CHAPTER III.

THE DESERT.

Nadir, in his turn, was visited by misfortune. Calumny pursued him:

injustice extended high enough to reach him. He was banished from the

wife of his bosom, from the son whose eyes were just opened to the

light, and his life was dried up like the summer, when, although full

of fire and vigour, it has lost its colours.

The people, whom he had taught to be industrious and happy, were given

up to avaricious men, who converted their labour into an oppressive

burden; and the memories which once refreshed the soul of Nadir now

became to him a bitter and empoisoned spring.

He beheld iniquity spreading over his land, and was forced to behold it

in silence. Iniquity dreaded even his silence, and Nadir was compelled

to fly into barren deserts, where the devouring eyes of iniquity come

not to seek their prey. He here met the sage, who said to him: "I

wished to end my days in peace. These rocks, which have been piled

immoveable one upon the other since the birth of the world, will not

renounce their nature to rush down of their own accord and crush me.

The rain may benumb my limbs with cold, without my accusing it of any

want of obedience to the law which was given to it; therefore, I bear

no hatred to these threatening rocks, nor to the rain which chills me;

but the sight of iniquity wearies my soul into hatred of it: for there

were twins produced at one birth--iniquity, which is the foe of order;

and the hatred of iniquity, which is the re-establishment of order."

Shortly after he had uttered these words, the sage expired; and Nadir,

beholding him close his eyes, exclaimed, "Now, indeed, I am alone."

The eyes of the sage once more opened, and he said: "My son, the plant

knows that it is seen by God, but man bears God within himself; let

him then never say I am alone;" and with these words the sage expired.

Nadir left the cavern, and reflected on the meaning of his words.

Seated upon a rock, he beheld a serpent gliding towards him from

between the stones, now and then raising its head, and looking round as

if seeking for some object on which to vent its fury. Nadir seized a

piece of the rock, and crushed the head of the serpent, while the body

writhed and struggled long after the head had remained crushed between

the stones. At last it lay motionless, stretched along the rock. Nadir

surveyed it: he also surveyed the lifeless remains of the sage extended

in the cavern. "Both," said he, "are about to give back to the earth

the dust which they took from it; but what advantage was there in

taking the serpent from the dust?" And he questioned the work of the

Most High.

[Illustration: Three Chapters on the Life of Nadir, p. 110.]

The sun had just sunk behind the rocks which bounded the horizon. A

cold wind arose, driven by dark clouds; it whistled through the rocks

and penetrated even to the heart of Nadir, already filled with grief

for the death of the sage. He remained motionless, abandoning himself,

without defence, to the cold wind and to his grief. But a thought of

the past arose to his mind: he remembered what he had been, and said,

"Nadir shall not perish overpowered by affliction and the winds of

night!" He arose, gathered the leaves and brambles scattered here and

there in the clefts of the rock, where also grew the wild roots which

served him for food. He obtained fire from a flint; a brilliant flame

suddenly burst forth from the midst of a thick smoke; the light played

upon the rocks, and seemed to people the desert. The features of

the sage reposing in the cavern, were lighted up with a tint resembling

that of life. Nadir gazed upon him, and tears flowed from his eyes, to

the memory of friendship; but strength had once more returned to his

soul. The flame grew dim, sank, and at last died away. A grey coating

of ashes covered the still burning embers; but soon, of that great heap

of brambles, there remained nothing but a faint trace, scarcely visible

upon the spot on which they were consumed. "Behold," said Nadir, "they,

too, have returned to the dust; but I, whom they have warmed, what

right have I to ask why they were taken from it?"

The wind had died away, bearing with it the dark clouds. The moon

slowly unveiled her disk in the blue vault of heaven, where trembled

myriads of glittering stars. Each one of these heavenly orbs seemed to

shed a ray upon the heart of Nadir. "Glorious works of the Most High!"

he exclaimed, gazing on them, "what mortal will dare to lift his voice

to ask what purpose ye serve in the Universe?"

And his eye sought that faint white trace, scarcely visible in the

azure heavens, formed by masses of stars, innumerable as the sands

of the sea-shore, lying in the depths of space, where the eye of man

cannot distinguish them, where they do not even serve to gladden his

sight; and still beyond these almost invisible stars, float perhaps,

in spaces stretching out to infinitude, others of whose existence even

sight gives us no intimation. Nadir dwelt upon these things, then

withdrew his gaze, and turning his thoughts inward, upon himself, he

said, "Even as these stars are lost to me in space, so the good which I

have done will be lost in time. Already perhaps, it no longer exists;

perhaps already it may have been productive of evil: for if those men

are rendered wicked whom I had rendered good, what I have taught them

will only have given them increased power of doing evil. And yet I do

not ask of my conscience "To what purpose have I done good:" for if,

when I have paid my creditor, he should throw the gold he has received

of me into the sea, I should not say, "To what purpose have I paid my

debts?" Sovereign Ruler of the Universe, every creature bears to thee

in tribute, his existence, which is the fulfilment of thy will; and of

this tribute, of which thou formest thy treasures, oh! Great Lord of

Life! who will dare to ask of thee the use?" By the clear moonlight

Nadir beheld the body of the serpent, stretched along the rock, and

said, "Thou hast lived for evil, but even evil pays its tribute to

the will of Heaven. Man knows not its use, as the insect destroyed by

the icy wind of this night knows not that that wind would dispel the

clouds. Oh! serpent, thou hast paid thy tribute: for God had willed thy

existence, and thou hast accomplished by it the intentions of the Most

High."

Nadir also glanced upon the slight stratum of ashes which the flame had

left upon the rock, and said, "While the flame devoured these brambles,

it warmed my limbs and my heart. When God drew man from the treasures

of his power, he said to him, 'Thou hast the choice of being either the

flame which devours the trunk of the oak, or the heat which emanates

from it, and rejoices the heart of man.' The wicked replied, 'I will

be the devouring flame;' and he thinks only of devouring; but God has

forced him to produce the heat. It is the will of God which has created

good. It is the will of the wicked which creates evil, out of which God

extracts good."

With such thoughts Nadir calmly slept, and awoke the next morning as

if to a new existence: for he had reposed upon the will of God the

uncertainties of his spirit, and he contemplated, with a steady eye,

the desert and its extent, its solitude and its aridity. He closed

up the cavern where rested the remains of the sage: he returned the

serpent to the earth; and the breath of the morning had scattered

in the air the ashes of his hearth; but their lessons remained in

his heart, and he said, "All nature deposits germs in the heart of

man, and man nourishes them and elevates them to the thought of God."

Nevertheless, this thought of God sometimes troubled him. Filled with

it, his soul longed to rush towards him; and he prostrated himself,

saying, "My God, I know thee but as the friend whose eyes languish for

the sight of his friend."

Nadir was again uplifted by the returning wave of fortune. Iniquity

had passed over his country like a storm, and his people revived in

the freshness of repose after trouble. He again beheld the wife whom

he cherished, and the child already able to clap his hands and utter

cries of joy when he heard pronounced the name of Nadir. He was again

invested with great power to do good; and the more he experienced the

mercies of God, the more he felt the necessity of his presence; and he

sought him in all things.

One day he beheld his son, filled with anger, rush upon an animal which

was on the point of biting his nurse, and he said, "God has spoken to

this child, for whence could he have learned love and courage?"

He surprised the wicked, endeavouring to delude himself with pretences,

in order to colour an injustice, which he could commit without danger;

and he said, "God is there before the wicked; for the wicked dare not

go straight to the commission of evil;" and he added, "Great God, whom

I see everywhere, let me feel thy presence still nearer to my heart."

One day Nadir, deceived by false appearances, condemned to be scourged

a good man, who had been unjustly accused before him, and he pronounced

sentence with his eyes closed, as one who in a dream, unmindful of what

is around him, acts and reasons in accordance with the ideas which

during his sleep exist in his imagination. Whilst submitting to his

punishment, this good man said to his friends, whose indignation burst

forth in bitter invectives, "Let not the commission of one injustice

lead us to commit another in accusing the virtuous Nadir."

One of the friends of Nadir hastened to him with these words. Struck

with astonishment, he instantly ordered the punishment to be suspended,

and the supposed culprit to be brought into his presence. Then his eyes

were opened, and he beheld before him an innocent man, whom he had

condemned; and the truth burst forth, as a burning light, inflicting

poignant grief upon his heart. In his agony, he wept, and, prostrate,

implored the forgiveness of the good man, who said to him, "Oh! Nadir,

thou hast not injured me, for thou hast not rendered me unjust towards

thee; neither hast thou injured thyself, for it was thy error, and not

thyself, that was unjust towards me."

Nadir's grief was increased by these words, when he saw what virtue

he had condemned; but, at the same time, the sight of so much virtue

filled his mind with an ineffable pleasure, and his grief passed away

with his tears. In the fulness of his joy, he said to the virtuous man,

"Thou art my brother;" and prostrating himself again, he raised his

thoughts to heaven, saying, "Oh! God, thou livest in us. The perfection

in which thou delightest exists in thyself. It is thy own happiness

which thou communicatest to man, when his soul is lifted up in

ecstasy at the sight of virtue. Father of all Good, Nadir, repentant,

recognizes thee in the delight he experiences in contemplating the

virtue which condemns him." Then he arose, saying, "God lives in us,

and man feels him in himself, and rejoices in his presence;" and the

rapture of the blessed beamed in his countenance.

The books, in which were recorded the remaining acts of Nadir's life,

have not been preserved; but the sages, who in their old age still

remembered to have listened to his words, relate, that from that moment

peace never departed from his heart, nor serenity from his brow; and

that, at the moment when full of years, he felt his soul ready to take

its flight into the arms of God, even as a child who, in the midst of

its games beholding its father approach, extends his arms to him from

afar, and running to meet him, already relates to him his joys and

pleasures; so did Nadir, with hands and eyes raised to heaven, exclaim,

in holy ecstasy, "Thanks be to thee, O merciful Father! who hast

granted to Nadir every blessing that man can attain upon this earth:"

and his hands dropped, and he sank into repose, for his earthly portion

had fulfilled its destiny.

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

Marietta was full of grief, because her mother insisted on her writing

a second copy, her first having been badly done; and she had already

spent nearly half-an-hour, in crying and pouting, a period long enough

to have finished her task in, had she been so disposed. In fact,

Marietta, though nine years old, and possessed of many good qualities,

was often very unreasonable, and the slightest whim or irritability was

sufficient to make her forget her best resolutions.

"My dear child," said Madame Leroi, who had been quietly working at the

other end of the room, "as there is no help for it, I would advise you

to make up your mind to do what I require."

"No help for it!" exclaimed Marietta, pettishly; "and where is the

great necessity for my writing this copy?"

"It must be done, because I wish it."

"And why do you wish it, mamma?"

"Because it is necessary."

"It is necessary because you wish it. Can you not do just what you

please about it?"

"No, certainly!"

Then Marietta broke out into a new fit of passion, and throwing

herself back in her chair, she repeated, as she struck her clenched

hands upon the table, "You cannot do as you please, you cannot do as

you please! when I am obliged to obey you in everything. And then the

other day, you said to Madame Thibourg, in speaking of me: I belong

to that child. To say that you belong to me when you are constantly

contradicting me!"

"It is precisely because I do belong to you," said Madame Leroi,

smiling, "that I am obliged to contradict you."

"Then, mamma," said Marietta, turning to her mother, with her

arms folded, and speaking in a tone which her anger had rendered

impertinent, "will you have the kindness to explain that to me?"

