"How hard it is," said he, "that I should only begin to be acquainted

with heaven, when the power of contemplating it is ravished from me!

Jupiter and Saturn revolve in these immense spaces;--millions of suns

illumine myriads of worlds; and, in this corner of the earth on which I

am cast, there are beings that deprive me of seeing and studying those

worlds to which my eye might reach, and even that in which God has

placed me. The light created for the whole universe is lost to me. It

was not hidden from me in the northern horizon, where I passed my

infancy and youth. Without you, my dear Gordon, I should be

annihilated."

XII.

THE HURON'S SENTIMENTS UPON THEATRICAL PIECES.

The young Huron resembled one of those vigorous trees, which,

languishing in an ungrateful soil, extend in a little time their roots

and branches when transplanted to a more favorable spot; and it was very

extraordinary that this favorable spot should be a prison.

Among the books which employed the leisure of the two captives were some

poems and also translations of Greek tragedies, and some dramatic

pieces in French. Those passages that dwelt on love communicated at once

pleasure and pain to the soul of the Huron. They were but so many images

of his dear Miss St. Yves. The fable of the two pigeons rent his heart:

for he was far estranged from his tender dove.

Molière enchanted him. He taught him the manners of Paris and of human

nature.

"To which of his comedies do you give the preference?"

"Doubtless to his _Tartuffe_."

"I am of your opinion," said Gordon; "it was a Tartuffe that flung me

into this dungeon, and perhaps they were Tartuffes who have been the

cause of your misfortunes."

"What do you think of these Greek tragedies?"

"They are very good for Grecians."

But when he read the modern _Iphigenia, Phædrus, Andromache_, and

_Athalia_, he was in ecstacy, he sighed, he wept,--and he learned them

by heart, without having any such intention.

"Read _Rodogune_," said Gordon; "that is said to be a capital

production; the other pieces which have given you so much pleasure, are

trifles compared to this."

The young man had scarce got through the first page, before he said,

"This is not written by the same author."

"How do you know it?"

"I know nothing yet; but these lines neither touch my ear nor my heart."

"O!" said Gordon, "the versification does not signify." The Huron asked,

"What must I judge by then?"

After having read the piece very attentively without any other design

than being pleased, he looked steadfastly at his friend with much

astonishment, not knowing what to say. At length, being urged to give

his opinion with respect to what he felt, this was the answer he made:

"I understood very little of the beginning; the middle disgusted me; but

the last scene greatly moved me, though there appears to me but little

probability in it. I have no prejudices for or against any one, but I do

not remember twenty lines, I, who recollect them all when they please

me."

"This piece, nevertheless, passes for the best upon our stage."

"If that be the case," said he, "it is perhaps like many people who are

not worthy of the places they hold. After all, this is a matter of

taste, and mine cannot yet be formed. I may be mistaken; but you know I

am accustomed to say what I think or rather what I feel. I suspect that

illusion, fashion, caprice, often warp the judgments of men."

Here he repeated some lines from _Iphigenia_, which he was full of; and

though he declaimed but indifferently, he uttered them with such truth

and emotion that he made the old Jansenist weep. He then read _Cinna_,

which did not excite his tears, but his admiration.

XIII.

THE BEAUTIFUL MISS ST. YVES GOES TO VERSAILLES.

Whilst the unfortunate Hercules was more enlightened than consoled;

whilst his genius, so long stifled, unfolded itself with so much

rapidity and strength; whilst nature, which was attaining a degree of

perfection in him, avenged herself of the outrages of fortune; what

became of the Prior, his good sister, and the beautiful recluse, Miss

St. Yves? The first month they were uneasy, and the third they were

immersed in sorrow. False conjectures, ill-grounded reports, alarmed

them. At the end of six months, it was concluded he was dead. At length,

Mr. and Miss Kerkabon learned, by a letter of ancient date, which one of

the king's guards had written to Britany, that a young man resembling

the Huron arrived one night at Versailles, but that since that time no

one had heard him spoken of.

"Alas," said Miss Kerkabon, "our nephew has done some ridiculous thing,

which has brought on some terrible consequences. He is young, a _Low

Breton_, and cannot know how to behave at court. My dear brother, I

never saw Versailles nor Paris; here is a fine opportunity, and we shall

perhaps find our poor nephew. He is our brother's son, and it is our

duty to assist him. Who knows? we may perhaps at length prevail upon him

to become a sub-deacon when the fire of youth is somewhat abated. He was

much inclined to the sciences. Do you recollect how he reasoned upon

the Old and New Testaments? We are answerable for his soul. He was

baptized at our instigation. His dear mistress Miss St. Yves does

nothing but weep incessantly. Indeed, we must go to Paris. If he is

concealed in any of those infamous houses of pleasure, which I have

often heard of, we will get him out."

The Prior was affected at his sister's discourse. He went in search of

the Bishop of St. Malo's, who had baptized the Huron, and requested his

protection and advice. The Prelate approved of the journey. He gave the

Prior letters of recommendation to Father la Chaise, the king's

confessor, who was invested with the first dignity in the kingdom; to

Harlai, the Archbishop of Paris, and to Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux.

At length, the brother and sister set out; but when they came to Paris,

they found themselves bewildered in a great labyrinth without clue or

end. Their fortune was but middling, and they had occasion every day for

carriages to pursue their discovery, which they could not accomplish.

The Prior waited upon the Reverend Father la Chaise; he was with

Mademoiselle du Tron, and could not give audience to Priors. He went to

the Archbishop's door: the Prelate was shut up with the beautiful

Mademoiselle de Lesdiguières about church matters. He flew to the

country house of the Bishop of Meaux: he was engaged in a close

examination with Mademoiselle de Mauleon, of the mystery relating to

Mademoiselle Guyon. At length, however, he gained access to these two

prelates; they both declared they could not interfere with regard to his

nephew, as he was not a sub-deacon.

He at length saw the Jesuit, who received him with open arms, protesting

he had always entertained the greatest private esteem for him, though he

had never known him. He swore that his society had always been attached

to the inhabitants of Lower Britany.

"But," said he, "has not your nephew the misfortune of being a

Huguenot?"

"No, certainly, Reverend Father."

"May he not be a Jansenist?"

"I can assure your Reverence, that he is scarce a Christian. It is about

eleven months since he was christened."

"This is very well;--we will take care of him. Is your benefice

considerable?"

"No, a very trifle, and our nephew costs us a great deal."

"Are there any Jansenists in your neighborhood? Take great care, my dear

Mr. Prior, they are more dangerous than Huguenots, or even Atheists."

"My Reverend Father, we have none; it is not even known at our Lady of

the Mountain what Jansenism is."

"So much the better; go, there is nothing I will not do for you."

He dismissed the Prior in this affectionate manner, but thought no more

about him.

Time slipped away, and the Prior and his good sister were almost in

despair.

In the meanwhile, the cursed bailiff urged very strenuously the marriage

of his great booby son with the beautiful Miss St. Yves, who was taken

purposely out of the convent. She always entertained a passion for her

god-son in proportion as she detested the husband who was designed for

her. The insult that had been offered her, by shutting her up in a

convent, increased her affection; and the mandate for wedding the

bailiff's son completed her antipathy for him. Chagrin, tenderness, and

terror, racked her soul. Love, we know, is much more inventive and more

daring in a young woman than friendship in an aged Prior and an aunt

upwards of forty-five. Besides, she had received good instructions in

her convent with the assistance of romances, which she read by stealth.

The beautiful Miss St. Yves remembered the letter that had been sent by

one of the king's guards to Lower Britany, which had been spoken of in

the province. She resolved to go herself and gain information at

Versailles; to throw herself at the minister's feet, if her husband

should be in prison as it was said, and obtain justice for him. I know

not what secret intelligence she had gained that at court nothing is

refused to a pretty woman; but she knew not the price of these boons.

Having taken this resolution, it afforded her some consolation; and she

enjoyed some tranquillity without upraiding Providence with the severity

of her lot. She receives her detested intended father-in-law, caresses

her brother, and spreads happiness throughout the house. On the day

appointed for the ceremony, she secretly departs at four o'clock in the

morning, with the little nuptial presents she has received, and all she

could gather. Her plan was so well laid, that she was about ten leagues

upon her journey, when, about noon, her absence was discovered, and when

every one's consternation and surprise was inexpressible. The

inquisitive bailiff asked more questions that day than he had done for a

week before; the intended bridegroom was more stupefied than ever. The

Abbé St. Yves resolved in his rage to pursue his sister. The bailiff and

his son were disposed to accompany him. Thus fate led almost the whole

canton of Lower Britany to Paris.

The beautiful Miss St. Yves was not without apprehensions that she

should be pursued. She rode on horseback, and she got all the

intelligence she could from the couriers, without being suspected. She

asked if they had not met a fat abbé, an enormous bailiff, and a young

booby, galloping as fast as they could to Paris. Having learned, on the

third day, that they were not far behind, she took quite a different

road, and was skillful and lucky enough to arrive at Versailles, whilst

they were in a fruitless pursuit after her, at Paris. But how was she to

behave at Versailles? Young, handsome, untutored, unsupported, unknown,

exposed to every danger, how could she dare go in search of one of the

king's guards? She had some thoughts of applying to a Jesuit of low

rank, for there were some for every station of life; as God, they say,

has given different aliments to every species of animals. He had given

the king his confessor, who was called, by all solicitors of benefices,

the head of the Gallican Church. Then came the princes' confessors. The

ministers had none, they were not such dupes. There were Jesuits for the

genteel mob, and particularly those for chambermaids, by whom were known

the secrets of their mistresses; and this was no small vocation, the

beautiful Miss St. Yves addressed herself to one of these last, who was

called _Father Tout-à-tous_ (all to every one). She confessed to him,

set forth her adventure, her situation, her danger, and conjured him to

get her a lodging with some good devotee, who might shelter her from

temptation.

[Illustration: The Confessional.]

Father _Tout-à-tous_ introduced her to the wife of the cup-bearer, one

of his most trusty penitents. From the moment Miss St. Yves became her

lodger, she did her utmost to obtain the confidence and friendship of

this penitent. She gained intelligence of the Breton-Guard, and invited

him to visit her. Having learned from him that her lover had been

carried off after having had a conference with one of the clerks, she

flew to this clerk. The sight of a fine woman softened him, for it must

be allowed God created woman only to tame mankind.

The scribe, thus mollified, acknowledged to her every thing.

"Your lover has been in the bastile almost a year, and without your

intercession he would, perhaps, have ended hid days there."

The tender Miss St. Yves swooned at this intelligence. When she had

recovered herself, her informer told her:

"I have no power to do good; all my influence extends to doing harm.

Take my advice, wait upon M. de St. Pouange, who has the power of doing

both good and ill; he is Mons. de Louvois's cousin and favorite. This

minister has two souls: the one is M. de St. Pouange, and Mademoiselle

de Belle is the other, but she is at present absent from Versailles; so

that you have nothing to do but captivate the protector I have pointed

out to you."

