summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/2129-h/2129-h.htm
blob: c91242f5be016fab7c0c790e10dd2d79c415536e (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484

<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" />
<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" />
<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales, by Maria Edgeworth</title>

<style type="text/css">

body { margin-left: 20%;
margin-right: 20%;
text-align: justify; }

h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight:
normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;}

h1 {font-size: 300%;
margin-top: 0.6em;
margin-bottom: 0.6em;
letter-spacing: 0.12em;
word-spacing: 0.2em;
text-indent: 0em;}
h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;}
h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;}
h4 {font-size: 120%;}
h5 {font-size: 110%;}

.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */

div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;}

hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;}

p {text-indent: 1em;
margin-top: 0.25em;
margin-bottom: 0.25em; }

p.footnote {font-size: 90%;
           text-indent: 0%;
           margin-left: 10%;
           margin-right: 10%;
           margin-top: 1em;
           margin-bottom: 1em; }

a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none}
a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none}
a:hover {color:red}

</style>
</head>
<body>

<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales, by Maria Edgeworth</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
country where you are located before using this eBook.
</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Maria Edgeworth</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April, 2000 [eBook #2129]<br />
[Most recently updated: November 22, 2021]</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div>
<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MURAD THE UNLUCKY AND OTHER TALES ***</div>

<h1>MURAD THE UNLUCKY<br />
AND OTHER TALES</h1>

<h2 class="no-break">by Maria Edgeworth</h2>

<hr />

<h2>Contents</h2>

<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto">

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap01">Introduction</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap02">Murad the Unlucky</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap03">The Limerick Gloves</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap04">Madame de Fleury</a></td>
</tr>

</table>

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap01"></a>INTRODUCTION</h2>

<p>Maria Edgeworth came of a lively family which had settled in Ireland
in the latter part of the sixteenth century. Her father at the
age of five-and-twenty inherited the family estates at Edgeworthstown
in 1769. He had snatched an early marriage, which did not prove
happy. He had a little son, whom he was educating upon the principles
set forth in Rousseau&rsquo;s &ldquo;Emile,&rdquo; and a daughter Maria,
who was born on the 1st of January, 1767. He was then living at
Hare Hatch, near Maidenhead. In March, 1773, his first wife died
after giving birth to a daughter named Anna. In July, 1773, he
married again, Honora Sneyd, and went to live in Ireland, taking with
him his daughter Maria, who was then about six years old. Two
years afterwards she was sent from Ireland to a school at Derby.
In April, 1780, her father&rsquo;s second wife died, and advised him
upon her death-bed to marry her sister Elizabeth. He married his
deceased wife&rsquo;s sister on the next following Christmas Day.
Maria Edgeworth was in that year removed to a school in London, and
her holidays were often spent with her father&rsquo;s friend Thomas
Day, the author of &ldquo;Sandford and Merton,&rdquo; an eccentric enthusiast
who lived then at Anningsley, in Surrey.</p>

<p>Maria Edgeworth&mdash;always a little body&mdash;was conspicuous
among her schoolfellows for quick wit, and was apt alike for study and
invention. She was story-teller general to the community.
In 1782, at the age of fifteen, she left school and went home with her
father and his third wife, who then settled finally at Edgeworthstown.</p>

<p>At Edgeworthstown Richard Lovell Edgeworth now became active in the
direct training of his children, in the improvement of his estate, and
in schemes for the improvement of the country. His eldest daughter,
Maria, showing skill with the pen, he made her more and more his companion
and fellow-worker to good ends. She kept household accounts, had
entrusted to her the whole education of a little brother, wrote stories
on a slate and read them to the family, wiped them off when not approved,
and copied them in ink if they proved popular with the home public.
Miss Edgeworth&rsquo;s first printed book was a plea for the education
of women, &ldquo;Letters to Literary Ladies,&rdquo; published in 1795,
when her age was eight-and-twenty. Next year, 1796, working with
her father, she produced the first volume of the &ldquo;Parent&rsquo;s
Assistant.&rdquo; In November, 1797, when Miss Edgeworth&rsquo;s
age was nearly thirty-one, her father, then aged fifty-three, lost his
third wife, and he married a fourth in the following May. The
fourth wife, at first objected to, was young enough to be a companion
and friend, and between her and Maria Edgeworth a fast friendship came
to be established. In the year of her father&rsquo;s fourth marriage
Maria joined him in the production of two volumes on &ldquo;Practical
Education.&rdquo; Then followed books for children, including
&ldquo;Harry and Lucy,&rdquo; which had been begun by her father years
before in partnership with his second wife, when Thomas Day began writing
&ldquo;Sandford and Merton,&rdquo; with the original intention that
it should be worked in as a part of the whole scheme.</p>

<p>In the year 1800 Miss Edgeworth, thirty-three years old, began her
independent career as a novelist with &ldquo;Castle Rackrent;&rdquo;
and from that time on, work followed work in illustration of the power
of a woman of genius to associate quick wit and quick feeling with sound
sense and a good reason for speaking. Sir Walter Scott in his
frank way declared that he received an impulse from Miss Edgeworth&rsquo;s
example as a story-teller. In the general preface to his own final
edition of the Waverley Novels he said that &ldquo;Without being so
presumptuous as to hope to emulate the rich humour, pathetic tenderness,
and admirable tact, which pervade the works of my accomplished friend,
I felt that something might be attempted for my own country of the same
kind with that which Miss Edgeworth so fortunately achieved for Ireland&mdash;something
which might introduce her natives to those of the sister kingdom in
a more favourable light than they had been placed hitherto, and tend
to procure sympathy for their virtues and indulgence for their foibles.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Of the three stories in this volume, who&mdash;&ldquo;Murad the Unlucky&rdquo;
and &ldquo;The Limerick Gloves&rdquo;&mdash;first appeared in three
volumes of &ldquo;Popular Tales,&rdquo; which were first published in
1804, with a short introduction by Miss Edgeworth&rsquo;s father.
&ldquo;Madame de Fleury&rdquo; was written a few years later.</p>

<p>H. M.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap02"></a>MURAD THE UNLUCKY</h2>

<h3>CHAPTER I</h3>

<p>It is well known that the grand seignior amuses himself by going
at night, in disguise, through streets of Constantinople; as the caliph
Haroun Alraschid used formerly to do in Bagdad.</p>

<p>One moonlight night, accompanied by his grand vizier, he traversed
several of the principal streets of the city without seeing anything
remarkable. At length, as they were passing a rope-maker&rsquo;s,
the sultan recollected the Arabian story of Cogia-Hassan Alhabal, the
rope-maker, and his two friends, Saad and Saadi, who differed so much
in their opinion concerning the influence of fortune over human affairs.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What is your opinion on this subject?&rdquo; said the grand
seignior to his vizier.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am inclined, please your majesty,&rdquo; replied the vizier,
&ldquo;to think that success in the world depends more upon prudence
than upon what is called luck, or fortune.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And I,&rdquo; said the sultan, &ldquo;am persuaded that fortune
does more for men than prudence. Do you not every day hear of
persons who are said to be fortunate or unfortunate? How comes
it that this opinion should prevail amongst men, if it be not justified
by experience?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is not for me to dispute with your majesty,&rdquo; replied
the prudent vizier.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Speak your mind freely; I desire and command it,&rdquo; said
the sultan.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then I am of opinion,&rdquo; answered the vizier, &ldquo;that
people are often led to believe others fortunate, or unfortunate, merely
because they only know the general outline of their histories; and are
ignorant of the incidents and events in which they have shown prudence
or imprudence. I have heard, for instance, that there are at present,
in this city, two men, who are remarkable for their good and bad fortune:
one is called Murad the Unlucky, and the other Saladin the Lucky.
Now, I am inclined to think, if we could hear their stories, we should
find that one is a prudent and the other an imprudent character.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Where do these men live?&rdquo; interrupted the sultan.
&ldquo;I will hear their histories from their own lips before I sleep.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Murad the Unlucky lives in the next square,&rdquo; said the
vizier.</p>

<p>The sultan desired to go thither immediately. Scarcely had
they entered the square, when they heard the cry of loud lamentations.
They followed the sound till they came to a house of which the door
was open, and where there was a man tearing his turban, and weeping
bitterly. They asked the cause of his distress, and he pointed
to the fragments of a china vase, which lay on the pavement at his door.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This seems undoubtedly to be beautiful china,&rdquo; said
the sultan, taking up one of the broken pieces; &ldquo;but can the loss
of a china vase be the cause of such violent grief and despair?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ah, gentlemen,&rdquo; said the owner of the vase, suspending
his lamentations, and looking at the dress of the pretended merchants,
&ldquo;I see that you are strangers: you do not know how much cause
I have for grief and despair! You do not know that you are speaking
to Murad the Unlucky! Were you to hear all the unfortunate accidents
that have happened to me, from the time I was born till this instant,
you would perhaps pity me, and acknowledge I have just cause for despair.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Curiosity was strongly expressed by the sultan; and the hope of obtaining
sympathy inclined Murad to gratify it by the recital of his adventures.
&ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I scarcely dare invite you
into the house of such an unlucky being as I am; but if you will venture
to take a night&rsquo;s lodging under my roof, you shall hear at your
leisure the story of my misfortunes.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The sultan and the vizier excused themselves from spending the night
with Murad, saying that they were obliged to proceed to their khan,
where they should be expected by their companions; but they begged permission
to repose themselves for half an hour in his house, and besought him
to relate the history of his life, if it would not renew his grief too
much to recollect his misfortunes.</p>

<p>Few men are so miserable as not to like to talk of their misfortunes,
where they have, or where they think they have, any chance of obtaining
compassion. As soon as the pretended merchants were seated, Murad
began his story in the following manner:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My father was a merchant of this city. The night before
I was born he dreamed that I came into the world with the head of a
dog and the tail of a dragon; and that, in haste to conceal my deformity,
he rolled me up in a piece of linen, which unluckily proved to be the
grand seignior&rsquo;s turban; who, enraged at his insolence in touching
his turban, commanded that his head should be struck off.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My father awaked before he lost his head, but not before he
had lost half his wits from the terror of his dream. He considered
it as a warning sent from above, and consequently determined to avoid
the sight of me. He would not stay to see whether I should really
be born with the head of a dog and the tail of a dragon; but he set
out, the next morning, on a voyage to Aleppo.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He was absent for upwards of seven years; and during that
time my education was totally neglected. One day I inquired from
my mother why I had been named Murad the Unlucky. She told me
that this name was given to me in consequence of my father&rsquo;s dream;
but she added that perhaps it might be forgotten, if I proved fortunate
in my future life. My nurse, a very old woman, who was present,
shook her head, with a look which I shall never forget, and whispered
to my mother loud enough for me to hear, &lsquo;Unlucky he was, and
is, and ever will be. Those that are born to ill luck cannot help
themselves; nor can any, but the great prophet, Mahomet himself, do
anything for them. It is a folly for an unlucky person to strive
with their fate: it is better to yield to it at once.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;This speech made a terrible impression upon me, young as I
then was; and every accident that happened to me afterwards confirmed
my belief in my nurse&rsquo;s prognostic. I was in my eighth year
when my father returned from abroad. The year after he came home
my brother Saladin was born, who was named Saladin the Lucky, because
the day he was born a vessel freighted with rich merchandise for my
father arrived safely in port.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I will not weary you with a relation of all the little instances
of good fortune by which my brother Saladin was distinguished, even
during his childhood. As he grew up, his success in everything
he undertook was as remarkable as my ill luck in all that I attempted.
From the time the rich vessel arrived, we lived in splendour; and the
supposed prosperous state of my father&rsquo;s affairs was of course
attributed to the influence of my brother Saladin&rsquo;s happy destiny.</p>