"I shall explain nothing to you at present," replied her mother, in

a severe tone; then ordering her to be silent, she compelled her to

resume her work, which, as may be imagined, did not tend to calm

Marietta's irritation; she rebelled in silence, wrote badly, incurred

fresh punishments, and spent the day in alternate faults and despair.

But the next morning she awoke in such good humour, dressed so quickly,

said her prayers with so much fervour, and had so soon put all her

things in order, and completed her early tasks, doing even more

than was required, in order to repair her past misconduct, that at

breakfast-time she at last perceived a smile lighten the countenance of

her mother, who had not laid aside her severity since the previous day.

"At last, mamma," she cried, "you are once more pleased with me."

"And tell me why I am pleased. Is it on your account, or on my own?"

"I know it is because I have done my duty; nevertheless, mamma, it

is still true that my duty is your pleasure, and that you are always

mistress, and can do whatever you like with me."

"What! even drown you as they did the kittens born in the attic last

night."

"Oh! mamma, I do not mean that; but you can make me do whatever you

wish."

"So, then, if I should wish you to steal our neighbour's sugar, when

she leaves her door open, or her syrup, or her cups, I should have a

right to order you to do so?"

"What an idea, mamma! as if you could wish me to do such things!"

"That is to say, then, that there are things which I have no right to

wish for, nor, consequently, to order you to do. This certainly is a

fine sort of authority. But can I help wishing? If I had not wished to

teach you to read and write; if, when you were an infant, I had not

wished to attend to your wants, or to get up at night when you cried,

should I have had a right to do as I pleased?"

"But, mamma, you know very well that it would have done me harm if you

had not."

"Oh! then I must not wish anything that can do you harm, I must only

wish what will be for your good, and this you call following my own

will?"

"But still, mamma, it is your will that I always obey; since it is you

who command me."

"And when do I command you to do anything?"

"When you think it is right."

"And have I, then, the power of believing just as I please that a thing

is right or wrong?"

"Certainly, mamma, nobody hinders you."

Madame Leroi made no reply, but a moment after she said to her

daughter, "Marietta, I am thinking next week of beginning to teach you

to draw with your elbow."

"What, mamma!" exclaimed Marietta, with a burst of laughter, "To draw

with my elbow! And how shall I hold my pencil?"

"With the point of your elbow; nothing is easier."

"Why, mamma, what are you talking about?" continued Marietta, laughing

still more vehemently.

"Something, my dear, which I beg you to believe for my sake."

"But, mamma, how am I to believe that?"

"Did you not tell me just now that we can believe what we please?"

"But, mamma, that is quite a different matter."

"For you, perhaps, my child, but as for me I can assure you that when

your copy is badly written, it is impossible for me to believe it well

done, let me examine it as I will. And when you do not choose to do

what you ought, it instantly comes into my head that I must force you

to do it by punishment. How am I to manage? I cannot believe otherwise,

and I am just as much compelled to obey my judgment, as you are to obey

my will. It is no more in my power to bring you up badly than it is in

yours to disobey me."

Marietta was accustomed to regard duty as an inevitability, though,

for all that, she often failed in it; neither did she think that any

reasonable person could escape from it, any more than they could escape

from superior force. "At all events, mamma," she said, "you must allow

that it is not correct to say that you belong to me."

At this moment, Madame Thibourg entered. "Come, make haste," she said

to her friend, "I have a ticket for Malmaison; my little girls are

waiting for me in the coach, and I have brought a basket of provisions

for dinner, so make haste."

"But I have promised to send home this piece of tapestry this week,"

replied Madame Leroi, looking anxiously first at her frame and then at

her daughter, who, after having hailed the proposal of Madame Thibourg

with a cry of delight, now stood motionless with anxiety, on beholding

her mother's hesitation.

"I would with pleasure take charge of Marietta," said Madame Thibourg,

"but my nurse is ill, and as there is water there, I shall have quite

enough to do to take care of my own little girls. You must work a

little more the following days."

"But if I am ill, as I was last week?... I am afraid it is not right."

"Oh! you won't be ill, and it is quite right. There are some splendid

pictures there, which you really ought to let Marietta see. Come!"

"Well then, I suppose I must, since it is right," said Madame Leroi,

smiling, as she looked at her daughter, whose countenance had changed

colour half-a-dozen, times in the course of a minute.

We may easily imagine what were the raptures of Marietta, how rapidly

her toilet was performed, and how perfect were the enjoyments of

the day. It is needless to expatiate on the delights of a dinner

spread upon the fresh grass, without cloth and without plates; on the

deliciousness of a salad gathered by one's own hands; or upon the

surpassing pleasure of running after every draught to rinse one's glass

in the clear fountain at the entrance of the garden. Marietta, always

affectionate when she was happy, kissed her mother fifty times in the

course of the day, and at night, notwithstanding her fatigue, the

pleasure of talking of these delights kept her so wakeful, that Madame

Leroi was almost obliged to scold her to make her go to bed. "You

forget," she said, "that for having afforded you this gratification,

I shall be obliged to get up at four o'clock for several successive

mornings."

"But you know, mamma," said Marietta, "that it was for my good; it was

absolutely necessary that I should see the pictures at Malmaison."

"And why, my child," inquired Madame Leroi, smiling, "must I prefer

your advantage to my own? Am I made for your use? Tell me, do you think

I belong to you?"

"Oh! mamma," said Marietta, embracing her, "do belong to me, I shall

be so delighted, since it is to do what will give me pleasure." And

Marietta went to sleep upon this idea, which added a new charm to her

dreams.

No mother, indeed, could have more completely belonged to her child

than Madame Leroi. She was the widow of a clerk, who had left her

unprovided for while Marietta was still an infant. It had never

occurred to her that she had any other object in life than to educate

her daughter, to render her an estimable member of society, and to

enable her to earn for herself a respectable livelihood. The education

of her child was her first object, and to it she sacrificed all the

advantages she might have derived from the exercise of her talents.

Madame Leroi was a skilful musician; in her youth, she had been

destined to teach singing and the harp, but, when eighteen years

old, her chest became so much weakened in consequence of an attack

of measles, that she was obliged to abandon this pursuit. She then

turned her attention to painting, which was natural enough, as her

father was an artist, and had given her lessons in her childhood. But

not long afterwards, she lost her father, and having such limited

means, she considered herself fortunate in marrying M. Leroi, a man

already advanced in years, and of an eccentric character, who would,

on no account, have consented that his wife should pass her time away

from home in giving lessons. As his income was sufficient for their

maintenance, she confined her occupations to the care of her household,

and to the cultivation of her mind, the better to prepare herself for

the education of any children she might be blessed with. After losing

two, she gave birth to Marietta, and from that time all her affections

were concentrated on this child. At the death of her husband, she found

herself once more without resources, or very nearly so, for M. Leroi

having had no idea of marrying until late in life, had sunk all his

savings in the purchase of an annuity, and since his marriage had not

been able to add anything of consequence to them. She now, therefore,

had to consider whether she should not resume the pursuit for which she

had been previously destined, but to do so it would be necessary to

abandon Marietta to the care of strangers, to give up all thoughts of

making her profit by the knowledge, the ideas, and the sentiments which

she had in a manner acquired expressly for her sake, and to suffer

the excellent tendencies which her maternal eye already detected, to

become perverted, or at least weakened. She considered that the point

of most consequence to her daughter's welfare, in the difficult path of

life, which she was probably destined to tread, was to be fortified,

at an early age, by the principles of a virtuous and solid education.

She therefore limited the exercise of her talents to the instruction of

Marietta, whose taste for music seemed to promise great success in that

art. "I shall have lived for her! I shall have made her happy!" she

would sometimes repeat to herself.

But meanwhile, it was necessary to live. She therefore endeavoured

to discover some sedentary occupation, which would enable her to

provide for their simple wants. She applied herself to tapestry, and

her knowledge of painting rendered her very successful in tracing

and shading every variety of design, whether of flowers, figures, or

landscape. Chance favoured her in this respect; she had soon as much

work as she could attend to, and was well paid for it, for her work was

very superior to that of ordinary hands, and, while affording her the

means of subsistence, it had the additional advantage of enabling her

to attend almost without interruption to the education of her daughter.

Marietta would sometimes say to her, "Mamma, when will you leave off

working so much?"

"When you are able to work for me," she replied. And if Marietta

happened to be in good humour, this answer made her run to her harp.

Marietta's tendencies varied within very wide limits. Though possessed

of an elevated character, and great tenderness of heart, she sometimes

yielded to fits of passion, and obstinacy, which rendered her a

totally different being from what she ordinarily was, and made her

wish to annoy her mother, as much as at other times she was anxious to

please her; so that one was alternately charmed by her natural love of

excellence, or indignant at her perversity. Nevertheless, by a mixture

of kindness and firmness, her mother had succeeded in subduing, to

a great degree, all that was harsh in her disposition, and the day

preceding the excursion to Malmaison was the last time Madame Leroi had

seriously to complain of her.

Still, the morning following this treat, on getting up she began to

feel the effects of the previous day's fatigue. She dressed listlessly,

threw herself into every chair which happened to be in her way, and

when the portress, who came up every day to do their household work,

knocked at the door, she rose so languidly to let her in, that one

might almost have said she was glued to her chair. Then, as if unable

any longer to support herself, she sank into a large arm-chair near the

door, and said to her mother:

"Indeed, mamma, if you really belonged to me, as you say you do, I

should certainly make you do all my work to-day."

"Oh! my child," replied her mother, in a half-serious, half-playful

tone; "I expect something much more fatiguing, which is to make you do

it yourself."

"Really, mamma, that will fatigue you very much!"

"You cannot think how tired I am, yet for all that I shall be obliged

to say to you, 'Marietta, go and open the door, or go and close the

window, or pick up my ball.'"

"Well, mamma, and is it you that will be fatigued by these things?"

"But think, Marietta, how cross you will be! Think how often I shall be

obliged to scold you, in order to make you do your duty; for you know

I must make you do it in order to fulfil my own: for although we have

been to Malmaison, we must nevertheless do our duty. What a day I shall

have! for you are not the girl to spare me in these things."

"And what makes you think that?" inquired Marietta, somewhat piqued.

"Oh! it would be all very well," replied Madame Leroi, "if you were

older, and had more sense; I should then say to you, 'My child, so long

as I was necessary to you, I devoted myself to you; now it is your

turn to devote yourself to me, and endeavour to be useful to me; do,

therefore, what I ask you, in order to spare me the trouble;' and you

would do it, for you would be reasonable."

Marietta immediately got up, put away her things so quickly, and

commenced her lessons with such a firm determination to overcome

her lassitude, that she soon quite forgot it. She carried out her

resolution bravely during the whole morning, and at all points. She

never once hesitated to get up the moment her mother required her to do

so, and even anticipated her commands and wishes as often as she could.

Noticing that Madame Leroi was looking for her footstool she was the

first to perceive it, and hastened to place it under her mother's feet.

On another occasion, when the ball of worsted had rolled to the farther

end of the room, Marietta was there as soon as it, and brought it back

to her mother, who said to her, smiling, "Indeed, Marietta, I shall be

tempted to believe, that to day it is _you_ who belong to _me_;" and

Marietta, full of joy, threw her arms round her mother's neck. However,

the moment after, having stumbled through a passage on the harp, she

became cross with her mother because she made her repeat it.