The beautiful Miss St. Yves, divided between some trifling joy and

excessive grief, between a glimmering of hope and dreadful

apprehensions,--pursued by her brother, idolizing her lover, wiping her

tears, which flowed in torrents; trembling and feeble, yet summoning all

her courage;--in this situation, she flew on the wings of love to M. de

St. Pouange's.

XIV.

RAPID PROGRESS OF THE HURON'S INTELLECT.

The ingenuous youth was making a rapid progress in the sciences, and

particularly in the science of man. The cause of this sudden disclosure

of his understanding was as much owing to his savage education as to the

disposition of his soul; for, having learned nothing in his infancy, he

had not imbibed any prejudices. His mind, not having been warped by

error, had retained all its primitive rectitude. He saw things as they

were; whereas the ideas that are communicated to us in our infancy make

us see them all our life in a false light.

"Your persecutors are very abominable wretches," said he to his friend

Gordon. "I pity you for being oppressed, but I condemn you for being a

Jansenist. All sects appear to me to be founded in error. Tell me if

there be any sectaries in geometry?"

"No, my child," said the good old Gordon, heaving a deep sigh; "all men

are agreed concerning truth when demonstrated, but they are too much

divided about latent truths."

"If there were but one single hidden truth in your load of arguments,

which have been so often sifted for such a number of ages, it would

doubtless have been discovered, and the universe would certainly have

been unanimous, at least, in that respect. If this truth had been as

necessary as the sun is to the earth, it would have been as brilliant as

that planet. It is an absurdity, an insult to human nature--it is an

attack upon the Infinite and Supreme Being to say there is a truth

essential to the happiness of man which God conceals."

All that this ignorant youth, instructed only by nature, said, made a

very deep impression upon the mind of the old unhappy scholiast.

"Is it really certain," he cried, "that I should have made myself truly

miserable for mere chimeras? I am much more certain of my misery than of

effectual grace. I have spent my time in reasoning about the liberty of

God and human nature, but I have lost my own. Neither St. Augustine nor

St. Prosner will extricate me from my present misfortunes."

The ingenuous Huron, who gave way to his natural instincts, at length

said:

"Will you give me leave to speak to you boldly and frankly? Those who

bring upon themselves persecution for such idle disputes seem to me to

have very little sense; those who persecute, appear to me very

monsters."

The two captives entirely coincided with respect to the injustice of

their captivity.

"I am a hundred times more to be pitied than you," said the Huron; "I am

born free as the air: I had two lives, liberty and the object of my

love; and I am deprived of both. We are both in fetters, without

knowing who put them on us, or without being able to enquire. It is said

that the Hurons are barbarians, because they avenge themselves on their

enemies; but they never oppress their friends. I had scarce set foot in

France, before I shed my blood for this country. I have, perhaps,

preserved a whole province, and my recompense is imprisonment. In this

country men are condemned without being heard. This is not the case in

England. Alas! it was not against the English that I should have

fought."

Thus his growing philosophy could not brook nature being insulted in the

first of her rights, and he gave vent to his just indignation.

His companion did not contradict him. Absence ever increases ungratified

love, and philosophy does not diminish it. He as frequently spoke of his

dear Miss St. Yves, as he did of morality or metaphysics. The more he

purified his sentiments, the more he loved. He read some new romances;

but he met with few that depicted to him the real state of his soul. He

felt that his heart stretched beyond the bounds of his author.

"Alas!" said he, "almost all these writers have nothing but wit and

art."

At length, the good Jansenist priest became, insensibly, the confident

of his tenderness. He was already acquainted with love as a sin with

which a penitent accuses himself at confession. He now learned to know

it as a sentiment equally noble and tender; which can elevate the soul

as well as soften it, and can at times produce virtues. In fine, for the

last miracle, a Huron converted a Jansenist.

XV.

THE BEAUTIFUL MISS ST. YVES VISITS M. DE ST. POUANGE.

The charming Miss St. Yves, still more afflicted than her lover, waited

accordingly upon M. de St. Pouange, accompanied by her friend with whom

she lodged, each having their faces covered with their hoods. The first

thing she saw at the door was the Abbé St. Yves, her brother coming out.

She was terrified, but her friend supported her spirits.

"For the very reason," said she, "that people have been speaking

against you, speak to him for yourself. You may he assured, that the

accusers in this part of the world are always in the right, unless they

are immediately detected. Besides, your presence will have greater

effect, or else I am much mistaken, than the words of your brother."

Ever so little encouragement to a passionate lover makes her intrepid.

Miss St. Yves appears at the audience. Her youth, her charms, her

languishing eyes, moistened with some involuntary tears, attract every

one's attention. Every sycophant to the deputy minister forgot for an

instant the idol of power to contemplate that of beauty. St. Pouange

conducted her into a closet. She spoke with an affecting grace. St.

Pouange felt some emotion. She trembled, but he told her not to be

afraid.

"Return to-night," said he; "your business requires some reflection, and

it must be discussed at leisure. There are too many people here at

present. Audiences are rapidly dispatched. I must get to the bottom of

all that concerns you."

He then paid her some compliments upon her beauty and address, and

advised her to come at seven in the evening.

She did not fail attending at the hour appointed, and her pious friend

again accompanied her; but she remained in the hall, where she read the

_Christian Pedagogue_, whilst St. Pouange and the beauteous Miss St.

Yves were in the back closet. He began by saying:

"Would you believe it, Miss, that your brother has been to request me to

grant him a _lettre de cachet_ against you; but, indeed, I would sooner

grant one to send him back to Lower Britany."

"Alas! sir," said she, "_lettres de cachet_ are granted very liberally

in your offices, since people come from the extremity of the kingdom to

solicit them like pensions. I am very far from requesting one against my

brother, yet I have much reason to complain of him. But I respect the

liberty of mankind; and, therefore, supplicate for that of a man whom I

want to make my husband; of a man to whom the king is indebted for the

preservation of a province; who can beneficially serve him; and who is

the son of an officer killed in his service. Of what is he accused? How

could he be treated so cruelly without being heard?"

The deputy minister then showed her the letter of the spy Jesuit, and

that of the perfidious bailiff.

"What!" said she with astonishment, "are there such monsters upon earth?

and would they force me to marry the stupid son of a ridiculous, wicked

man? and is it upon such evidence that the fate of citizens is

determined?"

She threw herself upon her knees, and with a flood of tears solicited

the freedom of a brave man who adored her. Her charms appeared to the

greatest advantage in such a situation. She was so beautiful, that St.

Pouange, bereft of all shame, used words with some reserve, which

brought on others less delicate, which were succeeded by those still

more expressive. The revocation of the _lettre de cachet_ was proposed,

and he at length went so far as to state the only means of obtaining the

liberty of the man whose interest she had so violently and

affectionately at heart.

This uncommon conversation continued for a long time. The devotee in the

anti-chamber, in reading her _Christian Pedagogue_, said to herself:

"My Lord St. Pouange never before gave so long an audience. Perhaps he

has refused every thing to this poor girl, and she is still entreating

him."

At length her companion came out of the closet in the greatest

confusion, without being able to speak. She was lost in deep meditation

upon the character of the great and the half great, who so slightly

sacrifice the liberty of men and the honor of women.

She did not utter a syllable all the way back. But having returned to

her friend's, she burst out, and told all that had happened. Her pious

friend made frequent signs of the cross.

"My dear friend," said she, "you must consult to-morrow Father

_Tout-à-tous_, our director. He has much influence over M. de St.

Pouange. He is confessor of many of the female servants of the house. He

is a pious accommodating man, who has also the direction of some women

of fashion. Yield to him; this is my way; and I always found myself

right. We weak women stand in need of a man to lead us: and so, my dear

friend, I'll go to-morrow in search of Father _Tout-à-tous_."

XVI.

MISS ST. YVES CONSULTS A JESUIT.

No sooner was the beautiful and disconsolate Miss St. Yves with her holy

confessor, than she told him, "that a powerful, voluptuous man, had

proposed to her to set at liberty the man whom she intended making her

lawful husband, and that he required a great price for his service; that

she held such infidelity in the highest detestation; and that if her

life only had been required, she would much sooner have sacrificed it

than to have submitted."

"This is a most abominable sinner," said Father _Tout-à-tous_, "You

should tell me the name of this vile man. He must certainly be some

Jansenist. I will inform against him to his Reverence, Father de la

Chaise, who will place him in the situation of your dear beloved

intended bridegroom."

The poor girl, after much hesitation and embarrassment, at length

mentioned St. Pouange.

"My Lord St. Pouange!" cried the Jesuit, "Ah! my child, the case is

quite different. He is cousin to the greatest minister we have ever had;

a man of worth, a protector of the good cause, a good Christian. He

could not entertain such a thought. You certainly must have

misunderstood him."

"Oh! Father, I did but understand him too well. I am lost on which ever

side I turn. The only alternative I have to choose is misery or shame;

either my lover must be buried alive, or I must make myself unworthy of

living. I cannot let him perish, nor can I save him."

Father _Tout-à-tous_ endeavored to console her with these gentle

expressions:

"In the _first place_, my child, never use the word lover. It intimates

something worldly, which may offend God. Say my husband. You consider

him as such, and nothing can be more decent.

"_Secondly_: Though he be ideally your husband, and you are in hopes he

will be such eventually, yet he is not so in reality, consequently, you

are still free and the mistress of your own conduct.

[Illustration: Father Tout-à-tous.]

"_Thirdly_: Actions are not maliciously culpable, when the intention is

virtuous; and nothing can be more virtuous than to procure your husband

his liberty.

"_Fourthly_: You have examples in holy antiquity, that miraculously

serve you for a guide. St. Augustin relates, that under the proconsulate

of Septimius Acyndius, in the thirty-fourth year of our salvation, a

poor man could not pay unto Cæsar what belonged to Cæsar, and was justly

condemned to die, notwithstanding the maxim, 'Where there is nothing,

the king must lose his right.' The object in question was a pound of

gold. The culprit had a wife in whom God had united beauty and prudence.

"You may assure yourself, my child, that when a Jesuit quotes St.

Augustin, that saint must certainly have been in the right. I advise you

to nothing. You are prudent, and it is to be presumed that you will do

your husband a service. My Lord St. Pouange is an honest man. He will

not deceive you. This is all I can say. I will pray to God for you, and

I hope every thing will take place for his glory."

The beautiful Miss St. Yves, who was no less terrified with the Jesuit's

discourse than with the proposals of the deputy minister, returned in

despair to her friend. She was tempted to deliver herself by death from

the horror of her situation.

XVII.

THE JESUIT TRIUMPHS.

The unfortunate Miss St. Yves entreated her friend to kill her; but this

lady, who was fully as indulgent as the Jesuit, spoke to her still more

clearly.

"Alas!" said she, "at this agreeable, gallant, and famous court,

business is always thus transacted. The most considerable, as well as

the most indifferent places are seldom given away without a

consideration. The dignities of war are solicited by the queen of love,

and, without regard to merit, a place is often given to him who has the

handsomest advocate.

"You are in a situation that is extremely critical. The object is to

restore your lover to liberty, and to marry him. It is a sacred duty

that you are to fulfill. The world will applaud you. It will be said,

that you only allowed yourself to be guilty of a weakness, through an

excess of virtue."