<p>&ldquo;When Saladin was about twenty, my father was taken dangerously
ill; and as he felt that he should not recover, he sent for my brother
to the side of his bed, and, to his great surprise, informed him that
the magnificence in which we had lived had exhausted all his wealth;
that his affairs were in the greatest disorder; for, having trusted
to the hope of continual success, he had embarked in projects beyond
his powers.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The sequel was, he had nothing remaining to leave to his children
but two large china vases, remarkable for their beauty, but still more
valuable on account of certain verses inscribed upon them in an unknown
character, which were supposed to operate as a talisman or charm in
favour of their possessors.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Both these vases my father bequeathed to my brother Saladin;
declaring he could not venture to leave either of them to me, because
I was so unlucky that I should inevitably break it. After his
death, however, my brother Saladin, who was blessed with a generous
temper, gave me my choice of the two vases; and endeavoured to raise
my spirits by repeating frequently that he had no faith either in good
fortune or ill fortune.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I could not be of his opinion, though I felt and acknowledged
his kindness in trying to persuade me out of my settled melancholy.
I knew it was in vain for me to exert myself, because I was sure that,
do what I would, I should still be Murad the Unlucky. My brother,
on the contrary, was nowise cast down, even by the poverty in which
my father left us: he said he was sure he should find some means of
maintaining himself; and so he did.</p>

<p>&ldquo;On examining our china vases, he found in them a powder of
a bright scarlet colour; and it occurred to him that it would make a
fine dye. He tried it, and after some trouble, it succeeded to
admiration.</p>

<p>&ldquo;During my father&rsquo;s lifetime, my mother had been supplied
with rich dresses by one of the merchants who was employed by the ladies
of the grand seignior&rsquo;s seraglio. My brother had done this
merchant some trifling favours, and, upon application to him, he readily
engaged to recommend the new scarlet dye. Indeed, it was so beautiful,
that, the moment it was seen, it was preferred to every other colour.
Saladin&rsquo;s shop was soon crowded with customers; and his winning
manners and pleasant conversation were almost as advantageous to him
as his scarlet dye. On the contrary, I observed that the first
glance at my melancholy countenance was sufficient to disgust every
one who saw me. I perceived this plainly; and it only confirmed
me the more in my belief in my own evil destiny.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It happened one day that a lady, richly apparelled and attended
by two female slaves, came to my brother&rsquo;s house to make some
purchases. He was out, and I alone was left to attend to the shop.
After she had looked over some goods, she chanced to see my china vase,
which was in the room. She took a prodigious fancy to it, and
offered me any price if I would part with it; but this I declined doing,
because I believed that I should draw down upon my head some dreadful
calamity if I voluntarily relinquished the talisman. Irritated
by my refusal, the lady, according to the custom of her sex, became
more resolute in her purpose; but neither entreaties nor money could
change my determination. Provoked beyond measure at my obstinacy,
as she called it, she left the house.</p>

<p>&ldquo;On my brother&rsquo;s return, I related to him what had happened,
and expected that he would have praised me for my prudence; but, on
the contrary, he blamed me for the superstitious value I set upon the
verses on my vase; and observed that it would be the height of folly
to lose a certain means of advancing my fortune for the uncertain hope
of magical protection. I could not bring myself to be of his opinion;
I had not the courage to follow the advice he gave. The next day
the lady returned, and my brother sold his vase to her for ten thousand
pieces of gold. This money he laid out in the most advantageous
manner, by purchasing a new stock of merchandise. I repented when
it was too late; but I believe it is part of the fatality attending
certain persons, that they cannot decide rightly at the proper moment.
When the opportunity has been lost, I have always regretted that I did
not do exactly the contrary to what I had previously determined upon.
Often, whilst I was hesitating, the favourable moment passed.<a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">[1]</a>
Now this is what I call being unlucky. But to proceed with my
story.</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">[1]</a>
&ldquo;Whom the gods wish to destroy, they first deprive of understanding.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The lady who bought my brother Saladin&rsquo;s vase was the
favourite of the Sultan, and all-powerful in the seraglio. Her
dislike to me, in consequence of my opposition to her wishes, was so
violent, that she refused to return to my brother&rsquo;s house while
I remained there. He was unwilling to part with me; but I could
not bear to be the ruin of so good a brother. Without telling
him my design, I left his house careless of what should become of me.
Hunger, however, soon compelled me to think of some immediate mode of
obtaining relief. I sat down upon a stone, before the door of
a baker&rsquo;s shop: the smell of hot bread tempted me in, and with
a feeble voice I demanded charity.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The master baker gave me as much bread as I could eat, upon
condition that I should change dresses with him and carry the rolls
for him through the city this day. To this I readily consented;
but I had soon reason to repent of my compliance. Indeed, if my
ill-luck had not, as usual, deprived me at this critical moment of memory
and judgment, I should never have complied with the baker&rsquo;s treacherous
proposal. For some time before, the people of Constantinople had
been much dissatisfied with the weight and quality of the bread furnished
by the bakers. This species of discontent has often been the sure
forerunner of an insurrection; and, in these disturbances, the master
bakers frequently lose their lives. All these circumstances I
knew, but they did not occur to my memory when they might have been
useful.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I changed dresses with the baker; but scarcely had I proceeded
through the adjoining streets with my rolls before the mob began to
gather round me with reproaches and execrations. The crowd pursued
me even to the gates of the grand seignior&rsquo;s palace, and the grand
vizier, alarmed at their violence, sent out an order to have my head
struck off; the usual remedy, in such cases, being to strike off the
baker&rsquo;s head.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I now fell upon my knees, and protested I was not the baker
for whom they took me; that I had no connection with him; and that I
had never furnished the people of Constantinople with bread that was
not weight. I declared I had merely changed clothes with a master
baker for this day, and that I should not have done so but for the evil
destiny which governs all my actions. Some of the mob exclaimed
that I deserved to lose my head for my folly; but others took pity on
me, and whilst the officer, who was sent to execute the vizier&rsquo;s
order, turned to speak to some of the noisy rioters, those who were
touched by my misfortune opened a passage for me through the crowd,
and thus favoured, I effected my escape.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I quitted Constantinople; my vase I had left in the care of
my brother. At some miles&rsquo; distance from the city I overtook
a party of soldiers. I joined them, and learning that they were
going to embark with the rest of the grand seignior&rsquo;s army for
Egypt, I resolved to accompany them. &lsquo;If it be,&rsquo; thought
I, &lsquo;the will of Mahomet that I should perish, the sooner I meet
my fate the better.&rsquo; The despondency into which I was sunk
was attended by so great a degree of indolence, that I scarcely would
take the necessary means to preserve my existence. During our
passage to Egypt I sat all day long upon the deck of the vessel, smoking
my pipe, and I am convinced that if a storm had risen, as I expected,
I should not have taken my pipe from my mouth, nor should I have handled
a rope to save myself from destruction. Such is the effect of
that species of resignation, or torpor, whichever you please to call
it, to which my strong belief in fatality had reduced my mind.</p>

<p>&ldquo;We landed, however, safely, contrary to my melancholy forebodings.
By a trifling accident, not worth relating, I was detained longer than
any of my companions in the vessel when we disembarked, and I did not
arrive at the camp till late at night. It was moonlight, and I
could see the whole scene distinctly. There was a vast number
of small tents scattered over a desert of white sand; a few date-trees
were visible at a distance; all was gloomy, and all still; no sound
was to be heard but that of the camels feeding near the tents, and,
as I walked on, I met with no human creature.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My pipe was now out, and I quickened my pace a little towards
a fire which I saw near one of the tents. As I proceeded, my eye
was caught by something sparkling in the sand: it was a ring.
I picked it up and put it on my finger, resolving to give it to the
public crier the next morning, who might find out its rightful owner;
but, by ill-luck, I put it on my little finger, for which it was much
too large, and as I hastened towards the fire to light my pipe, I dropped
the ring. I stooped to search for it amongst the provender on
which a mule was feeding, and the cursed animal gave me so violent a
kick on the head that I could not help roaring aloud.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My cries awakened those who slept in the tent near which the
mule was feeding. Provoked at being disturbed, the soldiers were
ready enough to think ill of me, and they took it for granted that I
was a thief, who had stolen the ring I pretended to have just found.
The ring was taken from me by force, and the next day I was bastinadoed
for having found it; the officer persisting in the belief that stripes
would make me confess where I had concealed certain other articles of
value which had lately been missed in the camp. All this was the
consequence of my being in a hurry to light my pipe and of my having
put the ring on a finger that was too little for it, which no one but
Murad the Unlucky would have done.</p>

<p>&ldquo;When I was able to walk again, after my wounds were healed,
I went into one of the tents distinguished by a red flag, having been
told that these were coffee-houses. Whilst I was drinking coffee
I heard a stranger near me complaining that he had not been able to
recover a valuable ring he had lost, although he had caused his loss
to be published for three days by the public crier, offering a reward
of two hundred sequins to whoever should restore it. I guessed
that this was the very ring which I had unfortunately found. I
addressed myself to the stranger, and promised to point out to him the
person who had forced it from me. The stranger recovered his ring,
and, being convinced that I had acted honestly, he made me a present
of two hundred sequins, as some amends for the punishment which I had
unjustly suffered on his account.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Now you would imagine that this purse of gold was advantageous
to me. Far the contrary; it was the cause of new misfortunes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;One night, when I thought that the soldiers who were in the
same tent with me were all fast asleep, I indulged myself in the pleasure
of counting my treasure. The next day I was invited by my companions
to drink sherbet with them. What they mixed with the sherbet which
I drank I know not, but I could not resist the drowsiness it brought
on. I fell into a profound slumber, and when I awoke, I found
myself lying under a date-tree, at some distance from the camp.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The first thing I thought of when I came to my recollection
was my purse of sequins. The purse I found still safe in my girdle;
but on opening it, I perceived that it was filled with pebbles, and
not a single sequin was left. I had no doubt that I had been robbed
by the soldiers with whom I had drunk sherbet, and I am certain that
some of them must have been awake the night I counted my money; otherwise,
as I had never trusted the secret of my riches to any one, they could
not have suspected me of possessing any property; for ever since I kept
company with them I had appeared to be in great indigence.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I applied in vain to the superior officers for redress: the
soldiers protested they were innocent; no positive proof appeared against
them, and I gained nothing by my complaint but ridicule and ill-will.
I called myself, in the first transport of my grief, by that name which,
since my arrival in Egypt, I had avoided to pronounce: I called myself
Murad the Unlucky. The name and the story ran through the camp,
and I was accosted, afterwards, very frequently, by this appellation.
Some, indeed, varied their wit by calling me Murad with the purse of
pebbles.</p>