"Marietta," said Madame Leroi, "do not force me to remember that it is

_I_ who belong to _you_, and that if you persist I shall be obliged, in

spite of myself, to scold you."

Marietta immediately resumed her task, and this morning, which had

commenced so unfavourably, terminated without a cloud, and in the

happiest manner possible.

At their dinner, which was always very simple, they had two mutton

cutlets. "Mamma," said Marietta, "will you give me the one with a bone?"

"Certainly not, my child," replied her mother, "for you know that I

like it best; and," she added, smiling, "I have your interest too much

at heart to permit you to contract the bad habit of thus preferring

yourself to others."

"And yet, mamma, you pretend to belong to me."

"Oh! my child, I know my duty too well to allow you to abuse my

devotion:" and she helped herself to the cutlet.

"Well," said Marietta, "you profit by it, at all events."

"Certainly," replied Madame Leroi, in the same strain; "there is

nothing like doing one's duty." Marietta shook her head; but she was

too well satisfied with herself this day to feel any temptation to be

out of humour, and when, soon afterwards, while eating their half-pound

of cherries, Madame Leroi only took two or three, saying, that she did

not care for them, Marietta easily understood that it was only because

she wished to leave more for her.

In the afternoon, a friend came to pay them a visit; he was old and

uninteresting, and remained the entire evening, much to the annoyance

of Marietta, who was so completely rested from the fatigues of the

previous day, by her morning's labour, that she was very anxious for a

walk: she, therefore, ventured some hints upon the subject, but they

were instantly checked by the severe looks of her mother, while the

deafness of M. Lebrun prevented him from noticing them. Poor Marietta

therefore endeavoured to be patient, and settled herself down as well

as she could. "Mamma," she said, as soon as their visitor was gone,

"has M. Lebrun amused you very much?"

"No, my child, but he is a man to whom I owe respect; he has come a

great distance, and on no account would I have shortened his visit."

"Well, then, mamma," replied Marietta, with a confident air, though

with a heavy sigh, "I am, at all events, glad to find that there are

some things which you can do contrary to my interests; for most

assuredly it was not to do me a service, that you deprived me of my

walk, a thing beneficial to my health."

"Ah, my child! you little think how much it was to your interest that I

did not take you for a walk to-day."

"Come, mamma, let me see how you will prove that."

"You will not die in consequence; at least I trust not; consider, then,

how injurious it would have been to your education had I granted a

request which you ought not to have made, for you must allow that you

ought not to have asked, or even wished me to be in any manner wanting

in respect towards M. Lebrun."

"Very well, mamma, I see that you find duties on all sides, which

oblige you to contradict me."

"And make yourself quite easy, my dear child," said her mother, patting

her cheek caressingly, "I will not fail in a single one."

Marietta pouted a little, though with a smile; the good conduct of the

morning guaranteed that of the evening.

The following day she accompanied her mother, to purchase some dresses

which they required. They were first shown two remnants exactly

similar, which were very cheap, and contained sufficient to make

Marietta a dress, with a jacket for the winter, leaving besides a good

deal for mending. Marietta was greatly tempted by another piece, very

much prettier, but as it did not seem that Madame Leroi's dress could

be got out of the two remnants, it was necessary that she should be

contented to take them for her share. While she was vainly exerting

her eloquence, to induce the draper to let her have a dress cut from

the pretty piece at the same price as the remnants, Madame Leroi, by

dint of measuring and calculating had come to the conclusion, that by

joining the sleeves, and by making a plain dress instead of a pelisse

as she had at first intended, the remnants would answer for her, and

she could thus leave the other for her daughter. Marietta at first

opposed this arrangement, but at length allowed her scruples to be

overcome, and full of joy carried off her pretty dress under her arm,

opening the paper every moment on her way back to have a peep at it.

When, on reaching home, she spread it out upon her bed to admire

it, and allow the portress to do so too, she cast her eyes upon her

mother's remnants, and sighed; then seating herself upon Madame Leroi's

knees, and throwing her arms around her neck,--"Mamma," she said, in

a somewhat saddened tone, "was it also for the sake of duty that you

allowed me to have the pretty dress?"

"No, my darling," replied her mother, tenderly embracing her, "it was

for my pleasure." And Marietta, her heart beating with delight, yielded

without restraint to the happiness she felt in the acquisition of her

new dress, for she saw that the more it was admired, the greater was

her mother's satisfaction at having made this sacrifice for her.

In proportion as Marietta increased in sense, she perceived more

clearly that, if it be the joy of a mother to sacrifice herself for

her children, it is her duty to teach them not to abuse her kindness;

and being at length persuaded that her mother contradicted her only

when she was obliged to do so, she exerted herself to spare her

this necessity, and succeeded so well, that their mutual confidence

increased daily, and they were almost like two friends.

However, when about fourteen years of age, Marietta having grown very

fast, fell into a kind of languor, which made her sad and fretful.

Although she had acquired sufficient self-control to overcome some

portion of her irritability, there still remained quite enough to

exercise the affectionate indulgence of Madame Leroi, who, fearing to

excite to a dangerous degree the irritable disposition of her daughter,

displayed the utmost patience in bringing her back to reason; and

Marietta, when her better feelings returned, was almost ready to adore

her mother for her condescension.

One day, Madame Thibourg happened to be present at one of these

outbursts of temper. She began by reasoning with Marietta; then

becoming provoked by her asperity, and unreasonableness, and the tone

which she assumed towards her mother, who was endeavouring to quiet

her, she ended by telling her a few severe truths, which threw Marietta

into such a state of excitement, that she rushed out of the room with

cries and tears, and almost in convulsions. Her mother, who went to

seek her after the departure of Madame Thibourg, found her still

trembling, but calm, and deeply ashamed of what had taken place; though

she endeavoured to excuse herself by urging that Madame Thibourg had

taken a pleasure in pushing her to extremities.

"She took pleasure, my child," replied her mother, "in proving to

you, that she was right and that you were wrong. You wished to do the

same with regard to her; and even supposing that you both considered

yourselves right, was it not your place to yield?"

"Oh, mamma! that is not how you act towards me," said Marietta, melting

into tears at the conviction of her error, for at that moment she

remembered all her mother's kindness.

"My child," said Madame Leroi, "it is because I belong to you that I

ought to sacrifice every personal feeling, rather than cause you a

single emotion capable of injuring your character, or your health; but

tell me, Marietta, do you think there is any one else in the world who

belongs to you, except your mother?"

Deeply moved, and still excited by the scene which had just occurred,

Marietta threw herself, sobbing, into her mother's arms. "Oh,

mamma!" she exclaimed; "it is you who treat me with indulgence and

consideration, you to whom I ought always to yield more than to any one

else."

"Yes, my child, you ought to do so, and you will do so. What I

sacrifice to you now, you will return to me one day with interest.

Be calm, my dear child, be calm; your mother has patience enough

to wait for you." Marietta vowed in her heart to devote herself to

the happiness of her mother, and consoled by her gentle words, she

gradually returned to her ordinary state of feeling. From that day,

also, she laboured with increased diligence to overcome her faults,

and, with her mother's assistance, succeeded in obtaining an almost

complete self-control. But she became daily more thin and melancholy,

and at last the physician declared, that unless she had country air he

could not answer for her life.

This was a terrible sentence for Madame Leroi, whose slender funds were

already well nigh exhausted in the purchase of the necessary remedies

for her daughter. Madame Thibourg, to whom she related her grief and

embarrassment, proposed that they should hire in common a small country

house at Saint Mandé, which she knew was to be let for six hundred

francs. "We shall easily," she said, "save the hundred crowns it will

cost us each, by the advantage of living in common." Madame Leroi,

however, knew very well that her expenses would be quite as heavy, to

say the least, in living with Madame Thibourg, who was better off, and

less economical, than herself; but, too happy to discover any practical

means of overcoming her difficulty, she trusted to make up for any

additional expense that might be necessary, by working harder, and now

only thought of procuring the hundred crowns, which it was necessary to

pay in advance, for the hire of the house. For this purpose she sold

her coverlet of eider-down, together with four beautiful engravings

which ornamented her room, and she made up the remainder of the sum, as

well as what was necessary for the expenses of the journey, with the

money destined for the purchase of a stove to be placed in the little

room where they usually took their meals, for as she would not admit

into her sitting-room anything likely to soil her work, and was very

sensitive to the cold, she was obliged in the winter to take her meals

in the kitchen, where the fumes of the charcoal frequently gave her

headaches, and pains in the chest.

These arrangements, which could not be concealed from Marietta,

gave her great annoyance. She had become excessively sensitive on

all points, and notwithstanding her ardent desire to go into the

country, the sale of the coverlet of eider-down, which she knew to be

so necessary to her mother's comfort, threw her into such a fit of

despair, that Madame Leroi was obliged to remonstrate with her, even

with some degree of severity, in order to bring her to herself. "Do

you forget, Marietta," she said, "that it is your duty to endeavour

to regain your health and strength, in order that you may one day be

useful to me."

This idea had a beneficial effect, by diverting her thoughts towards

other objects. She busied herself in preparations for their departure,

with an alacrity and zeal which revived a ray of joy and hope in her

mother's breast; and, indeed, scarcely were they beyond the barriers of

the city, than she seemed to regain new life; and at the end of a week,

after their arrival in the country, she was hardly to be recognized for

the same person, to such an extent had that thin and pallid form, which

before seemed ready to sink into the grave, regained the freshness

and vigour of health. Madame Leroi, her eyes filled with tears of

happiness, was never weary of looking at her; and the eyes of Marietta

constantly sought those of her mother, as if to confirm the hope that

gave her this happiness. With health returned the cheerfulness and

buoyancy natural to her years, accompanied by an energy of purpose

which enabled her to accomplish whatever she undertook. As her judgment

was remarkably developed, she employed the new powers, which she felt

rising within her, in the attainment of those acquirements of which

she stood in need, and of those qualities in which she was deficient.

The devoted tenderness of her mother had made upon her, especially of

late, an impression so profound, that she was tormented with the desire

of being able, in her turn, to consecrate to her all her faculties.

With this thought ever before her, she applied herself with a kind

of passion to regain, in her studies, the time she had lost through

her illness; and the pleasure of satisfying her mother was, besides,

the daily recompense of her efforts. Nevertheless, when the smiles

and words of Madame Leroi expressed this satisfaction, "It is all

very well, mamma," she would say, with a kind of impatience; "you are

pleased, but it is for my sake, and because you think the progress I

make is advantageous to me. When shall I be able to do something solely

for you?"

"Patience!" replied her mother; smiling, "I promise you the time will

come."

"May it come speedily, then!" continued Marietta, with an eager

sigh; and she applied herself to her labours with redoubled energy.

She also endeavoured, with great care, to regain the good opinion

of Madame Thibourg, which she had forfeited by the late display of

temper, of which that lady had been a witness; for young people know

not the injury they do themselves when they give way to their faults

in the presence of strangers, who can only judge of them by what they

casually see, and who, in consequence, often receive an impression very

unfavourable to them, and very difficult to be removed. At first Madame

Thibourg was prejudiced against her, and attributed to her faults

which she did not possess. Marietta was amazed at this, but her mother

explained to her the cause of the injustice.

"Well, if she is unjust," said Marietta, with the natural pride of her

age, "so much the worse for her."

"No, my child! so much the worse for you, since it is your fault

that has made her so. Had you not been the cause of this injustice,

by appearing before her in an unfavourable light, you need not have

troubled yourself about it, provided you bore it with gentleness; but

since you have caused it, you ought to endeavour to remove it."