"Heavens!" cried Miss St. Yves, "What kind of virtue is this? What a

labyrinth of distress! What a world! What men to become acquainted with!

A Father de la Chaise and a ridiculous bailiff imprison my lover; I am

persecuted by my family; assistance is offered me, only that I may be

dishonored! A Jesuit has ruined a brave man, another Jesuit wants to

ruin me. On every side snares are laid for me, and I am upon the very

brink of destruction! I must even speak to the king; I will throw myself

at his feet as he goes to mass or to the theatre."

"His attendants will not let you approach," said her good friend; "and

if you should be so unfortunate as to speak to him, M. de Louvois, or

the Reverend Father de la Chaise, might bury you in a convent for the

rest of your days."

Whilst this generous friend thus increased the perplexities of Miss St.

Yves's tortured soul, and plunged the dagger deeper in her heart, a

messenger arrived from M. de St. Pouange with a letter, and two fine

pendant earrings. Miss St. Yves, with tears, refused to accept of any

part of the contents of the packet; but her friend took the charge of

them upon herself.

As soon as the messenger had gone, the _confidante_ read the letter, in

which a _petit-souper_ (a little supper) was proposed to the two friends

for that night. Miss St. Yves protested she would not go, whilst her

pious friend endeavored to make her try on the diamond earrings; but

Miss St. Yves could not endure them, and opposed it all the day long;

being entirely wrapped up in the contemplation of her lover's

imprisonment. At length, after a long resistance--after sighs, moans,

and torrents of tears--driven by excitement almost to the verge of

insanity--weakened with the conflict, overwhelmed and irresolute, the

innocent victim, not knowing whether she was going, was dragged by this

artful woman to the fatal supper of the "good Christian and protector of

the good cause," M. de St. Pouange.

[Illustration: The meeting.]

XVIII.

MISS ST. YVES DELIVERS HER LOVER AND A JANSENIST.

At day-break she fled to Paris with the minister's mandate. It would be

difficult to depict the agitation of her mind in this journey. Imagine a

virtuous and noble soul, humbled by its own reproaches, intoxicated with

tenderness, distracted with the remorse of having betrayed her lover,

and elated with the pleasure of releasing the object of her adoration.

Her torments and conflicts by turns engaged her reflections. She was no

longer that innocent girl whose ideas were confined to a provincial

education. Love and misfortunes had united to remould her. Sentiment had

made as rapid a progress in her mind, as reason had in that of her

lover.

Her dress was dictated by the greatest simplicity. She viewed with

horror the trappings with which she had appeared before her fatal

benefactor. Her companion had taken the earrings without her having

looked at them. Anxious and confused, idolizing the Huron and detesting

herself, she at length arrived at the gate of that dreadful castle--the

palace of vengeance--where crimes and innocence are alike immured.

When she was upon the point of getting out of the coach her strength

failed her. Some people came to her assistance. She entered, whilst her

heart was in the greatest palpitation, her eyes streaming, and her whole

frame bespoke the greatest consternation. She was presented to the

governor. He was going to speak to her, but she had lost all power of

expression: she showed her order, whilst, with great difficulty, she

articulated some accents. The governor entertained a great esteem for

his prisoner, and he was greatly pleased at his being released. His

heart was not callous, like those of most of his brethren, who think of

nothing but the fees their captives are to pay them; extort their

revenues from their victims; and living by the misery of others,

conceive a horrid joy at the lamentations of the unfortunate.

He sent for the prisoner into his apartment. The two lovers swooned at

the sight of each other. The beautiful Miss St. Yves remained for a long

time motionless, without any symptoms of life; the other soon recalled

his fortitude.

"This lady," said the governor, "is probably your wife. You did not tell

me you were married. I am informed that it is through her generous

solicitude that you have obtained your liberty."

"Alas!" said the beautiful Miss St. Yves, in a faltering voice, "I am

not worthy of being his wife;" and swooned again.

When she recovered her senses, she presented, with a trembling hand and

averted eyes, the grant and written promise of a company.

The Huron, equally astonished and affected, awoke from one dream to fall

into another.

"Why was I shut up here? How could you deliver me? Where are the

monsters that immured me? You are a divinity sent from heaven to succor

me."

The beautiful Miss St. Yves, with a dejected air, looked at her lover,

blushed, and instantly turned away her streaming eyes. In a word, they

told him all she knew, and all she had undergone, except what she was

willing to conceal forever, but which any other than the Huron, more

accustomed to the world and better acquainted with the customs of

courts, would easily have guessed.

"Is it possible," said he, "that a wretch like the bailiff can have

deprived me of my liberty?

"Alas! I find that men, like the vilest of animals, can all injure.

"But is it possible that a monk, a Jesuit, the king's confessor, should

have contributed to my misfortunes as much as the bailiff, without my

being able to imagine under what pretence this detestable knave has

persecuted me? Did he make me pass for a Jansenist? In fine, how came

you to remember me? I did not deserve it; I was then only a savage.

"What! could you, without advice, without assistance, undertake a

journey to Versailles?

"You there appeared, and my fetters were broken!

"There must then be in beauty and virtue an invincible charm, that opens

gates of adamant and softens hearts of steel."

At the word virtue, a flood of tears issued from the eyes of the

beautiful Miss St. Yves. She did not know how far she had been virtuous

in the crime with which she reproached herself.

Her lover thus continued:

"Thou angel, who hast broken my chains, if thou hast had sufficient

influence (which I cannot yet comprehend) to obtain justice for me,

obtain it likewise for an old man who first taught me to think, as thou

didst to love. Misfortunes have united us; I love him as a father; I can

neither live without thee nor him."

"I solicit?"

"The same man."

"Who!"

"Yes, I will be beholden to you for everything, and I will owe nothing

to any one but yourself. Write to this man in power. Overwhelm me with

kindness--complete what you have begun--perfect your miracle."

She was sensible she ought to do everything her lover desired. She

wanted to write, but her hand refused its office. She began her letter

three times, and tore it as often. At length she got to the end, and the

two lovers left the prison, after having embraced the old martyr to

efficacious grace.

The happy yet disconsolate Miss St. Yves knew where her brother lodged:

thither she repaired; and her lover took an apartment at the same house.

They had scarce reached their lodging, before her protector sent the

order for releasing the good old Gordon, at the same time making an

appointment with her for the next day.

She gave the order of release to her lover, and refused the appointment

of a benefactor whom she could no more see without expiring with shame

and grief.

Her lover would not have left her upon any other errand than to release

his friend. He flew to the place of his confinement and fulfilled this

duty, reflecting, meanwhile, upon the strange vicissitudes of this

world, and admiring the courageous virtue of a young lady, to whom two

unfortunate men owed more than life.

XIX.

THE HURON, THE BEAUTIFUL MISS ST. YVES, AND THEIR RELATIONS, ARE

CONVENED.

The generous and respectable, but injured girl, was with her brother the

Abbé de St. Yves, the good Prior of the Mountain, and Lady de Kerkabon.

They were equally astonished, but their situations and sentiments were

very different. The Abbé de St. Yves was expiating the wrongs he had

done his sister at her feet, and she pardoned him. The prior and his

sympathizing sister likewise wept, but it was for joy. The filthy

bailiff and his insupportable son did not trouble this affecting scene.

They had set out upon the first report that their antagonist had been

released. They flew to bury in their own province their folly and fear.

The four _dramatis personæ_, variously agitated, were waiting for the

return of the young man who had gone to deliver his friend. The Abbé de

St. Yves did not dare to raise his eyes to meet those of his sister. The

good Kerkabon said:

"I shall then see once more my dear nephew."

"You will see him again," said the charming Miss St. Yves, "but he is no

longer the same man. His behavior, his manners, his ideas, his sense,

have all undergone a complete mutation. He has become as respectable, as

he was before ignorant and strange to everything. He will be the honor

and consolation of your family; would to heaven that I might also be the

honor of mine!"

"What, are you not the same as you were?" said the prior. "What then has

happened to work so great a change?"

During this conversation the Huron returned in company with the

Jansenist. The scene was now changed, and became more interesting. It

began by the uncle and aunt's tender embraces. The Abbé de St. Yves

almost kissed the knees of the ingenuous Huron, who, by the by, was no

longer ingenuous. The language of the eyes formed all the discourse of

the two lovers, who, nevertheless, expressed every sentiment with which

they were penetrated. Satisfaction and acknowledgment sparkled in the

countenance of the one, whilst embarrassment was depicted in Miss St.

Yves's melting but half averted eyes. Every one was astonished that she

should mingle grief with so much joy.

The venerable Gordon soon endeared himself to the whole family. He had

been unhappy with the young prisoner, and this was a sufficient title to

their esteem. He owed his deliverance to the two lovers, and this alone

reconciled him to love. The acrimony of his former sentiments was

dismissed from his heart--he was converted by gratitude, as well as the

Huron. Every one related his adventures before supper. The two Abbés and

the aunt listened like children to the relation of stories of ghosts,

and both were deeply interested.

"Alas!" said Gordon, "there are perhaps upwards of five hundred virtuous

people in the same fetters as Miss St. Yves has broken. Their

misfortunes are unheeded. Many hands are found to strike the unhappy

multitude,--how seldom one to succor them."

This very just reflection increased his sensibility and gratitude.

Everything heightened the triumph of the beautiful Miss St. Yves. The

grandeur and intrepidity of her soul were the subject of each one's

admiration. This admiration was blended with that respect which we feel

in spite of ourselves for a person who we think has some influence at

court. But the Abbé de St. Yves enquired:

"What could my sister do to obtain this influence so soon?"

Supper being ready, every one was already seated, when, lo! the worthy

_confidante_ of Versailles arrived, without being acquainted with

anything that had passed. She was in a coach and six, and it was easily

seen to whom the equipage belonged. She entered with that air of

authority assumed by people in power who have a great deal of

business--saluted the company with much indifference, and, pulling the

beautiful Miss St. Yves on one side, said:

"Why do you make people wait so long? Follow me. There are the diamonds

you forgot."

However softly she uttered these expressions, the Huron, nevertheless,

overheard them. He saw the diamonds. The brother was speechless. The

uncle and aunt exhibited the surprise of good people, who had never

before beheld such magnificence. The young man, whose mind was now

formed by an experience of twelve months, could not help making some

reflections against his will, and was for a moment in anxiety. His

mistress perceived it, and a mortal paleness spread itself over her

countenance; a tremor seized her, and it was with difficulty she could

support herself.

"Ah! madam," said she to her fatal friend, "you have ruined me--you have

given me the mortal blow."

These words pierced the heart of the Huron: but he had already learned

to possess himself. He did not dwell upon them, lest he should make his

mistress uneasy before her brother, but turned pale as well as she.

Miss St. Yves, distracted with the change she perceived in her lover's

countenance, pulled the woman out of the room into the passage, and

there threw the jewels at her feet, saying:

"Alas! these were not my seducers, as you well know: but he that gave

them shall never set eyes on me again."

Her friend took them up, whilst Miss St. Yves added:

"He may either take them again, or give them to you. Begone, and do not

make me still more odious to myself."

