An Attic Philosopher in Paris

Four O'c

y are up among the roofs. It is there that the sun sends his first rays, and the breeze comes with the fragrance of the gardens and woods; there that a wandering butterfly sometimes ventures among the flo

sh faces! Delightful hour of waking, when everything returns to feeling and to motion; when the first light of day strikes upon creation, and brings it to life again, as the magic wand struck the palace of the Sleeping Beauty in the wood! It is a moment of rest from every misery; the sufferings o

adually steal upon us, come from? The course seems to be the same with individuals and with communities: at starting, so readily made happy, so easily enchanted; and at the goal, the bitter disappointment or reality! The road, which began among hawthorns and primroses, ends speedily in deserts or in precipices! W

ame ideas. As our discourse is only with ourself, we always give the same direction to the conversation; we are not called to turn it to the subjec

To arrange the things among which we have to live, is to establish the relation of property and of use between them and us: it is to lay the foundation of those habi

stable. What surrounds us, reflects more or less that which is within us. The mind is like one of those dark lanterns which, in spite o

ittle almanac hanging over my chimney-piece. I looked for the day of

riod so happily chosen by the primitive church. "The day kept in honor of the Creator," says Chateaubriand, "happens at a time when the heaven and the earth d

eaned my elbows on the windowsill, and, with my head between my two hands, I went b

our. All this world of phantoms seemed to be coming forth from the dust of past ages, to assist-silent and motionless-at the holy ceremony. I looked, alternately in fear and wonder, at those terrible warriors with their swords always raised, those beautiful huntresses shooting the arrow which never left the bow, and those shepherds in satin breeches always playing the flute at the feet of the perpetually smiling shepherdess. Sometimes, when the wind blew behind these hanging pictures, it seemed to me that the figures themselves moved, and I watched to see them detach themselves from the wa

What competition among the different parishes for the erection of the resting-places where the proc

I made my fir

or some moments. No one had asked me for it; I might easily avoid losing it. I should hear no reproaches, but one rose noiselessly within me. When every one else had given all they had, ought I alone to keep back my treasure? Ought I to grudge to God one of the gifts which, like all the rest, I had received from him? At this last thought I plucked the flower from the stem, and took it to put at the top of the Tabernacle. Ah! why does the recollection of this sacrifice, which was so hard and yet so sweet to

sed, I walked through the streets strewed with flowers and shaded with green boughs. I felt intoxicated by the lingering perfumes of the incense, mixed with the fragrance of syringas, jessami

thus passed for me in an expansion of heart, and a trustfulness which prevented sorrow, if not from coming, at least from staying with me. Sure of not being alone, I soon took heart again,

a child, I accepted life when it came; another cared and provided for me. So long as I fulfilled my present duties I was at peace within, and I left the future to the prudence of my father! My destiny was a ship, in the directing of which I had no share, and in which I sailed as a common passenger. There was the whole secret of childhood's happy security. Since the

ot have been spared all this anxiety? It may be that happiness is not possible here below, except on condition of living like a ch

ession of his half-smiling, half-mournful face; I hear his voice, always soft and soothing as a breath of summer! The remembrance of him protects my life,

med in secret, and the virtues which are never known, who has ever heard of my

e Apollo, the body erects itself and assumes a more dignified attitude: in the same way,

scent of the mignonette, and the swallows wheel about my window with joyful twitterings. The imag

ds. That of my Uncle Maurice was one of the latter. He was so sickly, when he came into the world, that they thought he mu

oppressed because he was weak, and laughed at for his deformity. In vain the little

he age when a man must take his place in life; and Maurice had to content himself with that which others had refused with contempt. His education would have qualified him for any cour

hut, under the shade of a clematis planted by Maurice. And, even when she was silent, her presence was a pleasant change for the hunchback; he heard the clinking of her long knitting-needles; he s

alone on earth, and abandoned himself to boundless grief. He knelt by the bedside of the dying woman, he called her by the fondest names, he pressed her in his arms, as if he could so keep her in life. His mot

but he resisted them and threw hi

e who was the only one in the world who loved me! You,

d voice

od

he dead, or his own conscience, that had answered him? He did

external attractiveness, he showed himself full of kindness to all who came to him, and, though he never would put himself forward, he had a welcome for everyone. Deserted, despised, he submitted to eve

und his claims were always disregarded. They preferred before him those who were better able to make themselves agreeable, and seemed to be granting him a favor when letting him keep the humble o

le, silent, and with nothing to recommend her but her wretchedness and her resignation to it. She was never seen speaking to any other woman, and no song cheered her garret. She worked without interest and without relaxation; a depressing gloom seemed to envel

earned that the poor girl was in want of everything, and that the tradesmen refused to give her credi

ed with the shopkeepers. When she came to an explanation with them, everything was discovered. Her first impulse was to run to Uncle Maurice, and thank h

nother. The young woman received his attentions with feeling, but with reserve. All Maurice's efforts were insufficient to dispel her gloom: she seemed touched by his kindness, and sometimes expressed her sense of it with warmth; but there she stopped. Her heart was a closed book, which the

ity of the hunchback, and she seemed to look on him with an affectionate sympathy! What more could he wish for? Until then, the hopes of making himself acceptable to

as he was about to enter, he thought he heard a strange voice pronouncing the maiden's name. He quickly pushed o

e disengaged herself quickly

that I thought was dead: it i

drew back. A single

but the same voice that he had heard by his mother's deathbed again soun

ft the town, and, after wishing them all the happiness which was denie

it was to him in the place of all else. When he died, it was with a smile, and like an exile setting out for his own country. He who had c

t human maxims are not always sufficient? that beyond goodness, prudence, moderation, humility, self-sacrifice itself, there is one gre

like Ajax, we shall be able to escape every storm in spite of the gods. But later in life, when the back is bowed, when happiness proves a fading flower, and the affec

oes human reason from hour to hour light some new torch on the roadside: the night continues to grow eve

life does not give them time to question themselves. Have they time to know what they are, and what they should be, whose

the home and shelter of my spirit-I can go back with impunity to these recollections of my childhood; and, if this ou