After a few outbursts of impetuosity, which her naturally hasty

disposition led her to indulge in, but which her good sense always

overcame in the end, she perceived the truth of her mother's words,

and strove so earnestly to watch her temper, that in a short time

she gained such a complete mastery over her feelings, that she could

barely be reproached with an occasional momentary irritability, which

a look or a word from her mother was always sufficient to repress.

Sometimes, even, Madame Leroi only cast down her eyes, when Marietta,

warned by this movement, instantly recollected herself, and with

charming grace and frankness hastened to repair the incipient fault; so

that in the opinion of Madame Thibourg, as well as in that of all who

knew her, Marietta, after a residence of some eight or nine months at

Saint-Mandé, was in every respect so completely changed for the better,

that she was scarcely to be recognised for the same person. At this

time she was nearly sixteen years of age.

They returned to Paris at the commencement of the winter, Madame

Thibourg not wishing to pass it in the country, and the bad weather

rendering more inconvenient the journeys which Madame Leroi was obliged

to make to town to obtain or return work, especially as they had often

to be made on foot. These journeys, too fatiguing for her at all times,

had already injured her health; the winter, which was very severe, laid

her up completely. Marietta, persuaded that the loss of the coverlet

of eider-down contributed to her mother's sufferings, was sometimes

seized with a sort of feverish impatience, at seeing so long delayed

the time when she should be able to add to her comforts, and her only

consolation was to apply to her studies with redoubled energy. The

spring was cold and late; their provision of wood had come to an end.

Madame Leroi, who had been prevented by the state of her health from

working as much as she wished during the winter, and was not willing to

get into debt, pretended to be able to do without a fire; but Marietta,

who saw her suffering, wept with vexation and anxiety when, on opening

her window each morning, she found the weather as cold as on the

previous day. She would have been very glad if her mother would have

allowed her to assist her; but although she worked very fairly, Madame

Leroi, who did not wish her to waste her time in becoming a proficient

in this kind of work, was afraid to trust her, and always sent her

back to her studies, saying, "Never mind, Marietta, you will have time

enough to work for me by-and-by."

One day, when Madame Leroi had been obliged to lie down on account of a

violent head-ache, an order came for a piece of tapestry, intended to

replace a similar piece of her execution, which the fall of a lamp had

covered with oil. The chair corresponding to the one spoiled was also

brought, in order that the latter might be covered exactly like it.

Marietta received the order, and promised that it should be executed

by the next week, as it was much wanted; and, trembling with a thought

which had just occurred to her, she carefully put away all the things

in a place where her mother could not find them.

Madame Leroi, being asleep at the moment, had heard nothing of all

this. Marietta flew to the box where her mother kept her silks, and

with a transport of joy discovered, as she had expected, all that

was necessary for her undertaking. An old frame, which she had often

noticed, was removed from the attic, with the assistance of the

portress, who was taken into her confidence, and who lent her for her

work an empty room of which she had the key, and before Madame Leroi

awoke, the frame was set up, the chair placed in front of it, and

her needle threaded. The following morning as soon as it was light,

Marietta, awakened by her impatience, slipped away without any noise

and commenced her work. The two hours during which she usually walked

out with Madame Thibourg and her daughters, were consecrated to the

same labour, Marietta, however, merely informing them of her desire to

surprise her mother by an unexpected talent, and carefully avoiding

all allusion to the privations she was so anxious to save her, and of

which Madame Thibourg was to remain ignorant. For the first few days,

the harp suffered somewhat from Marietta's preoccupation, for while

repeating her difficult passages, she thought only of the assortment of

her silks, but at last she triumphed over her difficulties. As it was

only necessary to copy, and as Marietta, like all persevering persons,

possessed that love of excellence which is not to be repelled by any

difficulty, her first attempt was completely successful, and on the

seventh day, the portress, Madame Thibourg and her daughters, assembled

in consultation, decided that the copy could not be distinguished from

the original. The portress was immediately commissioned to take home

the work, and to receive its price, which was destined for the purchase

of half-a-load of wood.

The following morning, while Madame Leroi was still in bed, Marietta,

who that day felt inexpressible joy that the weather was even colder

than usual, noiselessly arranged the wood in the fire-place, whilst

the portress, almost as pleased as herself, brought a large pan of

burning charcoal. Madame Leroi, awakened by the crackling of the flame,

inquired what it was, and scolded Marietta for having, as she imagined,

bought a faggot. "A faggot indeed!" exclaimed the portress, proudly.

"Come into your kitchen, Madame Leroi, and see whether there are any

faggots of that kind;" and Marietta, opening her mother's curtains,

displayed to her a fire such as she had not seen for two months before;

then, without answering her questions, she threw a dress over her

mother's shoulders, and made her accompany her into the kitchen, where

the kind portress had already arranged the half-load of wood. She

then led her back to the fire-side, and, in a voice broken by joyful

emotions, related to her what she had done.

"Dear child!" said her mother, placing her hand on her shoulder. She

could say no more. Marietta took her hand, and, with an earnest and

animated voice, said, "Dear mamma, now, at last, it is I who belong to

you."

"Yes, my child," said Madame Leroi, with deep emotion, "I take

possession. Your time has come, Marietta; it is now your turn to devote

yourself to your mother." And Marietta, kneeling before her, kissed her

hands in a delirium of joy impossible to be described.

From that day, she assisted her mother without encroaching on her other

studies; her strength and activity were equal to everything, for their

source lay in an inexhaustible affection. At the age of eighteen, she

was in a condition to give lessons; indeed, for some time previously,

she had exercised herself successfully in teaching Madame Thibourg's

youngest daughter. Her first regular pupils were in a ladies' school,

but by degrees her connexions extended, and she taught in private

families of respectability. At the beginning, the portress accompanied

her to her pupils, and also went for her; but in time, her great

prudence, her modesty, and the reserved and somewhat distant deportment

which the consciousness of her position induced, satisfied Madame Leroi

that she might go alone without any inconvenience, an arrangement which

permitted her to take more pupils. She was soon able to earn sufficient

to cover their household expenses, and when on her return home she

found her mother a little fatigued, she would take the work out of her

hands, saying, "Since it is now my turn to work for you, you must obey

my wishes." The health of Madame Leroi grew daily worse. "It is all the

same to me," she would sometimes say. "Marietta has to keep well for

me;" and at such moments Marietta, with indescribable joy, felt rising

within her the consciousness of her youth and vigour.

An advantageous offer of marriage was made to her, but it was a

marriage which would have separated her from her mother, deprived her

of the pleasure of working for her, and deprived Madame Leroi of the

interest and happiness which she experienced in the society of her

daughter. Fortunately, the subject was first broached to Marietta

herself, who begged that nothing might be said about it to her mother,

as she felt persuaded that Madame Leroi would not consent to the

rejection of such an offer. Having given her refusal, she then informed

her mother of what she had done, and, seeing her deeply grieved, and

indeed, almost angry, she knelt before her, and said with affectionate

earnestness, "My dear mother, there is but one privilege in the world

which I have to beg of you, and that is, that you will let me continue

to belong to you."

"Go! Marietta," replied her mother, with a sigh; "be happy in your own

way;" nevertheless, the remembrance of this sacrifice long continued to

pain her.

Some time afterwards, mention was made, in Marietta's presence, of an

officer whose wounds had compelled him to retire from the service,

though still under thirty years of age. His left arm had been shot

off, his right leg broken, and although it had been set, it left him

lame, and caused him a great deal of pain. Such an accumulation of

evils had destroyed the natural attractions of his person. Resigned,

but melancholy at seeing his career so early closed, he devoted himself

to solitude, and even refused to marry, considering as he said, that

he was but a poor present to offer to a woman. Marietta, whose cast of

thought rendered her susceptible to every generous sentiment, replied

with vivacity, "That for all that, to entrust to a woman's keeping

the entire happiness of her husband, was to make her a very noble

present." These words were repeated to M. de Luxeuil, the officer in

question, and the remarks added, relative to the character of Marietta,

made him curious to learn more about her. On hearing that she had

consecrated her life to the happiness of her mother, it occurred to

him that to aid her in this task would be a means of obtaining her

gratitude and affection. The person who had spoken of her, and who had

not done so without design, penetrated his thoughts, and took care to

encourage them, and in fact, managed so well, that from first feeling

a pleasure in hearing of Marietta, he began to wish that Marietta

should also hear of him, and at last ended by believing that it might

not be impossible for him to render her happy. In short, the proposal

was made, and accepted with mingled feelings of joy and gratitude,

and immediately after his marriage, M. de Luxeuil conducted his wife

and mother-in-law to his country residence, situated about thirty

leagues from Paris. On arriving, he immediately led Madame Leroi to

the apartment destined for her use, and Marietta's first movement, on

entering it, was to give a look of grateful affection to her husband,

for all the care he had taken to render it convenient and pleasant.

The remainder of the house was visited with feelings of gratitude,

which every moment became more intense. In the drawing-room, in the

dining-room, the place reserved for Madame Leroi's easy chair was

always the one most likely to be agreeable to her. The greatest care

had been taken that in all the details of their daily life, every thing

should be conformable to her health, her tastes, and her habits. "My

friends!" she said, with emotion, to her son-in-law and daughter, "I

see that you have already talked a great deal about me."

Marietta was truly happy, and for M. de Luxeuil commenced a felicity

such as he had never hoped for, nor even thought of. It has but

increased with time. Formed by their mutual virtues for a union which

every day renders more intimate, and constantly more grateful for the

happiness they mutually bestow, they have arrived at that point of

felicity which leaves no pain, beyond the fear of its being disturbed.

As for Madame Leroi, she is scarcely able to bear the twofold affection

of which she is the object. "Let me alone!" she sometimes says,

playfully, "How can you expect me to bear two happinesses at once?"

THE DIFFICULT DUTY.

MORAL DOUBTS.

Monsieur de Flaumont one day said to his children:--"I am going to

relate to you a circumstance which has come to my knowledge, in order

that you may give me your opinion on it."