The ambassadress at length departed, not being able to comprehend the

remorse to which she had been witness.

The beautiful Miss St. Yves, greatly oppressed and feeling a revolution

in her body that almost suffocated her, was compelled to go to bed; but

that she might not alarm any one she kept her pains and sufferings to

herself: and under pretence of only being weary, she asked leave to take

a little rest. This, however, she did not do till she had reanimated the

company with consolatory and flattering expressions, and cast such a

kind look upon her lover as darted fire into his soul.

The supper, of which she did not partake, was in the beginning gloomy;

but this gloominess was of that interesting kind which inspires

reflection and useful conversation, so superior to that frivolous

excitement commonly exhibited, and which is usually nothing more than a

troublesome noise.

Gordon, in a few words, gave the history of Jansenism and Molinism; of

those persecutions with which one party hampered the other; and of the

obstinacy of both. The Huron entered into a criticism thereupon, pitying

those men who, not satisfied with all the confusion occasioned by these

opposite interests, create evils by imaginary interests and

unintelligible absurdities. Gordon related--the other judged. The guests

listened with emotion, and gained new lights. The duration of

misfortunes, and the shortness of life, then became the topics. It was

remarked that all professions have peculiar vices and dangers annexed to

them; and that from the prince down to the lowest beggar, all seemed

alike to accuse providence. How happens it that so many men, for so

little, perform the office of persecutors, sergeants, and executioners,

to others? With what inhuman indifference does a man in authority sign

papers for the destruction of a family; and with what joy, still more

barbarous, do mercenaries execute them.

"I saw in my youth," said the good old Gordon, "a relation of the

Marshal de Marillic, who, being prosecuted in his own province on

account of that illustrious but unfortunate man, concealed himself under

a borrowed name in Paris. He was an old man near seventy-two years of

age. His wife, who accompanied him, was nearly of the same age. They had

a libertine son, who at fourteen years of age absconded from his

father's house, turned soldier, and deserted. He had gone through every

gradation of debauchery and misery; at length, having changed his name,

he was in the guards of Cardinal Richelieu, (for this priest, as well as

Mazarine, had guards) and had obtained an exempt's staff in their

company of sergeants.

"This adventurer was appointed to arrest the old man and his wife, and

acquitted himself with all the obduracy of a man who was willing to

please his master. As he was conducting them, he heard these two victims

deplore the long succession of miseries which had befallen them from

their cradle. This aged couple reckoned as one of their greatest

misfortunes the wildness and loss of their son. He recollected them, but

he nevertheless led them to prison; assuring them, that his Reverence

was to be served in preference to every body else. His Eminence rewarded

his zeal.

"I have seen a spy of Father de la Chaise betray his own brother, in

hopes of a little benefice, which he did not obtain; and I saw him die,

not of remorse, but of grief at having been cheated by the Jesuit.

"The vocation of a confessor, which I for a long while exercised, made

me acquainted with the secrets of families. I have known very few, who,

though immersed in the greatest distress, did not externally wear the

mask of felicity and every appearance of joy; and I have always observed

that great grief was the fruit of our unconstrained desires."

"For my part," said the Huron, "I imagine, that a noble, grateful,

sensible man, may always be happy; and I hope to enjoy an uncheckered

felicity with the charming, generous Miss St. Yves. For I flatter

myself," added he, in addressing himself to her brother with a friendly

smile, "that you will not now refuse me as you did last year: besides, I

shall pursue a more decent method."

The Abbé was confounded in apologies for the past, and in protesting an

eternal attachment.

Uncle Kerkabon said this would be the most glorious day of his whole

life. His good aunt Kerkabon, in ecstasies of joy, cried out:

"I always said you would never be a sub-deacon. This sacrament is

preferable to the other; would to God I had been honored with it! but I

will serve you for a mother."

And now all vied with each other in applauding the gentle Miss St. Yves.

Her lover's heart was too full of what she had done for him, and he

loved her too much, for the affair of the jewels to make any permanent

impression on him. But those words, which he too well heard, "_you have

given me the mortal blow_", still secretly terrified him, and

interrupted all his joy; whilst the eulogiums paid his beautiful

mistress still increased his love. In a word, nothing was thought of but

her,--nothing was mentioned but the happiness those two lovers deserved.

A plan was agitated to live altogether at Paris, and schemes of grandeur

and fortune were formed. These hopes, which the smallest ray of

happiness engenders, were predominant. But the Huron felt, in the secret

recesses of his heart, a sentiment that exploded the illusion. He read

over the promises signed by St. Pouange, and the commission signed

Louvois. These men were painted to him such as they were, or such as

they were thought to be. Every one spoke of the ministers and

administration with the freedom of convivial conversation, which is

considered in France as the most precious liberty to be obtained on

earth.

"If I were king of France," said the Huron, "this is the kind of

minister that I would choose for the war department. I would have a man

of the highest birth, as he is to give orders to the nobility. I would

require that he should himself have been an officer, and have passed

through the various gradations; or, at least, that he had attained the

rank of Lieutenant General, and was worthy of being a Marshal of France.

For, to be acquainted with the details of the service, is it not

necessary that he himself should have served? and will not officers

obey, with a hundred times more alacrity, a military man, who like

themselves has been signalized by his courage, rather than a mere man of

the cabinet, who, whatever natural ability he may possess, can, at most,

only guess at the operations of a campaign? I should not be displeased

at my minister's generosity, even though it might sometimes embarrass a

little the keeper of the royal treasure. I should desire him to have a

facility in business, and that he should distinguish himself by that

kind of gaiety of mind, which is the lot of men superior to business,

which is so agreeable to the nation, and which renders the performance

of every duty less irksome."

This is the character he would have chosen for a minister, as he had

constantly observed that such an amiable disposition is incompatible

with cruelty.

Monsieur de Louvois would not, perhaps, have been satisfied with the

Huron's wishes. His merit lay in a different walk. But whilst they were

still at table, the disorder of the unhappy Miss St. Yves took a fatal

turn. Her blood was on fire,--the symptoms of a malignant fever had

appeared. She suffered, but did not complain, being unwilling to disturb

the pleasure of the guests.

Her brother, thinking that she was not asleep, went to the foot of her

bed. He was astonished at the condition he found her in. Every body flew

to her. Her lover appeared next to her brother. He was certainly the

most alarmed, and the most affected of any one; but he had learned to

unite discretion to all the happy gifts nature had bestowed upon him,

and a quick sensibility of decorum began to prevail over him.

A neighboring physician was immediately sent for. He was one of those

itinerant doctors who confound the last disorder they were consulted

upon with the present;--who follow a blind practice in a science from

which the most mature investigations and careful observations do not

preclude uncertainty and danger. He greatly increased the disorder by

prescribing a fashionable nostrum. Can fashion extend to medicine? This

frenzy was then too prevalent in Paris.

The grief of Miss St. Yves contributed still more than her physician to

render her disorder fatal. Her body suffered martyrdom in the torments

of her mind. The crowd of thoughts which agitated her breast,

communicated to her veins a more dangerous poison than that of the most

burning fever.

XX.

THE DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL MISS ST. YVES, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

Another physician was called in. But, instead of assisting nature and

leaving it to act in a young person whose organs recalled the vital

stream, he applied himself solely to counteract the effects of his

brother's prescription. The disorder, in two days, became mortal. The

brain, which is thought to be the seat of the mind, was as violently

affected as the heart, which, we are told, is the seat of the passions.

By what incomprehensible mechanism are our organs held in subjection to

sentiment and thought? How is it that a single melancholy idea shall

disturb the whole course of the blood; and that the blood should in turn

communicate irregularities to the human understanding? What is that

unknown fluid which certainly exists and which, quicker and more active

than light, flies in less than the twinkling of an eye into all the

channels of life,--produces sensations, memory, joy or grief, reason or

frenzy,--recalls with horror what we would choose to forget; and renders

a thinking animal, either a subject of admiration, or an object of pity

and compassion?

These were the reflections of the good old Gordon; and these

observations, so natural, which men seldom make, did not prevent his

feeling upon this occasion; for he was not of the number of those gloomy

philosophers who pique themselves upon being insensible.

He was affected at the fate of this young woman, like a father who sees

his dear child yielding to a slow death. The Abbé de St. Yves was

desperate; the prior and his sister shed floods of tears; but who could

describe the situation of her lover? All expression falls far short of

the intensity of his affliction.

His aunt, almost lifeless, supported the head of the departing fair in

her feeble arms; her brother was upon his knees at the foot of the bed;

her lover squeezed her hand, which he bathed in tears; his groans rent

the air, whilst he called her his guardian angel, his life, his hope,

his better half, his mistress, his wife. At the word wife, a sigh

escaped her, whilst she looked upon him with inexpressible tenderness,

and then abruptly gave a horrid scream. Presently in one of those

intervals when grief, the oppression of the senses, and pain subside and

leave the soul its liberty and powers, she cried out:

"I your wife? Ah! dear lover, this name, this happiness, this felicity,

were not destined for me! I die, and I deserve it. O idol of my heart! O

you, whom I sacrificed to infernal demons--it is done--I am

punished--live and be happy!"

These tender but dreadful expressions were incomprehensible; yet they

melted and terrified every heart. She had the courage to explain

herself, and her auditors quaked with astonishment, grief, and pity.

They with one voice detested the man in power, who repaired a shocking

act of injustice only by his crimes, and who had forced the most amiable

innocence to be his accomplice.

"Who? you guilty?" said her lover, "no, you are not. Guilt can only be

in the heart;--yours is devoted solely to virtue and to me."

This opinion he corroborated by such expressions as seemed to recall the

beautiful Miss St. Yves back to life. She felt some consolation from

them and was astonished at being still beloved. The aged Gordon would

have condemned her at the time he was only a Jansenist; but having

attained wisdom, he esteemed her, and wept.

In the midst of these lamentations and fears, whilst the dangerous

situation of this worthy girl engrossed every breast, and all were in

the greatest consternation, a courier arrived from court.

"A courier? from whom, and upon what account?"

He was sent by the king's confessor to the Prior of the Mountain. It was

not Father de la Chaise who wrote, but brother Vadbled, his valet de

chambre, a man of great consequence at that time, who acquainted the

archbishops with the reverend Father's pleasure, who gave audiences,

promised benefices, and sometimes issued _lettres de cachet_.

He wrote to the Abbé of the Mountain, "that his reverence had been

informed of his nephew's exploits: that his being sent to prison was

through mistake; that such little accidents frequently happened, and

should therefore not be attended to; and, in fine, it behoved him, the

prior, to come and present his nephew the next day: that he was to bring

with him that good man Gordon; and that he, brother Vadbled, should

introduce them to his reverence and M. de Louvois, who would say a word

to them in his anti-chamber."

To which he added, "that the history of the Huron, and his combat

against the English, had been related to the king; that doubtless the

king would deign to take notice of him in passing through the gallery,

and perhaps he might even nod his head to him."

The letter concluded by flattering him with hopes that all the ladies of

the court would show their eagerness to recognize his nephew; and that

several among them would say to him, "Good day, Mr. Huron;" and that he

would certainly be talked of at the king's supper.

