment food offices."天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》