Henry, Clementine, and Gustavus hastened to take their seats near him,

when he related what follows:--

"A workman named Paul, the father of several children, who were

dependent on his industry, was walking by the side of a very rapid

river, then greatly swollen by recent rains. The water formed a

whirlpool under one of the arches of a neighbouring bridge, and drew

into it, with a great deal of noise, the remains of a boat laden

with planks, which it had already dashed to pieces. Paul gazed upon

the torrent and thought, 'If I were to fall into it, I should have

some difficulty in getting out again.' Yet Paul was an excellent

swimmer, and had even saved the lives of several persons who had been

near drowning in that very river; but at that moment the danger was

so great, that in spite of his natural courage, he felt there was

sufficient cause for fear. Then his thoughts reverted to his children,

who were entirely dependent upon him for support: to his eldest boy, a

lad of some twelve years of age, who promised to be a good workman,

but who, if deprived of his father, would have no one to instruct or

protect him. He thought of his daughter, whom he hoped soon to be able

to apprentice out, and of his little one just weaned, whom his sister

took care of, for the children had lost their mother. It was delightful

to him to reflect how neat and clean they were kept; how well fed

they were, and what good health they enjoyed; and he said, 'All this

would be greatly changed were I taken home dead!' and, so saying, he

involuntarily withdrew from the river's edge, as if there were really

some danger of his being dragged into the water. As he walked on, he

observed upon the bridge a man bearing on his shoulders a bundle of old

iron rails. He was looking into the water, and watching a plank on the

point of passing under the bridge. He bent over to see if it cleared

the arch well, but, leaning too far, his head turned giddy, the load

on his shoulders threw him off his balance, and he was precipitated

into the water, uttering a fearful cry. Paul also uttered a cry of

distress, for he felt himself chained to the shore by the remembrance

of his children, while his kind feelings made him anxious to aid the

unfortunate being whom he beheld on the brink of destruction. He

looked around him with inexpressible anguish, and perceiving a long

pole, he seized hold of it, and endeavoured, by advancing into the

water, without losing his footing, to push a plank to the unfortunate

man, who was trying to swim towards him. But all in vain; the torrent

was furious, and after a few efforts, the poor wretch sank, rose

again to the surface, and then disappeared altogether. Paul remained

motionless at the side of the river, with his eyes fixed on the spot

where the miserable man had been engulfed. He continued there until

it became quite dark, then returned home, a prey to the most intense

melancholy, but still saying to himself, 'I do not think I have done

wrong.' For several days he refused food; sleep fled from his eyes,

and he scarcely spoke to any one. His neighbours, seeing him in this

condition, inquired the cause, and he told them. The greater part

considered that he had done right, some few were of a contrary opinion,

but he himself always said, 'Still, I do not think I have acted

wrong.'--What is your opinion, my children?"

CLEMENTINE.--Certainly, he did quite right, to preserve his life for

the sake of his children.

HENRY.--Oh! yes! that is a most convenient excuse for not doing one's

duty.

GUSTAVUS.--But he owed nothing to this man who was so clumsy as to fall

into the water: he did not even know him.

HENRY.--Papa has always told us that we ought to do all the good we can

to our fellow-creatures; and Paul might at least have tried to save the

poor man: he was not sure of perishing with him.

CLEMENTINE.--Oh! but it was very likely.

HENRY.--There would be great merit, certainly, in doing courageous

deeds, if we were quite sure there was no danger in them!

M. DE FLAUMONT.--But, consider my boy, that by exposing himself to the

danger, which was very great, and in which he would in all probability

have perished, he also exposed his children to the risk of dying of

hunger, or of becoming rogues, for the want of an honest means of

obtaining a living. Do you not think this a consideration of sufficient

importance to counterbalance the desire he felt to save the drowning

man?

HENRY.--Perhaps so, papa,--but it is nevertheless certain, that we hold

a man who courageously exposes his life to save a fellow-being in far

higher estimation than we do one who so carefully calculates all the

reasons that can be found for not doing so.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That is quite natural: the courage of the man who

performs a brave deed is self-evident; whereas, we cannot be so sure

of the motives of him who refuses to perform one. But, supposing it

to be clearly proved that Paul really wished to throw himself into the

water to save this man, and was only withheld by the interests of his

children, do you not think he merited esteem rather than reproach?

HENRY.--One thing, at least, is certain: I should not have liked to be

in his position.

CLEMENTINE.--It would certainly be a most difficult matter to know what

to do.

GUSTAVUS.--Well, and while you were reflecting, the poor man would be

still in the water; and so it would come to the same thing.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Hesitation is undoubtedly the very thing that should

be most avoided in such a case, for it prevents all action; and for

this reason it is that we ought to accustom ourselves to reflect upon

the relative importance of our duties, in order to know which of them

ought to take precedence.

HENRY.--But when there happen to be two of equal importance?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That can never be the case; for we are never called

upon to do impossibilities. Do you think, for example, that Paul could

at one and the same moment, throw himself into the water, and _not_

throw himself into it?

GUSTAVUS, _laughing_.--That would, indeed, be an impossibility.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Do you think, then, that he could be obliged to

perform an action, and at the same time to do what would render that

action impossible?

HENRY.--Certainly not.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--It is, then, quite evident, that if it was his duty

to perform one of these actions, he ought to have put aside everything

calculated to interfere with it; even what would be a duty under other

circumstances.

CLEMENTINE.--And you think, papa, do you not, that the duty of

providing for one's children ought to take precedence of every other?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--No, not of every other, certainly. The first of all

duties is to be an honest man, to do no wrong to any one, never to

betray the interest committed to one's charge.

CLEMENTINE.--But the interests of one's children are surely committed

to one's charge.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--But we are first of all responsible for the interests

of our own probity, for no one can be charged with these but ourselves.

The first thing prescribed to us is, not to be unjust to others; but we

are not necessarily unjust to them when we do not render them all the

assistance they require; and though the drowning man stood in need of

Paul's assistance, it was not an injustice in him to withhold it, for

the sake of his children.

HENRY.--Because his children had need of it also. But, papa, according

to this argument, neither would it have been an injustice not to do for

his children all the good they stood in need of; for he was not more

necessary to them than he was to the drowning man, who had no one but

him to look to for assistance.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Certainly not; but do you think it possible to do good

to every one?

GUSTAVUS.--To do that, we should have to pass our days in running about

the streets, in order to assist all the poor.

CLEMENTINE.--Or even wander over the earth to discover those who might

require our aid, and spend our whole fortunes in doing so.

HENRY.--This, certainly, is a point which has often puzzled me.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--It is because you have not considered that each

man, forming but a very small portion of the world, can be specially

trusted with only a very small portion of the good to be done in it.

Were it otherwise, it would be impossible to do any good at all;

for if every one wanted to do everything, there would be nothing but

confusion. Each one must therefore endeavour to discover for himself

what is the portion of good he is naturally expected to do. Thus, even

if it were not a duty of justice to make the existence and well-being

of our children our first care, still it would be a duty of reason,

since it would be absurd to neglect the good we might accomplish in

our own homes, for the sake of going elsewhere to do good. This duty,

therefore, we must first of all fulfil, and afterwards consider what

means are left for the accomplishment of any others which may present

themselves; such as kindness and devotion towards those who have no

other claim upon us, than that of standing in need of our aid.

HENRY.--Notwithstanding all that, papa, I shall always find it

difficult to understand, that because a man has children who require

his protection, he must therefore give up the idea of assisting others

if, by so doing, he exposes himself to danger.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--You are right not to understand it, for it is not

true. We can, and we certainly ought, even in that case, to expose

ourselves to a moderate danger for the sake of a great good. Thus, for

example, if the river had been tranquil, or even had there been only a

considerable probability of escape, Paul would have done wrong not to

throw himself into the water.

CLEMENTINE.--But, papa, since he might still have perished, he would

still have exposed himself to the danger of failing in his duty towards

his children.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Undoubtedly; but would he not also incur great risk

of losing an opportunity of saving a fellow-being, when, to all

appearance, he might have done so without injuring his children?

CLEMENTINE.--Yes; and now the case becomes again embarrassing.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--It is under such circumstances that duties may be

compared and weighed one against the other. But if you were assured,

that by exposing your children to some slight inconvenience,--such, for

example, as being worse fed or clothed for a time,--you would thereby

save the life of another, do you not think that you ought to do so?

CLEMENTINE.--Certainly.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Impossible as it is for us to discover what will

be the result of things subjected to chance, we ought I think to

lean to that side which seems to offer the greatest probability of

producing the greatest good, and to regard a slight danger as a slight

inconvenience, to which we subject our children in order to secure to

another a very great advantage. Are you satisfied, Henry?

HENRY.--Well, papa, I shall try to become very expert, so that the

danger may always be slight.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That is quite right; but now let me conclude my story.

CLEMENTINE.--What! is it not finished?

GUSTAVUS.--Oh, go on, then, papa.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Paul, as I have already told you, had the utmost

difficulty in overcoming his distress. He sometimes said to himself,

"The river was not so very much swollen; I took fright too easily;

we might both have escaped;" and he had not the courage to return to

the side of that river,--he preferred making wide circuits in order

to avoid going near it. He often heard of persons being drowned while

bathing in this river, a thing by no means unusual; for those who did

not know it well, imprudently ventured too near the whirlpool under the

arch, and were ingulfed. At these times, Paul's conscience smote him,

and he felt almost degraded. But what was most singular was, that his

last adventure had given him a dread of the water--he who had hitherto

been so courageous; but he constantly thought, "It would be a terrible

thing, if, now that I have done so much for my children, I were to be

taken away from them;" and thus he avoided every danger with extreme

care. He scarcely seemed to be the same man, so timid and cautious had

he become. His neighbours said among themselves, "How extraordinary!

Paul has become a coward!" and they imagined that it was from fear

that he had not plunged into the water. In other respects, he was more

industrious than ever, and lost no opportunity of putting his children

in a condition to earn their own living, as if he was afraid of dying

before the completion of his task. He succeeded in bringing them up

remarkably well. His eldest son became a clever workman, and was about

to marry and establish himself in another town; his daughter became the

wife of a shopkeeper with a good trade; and the schoolmaster of the

town, who became attached to the youngest boy, because he was diligent

in his studies, requested his father to allow him, when fifteen years

of age, to aid him in the duties of his school, and promised, if he

conducted himself well, to give it up to him in the course of a few

years.

The day on which Paul had established his son with the schoolmaster,

and on which he could consequently say that his children no longer

stood in need of his assistance, that they would no longer be exposed

to misery if he were taken from them, he felt his mind relieved from a

heavy burden, and in the joy which he experienced, he seemed to have

recovered all the courage which for twelve years had deserted him; for

twelve years had now elapsed since the occurrence of the accident which

had rendered him so unhappy. He left his work at an earlier hour than

usual, and went for a solitary ramble. For the first time these twelve

years he directed his steps towards the river, recalling to mind the

different persons whom he had saved from it, before the fatal day which

had deprived him of his daring. It was an autumn evening; the weather

was dull and cold; the river, swollen by the rains, was agitated by a

violent wind, and appeared in much the same condition as when he had

last beheld it. He approached, and considered it attentively. "The

river is much swollen," he said; "nevertheless, if I were to throw

myself into it to-day, I am sure I should escape;" and he said this

because, having no longer the dread of failing in his duty to his

children, he did not think of the danger, but only of the means of

overcoming it. On raising his eyes mechanically towards the bridge,

to the spot whence he had seen the poor man whom he had been unable

to aid, fall, he saw, as it was not yet dark, some one approach the

parapet, who appeared to him a very young man. This young man stood

gazing at the water for some time, and all the while Paul kept his eye

fixed upon him. At last, seeing him climb the parapet, and observing

him totter, he cried out, "You will fall," but at the same moment the

young man took a spring and dashed into the water. Paul, as if he had a

presentiment of what would happen, had already his hand upon his coat;

he tore it off, dashed it from him, and was in the river almost as soon

as the young man, and, swimming towards the spot where he had seen him

fall, he endeavoured to catch him before he reached the whirlpool,

where he knew they must both perish. He reached him while he was still

struggling under the water: he plunged; but by a movement natural to

those who are drowning, even when they drown themselves intentionally,

the young man seized hold of him, grasping his legs so tightly, that

he prevented his swimming. They must both have perished, had not Paul

happily succeeded in disengaging one of his legs, with which he gave

the other such a violent kick, that he was forced to relax his hold.

Paul then seized him by the hair, and remounted to the surface of the

water. The young man was insensible, but Paul dragged him on while

swimming with one hand. At that moment the wind was terrible, and with

it was mingled a violent rain, which intercepted his sight. The wind

and the current of the river hurried them towards the whirlpool. He

redoubled his efforts: he felt animated by an extraordinary vigour. At

last, he succeeded in escaping the danger, reached the bank, landed,

and they were saved.