<p>&ldquo;All that I had yet suffered is nothing compared to my succeeding
misfortunes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;It was the custom at this time, in the Turkish camp, for the
soldiers to amuse themselves with firing at a mark. The superior
officers remonstrated against this dangerous practice, but ineffectually.
Sometimes a party of soldiers would stop firing for a few minutes, after
a message was brought them from their commanders, and then they would
begin again, in defiance of all orders. Such was the want of discipline
in our army, that this disobedience went unpunished. In the meantime,
the frequency of the danger made most men totally regardless of it.
I have seen tents pierced with bullets, in which parties were quietly
seated smoking their pipes, whilst those without were preparing to take
fresh aim at the red flag on the top.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This apathy proceeded, in some, from unconquerable indolence
of body; in others, from the intoxication produced by the fumes of tobacco
and of opium; but in most of my brother Turks it arose from the confidence
which the belief in predestination inspired. When a bullet killed
one of their companions, they only observed, scarcely taking the pipes
from their mouths, &lsquo;Our hour is not yet come: it is not the will
of Mahomet that we should fall.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I own that this rash security appeared to me, at first, surprising,
but it soon ceased to strike me with wonder, and it even tended to confirm
my favourite opinion, that some were born to good and some to evil fortune.
I became almost as careless as my companions, from following the same
course of reasoning. &lsquo;It is not,&rsquo; thought I, &lsquo;in
the power of human prudence to avert the stroke of destiny. I
shall perhaps die to-morrow; let me therefore enjoy to-day.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I now made it my study every day to procure as much amusement
as possible. My poverty, as you will imagine, restricted me from
indulgence and excess, but I soon found means to spend what did not
actually belong to me. There were certain Jews who were followers
of the camp, and who, calculating on the probability of victory for
our troops, advanced money to the soldiers, for which they engaged to
pay these usurers exorbitant interest. The Jew to whom I applied
traded with me also, upon the belief that my brother Saladin, with whose
character and circumstances he was acquainted, would pay my debts if
I should fall. With the money I raised from the Jew I continually
bought coffee and opium, of which I grew immoderately fond. In
the delirium it created I forgot all my misfortunes, all fear of the
future.</p>

<p>&ldquo;One day, when I had raised my spirits by an unusual quantity
of opium, I was strolling through the camp, sometimes singing, sometimes
dancing, like a madman, and repeating that I was not now Murad the Unlucky.
Whilst these words were on my lips, a friendly spectator, who was in
possession of his sober senses, caught me by the arm, and attempted
to drag me from the place where I was exposing myself. &lsquo;Do
you not see,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;those soldiers, who are firing at
a mark? I saw one of them, just now, deliberately taking aim at
your turban; and observe, he is now reloading his piece.&rsquo;
My ill luck prevailed even at this instant&mdash;the only instant in
my life when I defied its power. I struggled with my adviser,
repeating, &lsquo;I am not the wretch you take me for; I am not Murad
the Unlucky.&rsquo; He fled from the danger himself; I remained,
and in a few seconds afterwards a ball reached me, and I fell senseless
on the sand.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The ball was cut out of my body by an awkward surgeon, who
gave me ten times more pain than was necessary. He was particularly
hurried at this time, because the army had just received orders to march
in a few hours, and all was confusion in the camp. My wound was
excessively painful, and the fear of being left behind with those who
were deemed incurable added to my torments. Perhaps, if I had
kept myself quiet, I might have escaped some of the evils I afterwards
endured; but, as I have repeatedly told you, gentlemen, it was my ill
fortune never to be able to judge what was best to be done till the
time for prudence was past.</p>

<p>&ldquo;During the day, when my fever was at the height, and when
my orders were to keep my bed, contrary to my natural habits of indolence,
I rose a hundred times, and went out of my tent in the very heat of
the day, to satisfy my curiosity as to the number of the tents which
had not been struck, and of the soldiers who had not yet marched.
The orders to march were tardily obeyed, and many hours elapsed before
our encampment was raised. Had I submitted to my surgeon&rsquo;s
orders, I might have been in a state to accompany the most dilatory
of the stragglers; I could have borne, perhaps, the slow motion of a
litter, on which some of the sick were transported; but in the evening,
when the surgeon came to dress my wounds, he found me in such a situation
that it was scarcely possible to remove me.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He desired a party of soldiers, who were left to bring up
the rear, to call for me the next morning. They did so; but they
wanted to put me upon the mule which I recollected, by a white streak
on its back, to be the cursed animal that had kicked me whilst I was
looking for the ring. I could not be prevailed upon to go upon
this unlucky animal. I tried to persuade the soldiers to carry
me, and they took me a little way; but, soon growing weary of their
burden, they laid me down on the sand, pretending that they were going
to fill a skin with water at a spring they had discovered, and bade
me lie still, and wait for their return.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I waited and waited, longing for the water to moisten my parched
lips; but no water came&mdash;no soldiers returned; and there I lay,
for several hours, expecting every moment to breathe my last.
I made no effort to move, for I was now convinced my hour was come,
and that it was the will of Mahomet that I should perish in this miserable
manner, and lie unburied like a dog: &lsquo;a death,&rsquo; thought
I, &lsquo;worthy of Murad the Unlucky.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My forebodings were not this time just; a detachment of English
soldiers passed near the place where I lay: my groans were heard by
them, and they humanely came to my assistance. They carried me
with them, dressed my wound, and treated me with the utmost tenderness.
Christians though they were, I must acknowledge that I had reason to
love them better than any of the followers of Mahomet, my good brother
only excepted.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Under their care I recovered; but scarcely had I regained
my strength before I fell into new disasters. It was hot weather,
and my thirst was excessive. I went out with a party, in hopes
of finding a spring of water. The English soldiers began to dig
for a well, in a place pointed out to them by one of their men of science.
I was not inclined to such hard labour, but preferred sauntering on
in search of a spring. I saw at a distance something that looked
like a pool of water; and I pointed it out to my companions. Their
man of science warned me by his interpreter not to trust to this deceitful
appearance; for that such were common in this country, and that, when
I came close to the spot, I should find no water there. He added,
that it was at a greater distance than I imagined; and that I should,
in all probability, be lost in the desert if I attempted to follow this
phantom.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I was so unfortunate as not to attend to his advice: I set
out in pursuit of this accursed delusion, which assuredly was the work
of evil spirits, who clouded my reason, and allured me into their dominion.
I went on, hour after hour, in expectation continually of reaching the
object of my wishes; but it fled faster than I pursued, and I discovered
at last that the Englishman, who had doubtless gained his information
from the people of the country, was right; and that the shining appearance
which I had taken for water was a mere deception.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I was now exhausted with fatigue: I looked back in vain after
the companions I had left; I could see neither men, animals, nor any
trace of vegetation in the sandy desert. I had no resource but,
weary as I was, to measure back my footsteps, which were imprinted in
the sand.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I slowly and sorrowfully traced them as my guides in this
unknown land. Instead of yielding to my indolent inclinations,
I ought, however, to have made the best of my way back, before the evening
breeze sprang up. I felt the breeze rising, and, unconscious of
my danger, I rejoiced, and opened my bosom to meet it; but what was
my dismay when I saw that the wind swept before it all trace of my footsteps
in the sand. I knew not which way to proceed; I was struck with
despair, tore my garments, threw off my turban, and cried aloud; but
neither human voice nor echo answered me. The silence was dreadful.
I had tasted no food for many hours, and I now became sick and faint.
I recollected that I had put a supply of opium into the folds of my
turban; but, alas! when I took my turban up, I found that the opium
had fallen out. I searched for it in vain on the sand, where I
had thrown the turban.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I stretched myself out upon the ground, and yielded without
further struggle to my evil destiny. What I suffered from thirst,
hunger, and heat cannot be described. At last I fell into a sort
of trance, during which images of various kinds seemed to flit before
my eyes. How long I remained in this state I know not: but I remember
that I was brought to my senses by a loud shout, which came from persons
belonging to a caravan returning from Mecca. This was a shout
of joy for their safe arrival at a certain spring, well known to them
in this part of the desert.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The spring was not a hundred yards from the spot where I lay;
yet, such had been the fate of Murad the Unlucky, that he missed the
reality, whilst he had been hours in pursuit of the phantom. Feeble
and spiritless as I was, I sent forth as loud a cry as I could, in hopes
of obtaining assistance; and I endeavoured to crawl to the place from
which the voices appeared to come. The caravan rested for a considerable
time whilst the slaves filled the skins with water, and whilst the camels
took in their supply. I worked myself on towards them; yet, notwithstanding
my efforts, I was persuaded that, according to my usual ill-fortune,
I should never be able to make them hear my voice. I saw them
mount their camels! I took off my turban, unrolled it, and waved
it in the air. My signal was seen! The caravan came towards
me!</p>

<p>&ldquo;I had scarcely strength to speak; a slave gave me some water,
and, after I had drunk, I explained to them who I was, and how I came
into this situation.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Whilst I was speaking, one of the travellers observed the
purse which hung to my girdle: it was the same the merchant for whom
I recovered the ring had given to me; I had carefully preserved it,
because the initials of my benefactor&rsquo;s name and a passage from
the Koran were worked upon it. When he give it to me, he said
that perhaps we should meet again in some other part of the world, and
he should recognise me by this token. The person who now took
notice of the purse was his brother; and when I related to him how I
had obtained it, he had the goodness to take me under his protection.
He was a merchant, who was now going with the caravan to Grand Cairo:
he offered to take me with him, and I willingly accepted the proposal,
promising to serve him as faithfully as any of his slaves. The
caravan proceeded, and I was carried with it.&rdquo;</p>

<h3>CHAPTER II</h3>

<p>&ldquo;The merchant, who was become my master, treated me with great
kindness; but on hearing me relate the whole series of my unfortunate
adventures, he exacted a promise from me that I would do nothing without
first consulting him. &lsquo;Since you are so unlucky, Murad,&rsquo;
said he, &lsquo;that you always choose for the worst when you choose
for yourself, you should trust entirely to the judgment of a wiser or
a more fortunate friend.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I fared well in the service of this merchant, who was a man
of a mild disposition, and who was so rich that he could afford to be
generous to all his dependants. It was my business to see his
camels loaded and unloaded at proper places, to count his bales of merchandise,
and to take care that they were not mixed with those of his companions.
This I carefully did till the day we arrived at Alexandria; when, unluckily,
I neglected to count the bales, taking it for granted that they were
all right, as I had found them so the preceding day. However,
when we were to go on board the vessel that was to take us to Cairo,
I perceived that three bales of cotton were missing.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I ran to inform my master, who, though a good deal provoked
at my negligence, did not reproach me as I deserved. The public
crier was immediately sent round the city, to offer a reward for the
recovery of the merchandise; and it was restored by one of the merchants&rsquo;
slaves with whom we had travelled. The vessel was now under sail;
my master and I and the bales of cotton were obliged to follow in a
boat; and when we were taken on board, the captain declared he was so
loaded, that he could not tell where to stow the bales of cotton.
After much difficulty, he consented to let them remain upon deck; and
I promised my master to watch them night and day.</p>

<p>&ldquo;We had a prosperous voyage, and were actually in sight of
shore, which the captain said we could not fail to reach early the next
morning. I stayed, as usual, this night upon deck, and solaced
myself by smoking my pipe. Ever since I had indulged in this practice
at the camp at El Arish, I could not exist without opium and tobacco.
I suppose that my reason was this night a little clouded with the dose
I took; but towards midnight I was sobered by terror. I started
up from the deck on which I had stretched myself; my turban was in flames&mdash;the
bale of cotton on which I had rested was all on fire. I awakened
two sailors, who were fast asleep on deck. The consternation became
general, and the confusion increased the danger. The captain and
my master were the most active, and suffered the most, in extinguishing
the flames&mdash;my master was terribly scorched.</p>