The letter was signed, "Your affectionate brother Jesuit, Vadbled."

The prior having read the letter aloud, his furious nephew for an

instant suppressed his rage, and said nothing to the bearer: but turning

toward the companion of his misfortunes, asked him, what he thought of

that communication? Gordon replied:

"This, then, is the way that men are treated! They are first beaten and

then, like monkeys, they dance."

The Huron resuming his character, which always returned in the great

emotions of his soul, tore the letter to bits, and threw them in the

courier's face:

"There is my answer," said he.

[Illustration: Death of Miss St. Ives.--"When the fatal moment came, all

around her most feelingly expressed their grief by incessant tears and

lamentations. The Huron was senseless. Great souls feel more violent

sensations than those of less tender dispositions."]

His uncle was in terror, and fancied he saw thunderbolts, and twenty

_lettres de cachet_ at once fall upon him. He immediately wrote the best

excuse he could for these transports of passion in a young man, which he

considered as the ebullition of a great soul.

But a solicitude of a more melancholy stamp now seized every heart. The

beautiful and unfortunate Miss St. Yves was already sensible of her

approaching end; she was serene, but it was that kind of shocking

serenity, the result of exhausted nature being no longer able to

withstand the conflict.

"Oh, my dear lover!" said she, in a faltering voice, "death punishes me

for my weakness; but I expire with the consolation of knowing you are

free. I adored you whilst I betrayed you, and I adore you in bidding you

an eternal adieu."

She did not make a parade of a ridiculous fortitude; she did not

understand that miserable glory of having some of her neighbors say,

"she died with courage." Who, at twenty, can be at once torn from her

lover, from life, and what is called honor, without regret, without some

pangs? She felt all the horror of her situation, and made it felt by

those expiring looks and accents which speak with so much energy. In a

word, she shed tears like other people at those intervals that she was

capable of giving vent to them.

Let others strive to celebrate the pompous deaths of those who

insensibly rush into destruction. This is the lot of all animals. We die

like them only when age or disorders make us resemble them by the

paralysis of our organs. Whoever suffers a great loss must feel great

regrets. If they are stifled, it is nothing but vanity that is pursued,

even in the arms of death.

When the fatal moment came, all around her most feelingly expressed

their grief by incessant tears and lamentations. The Huron was

senseless. Great souls feel more violent sensations than those of less

tender dispositions. The good old Gordon knew enough of his companion to

dread that when he came to himself he would be guilty of suicide. All

kinds of arms were put out of his way, which the unfortunate young man

perceived. He said to his relations and Gordon, without shedding any

tears, without a groan, or the least emotion:

"Do you then think that any one upon earth hath the right and power to

prevent my putting an end to my life?"

Gordon took care to avoid making a parade of those commonplace

declamations and arguments which are relied on to prove that we are not

allowed to exercise our liberty in ceasing to be when we are in a

wretched situation; that we should not leave the house when we can no

longer remain in it; that a man is like a soldier at his post; as if it

signified to the Being of beings whether the conjunction of the

particles of matter were in one spot or another. Impotent reasons, to

which a firm and concentrated despair disdains to listen, and to which

Cato replied only with the use of a poniard.

The Huron's sullen and dreadful silence, his doleful aspect, his

trembling lips, and the shivering of his whole frame, communicated to

every spectator's soul that mixture of compassion and terror, which

fetters all our powers, precludes discourse, or compels us to speak only

in faltering accents. The hostess and her family were excited. They

trembled to behold the state of his desperation, yet all kept their eyes

upon him, and attended to all his motions. The ice-cold corpse of the

beautiful Miss St. Yves had already been carried into a lower hall out

of the sight of her lover, who seemed still in search of it, though

incapable of observing any object.

In the midst of this spectacle of death, whilst the dead body was

exposed at the door of the house; whilst two priests by the side of the

holy water-pot were repeating prayers with an air of distraction; whilst

some passengers, through idleness, sprinkled the bier with some drops of

holy water, and others went their ways quite indifferent; whilst her

relations were drowned in tears, and every one thought the lover would

not survive his loss;--in this situation St. Pouange arrived with his

female Versailles friend.

He alighted from his coach; and the first object that presented itself

was a bier: he turned away his eyes with that simple distaste of a man

bred up in pleasures, and who thinks he should avoid a spectacle which

might recall him to the contemplation of human misery. He is inclined to

go up stairs, whilst his female friend enquires through curiosity whose

funeral it is. The name of Miss St. Yves is pronounced. At this name she

turned, and gave a piercing shriek. St. Pouange now returns, whilst

surprise and grief possess his soul. The good old Gordon stood with

streaming eyes. He for a moment ceased his lamentations, to acquaint the

courtier with all the circumstances of this melancholy catastrophe. He

spoke with that authority which is the companion to sorrow and virtue.

St. Pouange was not naturally wicked. The torrent of business and

amusements had hurried away his soul, which was not yet acquainted with

itself. He did not border upon that grey age which usually hardens the

hearts of ministers. He listened to Gordon with a downcast look, and

some tears escaped him, which he was surprised to shed. In a word, he

repented.

"I will," said he, "absolutely see this extraordinary man you have

mentioned to me. He affects me almost as much as this innocent victim,

whose death I have occasioned."

Gordon followed him as far as the chamber in which the Prior Kerkabon,

the Abbé St. Yves, and some neighbors, were striving to recall to life

the young man, who had again fainted.

"I have been the cause of your misfortunes," said the deputy minister,

when the Huron had regained consciousness, "and my whole life shall be

employed in making reparation for my error."

The first idea that struck the Huron was to kill him and then destroy

himself. But he was without arms, and closely watched. St. Pouange was

not repulsed with refusals accompanied with reproach, contempt, and the

insults he deserved, which were lavished upon him. Time softens

everything. Mons. de Louvois at length succeeded in making an excellent

officer of the Huron, who has appeared under another name at Paris and

in the army, respected by all honest men, being at once a warrior and an

intrepid philosopher.

He never mentioned this adventure without being greatly affected, and

yet his greatest consolation was to speak of it. He cherished the memory

of his beloved Miss St. Yves to the last moment of his life.[1]

The Abbé St. Yves and the Prior were each provided with good livings.

The good Kerkabon rather chose to see his nephew invested with military

honors than in the sub-deaconry. The devotee of Versailles kept the

diamond earrings, and received besides a handsome present. Father

_Tout-à-tous_ had presents of chocolate, coffee, and confectionery, with

the _Meditations of the Reverend Father Croiset_, and the _Flower of the

Saints_, bound in Morocco. Good old Gordon lived with the Huron till his

death, in the most friendly intimacy: he had also a benefice, and

forgot, forever, essential grace, and the concomitant concourse. He took

for his motto, "Misfortunes are of some use." How many worthy people are

there in the world who may justly say, "Misfortunes are good for

nothing?"

[1] In the Play, _Civilization_, the Huron musingly soliloquizes:

"And what is love to man? An only gift

Too precious to be idly thrown away!

For is it not as precious as our land,

Which, heeding not another's golden sky--

Soft airs, sweet flowers, hill and dale conjoin'd

By nature's cunning past comparison--

Is still our land; and, as our land, surpasses

Far such fairy worlds?

"There are some dreams that last a life--mine

Is one of these. I shall dream on till death

Shall end the vision!

"It is not hard to die! And life is but

A shadow on the wall--a falling leaf

Toy'd with by autumn winds--a flower--a star

Among the infinite, infinitesimal!

We are but breath whispering against the wind,--

Sand in the desert!--dew upon the sea!"--E.

MICROMEGAS:

A SATIRE ON THE PHILOSOPHY, IGNORANCE. AND SELF-CONCEIT OF MANKIND.

[Illustration: A medieval exploring vessel.][1]

I.

A VOYAGE TO THE PLANET SATURN, BY A NATIVE OF SIRIUS.

In one of the planets that revolve round the star known by the name of

Sirius, was a certain young gentleman of promising parts, whom I had the

honor to be acquainted with in his last voyage to this our little

ant-hill. His name was Micromegas, an appellation admirably suited to

all great men, and his stature amounted to eight leagues in height, that

is, twenty-four thousand geometrical paces of five feet each.

Some of your mathematicians, a set of people always useful to the

public, will, perhaps, instantly seize the pen, and calculate that Mr.

Micromegas, inhabitant of the country of Sirius, being from head to foot

four and twenty thousand paces in length, making one hundred and twenty

thousand royal feet, that we, denizens of this earth, being at a medium

little more than five feet high, and our globe nine thousand leagues in

circumference: these things being premised, they will then conclude that

the periphery of the globe which produced him must be exactly one and

twenty millions six hundred thousand times greater than that of this our

tiny ball. Nothing in nature is more simple and common. The dominions of

some sovereigns of Germany or Italy, which may be compassed in half an

hour, when compared with the empires of Ottoman, Russia, or China, are

no other than faint instances of the prodigious difference that nature

hath made in the scale of beings. The stature of his excellency being of

these extraordinary dimensions, all our artists will agree that the

measure around his body might amount to fifty thousand royal feet--a

very agreeable and just proportion.

His nose being equal in length to one-third of his face, and his jolly

countenance engrossing one-seventh part of his height, it must be owned

that the nose of this same Sirian was six thousand three hundred and

thirty-three royal feet to a hair, which was to be demonstrated. With

regard to his understanding, it is one of the best cultivated I have

known. He is perfectly well acquainted with abundance of things, some of

which are of his own invention; for, when his age did not exceed two

hundred and fifty years, he studied, according to the custom of the

country, at the most celebrated university of the whole planet, and by

the force of his genius discovered upwards of fifty propositions of

Euclid, having the advantage by more than eighteen of Blaise Pascal,

who, (as we are told by his own sister,) demonstrated two and thirty for

his amusement and then left off, choosing rather to be an indifferent

philosopher than a great mathematician.

About the four hundred and fiftieth year of his age, or latter end of

his childhood, he dissected a great number of small insects not more

than one hundred feet in diameter, which are not perceivable by ordinary

microscopes, of which he composed a very curious treatise, which

involved him in some trouble. The mufti of the nation, though very old

and very ignorant, made shift to discover in his book certain lemmas

that were suspicious, unseemly, rash, heretic, and unsound, and

prosecuted him with great animosity, for the subject of the author's

inquiry was whether, in the world of Sirius, there was any difference

between the substantial forms of a flea and a snail.

Micromegas defended his philosophy with such spirit as made all the

female sex his proselytes; and the process lasted two hundred and twenty

years; at the end of which time, in consequence of the mufti's interest,

the book was condemned by judges who had never read it, and the author

expelled from court for the term of eight hundred years.