[Illustration: The Difficult Duty, p. 148.]

The young man was like one dead, but Paul, who had saved many persons

from a watery grave, knew what were the means to be adopted in order

to restore him to life. He carried him to the foot of a large tree,

the dense foliage of which sheltered them from the rain, and rendered

him every assistance which the circumstances permitted. He succeeded

in restoring him in some degree, and the moment he heard him breathe,

he placed him on his shoulders, and bore him with all possible speed

to his own house, where, by dint of care, the young man completely

recovered his senses. He was about seventeen years of age, and seemed

wasted away by want and illness. As soon as he was able to speak, Paul

asked him what had induced him to throw himself into the river. The

young man, who was named André, replied that it was want and despair.

He stated, that twelve years before, his father, who was a travelling

blacksmith, had been drowned by accident, as it was supposed, in that

same river, his body having been discovered there some days after.

Paul shuddered while he listened to this recital, but said nothing.

André went on to state that up to the age of ten, he had lived with his

mother, who provided for him as well as she could by her labour, but

that, having lost her, he endeavoured to gain a living for himself by

working whenever he could find employment. Sometimes at the harvest,

sometimes at the barns, sometimes in assisting the masons; that he had

endured great hardships, and often wanted food; that, at last, he had

fallen ill, and on leaving the hospital, while still convalescent,

having neither home, nor money, nor employment, he had been obliged to

sleep in the fields, and to pass two whole days without food, so that

he felt completely exhausted; that finally, towards the close of

the second day, happening to be upon the bridge, from which it was said

that his father had fallen, and, feeling unable to proceed farther,

and impelled by despair, he had thrown himself into the water. While

listening to this recital, Paul mentally exclaimed, "Since I have saved

this man, I might have saved the other also;" but then he thought,

"We might both have perished, and then my children would have been as

destitute as André." He was greatly rejoiced at having been able to

save André, and determined, after this new trial of his strength, never

again to fear the water nor the swelling of the river, especially now

that he was no longer necessary to his children.

However, he could not carry his good resolutions into effect, for the

following day he was seized with a violent fever, accompanied by severe

pains in all his limbs. On coming out of the river, intent only on

restoring André, he had not been able to dry himself, and, indeed, he

had not even thought of doing so; thus the damp clothes he had kept

so long about him had brought on an attack of rheumatic gout. For the

next two days he grew worse and worse, and his life was despaired of.

He had moments of delirium, during which he was tormented by anxiety

for his children, but when his senses returned he remembered that they

were well provided for, and appeared truly happy. Notwithstanding his

sufferings, André, who gradually regained his strength, tended him

with the greatest assiduity, and wept beside his bed when he beheld

him getting worse. Paul did not die; but he continued subject to

pains, which sometimes entirely deprived him of the use of his limbs.

"Ah!" he would sometimes exclaim, when a sharp pain shot through an

arm or a leg; "if I had become like this before I had provided for my

children!" André, whom he had kept with him, and who was intelligent

and well-disposed, learned his trade sufficiently to assist him when he

was able to work, and to work under his direction when he was ill. The

shop continued to prosper, and his business was even increased by the

interest taken both in himself and André, and when speaking of André's

father, he would say, "Poor fellow! may God receive his soul; but I am

sure he has forgiven me, for he has seen that I could not have acted

otherwise."

M. de Flaumont ceased, and the children waited for a moment in silence,

to see if the story was ended.

"Oh!" said Henry, at length, with a heavy sigh, "I am glad the story

has ended thus."

CLEMENTINE.--Yes! but think of poor Paul remaining a martyr to

rheumatism!

GUSTAVUS.--Most assuredly his good action was not too well rewarded.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--He received such a reward as ought to be expected

for a good action--the consciousness of having done well. This is its

natural recompense, and this recompense is quite independent of the

consequences which may otherwise result from it.

CLEMENTINE.--Nevertheless, it is painful to see an honest man suffering

from having performed a good action.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--But it would have been far more painful if he had done

wrong. Would you have preferred his leaving André to perish?

CLEMENTINE.--Oh! certainly not.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--It was even possible that Paul might have died. Even

in that case, could one have regretted his exposing his life to save

André?

HENRY (_with animation_).--No, certainly not: that could not be

regretted.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That proves to you that the reward, as I have said,

is quite independent of the consequences. Thus, for instance, if a

workman had executed a piece of work for a person who refused to pay

him: you would regret that he had done the work, because the payment is

the natural recompense of his toil; whereas, you would never think of

regretting that a man had performed a generous action, even though it

turned out badly for him, because you would feel that he was rewarded

by the action itself.

After all, my children, added M. de Flaumont, do not think that virtue

is always so difficult. Our true duties are usually placed within our

reach, so that they may be performed without much effort; still, as

cases may arise in which effort is necessary, we ought to be prepared

with means of supporting those efforts. We ought to accustom ourselves

to consider duty as being quite as indispensable when it is difficult

as when it is easy; and we ought, also, to have our minds so prepared,

that we shall not magnify difficulties to such a degree as to render

them insurmountable. Thus, we should not exaggerate the importance

of any one duty, as we shall thereby be led to neglect others; but,

after having fully persuaded ourselves that it is impossible there

can exist at one and the same time two contradictory duties, let us,

in cases of difficulty, lean to that which seems the most important,

and, while regretting our inability to do all that we could wish, let

us not regard as a duty that which another duty has prevented us from

performing.

MORAL DOUBTS.

FIRST DIALOGUE.

_M. de Flaumont_; _Henry_, _Gustavus_, _and Clementine_,

_his Children_.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Children, would you like me to relate to you two

stories, which I have just been reading in a foreign newspaper?

THE CHILDREN.--Oh! yes, papa! are they very long?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--No! but you may perhaps be puzzled to give me your

opinion on them.

THE CHILDREN.--How do you mean, papa?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--You will see, here is the first:--

An English stage-coach, filled with passengers, was proceeding towards

a large town. The conversation of the travellers turned upon the

highwaymen by whom the road was infested, and who frequently stopped

and searched travellers. They debated amongst themselves as to the

best means of preserving their money; each boasted of having taken his

measures, and being quite safe.

An imprudent young woman, wishing, doubtless, to display her superior

cleverness, and forgetting that frankness, in such circumstances, is

very ill-placed, said, "As for me, I carry all my wealth about me in a

bank note for two hundred pounds, but I have so well concealed it, that

the robbers will certainly never be able to find it, for it is in my

shoe, under my stocking."

A few minutes after they were attacked by highwaymen, who demanded

their purses, but, discontented with the little they found in them,

they declared, in menacing tones, that they would search and ill-treat

them unless they immediately gave them a hundred pounds; and they

seemed prepared to put their threats into execution.

"You will easily find twice that sum," said an old man seated at the

back of the coach, who during the whole journey had remained entirely

silent, or had spoken only in monosyllables, "if you make that lady

take off her shoes and stockings."

The robbers followed this advice, took the banknote, and departed.

What think you of the old man?

CLEMENTINE.--Oh, papa! what villany!

M. DE FLAUMONT.--All the travellers were of your opinion. They loaded

him with reproach and insult, and even threatened to throw him out of

the coach. The young woman's grief exceeded description. The old man

appeared insensible to these insults and menaces, and once only excused

himself by saying, "Every one must think of himself first."

In the evening, when the coach reached its destination, the old man

contrived to make his escape before his fellow-passengers had an

opportunity of visiting their displeasure upon him. The young woman

passed a frightful night. What was her surprise on the following

morning, when a sum of four hundred pounds was placed in her hands,

together with a magnificent comb, and the following letter:--

"Madam,--The man whom, yesterday, you detested with reason, returns

to you the sum you have lost, with interest which makes it double,

together with a comb nearly equal in value. I am exceedingly distressed

at the grief I was compelled to cause you. A few words will explain

my conduct. I have just returned from India, where I have passed ten

weary years. I have gained by my industry thirty thousand pounds, and

the whole of this sum I had yesterday about me in bank-notes. Had I

been searched with the rigour with which we were threatened, I must

have lost everything. What was I to do? I could not run the risk of

having to return to India with empty hands. Your frankness furnished me

with the means of escaping the difficulty. Therefore I entreat you to

think nothing of this trifling present, and to believe me henceforth

devotedly, Yours."

GUSTAVUS.--Well, papa, the young woman had no longer any reason to

complain, and the old man did not do wrong, since he returned much more

than she lost.

CLEMENTINE.--Yes; but in her place I would much rather have been

without the comb, and not have had to take off my shoes and stockings

in the presence of highwaymen.

GUSTAVUS.--Oh! that did not do her much harm.

HENRY.--But, papa, if the robbers, notwithstanding their promise, had

searched every one, and had taken his thirty thousand pounds away from

the old man, it would have been out of his power to restore the two

hundred pounds to the young woman, and yet it would have been through

his means that she would have lost them.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Henry is right: the injury inflicted by the old man

was certain, while he had no certainty of being able to repair it.

HENRY.--Assuredly the word of a robber is not to be depended on.

GUSTAVUS.--But still it was certain that had he not acted as he did,

they would have taken his thirty thousand pounds.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That is true; but do you think, my dear Gustavus,

that, in order to escape some great calamity ourselves, we have a right

to inflict an equally serious injury on another? for the loss of the

two hundred pounds was as great a calamity to the young woman as that

of the thirty thousand would have been to the old man, since it was the

whole of her wealth.

GUSTAVUS.--Yes, papa; but he knew very well he would return them.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--He wished to do so, no doubt; but Henry has shown

you how he might have failed in the accomplishment of his wishes.

Other accidents might also have prevented him. He might have lost his

pocket-book by the way: he might have died suddenly, &c.

CLEMENTINE.--Oh yes, indeed; and then the young woman would neither

have had her own two hundred pounds, nor the two hundred pounds

additional, nor her beautiful comb.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--He thus surrendered his honesty, and the fate of his

fellow-traveller, to the chance of a future, always uncertain, and

all this to spare himself a misfortune, very great, no doubt, but the

certainty of which gave him no right to injure another. Here lies

the difference between prudence and virtue. Prudence commences by

studying how to escape a difficulty, and thinks it has done enough

when it has promised itself to repair the injury inflicted on another.

Virtue does not content itself with the hope of repairing this wrong at

some future day: it does not commit it; and thus, though it is often

more unfortunate, it is always more tranquil. So that virtue alone

has no occasion to dread the future. It is in doing evil, even with

the idea of its resulting in good, or with the firm determination of

repairing it, that men often plunge into difficulties and errors, from

which they are afterwards unable to extricate themselves. No one can

flatter himself, however prudent he may be, that he has foreseen all

chances, and so managed matters that nothing can turn out wrong; while,

by laying it down as a law to ourselves to be virtuous before all

things, we are certain of never having to reproach ourselves with any

intentional wrong.