<p>&ldquo;For my part, I was not suffered to do anything; the captain
ordered that I should be bound to the mast; and when at last the flames
were extinguished, the passengers, with one accord, besought him to
keep me bound hand and foot, lest I should be the cause of some new
disaster. All that had happened was, indeed, occasioned by my
ill-luck. I had laid my pipe down, when I was falling asleep,
upon the bale of cotton that was beside me. The fire from my pipe
fell out and set the cotton in flames. Such was the mixture of
rage and terror with which I had inspired the whole crew, that I am
sure they would have set me ashore on a desert island rather than have
had me on board for a week longer. Even my humane master, I could
perceive, was secretly impatient to get rid of Murad the Unlucky and
his evil fortune.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You may believe that I was heartily glad when we landed, and
when I was unbound. My master put a purse containing fifty sequins
into my hand, and bade me farewell. &lsquo;Use this money prudently,
Murad, if you can,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;and perhaps your fortune may
change.&rsquo; Of this I had little hopes, but determined to lay
out my money as prudently as possible.</p>

<p>&ldquo;As I was walking through the streets of Grand Cairo, considering
how I should lay out my fifty sequins to the greatest advantage, I was
stopped by one who called me by my name, and asked me if I could pretend
to have forgotten his face. I looked steadily at him, and recollected
to my sorrow that he was the Jew Rachub, from whom I had borrowed certain
sums of money at the camp at El Arish. What brought him to Grand
Cairo, except it was my evil destiny, I cannot tell. He would
not quit me; he would take no excuses; he said he knew that I had deserted
twice, once from the Turkish and once from the English army; that I
was not entitled to any pay; and that he could not imagine it possible
that my brother Saladin would own me or pay my debts.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I replied, for I was vexed by the insolence of this Jewish
dog, that I was not, as he imagined, a beggar: that I had the means
of paying him my just debt, but that I hoped he would not extort from
me all that exorbitant interest which none but a Jew could exact.
He smiled, and answered that if a Turk loved opium better than money
this was no fault of his; that he had supplied me with what I loved
best in the world, and that I ought not to complain when he expected
I should return the favour.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I will not weary you, gentlemen, with all the arguments that
passed between me and Rachub. At last we compromised matters;
he would take nothing less than the whole debt: but he let me have at
a very cheap rate a chest of second-hand clothes, by which he assured
me I might make my fortune. He brought them to Grand Cairo, he
said, for the purpose of selling them to slave merchants, who, at this
time of the year, were in want of them to supply their slaves; but he
was in haste to get home to his wife and family at Constantinople, and,
therefore, he was willing to make over to a friend the profits of this
speculation. I should have distrusted Rachub&rsquo;s professions
of friendship, and especially of disinterestedness, but he took me with
him to the khan where his goods were, and unlocked the chest of clothes
to show them to me. They were of the richest and finest materials,
and had been but little worn. I could not doubt the evidence of
my senses; the bargain was concluded, and the Jew sent porters to my
inn with the chest.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The next day I repaired to the public market-place; and, when
my business was known, I had choice of customers before night&mdash;my
chest was empty, and my purse was full. The profit I made upon
the sale of these clothes was so considerable, that I could not help
feeling astonishment at Rachub&rsquo;s having brought himself so readily
to relinquish them.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A few days after I had disposed of the contents of my chest,
a Damascene merchant, who had bought two suits of apparel from me, told
me, with a very melancholy face, that both the female slaves who had
put on these clothes were sick. I could not conceive that the
clothes were the cause of their sickness; but soon afterwards, as I
was crossing the market, I was attacked by at least a dozen merchants,
who made similar complaints. They insisted upon knowing how I
came by the garments, and demanded whether I had worn any of them myself.
This day I had, for the first time, indulged myself with wearing a pair
of yellow slippers, the only finery I had reserved for myself out of
all the tempting goods. Convinced by my wearing these slippers
that I could have had no insidious designs, since I shared the danger,
whatever it might be, the merchants were a little pacified; but what
was my terror and remorse the next day, when one of them came to inform
me that plague-boils had broken out under the arms of all the slaves
who had worn this pestilential apparel! On looking carefully into
the chest, we found the word &lsquo;Smyrna&rsquo; written, and half
effaced, upon the lid. Now, the plague had for some time raged
at Smyrna; and, as the merchants suspected, these clothes had certainly
belonged to persons who had died of that distemper. This was the
reason why the Jew was willing to sell them to me so cheap; and it was
for this reason that he would not stay at Grand Cairo himself to reap
the profits of his speculation. Indeed, if I had paid attention
to it at the proper time, a slight circumstance might have revealed
the truth to me. Whilst I was bargaining with the Jew, before
he opened the chest, he swallowed a large dram of brandy, and stuffed
his nostrils with sponge dipped in vinegar; he told me, he did to prevent
his perceiving the smell of musk, which always threw him into convulsions.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The horror I felt when I discovered that I had spread the
infection of the plague, and that I had probably caught it myself, overpowered
my senses&mdash;a cold dew spread over all my limbs, and I fell upon
the lid of the fatal chest in a swoon. It is said that fear disposes
people to take the infection; however this may be, I sickened that evening,
and soon was in a raging fever. It was worse for me whenever the
delirium left me, and I could reflect upon the miseries my ill-fortune
had occasioned. In my first lucid interval I looked round, and
saw that I had been removed from the khan to a wretched hut. An
old woman, who was smoking her pipe in the farthest corner of my room,
informed me that I had been sent out of the town of Grand Cairo by order
of the cadi, to whom the merchants had made their complaint. The
fatal chest was burnt, and the house in which I had lodged razed to
the ground. &lsquo;And if it had not been for me,&rsquo; continued
the old woman, &lsquo;you would have been dead probably at this instant;
but I have made a vow to our great Prophet that I would never neglect
an opportunity of doing a good action; therefore, when you were deserted
by all the world, I took care of you. Here, too, is your purse,
which I saved from the rabble&mdash;and, what is more difficult, from
the officers of justice. I will account to you for every part
that I have expended; and will, moreover, tell you the reason of my
making such an extraordinary vow.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;As I believed that this benevolent old woman took great pleasure
in talking, I made an inclination of my head to thank her for her promised
history, and she proceeded; but I must confess I did not listen with
all the attention her narrative doubtless deserved. Even curiosity,
the strongest passion of us Turks, was dead within me. I have
no recollection of the old woman&rsquo;s story. It is as much
as I can do to finish my own.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The weather became excessively hot; it was affirmed by some
of the physicians that this heat would prove fatal to their patients;
but, contrary to the prognostics of the physicians, it stopped the progress
of the plague. I recovered, and found my purse much lightened
by my illness. I divided the remainder of my money with my humane
nurse, and sent her out into the city to inquire how matters were going
on.</p>

<p>&ldquo;She brought me word that the fury of the plague had much abated,
but that she had met several funerals, and that she had heard many of
the merchants cursing the folly of Murad the Unlucky, who, as they said,
had brought all this calamity upon the inhabitants of Cairo. Even
fools, they say, learn by experience. I took care to burn the
bed on which I had lain and the clothes I had worn; I concealed my real
name, which I knew would inspire detestation, and gained admittance,
with a crowd of other poor wretches, into a lazaretto, where I performed
quarantine and offered up prayers daily for the sick.</p>

<p>&ldquo;When I thought it was impossible I could spread the infection,
I took my passage home. I was eager to get away from Grand Cairo,
where I knew I was an object of execration. I had a strange fancy
haunting my mind; I imagined that all my misfortunes, since I left Constantinople,
had arisen from my neglect of the talisman upon the beautiful china
vase. I dreamed three times, when I was recovering from the plague,
that a genius appeared to me, and said, in a reproachful tone, &lsquo;Murad,
where is the vase that was entrusted to thy care?&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;This dream operated strongly upon my imagination. As
soon as we arrived at Constantinople, which we did, to my great surprise,
without meeting with any untoward accidents, I went in search of my
brother Saladin to inquire for my vase. He no longer lived in
the house in which I left him, and I began to be apprehensive that he
was dead, but a porter, hearing my inquiries, exclaimed, &lsquo;Who
is there in Constantinople that is ignorant of the dwelling of Saladin
the Lucky? Come with me, and I will show it to you.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The mansion to which he conducted me looked so magnificent
that I was almost afraid to enter lest there should be some mistake.
But whilst I was hesitating the doors opened, and I heard my brother
Saladin&rsquo;s voice. He saw me almost at the same instant that
I fixed my eyes upon him, and immediately sprang forward to embrace
me. He was the same good brother as ever, and I rejoiced in his
prosperity with all my heart. &lsquo;Brother Saladin,&rsquo; said
I, &lsquo;can you now doubt that some men are born to be fortunate and
others to be unfortunate? How often you used to dispute this point
with me!&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Let us not dispute it now in the public street,&rsquo;
said he, smiling; &lsquo;but come in and refresh yourself, and we will
consider the question afterwards at leisure.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;No, my dear brother,&rsquo; said I, drawing back, &lsquo;you
are too good: Murad the Unlucky shall not enter your house, lest he
should draw down misfortunes upon you and yours. I come only to
ask for my vase.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;It is safe,&rsquo; cried he; &lsquo;come in, and you
shall see it: but I will not give it up till I have you in my house.
I have none of these superstitious fears: pardon me the expression,
but I have none of these superstitious fears.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I yielded, entered his house, and was astonished at all I
saw. My brother did not triumph in his prosperity; but, on the
contrary, seemed intent only upon making me forget my misfortunes: he
listened to the account of them with kindness, and obliged me by the
recital of his history: which was, I must acknowledge, far less wonderful
than my own. He seemed, by his own account, to have grown rich
in the common course of things; or rather, by his own prudence.
I allowed for his prejudices, and, unwilling to dispute farther with
him, said, &lsquo;You must remain of your opinion, brother, and I of
mine; you are Saladin the Lucky, and I Murad the Unlucky; and so we
shall remain to the end of our lives.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I had not been in his house four days when an accident happened,
which showed how much I was in the right. The favourite of the
sultan, to whom he had formerly sold his china vase, though her charms
were now somewhat faded by time, still retained her power and her taste
for magnificence. She commissioned my brother to bespeak for her,
at Venice, the most splendid looking-glass that money could purchase.
The mirror, after many delays and disappointments, at length arrived
at my brother&rsquo;s house. He unpacked it, and sent to let the
lady know it was in perfect safety. It was late in the evening,
and she ordered it should remain where it was that night, and that it
should be brought to the seraglio the next morning. It stood in
a sort of ante-chamber to the room in which I slept; and with it were
left some packages, containing glass chandeliers for an unfinished saloon
in my brother&rsquo;s house. Saladin charged all his domestics
to be vigilant this night, because he had money to a great amount by
him, and there had been frequent robberies in our neighbourhood.
Hearing these orders, I resolved to be in readiness at a moment&rsquo;s
warning. I laid my scimitar beside me upon a cushion, and left
my door half open, that I might hear the slightest noise in the ante-chamber
or the great staircase. About midnight I was suddenly awakened
by a noise in the ante-chamber. I started up, seized my scimitar,
and the instant I got to the door, saw, by the light of the lamp which
was burning in the room, a man standing opposite to me, with a drawn
sword in his hand. I rushed forward, demanding what he wanted,
and received no answer; but seeing him aim at me with his scimitar,
I gave him, as I thought, a deadly blow. At this instant I heard
a great crash; and the fragments of the looking-glass, which I had shivered,
fell at my feet. At the same moment something black brushed by
my shoulder: I pursued it, stumbled over the packages of glass, and
rolled over them down the stairs.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My brother came out of his room to inquire the cause of all
this disturbance; and when he saw the fine mirror broken, and me lying
amongst the glass chandeliers at the bottom of the stairs, he could
not forbear exclaiming, &lsquo;Well, brother! you are indeed Murad the
Unlucky.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;When the first emotion was over, he could not, however, forbear
laughing at my situation. With a degree of goodness, which made
me a thousand times more sorry for the accident, he came downstairs
to help me up, gave me his hand, and said, &lsquo;Forgive me if I was
angry with you at first. I am sure you did not mean to do me any
injury; but tell me how all this has happened?&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Whilst Saladin was speaking, I heard the same kind of noise
which had alarmed me in the ante-chamber; but, on looking back, I saw
only a black pigeon, which flew swiftly by me, unconscious of the mischief
he had occasioned. This pigeon I had unluckily brought into the
house the preceding day; and had been feeding and trying to tame it
for my young nephews. I little thought it would be the cause of
such disasters. My brother, though he endeavoured to conceal his
anxiety from me, was much disturbed at the idea of meeting the favourite&rsquo;s
displeasure, who would certainly be grievously disappointed by the loss
of her splendid looking-glass. I saw that I should inevitably
be his ruin if I continued in his house; and no persuasions could prevail
upon me to prolong my stay. My generous brother, seeing me determined
to go, said to me, &lsquo;A factor, whom I have employed for some years
to sell merchandise for me, died a few days ago. Will you take
his place? I am rich enough to bear any little mistakes you may
fall into from ignorance of business; and you will have a partner who
is able and willing to assist you.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I was touched to the heart by this kindness, especially at
such a time as this. He sent one of his slaves with me to the
shop in which you now see me, gentlemen. The slave, by my brother&rsquo;s
directions, brought with us my china vase, and delivered it safely to
me, with this message: &lsquo;The scarlet dye that was found in this
vase, and in its fellow, was the first cause of Saladin&rsquo;s making
the fortune he now enjoys: he therefore does no more than justice in
sharing that fortune with his brother Murad.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I was now placed in as advantageous a situation as possible;
but my mind was ill at ease when I reflected that the broken mirror
might be my brother&rsquo;s ruin. The lady by whom it had been
bespoken was, I well knew, of a violent temper; and this disappointment
was sufficient to provoke her to vengeance. My brother sent me
word this morning, however, that though her displeasure was excessive,
it was in my power to prevent any ill consequences that might ensue.
&lsquo;In my power!&rsquo; I exclaimed; &lsquo;then, indeed, I am happy!
Tell my brother there is nothing I will not do to show him my gratitude
and to save him from the consequences of my folly.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The slave who was sent by my brother seemed unwilling to name
what was required of me, saying that his master was afraid I should
not like to grant the request. I urged him to speak freely, and
he then told me the favourite declared nothing would make her amends
for the loss of the mirror but the fellow-vase to that which she had
bought from Saladin. It was impossible for me to hesitate; gratitude
for my brother&rsquo;s generous kindness overcame my superstitious obstinacy,
and I sent him word I would carry the vase to him myself.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I took it down this evening from the shelf on which it stood;
it was covered with dust, and I washed it, but, unluckily, in endeavouring
to clean the inside from the remains of the scarlet powder, I poured
hot water into it, and immediately I heard a simmering noise, and my
vase, in a few instants, burst asunder with a loud explosion.
These fragments, alas! are all that remain. The measure of my
misfortunes is now completed! Can you wonder, gentlemen, that
I bewail my evil destiny? Am I not justly called Murad the Unlucky?
Here end all my hopes in this world! Better would it have been
if I had died long ago! Better that I had never been born!
Nothing I ever have done or attempted has prospered. Murad the
Unlucky is my name, and ill-fate has marked me for her own.&rdquo;</p>