Not much affected at his banishment from a court that teemed with

nothing but turmoils and trifles, he made a very humorous song upon the

mufti, who gave himself no trouble about the matter, and set out on his

travels from planet to planet, in order (as the saying is) to improve

his mind and finish his education. Those who never travel but in a

post-chaise or berlin, will, doubtless, be astonished at the equipages

used above; for we that strut upon this little mole hill are at a loss

to conceive anything that surpasses our own customs. But our traveler

was a wonderful adept in the laws of gravitation, together with the

whole force of attraction and repulsion, and made such seasonable use of

his knowledge, that sometimes by the help of a sunbeam, and sometimes by

the convenience of a comet, he and his retinue glided from sphere to

sphere, as the bird hops from one bough to another. He in a very little

time posted through the milky way, and I am obliged to own he saw not a

twinkle of those stars supposed to adorn that fair empyrean, which the

illustrious Dr. Derham brags to have observed through his telescope. Not

that I pretend to say the doctor was mistaken. God forbid! But

Micromegas was upon the spot, an exceeding good observer, and I have no

mind to contradict any man. Be that as it may, after many windings and

turnings, he arrived at the planet Saturn; and, accustomed as he was to

the sight of novelties, he could not for his life repress a supercilious

and conceited smile, which often escapes the wisest philosopher, when he

perceived the smallness of that globe, and the diminutive size of its

inhabitants; for really Saturn is but about nine hundred times larger

than this our earth, and the people of that country mere dwarfs, about a

thousand fathoms high. In short, he at first derided those poor pigmies,

just as an Indian fiddler laughs at the music of Lully, at his first

arrival in Paris: but as this Sirian was a person of good sense, he soon

perceived that a thinking being may not be altogether ridiculous, even

though he is not quite six thousand feet high; and therefore he became

familiar with them, after they had ceased to wonder at his extraordinary

appearance. In particular, he contracted an intimate friendship with the

secretary of the Academy of Saturn, a man of good understanding, who,

though in truth he had invented nothing of his own, gave a very good

account of the inventions of others, and enjoyed in peace the reputation

of a little poet and great calculator. And here, for the edification of

the reader, I will repeat a very singular conversation that one day

passed between Mr. Secretary and Micromegas.

[1] The Gazettes record that this vessel ran ashore on the coast of

Bothnia, when returning from the polar circle with a party of

philosophers on board who had been making observations, for which nobody

has hitherto been the wiser; but, according to this romance, the vessel

was illegally captured in the Baltic sea by the Sirian giant Micromegas

and the Saturnian dwarf.--E.

II.

THE CONVERSATION BETWEEN MICROMEGAS AND THE INHABITANT OF SATURN.

His excellency having laid himself down, and the secretary approached

his nose:

"It must be confessed," said Micromegas, "that nature is full of

variety."

"Yes," replied the Saturnian, "nature is like a parterre, whose

flowers--"

"Pshaw!" cried the other, "a truce with your parterres."

"It is," resumed the secretary, "like an assembly of fair and brown

women, whose dresses--"

"What a plague have I to do with your brunettes?" said our traveler.

"Then it is like a gallery of pictures, the strokes of which--"

"Not at all," answered Micromegas, "I tell you once for all, nature is

like nature, and comparisons are odious."

"Well, to please you," said the secretary--

"I won't be pleased," replied the Sirian, "I want to be instructed;

begin, therefore, without further preamble, and tell me how many senses

the people of this world enjoy."

"We have seventy and two," said the academician, "but we are daily

complaining of the small number, as our imagination transcends our

wants, for, with the seventy-two senses, our five moons and ring, we

find ourselves very much restricted; and notwithstanding our curiosity,

and the no small number of those passions that result from these few

senses, we have still time enough to be tired of idleness."

"I sincerely believe what you say," cried Micromegas "for, though we

Sirians have near a thousand different senses, there still remains a

certain vague desire, an unaccountable inquietude incessantly

admonishing us of our own unimportance, and giving us to understand that

there are other beings who are much our superiors in point of

perfection. I have traveled a little, and seen mortals both above and

below myself in the scale of being, but I have met with none who had not

more desire than necessity, and more want than gratification. Perhaps I

shall one day arrive in some country where nought is wanting, but

hitherto I have had no certain information of such a happy land."

The Saturnian and his guest exhausted themselves in conjectures upon

this subject, and after abundance of argumentation equally ingenious and

uncertain, were fain to return to matter of fact.

"To what age do you commonly live?" said the Sirian.

"Lack-a-day! a mere trifle," replied the little gentleman.

"It is the very same case with us," resumed the other, "the shortness of

life is our daily complaint, so that this must be an universal law in

nature."

"Alas!" cried the Saturnian, "few, very few on this globe outlive five

hundred great revolutions of the sun; (these, according to our way of

reckoning, amount to about fifteen thousand years.) So, you see, we in a

manner begin to die the very moment we are born: our existence is no

more than a point, our duration an instant, and our globe an atom.

Scarce do we begin to learn a little, when death intervenes before we

can profit by experience. For my own part, I am deterred from laying

schemes when I consider myself as a single drop in the midst of an

immense ocean. I am particularly ashamed, in your presence, of the

ridiculous figure I make among my fellow-creatures."

To this declaration, Micromegas replied.

"If you were not a philosopher, I should be afraid of mortifying your

pride by telling you that the term of our lives is seven hundred times

longer than the date of your existence: but you are very sensible that

when the texture of the body is resolved, in order to reanimate nature

in another form, which is the consequence of what we call death--when

that moment of change arrives, there is not the least difference betwixt

having lived a whole eternity, or a single day. I have been in some

countries where the people live a thousand times longer than with us,

and yet they murmured at the shortness of their time. But one will find

every where some few persons of good sense, who know how to make the

best of their portion, and thank the author of nature for his bounty.

There is a profusion of variety scattered through the universe, and yet

there is an admirable vein of uniformity that runs through the whole:

for example, all thinking beings are different among themselves, though

at bottom they resemble one another in the powers and passions of the

soul. Matter, though interminable, hath different properties in every

sphere. How many principal attributes do you reckon in the matter of

this world?"

"If you mean those properties," said the Saturnian, "without which we

believe this our globe could not subsist, we reckon in all three

hundred, such as extent, impenetrability, motion, gravitation,

divisibility, et cætera."

"That small number," replied the traveler, "probably answers the views

of the creator on this your narrow sphere. I adore his wisdom in all his

works. I see infinite variety, but every where proportion. Your globe is

small: so are the inhabitants. You have few sensations; because your

matter is endued with few properties. These are the works of unerring

providence. Of what color does your sun appear when accurately

examined?"

"Of a yellowish white," answered the Saturnian, "and in separating one

of his rays we find it contains seven colors."

"Our sun," said the Sirian, "is of a reddish hue, and we have no less

than thirty-nine original colors. Among all the suns I have seen there

is no sort of resemblance, and in this sphere of yours there is not one

face like another."

After divers questions of this nature, he asked how many substances,

essentially different, they counted in the world of Saturn; and

understood that they numbered but thirty: such as God; space; matter;

beings endowed with sense and extension; beings that have extension,

sense, and reflection; thinking beings who have no extension; those that

are penetrable; those that are impenetrable, and also all others. But

this Saturnian philosopher was prodigiously astonished when the Sirian

told him they had no less than three hundred, and that he himself had

discovered three thousand more in the course of his travels. In short,

after having communicated to each other what they knew, and even what

they did not know, and argued during a complete revolution of the sun,

they resolved to set out together on a small philosophical tour.

III.

THE VOYAGE OF THESE INHABITANTS OF OTHER WORLDS.

Our two philosophers were just ready to embark for the atmosphere of

Saturn, with a large provision of mathematical instruments, when the

Saturnian's mistress, having got an inkling of their design, came all in

tears to make her protests. She was a handsome brunette, though not

above six hundred and threescore fathoms high; but her agreeable

attractions made amends for the smallness of her stature.

"Ah! cruel man," cried she, "after a courtship of fifteen hundred years,

when at length I surrendered, and became your wife, and scarce have

passed two hundred more in thy embraces, to leave me thus, before the

honeymoon is over, and go a rambling with a giant of another world! Go,

go, thou art a mere virtuoso, devoid of tenderness and love! If thou

wert a true Saturnian, thou wouldst be faithful and invariable. Ah!

whither art thou going? what is thy design? Our five moons are not so

inconstant, nor our ring so changeable as thee! But take this along with

thee, henceforth I ne'er shall love another man."

The little gentleman embraced and wept over her, notwithstanding his

philosophy; and the lady, after having swooned with great decency, went

to console herself with more agreeable company.

Meanwhile our two virtuosi set out, and at one jump leaped upon the

ring, which they found pretty flat, according to the ingenious guess of

an illustrious inhabitant of this our little earth. From thence they

easily slipped from moon to moon; and a comet chancing to pass, they

sprang upon it with all their servants and apparatus. Thus carried about

one hundred and fifty million of leagues, they met with the satellites

of Jupiter, and arrived upon the body of the planet itself, where they

continued a whole year; during which they learned some very curious

secrets, which would actually be sent to the press, were it not for fear

of the gentlemen inquisitors, who have found among them some corollaries

very hard of digestion. Nevertheless, I have read the manuscript in the

library of the illustrious archbishop of ---- who, with that generosity

and goodness which should ever be commended, has granted me permission

to peruse his books; wherefore I promise he shall have a long article in

the next edition of Moreri, and I shall not forget the young gentlemen,

his sons, who give us such pleasing hopes of seeing perpetuated the race

of their illustrious father. But to return to our travelers. When they

took leave of Jupiter, they traversed a space of about one hundred

millions of leagues, and coasting along the planet Mars, which is well

known to be five times smaller than our little earth, they descried two

moons subservient to that orb, which have escaped the observation of all

our astronomers. I know father Castel will write, and that pleasantly

enough, against the existence of these two moons; but I entirely refer

myself to those who reason by analogy. Those worthy philosophers are

very sensible that Mars, which is at such a distance from the sun, must

be in a very uncomfortable situation, without the benefit of a couple of

moons. Be that as it may, our gentlemen found the planet so small, that

they were afraid they should not find room to take a little repose; so

that they pursued their journey like two travelers who despise the

paltry accommodation of a village, and push forward to the next market

town. But the Sirian and his companion soon repented of their delicacy,

for they journeyed a long time without finding a resting place, till at

length they discerned a small speck, which was the Earth. Coming from

Jupiter, they could not but be moved with compassion at the sight of

this miserable spot, upon which, however, they resolved to land, lest

they should be a second time disappointed. They accordingly moved toward

the tail of the comet, where, finding an Aurora Borealis ready to set

sail, they embarked, and arrived on the northern coast of the Baltic on

the fifth day of July, new style, in the year 1737.

IV.

WHAT BEFELL THEM UPON THIS OUR GLOBE.

Having taken some repose, and being desirous of reconnoitering the

narrow field in which they were, they traversed it at once from north to

south. Every step of the Sirian and his attendants measured about thirty

thousand royal feet: whereas, the dwarf of Saturn, whose stature did not

exceed a thousand fathoms, followed at a distance quite out of breath;

because, for every single stride of his companion, he was obliged to

make twelve good steps at least. The reader may figure to himself, (if

we are allowed to make such comparisons,) a very little rough spaniel

dodging after a captain of the Prussian grenadiers.