GUSTAVUS.--But, papa, what ought to be done in such a case?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--I cannot pretend to say; all I know is, that we ought

not to do what our old man did. You will one day perceive how many

misfortunes happen in the world from the false idea, so frequently

entertained by men, that they are able to direct events according

to their own wishes: they regulate their conduct with this hope,

and afterwards events multiply, become involved, and turn out in so

unforeseen a manner, that they behold their projects often, and their

virtue always, wrecked beyond the possibility of recovery. Whereas,

on the contrary, we ought first of all to make sure of our virtue,

and then take all the advantage we can of circumstances. Besides, who

knows all the resources that may be discovered, by a man resolutely

determined to do nothing which his conscience disapproves? It is very

convenient, no doubt, to take the first resource which presents itself

to the mind; but can we be sure that it is the only one to be found,

and that, by giving ourselves a little additional trouble, we might not

discover another equally efficacious and more honest. Let us, after

remaining firm in virtue, be ingenious and energetic, and we shall

almost always be able to extricate ourselves from our difficulties. If

all who are ruined were to turn robbers, they would doubtless adopt

the most easy and expeditious mode of repairing their fortunes, still

this is a mode which honest people do not take; and, being compelled to

seek other resources, they rarely fail to discover them. I do not, at

this moment, very well see what plan our old man might have hit upon to

save his thirty thousand pounds; but, perhaps, if he had not so hastily

adopted the idea of denouncing the young woman, some other and better

expedient might have suggested itself.

GUSTAVUS.--I agree with you, papa; but you promised us another story.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Here it is. You will see, that if we ought not to do a

wrong because we can never be sure of being able to repair it, neither

must we do wrong with a good intention.

An English nobleman was journeying to one of his estates, when he was

attacked in a wood by six highwaymen; two of them seized the coachman,

two others the footmen, and the remaining two, placing themselves at

the doors of the carriage, presented each a pistol to his breast.

"Your pocket-book, my lord," said one of the robbers, who had a most

repulsive expression of countenance.

The nobleman took a rather weighty purse from his pocket, and handed

it to him. The man examined its contents, but did not seem satisfied.

"Your pocket-book, if you please, my lord," and he cocked his pistol.

The nobleman quietly gave up his pocket-book. The highwayman opened

it; and during this time the nobleman examined his countenance. Never

had he beheld eyes so small and piercing, a nose so long, cheeks so

hollow, a mouth so wide, nor a chin so prominent.

The robber took some papers from the pocket-book, and then returned

it. "A pleasant journey, my lord;" and he set off rapidly with his

companions.

On reaching home the nobleman examined his pocket-book, to see what

had been taken from it, and found that bank notes to the amount of two

thousand five hundred pounds had been extracted, and that five hundred

pounds had been left. He congratulated himself on this, and said to his

friends, that he would willingly give a hundred pounds could they but

have seen the fellow. Never had highwayman a countenance so suited to

his calling.

The nobleman soon forgot his loss, and thought no more of the

occurrence; when, some years afterwards, he received the following

letter:--

"MY LORD,--I am a poor Jew. The prince in whose dominions I lived

robbed us of everything. I went to England, accompanied by five other

Jews, that I might at least save my life. I fell ill at sea; and the

vessel in which we sailed was wrecked near the coast.

"A man wholly unknown to me was upon the shore: he leaped into the

water, and saved me at the peril of his life. This was not all; he

led me to his house, called in a physician, and took care of me until

I was cured; and asked nothing in return. This man was a woollen

manufacturer, who had twelve children. Some time afterwards, I found

him very sad. The disturbances in America had just broken out, and the

American merchants with whom he traded were base enough to profit by

this circumstance, and refused to pay him. 'In a month,' he said to me,

'I shall be completely ruined; for I have bills coming due which I am

wholly unable to meet.'

"His grief threw me into despair: I formed a desperate resolution. 'I

owe my life to him,' I said, 'and I will sacrifice it for him.' With

the five Jews who had followed me to England, I placed myself upon

the highway. You know what happened. I sent to the man of whom I have

spoken the money I took from you, and saved him for that time. But his

creditors never paid him; and about a week ago he died, without having

discharged all his debts.

"The same day I gained four thousand pounds in the lottery. I return

to you all I took from you, with interest. Forward the remaining

thousand pounds to the unfortunate family of the manufacturer (he gave

their address at the end of the letter), and make inquiries of them

respecting a poor Jew, whom they so generously saved and entertained.

"P.S.--I solemnly declare that, when we attacked you, not one of our

pistols was charged, and that we had no intention of drawing a cutlass

from its scabbard.

"Spare yourself all search. When this letter reaches you I shall again

be upon the ocean. May God preserve you."

The nobleman made inquiries, and found that the Jew's account was

strictly true. From that time forward he took the family of the

manufacturer under his protection. He frequently said, "I would give

a hundred pounds to any one who would inform me of the death of my

terrible Jew; and a thousand pounds to any one who should bring him to

me alive."

HENRY.--But why did he wish for his death, papa?

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Because this Jew was a very dangerous person. A man

capable of doing such things, even from generous motives, is always

to be dreaded. The safety and happiness of society depend upon the

submission and respect due to the laws, which maintain order, and

preserve the persons and property of all. The laws cannot take into

account the motives which induce a man to injure another in person or

property. In such cases they can only judge and punish the act itself.

If this nobleman had been a judge, and the Jew had been brought before

his tribunal, he could not, even when all the facts of the case were

before him, have avoided condemning him to the penalty prescribed by

the law, though he might afterwards have endeavoured to obtain his

pardon from the sovereign.

GUSTAVUS.--The Jew, however, had not loaded his pistols: he did not

intend to commit murder.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Consequently, he would have been sentenced to a

punishment less severe than that inflicted upon murderers; but still he

committed robbery.

CLEMENTINE.--Yes; but it was to save the life of his benefactor: he

exposed his own from gratitude; this was assuredly a great sacrifice.

He would not have robbed from any other motive.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--Therefore this Jew was doubtless susceptible of very

generous sentiments and of noble devotion; this ought to count for much

in the opinion we form of him: it would probably have obtained for him

his pardon, or at least a great mitigation of his punishment; but,

in a moral point of view, and for the interests of society, justice

and firmness of principle are still more necessary than generosity of

sentiment. It would be impossible to allow every man the privilege

of making use of whatever means he pleased to gratify his feelings

and display his generosity. Even virtue itself is subject to laws,

whose wisdom is recognised and whose advantages are unquestionable.

These prescribe the route in which it must exercise itself, and the

bounds which it must not overleap. Thus, in the conduct of our Jew,

everything which preceded and followed his act, and some of the

circumstances of the act itself, were praiseworthy; his sole object

was to preserve his benefactor: he took only what was required for

that purpose: he kept nothing for himself, he scrupulously repaid the

sum with interest, he did not even reserve any portion of the prize

gained in the lottery, since, after having returned to the nobleman the

two thousand five hundred pounds and interest, he gave the remainder

to the manufacturer's children. All this was very well, and very

disinterested, but it does not prevent the action itself from being

blameable. And this is what often happens, when we allow ourselves

to be governed by our feelings, however good they may be, instead of

regulating our conduct by steady principles, which, though they may

sometimes restrain the feelings, always insure virtue.

HENRY.--Still, papa, the nobleman promised more to him who should bring

him the Jew alive, than to him who should inform him of his death.

M. DE FLAUMONT.--That was because he knew that a man capable of such

generous sentiments and remarkable devotion was one who, to be rendered

altogether virtuous, only required firmer principles, and a less

embarrassing position. He doubtless wished to make him feel, that if it

be noble to sacrifice one's life for gratitude, that sacrifice ought

never to be made at the expense of honesty; perhaps, too, he wished

to take him into his service, to place him in easy circumstances, to

remove him, in fact, out of the way of those temptations in which

generosity of feeling so easily deceives us in regard to the true

nature of our duties. Generosity may carry us farther than mere duty;

but it should always go in a right line, and never lead us to neglect

duty.

SECOND DIALOGUE.

_Caroline--Madame de Boissy, working_.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--Caroline, did you really require that sash, which

you induced your uncle to give you, by asking him to lend you the money

to buy it?

CAROLINE.--I am very glad to have it, mamma, since it has cost me

nothing.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--You knew, then, that your uncle would make you a

present of it?

CAROLINE.--Mamma, I only asked him to lend me the money.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--I know that; but did you expect you would have to

repay him?

CAROLINE.--Certainly! if he wished it.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--But did you think he would wish it?

CAROLINE (_embarrassed_).--I do not know, mamma.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--Tell me candidly,--when you asked your uncle to lend

you the money to purchase this sash, which you did not want, and which,

in all probability, you would not have bought had you been alone,--did

you not know that it was a means of obtaining it as a gift?

CAROLINE.--Dear me, mamma! you make me examine my conscience as if I

were going to confession.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--And it is thus you should always examine it, my

child.

CAROLINE.--Yes, mamma, when one has done anything wrong.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--Or to ascertain whether one has done wrong.

CAROLINE (_much confused_).--But what wrong can I have done? My uncle

could act as he pleased, and it was certainly quite true that I had no

money in my purse.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--There was one thing, however, which was not quite

true, but which you, nevertheless, wished to make him believe, and that

was, that you really intended to buy this sash yourself.

CAROLINE (_still confused_).--But, mamma, my intentions do not concern

any one but myself.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--You seem to fear the contrary, since you conceal

them. You would not have been willing that your uncle should have

discovered them; therefore, while you were really actuated by one

motive, you led him to suppose that you were influenced by another.

You would not have asked him to give you this ribbon, because you know

that we ought not to accept a gift, unless we feel that the giver has

as much pleasure in presenting it as we have in receiving it, and, in

that case, it will occur to him as readily as to ourselves. You have,

therefore, allowed your uncle to believe that you had the delicacy not

to desire a present, which it had not occurred to him to make you,

while, at the same time, you endeavoured to make him think of it by

underhand means. You have sought to obtain, at one and the same time,

both the esteem which delicacy merits, and the gift which it would be

necessary to sacrifice in order to deserve this esteem. It is evident

that both cannot belong to you, and that you have committed a theft in

the transaction.

CAROLINE (_shocked_).--Oh! mamma, we only commit theft when we injure

some one, and I have not injured any one.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--You have extorted from your uncle a present, which

he probably would not have made to any one whom he believed capable of

subterfuge. You have cheated his intentions of giving you an unexpected

pleasure.

CAROLINE.--He cannot know that; therefore his pleasure will be all the

same.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--Caroline, would you think you were not stealing,

if you took money from the coffers of a rich man who made no use of

it, and did not know how much he had? If you did not do him an injury

of which he was conscious, you injured those to whom his money would

one day go, and who might not be either so rich or so indifferent as

himself. In like manner, if you did not do your uncle any positive

wrong, by usurping an esteem which was not your due, you at least were

unjust to those whom he might place on a level with you in his esteem,

or whom he might set beneath you; for either you must share with them

an esteem which you did not merit, and which is always more flattering

when obtained alone, or you must diminish the consolation they would

otherwise have in finding an additional example to excuse them. Be well

assured that we can never deceive without injuring some one, and that

there can be no unfair advantage which is not gained at the expense of

our neighbours.

CAROLINE.--But really, mamma, this advantage is so very trifling.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--The case is trifling, but the principle is the same,

and you would no more wish to steal needles than diamonds. Besides, my

child, we must attach some value to, and derive some advantage from, a

thing which we take the trouble to steal; and who can, with propriety,

desire an advantage which he has not merited? Listen, Caroline: you are

now growing a great girl, and it is time you should understand all that

is due to yourself and others, in regard to uprightness and honesty in

the most trifling things, and how mean it is to wish to deceive others,

or to think it necessary to do so.