<h3>CHAPTER III</h3>

<p>The lamentations of Murad were interrupted by the entrance of Saladin.
Having waited in vain for some hours, he now came to see if any disaster
had happened to his brother Murad. He was surprised at the sight
of the two pretended merchants, and could not refrain from exclamations
on beholding the broken vase. However, with his usual equanimity
and good-nature, he began to console Murad; and, taking up the fragments,
examined them carefully, one by one joined them together again, found
that none of the edges of the china were damaged, and declared he could
have it mended so as to look as well as ever.</p>

<p>Murad recovered his spirits upon this. &ldquo;Brother,&rdquo;
said he, &ldquo;I comfort myself for being Murad the Unlucky when I
reflect that you are Saladin the Lucky. See, gentlemen,&rdquo;
continued he, turning to the pretended merchants, &ldquo;scarcely has
this most fortunate of men been five minutes in company before he gives
a happy turn to affairs. His presence inspires joy: I observe
your countenances, which had been saddened by my dismal history, have
brightened up since he has made his appearance. Brother, I wish
you would make these gentlemen some amends for the time they have wasted
in listening to my catalogue of misfortunes by relating your history,
which, I am sure, they will find rather more exhilarating.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Saladin consented, on condition that the strangers would accompany
him home and partake of a social banquet. They at first repeated
the former excuse of their being obliged to return to their inn; but
at length the sultan&rsquo;s curiosity prevailed, and he and his vizier
went home with Saladin the Lucky, who, after supper, related his history
in the following manner:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My being called Saladin the Lucky first inspired me with confidence
in myself; though I own that I cannot remember any extraordinary instances
of good luck in my childhood. An old nurse of my mother&rsquo;s,
indeed, repeated to me twenty times a day that nothing I undertook could
fail to succeed, because I was Saladin the Lucky. I became presumptuous
and rash; and my nurse&rsquo;s prognostics might have effectually prevented
their accomplishment had I not, when I was about fifteen, been roused
to reflection during a long confinement, which was the consequence of
my youthful conceit and imprudence.</p>

<p>&ldquo;At this time there was at the Porte a Frenchman, an ingenious
engineer, who was employed and favoured by the sultan, to the great
astonishment of many of my prejudiced countrymen. On the grand
seignior&rsquo;s birthday he exhibited some extraordinarily fine fireworks;
and I, with numbers of the inhabitants of Constantinople, crowded to
see them. I happened to stand near the place where the Frenchman
was stationed; the crowd pressed upon him, and I amongst the rest; he
begged we would, for our own sakes, keep at a greater distance, and
warned us that we might be much hurt by the combustibles which he was
using. I, relying upon my good fortune, disregarded all these
cautions; and the consequence was that, as I touched some of the materials
prepared for the fireworks, they exploded, dashed me upon the ground
with great violence, and I was terribly burnt.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This accident, gentlemen, I consider as one of the most fortunate
circumstances of my life; for it checked and corrected the presumption
of my temper. During the time I was confined to my bed the French
gentleman came frequently to see me. He was a very sensible man;
and the conversations he had with me enlarged my mind and cured me of
many foolish prejudices, especially of that which I had been taught
to entertain concerning the predominance of what is called luck or fortune
in human affairs. &lsquo;Though you are called Saladin the Lucky,&rsquo;
said he, &lsquo;you find that your neglect of prudence has nearly brought
you to the grave even in the bloom of youth. Take my advice, and
henceforward trust more to prudence than to fortune. Let the multitude,
if they will, call you Saladin the Lucky; but call yourself, and make
yourself, Saladin the Prudent.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;These words left an indelible impression on my mind, and gave
a new turn to my thoughts and character. My brother, Murad, has
doubtless told you our difference of opinion on the subject of predestination
produced between us frequent arguments; but we could never convince
one another, and we each have acted, through life, in consequence of
our different beliefs. To this I attribute my success and his
misfortunes.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The first rise of my fortune, as you have probably heard from
Murad, was owing to the scarlet dye, which I brought to perfection with
infinite difficulty. The powder, it is true, was accidentally
found by me in our china vases; but there it might have remained to
this instant, useless, if I had not taken the pains to make it useful.
I grant that we can only partially foresee and command events; yet on
the use we make of our own powers, I think, depends our destiny.
But, gentlemen, you would rather hear my adventures, perhaps, than my
reflections; and I am truly concerned, for your sakes, that I have no
wonderful events to relate. I am sorry I cannot tell you of my
having been lost in a sandy desert. I have never had the plague,
nor even been shipwrecked: I have been all my life an inhabitant of
Constantinople, and have passed my time in a very quiet and uniform
manner.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The money I received from the sultan&rsquo;s favourite for
my china vase, as my brother may have told you, enabled me to trade
on a more extensive scale. I went on steadily with my business,
and made it my whole study to please my employers by all fair and honourable
means. This industry and civility succeeded beyond my expectations:
in a few years I was rich for a man in my way of business.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I will not proceed to trouble you with the journal of a petty
merchant&rsquo;s life; I pass on to the incident which made a considerable
change in my affairs.</p>

<p>&ldquo;A terrible fire broke out near the walls of the grand seignior&rsquo;s
seraglio. As you are strangers, gentlemen, you may not have heard
of this event, though it produced so great a sensation in Constantinople.
The vizier&rsquo;s superb palace was utterly consumed, and the melted
lead poured down from the roof of the mosque of St. Sophia. Various
were the opinions formed by my neighbours respecting the cause of the
conflagration. Some supposed it to be a punishment for the sultan&rsquo;s
having neglected one Friday to appear at the mosque of St. Sophia; others
considered it as a warning sent by Mahomet to dissuade the Porte from
persisting in a war in which we were just engaged. The generality,
however, of the coffee-house politicians contented themselves with observing
that it was the will of Mahomet that the palace should be consumed.
Satisfied by this supposition, they took no precaution to prevent similar
accidents in their own houses. Never were fires so common in the
city as at this period; scarcely a night passed without our being wakened
by the cry of fire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;These frequent fires were rendered still more dreadful by
villains, who were continually on the watch to increase the confusion
by which they profited, and to pillage the houses of the sufferers.
It was discovered that these incendiaries frequently skulked, towards
evening, in the neighbourhood of the bezestein, where the richest merchants
store their goods. Some of these wretches were detected in throwing
<i>coundaks</i>, or matches, into the windows; and if these combustibles
remained a sufficient time, they could not fail to set the house on
fire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Notwithstanding all these circumstances, many even of those
who had property to preserve continued to repeat, &lsquo;It is the will
of Mahomet,&rsquo; and consequently to neglect all means of preservation.
I, on the contrary, recollecting the lesson I had learned from the sensible
foreigner, neither suffered my spirits to sink with superstitious fears
of ill-luck, nor did I trust presumptuously to my good fortune.
I took every possible means to secure myself. I never went to
bed without having seen that all the lights and fires in the house were
extinguished, and that I had a supply of water in the cistern.
I had likewise learned from my Frenchman that wet mortar was the most
effectual thing for stopping the progress of flames. I, therefore,
had a quantity of mortar made up in one of my outhouses, which I could
use at a moment&rsquo;s warning. These precautions were all useful
to me. My own house, indeed, was never actually on fire; but the
houses of my next-door neighbours were no less than five times in flames
in the course of one winter. By my exertions, or rather by my
precautions, they suffered but little damage, and all my neighbours
looked upon me as their deliverer and friend; they loaded me with presents,
and offered more, indeed, than I would accept. All repeated that
I was Saladin the Lucky. This compliment I disclaimed, feeling
more ambitious of being called Saladin the Prudent. It is thus
that what we call modesty is often only a more refined species of pride.
But to proceed with my story.</p>

<p>&ldquo;One night I had been later than usual at supper at a friend&rsquo;s
house; none but the watch were in the streets, and even they, I believe,
were asleep.</p>