As those strangers walked at a good pace, they compassed the globe in

six and thirty hours; the sun, it is true, or rather the earth,

describes the same space in the course of one day; but it must be

observed that it is much easier to turn upon an axis than to walk

a-foot. Behold them then returned to the spot from whence they had set

out, after having discovered that almost imperceptible sea, which is

called the Mediterranean; and the other narrow pond that surrounds this

mole-hill, under the denomination of the great ocean; in wading through

which the dwarf had never wet his mid-leg, while the other scarce

moistened his heel. In going and coming through both hemispheres, they

did all that lay in their power to discover whether or not the globe was

inhabited. They stooped, they lay down, they groped in every corner, but

their eyes and hands were not at all proportioned to the small beings

that crawl upon this earth; and, therefore, they could not find the

smallest reason to suspect that we and our fellow-citizens of this globe

had the honor to exist.

The dwarf, who sometimes judged too hastily, concluded at once that

there was no living creatures upon earth; and his chief reason was, that

he had seen nobody. But Micromegas, in a polite manner, made him

sensible of the unjust conclusion:

"For," said he, "with your diminutive eyes you cannot see certain stars

of the fiftieth magnitude, which I easily perceive; and do you take it

for granted that no such stars exist?"

"But I have groped with great care?" replied the dwarf.

"Then your sense of feeling must be bad," said the other.

"But this globe," said the dwarf, "is ill contrived; and so irregular in

its form as to be quite ridiculous. The whole together looks like a

chaos. Do but observe these little rivulets; not one of them runs in a

straight line; and these ponds which are neither round, square, nor

oval, nor indeed of any regular figure, together with these little sharp

pebbles, (meaning the mountains,) that roughen the whole surface of the

globe, and have torn all the skin from my feet. Besides, pray take

notice of the shape of the whole, how it flattens at the poles, and

turns round the sun in an awkward oblique manner, so as that the polar

circles cannot possibly be cultivated. Truly, what makes me believe

there is no inhabitant on this sphere, is a full persuasion that no

sensible being would live in such a disagreeable place."

"What then?" said Micromegas, "perhaps the beings that inhabit it come

not under that denomination; but, to all appearance, it was not made for

nothing. Everything here seems to you irregular; because you fetch all

your comparisons from Jupiter or Saturn. Perhaps this is the very reason

of the seeming confusion which you condemn; have I not told you, that in

the course of my travels I have always met with variety?"

The Saturnian replied to all these arguments; and perhaps the dispute

would have known no end, if Micromegas, in the heat of the contest, had

not luckily broken the string of his diamond necklace, so that the

jewels fell to the ground; they consisted of pretty small unequal

karats, the largest of which weighed four hundred pounds, and the

smallest fifty. The dwarf, in helping to pick them up, perceived, as

they approached his eye, that every single diamond was cut in such a

manner as to answer the purpose of an excellent microscope. He therefore

took up a small one, about one hundred and sixty feet in diameter, and

applied it to his eye, while Micromegas chose another of two thousand

five hundred feet. Though they were of excellent powers, the observers

could perceive nothing by their assistance, so they were altered and

adjusted. At length, the inhabitant of Saturn discerned something almost

imperceptible moving between two waves in the Baltic. This was no other

than a whale, which, in a dexterous manner, he caught with his little

finger, and, placing it on the nail of his thumb, showed it to the

Syrian, who laughed heartily at the excessive smallness peculiar to

the inhabitants of this our globe. The Saturnian, by this time convinced

that our world was inhabited, began to imagine we had no other animals

than whales; and being a mighty debater, he forthwith set about

investigating the origin and motion of this small atom, curious to know

whether or not it was furnished with ideas, judgment, and free will.

Micromegas was very much perplexed upon this subject. He examined the

animal with the most patient attention, and the result of his inquiry

was, that he could see no reason to believe a soul was lodged in such a

body. The two travelers were actually inclined to think there was no

such thing as mind in this our habitation, when, by the help of their

microscope, they perceived something as large as a whale floating upon

the surface of the sea. It is well known that, at this period, a flight

of philosophers were upon their return from the polar circle, where they

had been making observations, for which nobody has hitherto been the

wiser. The gazettes record, that their vessel ran ashore on the coast of

Bothnia and that they with great difficulty saved their lives; but in

this world one can never dive to the bottom of things. For my own part,

I will ingenuously recount the transaction just as it happened, without

any addition of my own; and this is no small effort in a modern

historian.

V.

THE TRAVELERS CAPTURE A VESSEL.

Micromegas stretched out his hand gently toward the place where the

object appeared, and advanced two fingers, which he instantly pulled

back, for fear of being disappointed, then opening softly and shutting

them all at once, he very dexterously seized the ship that contained

those gentlemen, and placed it on his nail, avoiding too much pressure,

which might have crushed the whole in pieces.

"This," said the Saturnian dwarf, "is a creature very different from the

former."

Upon which the Sirian placing the supposed animal in the hollow of his

hand, the passengers and crew, who believed themselves thrown by a

hurricane upon some rock, began to put themselves in motion. The sailors

having hoisted out some casks of wine, jumped after them into the hand

of Micromegas: the mathematicians having secured their quadrants,

sectors, and Lapland servants, went overboard at a different place, and

made such a bustle in their descent, that the Sirian at length felt his

fingers tickled by something that seemed to move. An iron bar chanced to

penetrate about a foot deep into his forefinger; and from this prick he

concluded that something had issued from the little animal he held in

his hand; but at first he suspected nothing more: for the microscope,

that scarce rendered a whale and a ship visible, had no effect upon an

object so imperceptible as man.

I do not intend to shock the vanity of any person whatever; but here I

am obliged to beg your people of importance to consider that, supposing

the stature of a man to be about five feet, we mortals make just such a

figure upon the earth, as an animal the sixty thousandth part of a foot

in height, would exhibit upon a bowl ten feet in circumference. When you

reflect upon a being who could hold this whole earth in the palm of his

hand, and is provided with organs proportioned to those we possess, you

will easily conceive that there must be a great variety of created

substances;--and pray, what must such beings think of those battles by

which a conqueror gains a small village, to lose it again in the

sequel?

[Illustration: Micromegas captures a ship.]

I do not at all doubt, but if some captain of grenadiers should chance

to read this work, he would add two large feet at least to the caps of

his company; but I assure him his labor will be in vain; for, do what he

will, he and his soldiers will never be other than infinitely diminutive

and inconsiderable.

What wonderful address must have been inherent in our Sirian

philosopher, that enabled him to perceive those atoms of which we have

been speaking. When Leuwenhoek and Hartsoecker observed the first

rudiments of which we are formed, they did not make such an astonishing

discovery. What pleasure, therefore, was the portion of Micromegas, in

observing the motion of those little machines, in examining all their

pranks, and following them in all their operations! With what joy did he

put his microscope into his companion's hand; and with what transport

did they both at once exclaim:

"I see them distinctly,--don't you see them carrying burdens, lying down

and rising up again?"

So saying, their hands shook with eagerness to see, and apprehension to

lose such uncommon objects. The Saturnian, making a sudden transition

from the most cautious distrust to the most excessive credulity,

imagined he saw them engaged in their devotions and cried aloud in

astonishment.

Nevertheless, he was deceived by appearances: a case too common, whether

we do or do not make use of microscopes.

VI.

WHAT HAPPENED IN THEIR INTERCOURSE WITH MEN.

Micromegas being a much better observer than the dwarf, perceived

distinctly that those atoms spoke; and made the remark to his companion,

who was so much ashamed of being mistaken in his first suggestion, that

he would not believe such a puny species could possibly communicate

their ideas: for, though he had the gift of tongues, as well as his

companion, he could not hear those particles speak; and therefore

supposed they had no language.

"Besides, how should such imperceptible beings have the organs of

speech? and what in the name of Jove can they say to one another? In

order to speak, they must have something like thought, and if they

think, they must surely have something equivalent to a soul. Now, to

attribute anything like a soul to such an insect species appears a mere

absurdity."

"But just now," replied the Sirian, "you believed they were engaged in

devotional exercises; and do you think this could be done without

thinking, without using some sort of language, or at least some way of

making themselves understood? Or do you suppose it is more difficult to

advance an argument than to engage in physical exercise? For my own

part, I look upon all faculties as alike mysterious."

"I will no longer venture to believe or deny," answered the dwarf. "In

short I have no opinion at all, let us endeavor to examine these

insects, and we will reason upon them afterward."

"With all my heart," said Micromegas, who, taking out a pair of scissors

which he kept for paring his nails, cut off a paring from his thumb

nail, of which he immediately formed a large kind of speaking trumpet,

like a vast tunnel, and clapped the pipe to his ear: as the

circumference of this machine included the ship and all the crew, the

most feeble voice was conveyed along the circular fibres of the nail; so

that, thanks to his industry, the philosopher could distinctly hear the

buzzing of our insects that were below. In a few hours he distinguished

articulate sounds, and at last plainly understood the French language.

The dwarf heard the same, though with more difficulty.

The astonishment of our travelers increased every instant. They heard a

nest of mites talk in a very sensible strain: and that _Lusus Naturæ_?

seemed to them inexplicable. You need not doubt but the Sirian and his

dwarf glowed with impatience to enter into conversation with such atoms.

Micromegas being afraid that his voice, like thunder, would deafen and

confound the mites, without being understood by them, saw the necessity

of diminishing the sound; each, therefore, put into his mouth a sort of

small toothpick, the slender end of which reached to the vessel. The

Sirian setting the dwarf upon his knees, and the ship and crew upon his

nail, held down his head and spoke softly. In fine, having taken these

and a great many more precautions, he addressed himself to them in these

words:

"O ye invisible insects, whom the hand of the Creator hath deigned to

produce in the abyss of infinite littleness! I give praise to his

goodness, in that he hath been pleased to disclose unto me those secrets

that seemed to be impenetrable."

If ever there was such a thing as astonishment, it seized upon the

people who heard this address, and who could not conceive from whence it

proceeded. The chaplain of the ship repeated exorcisms, the sailors

swore, and the philosophers formed a system; but, notwithstanding all

their systems, they could not divine who the person was that spoke to

them. Then the dwarf of Saturn, whose voice was softer than that of

Micromegas, gave them briefly to understand what species of beings they

had to do with. He related the particulars of their voyage from Saturn,

made them acquainted with the rank and quality of Monsieur Micromegas;

and, after having pitied their smallness, asked if they had always been

in that miserable state so near akin to annihilation; and what their

business was upon that globe which seemed to be the property of whales.

He also desired to know if they were happy in their situation? if they

were inspired with souls? and put a hundred questions of the like

nature.

A certain mathematician on board, braver than the rest, and shocked to

hear his soul called in question, planted his quadrant, and having taken

two observations of this interlocutor, said: "You believe then, Mr.,

what's your name, that because you measure from head to foot a thousand

fathoms--"

"A thousand fathoms!" cried the dwarf, "good heavens! How should he know

the height of my stature? A thousand fathoms! My very dimensions to a

hair. What, measured by a mite! This atom, forsooth, is a geometrician,

and knows exactly how tall I am; while I, who can scarce perceive him

through a microscope, am utterly ignorant of his extent!"

"Yes, I have taken your measure," answered the philosopher, "and I will

now do the same by your tall companion."