CAROLINE.--Mamma, I have never wished to deceive any one, I assure you.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--I grant you that we do not say to ourselves, _I wish

to deceive_; we should be horrified; but, without telling absolute

falsehoods, people often pass their lives in endeavouring to make

others believe things which are untrue. If we are cold, or hot, or

tired, we complain of our sufferings; we exaggerate them in order to

attract attention, and gain pity, or at least to make people think of

us. We laugh louder than we feel inclined to do, to make it appear

that we are very gay; we look in the glass, and exclaim, "How, I am

sunburnt!" in order that we may be told that it is imperceptible, and

be complimented on our complexion. We complain of a dress that fits

badly, and say, "What a fright I look to-day," in the hope of finding

some sycophant who will assure us that we look well in everything. Or,

finally, we give expression to some worthy sentiment in order to be

praised for it.

CAROLINE.--But, mamma, if the sentiment be sincere?

MADAME DE BOISSY.--My dear child, there is always insincerity in the

means employed to obtain praise for it; for good feelings are not

intended to gain us admiration, but to make us do what is right. We

should not esteem the benevolence of a man, who did good merely for

the sake of obtaining commendation; nor the fraternal sentiments of

him whose sole object in displaying them was to be praised for his

attachment to his brothers and sisters. Thus, those who make a display

of feeling for the sake of being praised, must take care to conceal

their intentions; consequently, if they obtain the praise, it is quite

clear that they have stolen it.

CAROLINE.--But one must then watch every movement of the mind, for

these things may escape us without our in the least intending it.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--To prevent them from doing so, it is only necessary

to think, once for all, of two or three things. First, that we display

very little respect or consideration for ourselves when we stoop to

deceive others, in order that they may condescend to pay attention to

us. Secondly, that we place ourselves in a very humiliating position

when we thus beg for a flattery, a compliment, or a mark of attention,

which is usually granted from mere politeness, or for the sake of

pleasing us, just as we give a penny to a beggar in the street.

Finally, that these kinds of stratagems, when they are discovered--and

they are discovered oftener than people imagine--may overwhelm us

with ridicule, or even with shame, and that the most trifling untruth

exposes us to a risk far greater than the pleasure which it procures.

Tell me if your sash would ever afford you a pleasure as great as the

annoyance you would feel, if your uncle were to discover the subterfuge

you employed in order to induce him to make you a present of it.

CAROLINE.--Oh! mamma, you have made me absolutely hate it. I will never

even look at it again.

MADAME DE BOISSY.--There you are wrong, my child; you must look at it,

and think of it, in order that it may remind you of the necessity of

always acting honourably.

THIRD DIALOGUE.

_Monsieur de Bonnel--Augustus, his Son_.

M. DE BONNEL.--Augustus, I hope you have returned to George, as I told

you, that little cart you took from him?

AUGUSTUS (_ill-temperedly_).--I was obliged to do it, since you desired

me, but I did not take it from him; I paid him what it cost. If he was

so obstinate as to refuse the money, that was not my fault.

M. DE BONNEL.--He did not want your money, and he wished to keep his

cart; you had no right to force the bargain upon him.

AUGUSTUS.--I have a right to make him do as I please.

M. DE BONNEL.--And how came you by this right?

AUGUSTUS.--His father Antony is your servant.

M. DE BONNEL.--And is that any reason that George should have no will

of his own?

AUGUSTUS.--No; but it is a reason why he should give up to me; and the

best proof that he very well knows this, is that he always does give up

to me. To-day, though he would not sell me his cart, he did not think

of preventing me from taking it; and had it not been for you he would

certainly not have got it back again.

M. DE BONNEL.--Very well; but, what is singular in the matter is that

for the future he will think differently, and that henceforward he will

be obliged to resist you.

AUGUSTUS.--I should like to see him do that.

M. DE BONNEL.--Well, you shall be gratified. Antony had forbidden his

son to use force against you for fear of hurting you. I have just told

him that if he did not order George to defend himself against you when

you torment him, as he would defend himself against one of his own

companions, George should not come here again. You will now see whether

it is his duty to humour you, and whether it is from respect that he

has hitherto yielded to you.

AUGUSTUS.--It would be a fine thing for George to treat me like one of

his comrades.

M. DE BONNEL.--Very well; you need not make free with him.

AUGUSTUS.--Making him obey me is not making free with him.

M. DE BONNEL..--When you have no right to exact obedience, you can

only obtain it from his politeness by requests such as we use towards

an equal, or exact it by force, which he will repel with his fist, and

that is the greatest familiarity I know of.

AUGUSTUS.--But George is to be my servant one day: he has told me so a

hundred times: he will have to be submissive and respectful then.

M. DE BONNEL.--He will only be submissive in those things in which

he has agreed to obey you: he will only be respectful so long as you

fulfil your obligations to him. A servant agrees to obey in everything

that concerns the service of his master, and that does not injure

himself. Thus, if a master commanded him to go and fight for him, or to

give him up the money which he had saved, the servant would no longer

be obliged to obey.

AUGUSTUS.--But people do not require such things from servants.

M. DE BONNEL.--It is quite as unjust and absurd to expect them to

labour for you beyond their strength, or to compel them to give up what

belongs to them at a price which does not suit them. If you force them

to do anything against their inclinations, they then lay aside their

respect, and resist you as well as they can, for they have only agreed

to obey your orders in certain things; nor have they consented to incur

any other risk, in case of disobedience, than that of being reprimanded

or sent away. If you go further than this, you break a covenant of

which insults formed no part any more than blows; both equally exempt a

servant from all duty.

AUGUSTUS.--Nevertheless, there are servants who remain in their places,

although their masters overwork or ill-treat them. I have heard my

cousin Armand say all sorts of insulting things to Jack, his groom, and

even threaten to horsewhip him, because he harnessed his horse badly.

Jack went on with his work without saying a word, because he knew that

he must bear it.

M. DE BONNEL.--And what would have happened to Jack if he had answered

his master impertinently, as he deserved to be answered?

AUGUSTUS.--Why, Armand would have turned him out of doors without a

character, so that he would have been unable to get another situation.

M. DE BONNEL.--At this rate, masters have the means of treating their

servants as ill as they please; and if all masters were to do so, all

servants would be obliged to submit to it, I suppose?

AUGUSTUS.--Certainly they would.

M. DE BONNEL.--But if all servants were to take it into their heads to

resist their masters, then the latter would either have to put up with

this or do without servants.

AUGUSTUS.--But that would never happen.

M. DE BONNEL.--That would happen, if service became so intolerable

that servants had no interest in humouring their masters. But as

masters and servants stand mutually in need of each other, they have

felt it to be to their advantage that the former should be kind and

the latter obedient and respectful. It is, therefore, because there

are many good masters whom it is to their interest to serve, that they

serve respectfully even those who are bad. Consequently, he who abuses

this respect is a coward, who shelters himself behind others to take

advantage of their good actions, and commit wrong with impunity.

NEW YEAR'S NIGHT.

On the New Year's night of 1797, a man, over whose head had passed

sixty winters, was standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes

towards the azure vault of heaven, where floated countless stars, as

float the white blossoms of the water-lily on the bosom of a tranquil

lake; then he looked down upon the earth, where there was no one so

destitute of happiness and peace as himself, for his tomb was not

far distant. He had already descended sixty of the steps that led to

it, and bore with him from the bright days of his youth nothing save

errors and remorse. His health was destroyed; his mind a blank, and

weighed down with sorrow; his heart torn with repentance, and his

old age full of grief. The days of his youth rose up before him, and

brought back to his memory that solemn moment when his father placed

him at the entrance of those two paths, of which the one leads to a

peaceful and happy country, re-echoing with sweet song, and cheered

by an ever-cloudless sun, whilst the other leads to the abodes of

darkness--to a chasm without issue, peopled by serpents, and filled

with poison.

Alas! the serpents had coiled around his heart; the poison had polluted

his lips, and he now awoke to the reality of his condition.

He again raised his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed, with inexpressible

anguish, "Return, oh, Youth! Return, oh, Father! place me once more

at the entrance of life, that I may make a different choice." But his

youth had passed away, and his father slept with the dead. He beheld

a marsh-fire arise, dance over the morass, and disappear; and he said,

"Such were my days of folly!" He beheld a falling star shoot along the

sky, tremble, and then vanish; and he exclaimed, "Such am I;" and the

sharp arrows of repentance sank deeper into his heart.

Then his thoughts turned upon all those men who had attained to his

years, who had been young when he was young, and who now, in different

parts of the world, were spending, in peace and tranquillity, this

first night of the year, as good fathers of families and friends of

truth and virtue. The pealing of the bell which celebrated the new

step of time, vibrated on the air from the turret of the neighbouring

church, sounding to his ear like a pious song. This sound re-awakened

the memory of his parents,--the wishes they had breathed for him on

that solemn day,--the lessons they had inculcated:--wishes which their

unhappy son had never fulfilled,--lessons from which he had never

profited. Overwhelmed with grief and shame, he could no longer gaze

into that heaven where his father dwelt: he turned his grief-worn eyes

towards the earth; tears flowed from them, and fell upon the snow

which covered the ground; and finding nothing to console him in any

direction, he again cried, "Return, oh, Youth! Return!"

And his youth did return; for all this was but a troubled dream, which

had disturbed the slumbers of this first night of the year. He was

still young,--his faults alone were real. He thanked God that his

youth was not passed, that he had still the power to leave the path of

vice--to regain that of virtue; to return into that happy land covered

with abundant harvests.

Return with him, my young readers, if, like him, you have strayed;

this terrible dream will henceforward be your judge. If, one day,

overwhelmed with grief, you should be found to exclaim, "Return, oh,

happy Youth!" the prayer will be vain, for youth will not return.

THE CURÉ OF CHAVIGNAT.

The Curé of Chavignat was an excellent man. He was very fond of

children, and was, consequently, a great favourite with them. He

chatted with them as if it were for his own amusement, and whilst

thus engaged he gave them useful advice, with which they, in their

turn, were highly delighted; because his instructions were usually

accompanied by stories, which accustomed them to reflect on their own

characters, on the best means of correcting their faults, and on the

pleasure arising from the possession of good qualities. Whenever the

Curé of Chavignat met with a story of this kind, he wrote it down, that

he might afterwards give it or relate it to those children to whom it

might prove useful. He went frequently to the château of Chavignat,

where the children received him with demonstrations of the greatest

delight, whilst the parents were continually thanking him for his

kindness to their children.

One day he perceived that Juliana, the eldest of the children, who

was scalloping a piece of muslin, was quite out of temper because her

mother had reproved her.

"When I see," said he, "a little lady who is out of humour with her

mamma, I begin to think what would be the state of matters if mammas,

on their side, were to be out of humour with their little girls."

"It would be strange, indeed," said Juliana, "if papas and mammas

were out of humour, when they are masters, and can do exactly as they

please! That would he very just, truly!"

"People do not then get out of humour without just cause, Miss

Juliana?" asked the Curé. "I was not aware of that."

"Witness Madame Gonthier, our housekeeper," cried Amadeus, "who, this

morning, when her coffee overturned into the fire, scolded the girl who

has charge of the poultry-yard, because the hens' eggs were so small."

"Just, Monsieur le Curé," said little Paul, raising his finger to his

face, "as if it was the poultry girl that made the hens' eggs."

"Yes, my little friend; or, as if your mamma were to give Miss Juliana

a slap on the face because the apricots do not ripen this year."

The children began to laugh, with the exception of Juliana, who,

shrugging her shoulders, said in a disdainful tone, "Fortunately,

people do not have relations so ill-bred as Madame Gonthier."