<p>&ldquo;As I passed one of the conduits which convey water to the
city, I heard a trickling noise; and, upon examination, I found that
the cock of the water-spout was half turned, so that the water was running
out. I turned it back to its proper place, thought it had been
left unturned by accident, and walked on; but I had not proceeded far
before I came to another spout, and another, which were in the same
condition. I was convinced that this could not be the effect merely
of accident, and suspected that some ill-intentioned persons designed
to let out and waste the water of the city, that there might be none
to extinguish any fire that should break out in the course of the night.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I stood still for a few moments, to consider how it would
be most prudent to act. It would be impossible for me to run to
all parts of the city, that I might stop the pipes that were running
to waste. I first thought of wakening the watch and the firemen,
who were most of them slumbering at their stations; but I reflected
that they were perhaps not to be trusted, and that they were in a confederacy
with the incendiaries, otherwise they would certainly before this hour
have observed and stopped the running of the sewers in their neighbourhood.
I determined to waken a rich merchant, called Damat Zade, who lived
near me, and who had a number of slaves whom he could send to different
parts of the city, to prevent mischief and give notice to the inhabitants
of their danger.</p>

<p>&ldquo;He was a very sensible, active man, and one that could easily
be wakened; he was not like some Turks, an hour in recovering their
lethargic senses. He was quick in decision and action; and his
slaves resembled their master. He despatched a messenger immediately
to the grand vizier, that the sultan&rsquo;s safety might be secured,
and sent others to the magistrates in each quarter of Constantinople.
The large drums in the janissary aga&rsquo;s tower beat to rouse the
inhabitants; and scarcely had they been heard to beat half an hour before
the fire broke out in the lower apartments of Damat Zade&rsquo;s house,
owing to a <i>coundak</i> which had been left behind one of the doors.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The wretches who had prepared the mischief came to enjoy it,
and to pillage; but they were disappointed. Astonished to find
themselves taken into custody, they could not comprehend how their designs
had been frustrated. By timely exertions, the fire in my friend&rsquo;s
house was extinguished; and though fires broke out during the night
in many parts of the city, but little damage was sustained, because
there was time for precautions, and, by the stopping of the spouts,
sufficient water was preserved. People were awakened and warned
of the danger, and they consequently escaped unhurt.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The next day, as soon as I made my appearance at the bezestein,
the merchants crowded round, called me their benefactor, and the preserver
of their lives and fortunes. Damat Zade, the merchant whom I had
awakened the preceding night, presented to me a heavy purse of gold,
and put upon my finger a diamond ring of considerable value; each of
the merchants followed his example in making me rich presents; the magistrates
also sent me tokens of their approbation; and the grand vizier sent
me a diamond of the first water, with a line written by his own hand,
&lsquo;To the man who has saved Constantinople.&rsquo; Excuse
me, gentlemen, for the vanity I seem to show in mentioning these circumstances.
You desired to hear my history, and I cannot, therefore, omit the principal
circumstance of my life. In the course of four-and-twenty hours
I found myself raised, by the munificent gratitude of the inhabitants
of this city, to a state of affluence far beyond what I had ever dreamed
of attaining.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I now took a house suited to my circumstances, and bought
a few slaves. As I was carrying my slaves home, I was met by a
Jew, who stopped me, saying, in his language, &lsquo;My lord, I see,
has been purchasing slaves; I could clothe them cheaply.&rsquo;
There was something mysterious in the manner of this Jew, and I did
not like his countenance; but I considered that I ought not to be governed
by caprice in my dealings, and that, if this man could really clothe
my slaves more cheaply than another, I ought not to neglect his offer
merely because I took a dislike to the cut of his beard, the turn of
his eye, or the tone of his voice. I, therefore, bade the Jew
follow me home, saying that I would consider of his proposal.</p>

<p>&ldquo;When we came to talk over the matter, I was surprised to find
him so reasonable in his demands. On one point, indeed, he appeared
unwilling to comply. I required not only to see the clothes I
was offered, but also to know how they came into his possession.
On this subject he equivocated; I, therefore, suspected there must be
something wrong. I reflected what it could be, and judged that
the goods had been stolen, or that they had been the apparel of persons
who had died of some contagious distemper. The Jew showed me a
chest, from which he said I might choose whatever suited me best.
I observed that, as he was going to unlock the chest, he stuffed his
nose with some aromatic herbs. He told me that he did so to prevent
his smelling the musk with which the chest was perfumed; musk, he said,
had an extraordinary effect upon his nerves. I begged to have
some of the herbs which he used himself, declaring that musk was likewise
offensive to me.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Jew, either struck by his own conscience or observing
my suspicions, turned as pale as death. He pretended he had not
the right key, and could not unlock the chest; said he must go in search
of it, and that he would call on me again.</p>

<p>&ldquo;After he had left me, I examined some writing upon the lid
of the chest that had been nearly effaced. I made out the word
&lsquo;Smyrna,&rsquo; and this was sufficient to confirm all my suspicions.
The Jew returned no more; he sent some porters to carry away the chest,
and I heard nothing of him for some time, till one day, when I was at
the house of Damat Zade, I saw a glimpse of the Jew passing hastily
through one of the courts, as if he wished to avoid me. &lsquo;My
friend,&rsquo; said I to Damat Zade, &lsquo;do not attribute my question
to impertinent curiosity, or to a desire to intermeddle with your affairs,
if I venture to ask the nature of your business with the Jew who has
just now crossed your court?&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;He has engaged to supply me with clothing for my slaves,&rsquo;
replied my friend, &lsquo;cheaper than I can purchase it elsewhere.
I have a design to surprise my daughter Fatima, on her birthday, with
an entertainment in the pavilion in the garden, and all her female slaves
shall appear in new dresses on the occasion.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I interrupted my friend, to tell him what I suspected relative
to this Jew and his chest of clothes. It is certain that the infection
of the plague can be communicated by clothes, not only after months,
but after years have elapsed. The merchant resolved to have nothing
more to do with this wretch, who could thus hazard the lives of thousands
of his follow-creatures for a few pieces of gold. We sent notice
of the circumstance to the cadi, but the cadi was slow in his operations;
and before he could take the Jew into custody the cunning fellow had
effected his escape. When his house was searched, he and his chest
had disappeared. We discovered that he sailed for Egypt, and rejoiced
that we had driven him from Constantinople.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My friend, Damat Zade, expressed the warmest gratitude to
me. &lsquo;You formerly saved my fortune; you have now saved my
life, and a life yet dearer than my own: that of my daughter Fatima.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;At the sound of that name I could not, I believe, avoid showing
some emotion. I had accidentally seen this lady, and I had been
captivated by her beauty and by the sweetness of her countenance; but
as I knew she was destined to be the wife of another, I suppressed my
feeling, and determined to banish the recollection of the fair Fatima
for ever from my imagination. Her father, however, at this instant
threw into my way a temptation which it required all my fortitude to
resist. &lsquo;Saladin,&rsquo; continued he, &lsquo;it is but
just that you, who have saved our lives, should share our festivity.
Come here on the birthday of my Fatima; I will place you in a balcony
which overlooks the garden, and you shall see the whole spectacle.
We shall have a <i>feast of tulips</i>, in imitation of that which,
as you know, is held in the grand seignior&rsquo;s gardens. I
assure you the sight will be worth seeing; and besides, you will have
a chance of beholding my Fatima, for a moment, without her veil.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;That,&rsquo; interrupted I, &lsquo;is the thing I most
wish to avoid. I dare not indulge myself in a pleasure which might
cost me the happiness of my life. I will conceal nothing from
you, who treat me with so much confidence. I have already beheld
the charming countenance of your Fatima, but I know that she is destined
to be the wife of a happier man.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Damat Zade seemed much pleased by the frankness with which
I explained myself; but he would not give up the idea of my sitting
with him in the balcony on the day of the feast of tulips; and I, on
my part, could not consent to expose myself to another view of the charming
Fatima. My friend used every argument, or rather every sort of
persuasion, he could imagine to prevail upon me; he then tried to laugh
me out of my resolution; and, when all failed, he said, in a voice of
anger, &lsquo;Go, then, Saladin: I am sure you are deceiving me; you
have a passion for some other woman, and you would conceal it from me,
and persuade me you refuse the favour I offer you from prudence, when,
in fact, it is from indifference and contempt. Why could you not
speak the truth of your heart to me with that frankness with which one
friend should treat another?&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Astonished at this unexpected charge, and at the anger which
flashed from the eyes of Damat Zade, who till this moment had always
appeared to me a man of a mild and reasonable temper, I was for an instant
tempted to fly into a passion and leave him; but friends, once lost,
are not easily regained. This consideration had power sufficient
to make me command my temper. &lsquo;My friend,&rsquo; replied
I, &lsquo;we will talk over this affair to-morrow. You are now
angry, and cannot do me justice, but to-morrow you will be cool; you
will then be convinced that I have not deceived you, and that I have
no design but to secure my own happiness, by the most prudent means
in my power, by avoiding the sight of the dangerous Fatima. I
have no passion for any other woman.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Then,&rsquo; said my friend, embracing me, and quitting
the tone of anger which he had assumed only to try my resolution to
the utmost, &lsquo;Then, Saladin, Fatima is yours.&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I scarcely dared to believe my senses; I could not express
my joy! &lsquo;Yes, my friend,&rsquo; continued the merchant,
&lsquo;I have tried your prudence to the utmost, it has been victorious,
and I resign my Fatima to you, certain that you will make her happy.
It is true I had a greater alliance in view for her&mdash;the Pacha
of Maksoud has demanded her from me; but I have found, upon private
inquiry, he is addicted to the intemperate use of opium, and my daughter
shall never be the wife of one who is a violent madman one-half the
day and a melancholy idiot during the remainder. I have nothing
to apprehend from the pacha&rsquo;s resentment, because I have powerful
friends with the grand vizier, who will oblige him to listen to reason,
and to submit quietly to a disappointment he so justly merits.
And now, Saladin, have you any objection to seeing the feast of tulips?&rsquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I replied only by falling at the merchant&rsquo;s feet, and
embracing his knees. The feast of tulips came and on that day
I was married to the charming Fatima! The charming Fatima I continue
still to think her, though she has now been my wife some years.
She is the joy and pride of my heart; and, from our mutual affection,
I have experienced more felicity than from all the other circumstances
of my life, which are called so fortunate. Her father gave me
the house in which I now live, and joined his possessions to ours; so
that I have more wealth even than I desire. My riches, however,
give me continually the means of relieving the wants of others; and
therefore I cannot affect to despise them. I must persuade my
brother Murad to share them with me, and to forget his misfortunes:
I shall then think myself completely happy. As to the sultana&rsquo;s
looking-glass and your broken vase, my dear brother,&rdquo; continued
Saladin, &ldquo;we must think of some means&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Think no more of the sultana&rsquo;s looking-glass or of the
broken vase,&rdquo; exclaimed the sultan, throwing aside his merchant&rsquo;s
habit, and showing beneath it his own imperial vest. &ldquo;Saladin,
I rejoice to have heard, from your own lips, the history of your life.
I acknowledge, vizier, I have been in the wrong in our argument,&rdquo;
continued the sultan, turning to his vizier. &ldquo;I acknowledge
that the histories of Saladin the Lucky and Murad the Unlucky favour
your opinion, that prudence has more influence than chance in human
affairs. The success and happiness of Saladin seem to me to have
arisen from his prudence: by that prudence Constantinople has been saved
from flames and from the plague. Had Murad possessed his brother&rsquo;s
discretion, he would not have been on the point of losing his head,
for selling rolls which he did not bake: he would not have been kicked
by a mule or bastinadoed for finding a ring: he would not have been
robbed by one party of soldiers, or shot by another: he would not have
been lost in a desert, or cheated by a Jew: he would not have set a
ship on fire; nor would he have caught the plague, and spread it through
Grand Cairo: he would not have run my sultana&rsquo;s looking-glass
through the body, instead of a robber: he would not have believed that
the fate of his life depended on certain verses on a china vase: nor
would he, at last, have broken this precious talisman, by washing it
with hot water. Henceforward, let Murad the Unlucky be named Murad
the Imprudent: let Saladin preserve the surname he merits, and be henceforth
called Saladin the Prudent.&rdquo;</p>