The proposal was embraced: his excellency reclined upon his side; for,

had he stood upright, his head would have reached too far above the

clouds. Our mathematicians planted a tall tree near him, and then, by a

series of triangles joined together, they discovered that the object of

their observation was a strapping youth, exactly one hundred and twenty

thousand royal feet in length. In consequence of this calculation,

Micromegas uttered these words:

"I am now more than ever convinced that we ought to judge of nothing by

its external magnitude. O God! who hast bestowed understanding upon such

seemingly contemptible substances, thou canst with equal ease produce

that which is infinitely small, as that which is incredibly great: and

if it be possible, that among thy works there are beings still more

diminutive than these, they may nevertheless, be endued with

understanding superior to the intelligence of those stupendous animals I

have seen in heaven, a single foot of whom is larger than this whole

globe on which I have alighted."

One of the philosophers assured him that there were intelligent beings

much smaller than men, and recounted not only Virgil's whole fable of

the bees, but also described all that Swammerdam hath discovered, and

Réaumur dissected. In a word, he informed him that there are animals

which bear the same proportion to bees, that bees bear to man; the same

as the Sirian himself compared to those vast beings whom he had

mentioned; and as those huge animals are to other substances, before

whom they would appear like so many particles of dust. Here the

conversation became very interesting, and Micromegas proceeded in these

words:

"O ye intelligent atoms, in whom the Supreme Being hath been pleased to

manifest his omniscience and power, without all doubt your joys on this

earth must be pure and exquisite: for, being unincumbered with matter,

and, to all appearance, little else than soul, you must spend your lives

in the delights of pleasure and reflection, which are the true

enjoyments of a perfect spirit. True happiness I have no where found;

but certainly here it dwells."

At this harangue all the philosophers shook their heads, and one among

them, more candid than his brethren, frankly owned, that excepting a

very small number of inhabitants who were very little esteemed by their

fellows, all the rest were a parcel of knaves, fools, and miserable

wretches.

"We have matter enough," said he, "to do abundance of mischief, if

mischief comes from matter; and too much understanding, if evil flows

from understanding. You must know, for example, that at this very

moment, while I am speaking, there are one hundred thousand animals of

our own species, covered with hats, slaying an equal number of their

fellow-creatures, who wear turbans; at least they are either slaying or

being slain; and this hath usually been the case all over the earth from

time immemorial."

The Sirian, shuddering at this information, begged to know the cause of

those horrible quarrels among such a puny race; and was given to

understand that the subject of the dispute was a pitiful mole-hill

[called Palestine,] no larger than his heel. Not that any one of those

millions who cut one another's throats pretends to have the least claim

to the smallest particle of that clod. The question is, whether it shall

belong to a certain person who is known by the name of Sultan, or to

another whom (for what reason I know not) they dignify with the

appellation of Pope. Neither the one nor the other has seen or ever will

see the pitiful corner in question; and probably none of these wretches,

who so madly destroy each other, ever beheld the ruler on whose account

they are so mercilessly sacrificed!

"Ah, miscreants!" cried the indignant Sirian, "such excess of desperate

rage is beyond conception. I have a good mind to take two or three

steps, and trample the whole nest of such ridiculous assassins under my

feet."

"Don't give yourself the trouble," replied the philosopher, "they are

industrious enough in procuring their own destruction. At the end of ten

years the hundredth part of those wretches will not survive; for you

must know that, though they should not draw a sword in the cause they

have espoused, famine, fatigue, and intemperance, would sweep almost all

of them from the face of the earth. Besides, the punishment should not

be inflicted upon them, but upon those sedentary and slothful

barbarians, who, from their palaces, give orders for murdering a million

of men and then solemnly thank God for their success."

Our traveler was moved with compassion for the entire human race, in

which he discovered such astonishing contrasts. "Since you are of the

small number of the wise," said he, "and in all likelihood do not engage

yourselves in the trade of murder for hire, be so good as to tell me

your occupation."

"We anatomize flies," replied the philosopher, "we measure lines, we

make calculations, we agree upon two or three points which we

understand, and dispute upon two or three thousand that are beyond our

comprehension."

"How far," said the Sirian, "do you reckon the distance between the

great star of the constellation Gemini and that called Caniculæ?"

To this question all of them answered with one voice: "Thirty-two

degrees and a half."

"And what is the distance from hence to the moon?"

"Sixty semi-diameters of the earth."

He then thought to puzzle them by asking the weight of the air; but they

answered distinctly, that common air is about nine hundred times

specifically lighter than an equal column of the lightest water, and

nineteen hundred times lighter than current gold. The little dwarf of

Saturn, astonished at their answers, was now tempted to believe those

people sorcerers, who, but a quarter of an hour before, he would not

allow were inspired with souls.

"Well," said Micromegas, "since you know so well what is without you,

doubtless you are still more perfectly acquainted with that which is

within. Tell me what is the soul, and how do your ideas originate?"

Here the philosophers spoke altogether as before; but each was of a

different opinion. The eldest quoted Aristotle; another pronounced the

name of Descartes; a third mentioned Mallebranche; a fourth Leibnitz;

and a fifth Locke. An old peripatecian lifting up his voice, exclaimed

with an air of confidence. "The soul is perfection and reason, having

power to be such as it is, as Aristotle expressly declares, page 633, of

the Louvre edition:

"_Εντελεχεῖά τις ἐστι, καὶ λόγος τοὖ δύναμιν ἓχοντος_

_τοιοὗδι εἷ ταἷ_."

"I am not very well versed in Greek," said the giant.

"Nor I either," replied the philosophical mite.

"Why then do you quote that same Aristotle in Greek?" resumed the

Sirian.

"Because," answered the other, "it is but reasonable we should quote

what we do not comprehend in a language we do not understand."

Here the Cartesian interposing: "The soul," said he, "is a pure spirit

or intelligence, which hath received before birth all the metaphysical

ideas; but after that event it is obliged to go to school and learn

anew the knowledge which it hath lost."

"So it was necessary," replied the animal of eight leagues, "that thy

soul should be learned before birth, in order to be so ignorant when

thou hast got a beard upon thy chin. But what dost thou understand by

spirit?"

"I have no idea of it," said the philosopher, "indeed it is supposed to

be immaterial."

"At least, thou knowest what matter is?" resumed the Sirian.

"Perfectly well," answered the other. "For example: that stone is gray,

is of a certain figure, has three dimensions, specific weight, and

divisibility."

"I want to know," said the giant, "what that object is, which, according

to thy observation, hath a gray color, weight, and divisibility. Thou

seest a few qualities, but dost thou know the nature of the thing

itself?"

"Not I, truly," answered the Cartesian.

Upon which the Sirian admitted that he also was ignorant in regard to

this subject. Then addressing himself to another sage, who stood upon

his thumb, he asked "what is the soul? and what are her functions?"

"Nothing at all," replied this disciple of Mallebranche; "God hath made

everything for my convenience. In him I see everything, by him I act; he

is the universal agent, and I never meddle in his work."

"That is being a nonentity indeed," said the Sirian sage; and then,

turning to a follower of Leibnitz, he exclaimed: "Hark ye, friend, what

is thy opinion of the soul?"

"In my opinion," answered this metaphysician, "the soul is the hand that

points at the hour, while my body does the office of the clock; or, if

you please, the soul is the clock, and the body is the pointer; or

again, my soul is the mirror of the universe, and my body the frame. All

this is clear and uncontrovertible."

A little partisan of Locke who chanced to be present, being asked his

opinion on the same subject, said: "I do not know by what power I think;

but well I know that I should never have thought without the assistance

of my senses. That there are immaterial and intelligent substances I do

not at all doubt; but that it is impossible for God to communicate the

faculty of thinking to matter, I doubt very much. I revere the eternal

power, to which it would ill become me to prescribe bounds. I affirm

nothing, and am contented to believe that many more things are possible

than are usually thought so."

The Sirian smiled at this declaration, and did not look upon the author

as the least sagacious of the company: and as for the dwarf of Saturn,

he would have embraced this adherent of Locke, had it not been for the

extreme disproportion in their respective sizes. But unluckily there was

another animalcule in a square cap, who, taking the word from all his

philosophical brethren, affirmed that he knew the whole secret, which

was contained in the abridgment of St. Thomas. He surveyed the two

celestial strangers from top to toe, and maintained to their faces that

their persons, their fashions, their suns and their stars, were created

solely for the use of man. At this wild assertion our two travelers were

seized with a fit of that uncontrollable laughter, which (according to

Homer) is the portion of the immortal gods: their bellies quivered,

their shoulders rose and fell, and, during these convulsions, the vessel

fell from the Sirian's nail into the Saturnian's pocket, where these

worthy people searched for it a long time with great diligence. At

length, having found the ship and set everything to rights again, the

Sirian resumed the discourse with those diminutive mites, and promised

to compose for them a choice book of philosophy which would demonstrate

the very essence of things. Accordingly, before his departure, he made

them a present of the book, which was brought to the Academy of Sciences

at Paris, but when the old secretary came to open it he saw nothing but

blank paper, upon which:--

"Ay, ay," said he, "this is just what I suspected."

THE WORLD AS IT GOES.

THE VISION OF BABOUC.

[Illustration: The spiritual rulers of Persepolis.][1]

Among the genii who preside over the empires of the earth, Ithuriel held

one of the first ranks, and had the department of Upper Asia. He one

morning descended into the abode of Babouc, the Scythian, who dwelt on

the banks of the Oxus, and said to him:

"Babouc, the follies and vices of the Persians have drawn upon them our

indignation. Yesterday an assembly of the genii of Upper Asia was held,

to consider whether we would chastise Persepolis or destroy it entirely.

Go to that city; examine everything; return and give me a faithful

account; and, according to thy report, I will then determine whether to

correct or extirpate the inhabitants."

"But, my lord," said Babouc with great humility, "I have never been in

Persia, nor do I know a single person in that country."

"So much the better," said the angel, "thou wilt be the more impartial:

thou hast received from heaven the spirit of discernment, to which I now

add the power of inspiring confidence. Go, see, hear, observe, and fear

nothing. Thou shalt everywhere meet with a favorable reception."

Babouc mounted his camel, and set out with his servants. After having

traveled some days, he met, near the plains of Senaar, the Persian army,

which was going to attack the forces of India. He first addressed

himself to a soldier, whom he found at a distance from the main army,

and asked him what was the occasion of the war?

"By all the gods," said the soldier, "I know nothing of the matter. It

is none of my business. My trade is to kill and to be killed, to get a

livelihood. It is of no consequence to me whom I serve. To-morrow,

perhaps, I may go over to the Indian camp; for it is said that they give

their soldiers nearly half a copper drachma a day more than we have in

this cursed service of Persia. If thou desirest to know why we fight,

speak to my captain."

Babouc, having given the soldier a small present, entered the camp. He

soon became acquainted with the captain, and asked him the cause of the

war.

"How canst thou imagine that I should know it?" said the captain, "or of

what importance is it to me? I live about two hundred leagues from

Persepolis: I hear that war is declared. I instantly leave my family,

and, having nothing else to do, go, according to our custom, to make my

fortune, or to fall by a glorious death."