<p>So spake the sultan, who, unlike the generality of monarchs, could
bear to find himself in the wrong, and could discover his vizier to
be in the right without cutting off his head. History farther
informs us that the sultan offered to make Saladin a pacha, and to commit
to him the government of a province; but, Saladin the Prudent declined
this honour, saying he had no ambition, was perfectly happy in his present
situation, and that, when this was the case, it would be folly to change,
because no one can be more than happy. What farther adventures
befell Murad the Imprudent are not recorded; it is known only that he
became a daily visitor to the Teriaky, and that he died a martyr to
the immoderate use of opium.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap03"></a>THE LIMERICK GLOVES</h2>

<h3>CHAPTER I</h3>

<p>It was Sunday morning, and a fine day in autumn; the bells of Hereford
Cathedral rang, and all the world, smartly dressed, were flocking to
church.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Mrs. Hill! Mrs. Hill!&mdash;Phœbe! Phœbe! There&rsquo;s
the cathedral bell, I say, and neither of you ready for church, and
I a verger,&rdquo; cried Mr. Hill, the tanner, as he stood at the bottom
of his own staircase. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m ready, papa,&rdquo; replied
Phœbe; and down she came, looking so clean, so fresh, and so gay, that
her stern father&rsquo;s brows unbent, and he could only say to her,
as she was drawing on a new pair of gloves, &ldquo;Child, you ought
to have had those gloves on before this time of day.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Before this time of day!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Hill, who was now
coming downstairs completely equipped&mdash;&ldquo;before this time
of day! She should know better, I say, than to put on those gloves
at all: more especially when going to the cathedral.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The gloves are very good gloves, as far as I see,&rdquo; replied
Mr. Hill. &ldquo;But no matter now. It is more fitting that
we should be in proper time in our pew, to set an example, as becomes
us, than to stand here talking of gloves and nonsense.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He offered his wife and daughter each an arm, and set out for the
cathedral; but Phœbe was too busy in drawing on her new gloves, and
her mother was too angry at the sight of them, to accept of Mr. Hill&rsquo;s
courtesy. &ldquo;What I say is always nonsense, I know, Mr. Hill,&rdquo;
resumed the matron: &ldquo;but I can see as far into a millstone as
other folks. Was it not I that first gave you a hint of what became
of the great dog that we lost out of our tan-yard last winter?
And was it not I who first took notice to you, Mr. Hill, verger as you
are, of the hole under the foundation of the cathedral? Was it
not, I ask you, Mr. Hill?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But, my dear Mrs. Hill, what has all this to do with Phœbe&rsquo;s
gloves?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Are you blind, Mr. Hill? Don&rsquo;t you see that they
are Limerick gloves?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What of that?&rdquo; said Mr. Hill, still preserving his composure,
as it was his custom to do as long as he could, when he saw his wife
was ruffled.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What of that, Mr. Hill! why, don&rsquo;t you know that Limerick
is in Ireland, Mr. Hill?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;With all my heart, my dear.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, and with all your heart, I suppose, Mr. Hill, you would
see our cathedral blown up, some fair day or other, and your own daughter
married to the person that did it; and you a verger, Mr. Hill.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;God forbid!&rdquo; cried Mr, Hill; and he stopped short and
settled his wig. Presently recovering himself, he added, &ldquo;But,
Mrs. Hill, the cathedral is not yet blown up; and our Phœbe is not
yet married.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No; but what of that, Mr. Hill? Forewarned is forearmed,
as I told you before your dog was gone; but you would not believe me,
and you see how it turned out in that case; and so it will in this case,
you&rsquo;ll see, Mr. Hill.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But you puzzle and frighten me out of my wits, Mrs. Hill,&rdquo;
said the verger, again settling his wig. &ldquo;<i>In that case
and in this case</i>! I can&rsquo;t understand a syllable of what
you&rsquo;ve been saying to me this half-hour. In plain English,
what is there the matter about Phœbe&rsquo;s gloves?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;In plain English, then, Mr. Hill, since you can understand
nothing else, please to ask your daughter Phœbe who gave her those
gloves. Phœbe, who gave you those gloves?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I wish they were burnt,&rdquo; said the husband, whose patience
could endure no longer. &ldquo;Who gave you those cursed gloves,
Phœbe?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Papa,&rdquo; answered Phœbe, in a low voice, &ldquo;they
were a present from Mr. Brian O&rsquo;Neill.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The Irish glover!&rdquo; cried Mr. Hill, with a look of terror.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; resumed the mother; &ldquo;very true, Mr. Hill,
I assure you. Now, you see, I had my reasons.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Take off the gloves directly: I order you, Phœbe,&rdquo;
said her father, in his most peremptory tone. &ldquo;I took a
mortal dislike to that Mr. Brian O&rsquo;Neill the first time I ever
saw him. He&rsquo;s an Irishman, and that&rsquo;s enough, and
too much for me. Off with the gloves, Phœbe! When I order
a thing, it must be done.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Phœbe seemed to find some difficulty in getting off the gloves,
and gently urged that she could not well go into the cathedral without
them. This objection was immediately removed by her mother&rsquo;s
pulling from her pocket a pair of mittens, which had once been brown,
and once been whole, but which were now rent in sundry places; and which,
having been long stretched by one who was twice the size of Phœbe,
now hung in huge wrinkles upon her well-turned arms.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But, papa,&rdquo; said Phœbe, &ldquo;why should we take a
dislike to him because he is an Irishman? Cannot an Irishman be
a good man?&rdquo;</p>

<p>The verger made no answer to this question, but a few seconds after
it was put to him observed that the cathedral bell had just done ringing;
and, as they were now got to the church door, Mrs. Hill, with a significant
look at Phœbe, remarked that it was no proper time to talk or think
of good men, or bad men, or Irishmen, or any men, especially for a verger&rsquo;s
daughter.</p>

<p>We pass over in silence the many conjectures that were made by several
of the congregation concerning the reason why Miss Phœbe Hill should
appear in such a shameful shabby pair of gloves on a Sunday. After
service was ended, the verger went, with great mystery, to examine the
hole under the foundation of the cathedral; and Mrs. Hill repaired,
with the grocer&rsquo;s and the stationer&rsquo;s ladies, to take a
walk in the Close, where she boasted to all her female acquaintance,
whom she called her friends, of her maternal discretion in prevailing
upon Mr. Hill to forbid her daughter Phœbe to wear the Limerick gloves.</p>

<p>In the meantime, Phœbe walked pensively homewards, endeavouring
to discover why her father should take a mortal dislike to a man at
first sight, merely because he was an Irishman: and why her mother had
talked so much of the great dog which had been lost last year out of
the tan-yard; and of the hole under the foundation of the cathedral!
&ldquo;What has all this to do with my Limerick gloves?&rdquo; thought
she. The more she thought, the less connection she could perceive
between these things: for as she had not taken a dislike to Mr. Brian
O&rsquo;Neill at first sight, because he was an Irishman, she could
not think it quite reasonable to suspect him of making away with her
father&rsquo;s dog, nor yet of a design to blow up Hereford Cathedral.
As she was pondering upon these matters, she came within sight of the
ruins of a poor woman&rsquo;s house, which a few months before this
time had been burnt down. She recollected that her first acquaintance
with her lover began at the time of this fire; and she thought that
the courage and humanity he showed, in exerting himself to save this
unfortunate woman and her children, justified her notion of the possibility
that an Irishman might be a good man.</p>

<p>The name of the poor woman whose house had been burnt down was Smith:
she was a widow, and she now lived at the extremity of a narrow lane
in a wretched habitation. Why Phœbe thought of her with more
concern than usual at this instant we need not examine, but she did;
and, reproaching herself for having neglected it for some weeks past,
she resolved to go directly to see the widow Smith, and to give her
a crown which she had long had in her pocket, with which she had intended
to have bought play tickets.</p>

<p>It happened that the first person she saw in the poor widow&rsquo;s
kitchen was the identical Mr. O&rsquo;Neill. &ldquo;I did not
expect to see anybody here but you, Mrs. Smith,&rdquo; said Phœbe,
blushing.</p>

<p>&ldquo;So much the greater the pleasure of the meeting; to me, I
mean, Miss Hill,&rdquo; said O&rsquo;Neill, rising, and putting down
a little boy, with whom he had been playing. Phœbe went on talking
to the poor woman; and, after slipping the crown into her hand, said
she would call again. O&rsquo;Neill, surprised at the change in
her manner, followed her when she left the house, and said, &ldquo;It
would be a great misfortune to me to have done anything to offend Miss
Hill, especially if I could not conceive how or what it was, which is
my case at this present speaking.&rdquo; And as the spruce glover
spoke, he fixed his eyes upon Phœbe&rsquo;s ragged gloves. She
drew them up in vain; and then said, with her natural simplicity and
gentleness, &ldquo;You have not done anything to offend me, Mr. O&rsquo;Neill;
but you are some way or other displeasing to my father and mother, and
they have forbid me to wear the Limerick gloves.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And sure Miss Hill would not be after changing her opinion
of her humble servant for no reason in life but because her father and
mother, who have taken a prejudice against him, are a little contrary.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Phœbe; &ldquo;I should not change my opinion
without any reason; but I have not yet had time to fix my opinion of
you, Mr. O&rsquo;Neill.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;To let you know a piece of my mind, then, my dear Miss Hill,&rdquo;
resumed he, &ldquo;the more contrary they are, the more pride and joy
it would give me to win and wear you, in spite of &rsquo;em all; and
if without a farthing in your pocket, so much the more I should rejoice
in the opportunity of proving to your dear self, and all else whom it
may consarn, that Brian O&rsquo;Neill is no fortune-hunter, and scorns
them that are so narrow-minded as to think that no other kind of cattle
but them there fortune-hunters can come out of all Ireland. So,
my dear Phœbe, now we understand one another, I hope you will not be
paining my eyes any longer with the sight of these odious brown bags,
which are not fit to be worn by any Christian arms, to say nothing of
Miss Hill&rsquo;s, which are the handsomest, without any compliment,
that ever I saw, and, to my mind, would become a pair of Limerick gloves
beyond anything: and I expect she&rsquo;ll show her generosity and proper
spirit by putting them on immediately.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You expect, sir!&rdquo; repeated Miss Hill, with a look of
more indignation than her gentle countenance had ever before been seen
to assume. &ldquo;Expect!&rdquo; &ldquo;If he had said hope,&rdquo;
thought she, &ldquo;it would have been another thing: but expect! what
right has he to expect?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Now Miss Hill, unfortunately, was not sufficiently acquainted with
the Irish idiom to know that to expect, in Ireland, is the same thing
as to hope in England; and, when her Irish admirer said &ldquo;I expect,&rdquo;
he meant only, in plain English, &ldquo;I hope.&rdquo; But thus
it is that a poor Irishman, often, for want of understanding the niceties
of the English language, says the rudest when he means to say the civillest
things imaginable.</p>

<p>Miss Hill&rsquo;s feelings were so much hurt by this unlucky &ldquo;I
expect&rdquo; that the whole of his speech, which had before made some
favourable impression upon her, now lost its effect: and she replied
with proper spirit, as she thought, &ldquo;You expect a great deal too
much, Mr. O&rsquo;Neill; and more than ever I gave you reason to do.
It would be neither pleasure nor pride to me to be won and worn, as
you were pleased to say, in spite of them all; and to be thrown, without
a farthing in my pocket, upon the protection of one who expects so much
at first setting out.&mdash;So I assure you, sir, whatever you may expect,
I shall not put on the Limerick gloves.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Mr. O&rsquo;Neill was not without his share of pride and proper spirit;
nay, he had, it must be confessed, in common with some others of his
countrymen, an improper share of pride and spirit. Fired by the
lady&rsquo;s coldness, he poured forth a volley of reproaches; and ended
by wishing, as he said, a good morning, for ever and ever, to one who
could change her opinion, point blank, like the weathercock. &ldquo;I
am, miss, your most obedient; and I expect you&rsquo;ll never think
no more of poor Brian O&rsquo;Neill and the Limerick gloves.&rdquo;</p>

<p>If he had not been in too great a passion to observe anything, poor
Brian O&rsquo;Neill would have found out that Phœbe was not a weathercock:
but he left her abruptly, and hurried away, imagining all the while
that it was Phœbe, and not himself, who was in a rage. Thus,
to the horseman who is galloping at full speed, the hedges, trees, and
houses seem rapidly to recede, whilst, in reality, they never move from
their places. It is he that flies from them, and not they from
him.</p>

<p>On Monday morning Miss Jenny Brown, the perfumer&rsquo;s daughter,
came to pay Phœbe a morning visit, with face of busy joy.</p>

<p>&ldquo;So, my dear!&rdquo; said she: &ldquo;fine doings in Hereford!
But what makes you look so downcast? To be sure you are invited,
as well as the rest of us.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Invited where?&rdquo; cried Mrs. Hill, who was present, and
who could never endure to hear of an invitation in which she was not
included. &ldquo;Invited where, pray, Miss Jenny?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;La! have not you heard? Why, we all took it for granted
that you and Miss Phœbe would have been the first and foremost to have
been asked to Mr. O&rsquo;Neill&rsquo;s ball.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ball!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Hill; and luckily saved Phœbe, who
was in some agitation, the trouble of speaking. &ldquo;Why, this
is a mighty sudden thing: I never heard a tittle of it before.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well, this is really extraordinary! And, Phœbe, have
you not received a pair of Limerick gloves?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, I have,&rdquo; said Phœbe, &ldquo;but what then?
What have my Limerick gloves to do with the ball?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A great deal,&rdquo; replied Jenny. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
you know that a pair of Limerick gloves is, as one may say, a ticket
to this ball? for every lady that has been asked has had a pair sent
to her along with the card; and I believe as many as twenty, besides
myself, have been asked this morning.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Jenny then produced her new pair of Limerick gloves, and as she tried
them on, and showed how well they fitted, she counted up the names of
the ladies who, to her knowledge, were to be at this ball. When
she had finished the catalogue, she expatiated upon the grand preparations
which it was said the widow O&rsquo;Neill, Mr. O&rsquo;Neill&rsquo;s
mother, was making for the supper, and concluded by condoling with Mrs.
Hill for her misfortune in not having been invited. Jenny took
her leave to get her dress in readiness: &ldquo;for,&rdquo; added she,
&ldquo;Mr. O&rsquo;Neill has engaged me to open the ball in case Phœbe
does not go; but I suppose she will cheer up and go, as she has a pair
of Limerick gloves as well as the rest of us.&rdquo;</p>

<p>There was a silence for some minutes after Jenny&rsquo;s departure,
which was broken by Phœbe, who told her mother that, early in the morning,
a note had been brought to her, which she had returned unopened, because
she knew, from the handwriting of the direction, that it came from Mr.
O&rsquo;Neill.</p>

<p>We must observe that Phœbe had already told her mother of her meeting
with this gentleman at the poor widow&rsquo;s, and of all that had passed
between them afterwards. This openness on her part had softened
the heart of Mrs. Hill, who was really inclined to be good-natured,
provided people would allow that she had more penetration than any one
else in Hereford. She was, moreover, a good deal piqued and alarmed
by the idea that the perfumer&rsquo;s daughter might rival and outshine
her own. Whilst she had thought herself sure of Mr. O&rsquo;Neill&rsquo;s
attachment to Phœbe, she had looked higher, especially as she was persuaded
by the perfumer&rsquo;s lady to think that an Irishman could not but
be a bad match; but now she began to suspect that the perfumer&rsquo;s
lady had changed her opinion of Irishmen, since she did not object to
her own Jenny&rsquo;s leading up the ball at Mr. O&rsquo;Neill&rsquo;s.</p>

<p>All these thoughts passed rapidly in the mother&rsquo;s mind, and,
with her fear of losing an admirer for her Phœbe, the value of that
admirer suddenly rose in her estimation. Thus, at an auction,
if a lot is going to be knocked down to a lady who is the only person
that has bid for it, even she feels discontented, and despises that
which nobody covets; but if, as the hammer is falling, many voices answer
to the question, &ldquo;Who bids more?&rdquo; then her anxiety to secure
the prize suddenly rises, and, rather than be outbid, she will give
far beyond its value.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Why, child,&rdquo; said Mrs. Hill, &ldquo;since you have a
pair of Limerick gloves; and since certainly that note was an invitation
to us to this ball; and since it is much more fitting that you should
open the ball than Jenny Brown; and since, after all, it was very handsome
and genteel of the young man to say he would take you without a farthing
in your pocket, which shows that those were misinformed who talked of
him as an Irish adventurer; and since we are not certain &rsquo;twas
he made away with the dog, although he said its barking was a great
nuisance; there is no great reason to suppose he was the person who
made the hole under the foundation of the cathedral, or that he could
have such a wicked thought as to blow it up; and since he must be in
a very good way of business to be able to afford giving away four or
five guineas&rsquo; worth of Limerick gloves, and balls and suppers;
and since, after all, it is no fault of his to be an Irishman, I give
it as my vote and opinion, my dear, that you put on your Limerick gloves
and go to this ball; and I&rsquo;ll go and speak to your father, and
bring him round to our opinion, and then I&rsquo;ll pay the morning
visit I owe to the widow O&rsquo;Neill and make up your quarrel with
Brian. Love quarrels are easy to make up, you know, and then we
shall have things all upon velvet again, and Jenny Brown need not come
with her hypocritical condoling face to us any more.&rdquo;</p>

<p>After running this speech glibly off, Mrs. Hill, without waiting
to hear a syllable from poor Phœbe, trotted off in search of her consort.
It was not, however, quite so easy a task as his wife expected, to bring
Mr. Hill round to her opinion. He was slow in declaring himself
of any opinion; but when once he had said a thing, there was but little
chance of altering his notions. On this occasion Mr. Hill was
doubly bound to his prejudice against our unlucky Irishman; for he had
mentioned with great solemnity at the club which he frequented the grand
affair of the hole under the foundation of the cathedral, and his suspicions
that there was a design to blow it up. Several of the club had
laughed at this idea; others, who supposed that Mr. O&rsquo;Neill was
a Roman Catholic, and who had a confused notion that a Roman Catholic
must be a very wicked, dangerous being, thought that there might be
a great deal in the verger&rsquo;s suggestions, and observed that a
very watchful eye ought to be kept upon this Irish glover, who had come
to settle at Hereford nobody knew why, and who seemed to have money
at command nobody knew how.</p>

<p>The news of this ball sounded to Mr. Hill&rsquo;s prejudiced imagination
like the news of a conspiracy. &ldquo;Ay! ay!&rdquo; thought he;
&ldquo;the Irishman is cunning enough! But we shall be too many
for him: he wants to throw all the good sober folks of Hereford off
their guard by feasting, and dancing, and carousing, I take it, and
so to perpetrate his evil design when it is least suspected; but we
shall be prepared for him, fools as he takes us plain Englishmen to
be, I warrant.&rdquo;</p>

<p>In consequence of these most shrewd cogitations, our verger silenced
his wife with a peremptory nod when she came to persuade him to let
Phœbe put on the Limerick gloves and go to the ball. &ldquo;To
this ball she shall not go, and I charge her not to put on those Limerick
gloves as she values my blessing,&rdquo; said Mr. Hill. &ldquo;Please
to tell her so, Mrs. Hill, and trust to my judgment and discretion in
all things, Mrs. Hill. Strange work may be in Hereford yet: but
I&rsquo;ll say no more; I must go and consult with knowing men who are
of my opinion.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He sallied forth, and Mrs. Hill was left in a state which only those
who are troubled with the disease of excessive curiosity can rightly
comprehend or compassionate. She hied her back to Phœbe, to whom
she announced her father&rsquo;s answer, and then went gossiping to
all her female acquaintance in Hereford, to tell them all that she knew,
and all that she did not know, and to endeavour to find out a secret
where there was none to be found.</p>

<p>There are trials of temper in all conditions, and no lady, in high
or low life, could endure them with a better grace than Phœbe.
Whilst Mr. and Mrs. Hill were busied abroad, there came to see Phœbe
one of the widow Smith&rsquo;s children. With artless expressions
of gratitude to Phœbe this little girl mixed the praises of O&rsquo;Neill,
who, she said, had been the constant friend of her mother, and had given
her money every week since the fire happened. &ldquo;Mammy loves
him dearly for being so good-natured,&rdquo; continued the child; &ldquo;and
he has been good to other people as well as to us.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;To whom?&rdquo; said Phœbe.</p>

<p>&ldquo;To a poor man who has lodged for these few days past next
door to us,&rdquo; replied the child; &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know his
name rightly, but he is an Irishman, and he goes out a-haymaking in
the daytime along with a number of others. He knew Mr. O&rsquo;Neill
in his own country, and he told mammy a great deal about his goodness.&rdquo;</p>

<p>As the child finished these words, Phœbe took out of a drawer some
clothes, which she had made for the poor woman&rsquo;s children, and
gave them to the little girl. It happened that the Limerick gloves
had been thrown into this drawer; and Phœbe&rsquo;s favourable sentiments
of the giver of those gloves were revived by what she had just heard,
and by the confession Mrs. Hill had made, that she had no reasons, and
but vague suspicious, for thinking ill of him. She laid the gloves
perfectly smooth, and strewed over them, whilst the little girl went
on talking of Mr. O&rsquo;Neill, the leaves of a rose which she had
worn on Sunday.</p>

<p>Mr. Hill was all this time in deep conference with those prudent
men of Hereford who were of his own opinion, about the perilous hole
under the cathedral. The ominous circumstance of this ball was
also considered, the great expense at which the Irish glover lived,
and his giving away gloves, which was a sure sign he was not under any
necessity to sell them, and consequently a proof that, though he pretended
to be a glover, he was something wrong in disguise. Upon putting
all these things together, it was resolved by these over-wise politicians
that the best thing that could be done for Hereford, and the only possible
means of preventing the immediate destruction of its cathedral, would
be to take Mr. O&rsquo;Neill into custody. Upon recollection,
however, it was perceived that there was no legal ground on which he
could be attacked. At length, after consulting an attorney, they
devised what they thought an admirable mode of proceeding.</p>

<p>Our Irish hero had not that punctuality which English tradesmen usually
observe in the payment of bills; he had, the preceding year, run up
a long bill with a grocer in Hereford, and, as he had not at Christmas
cash in hand to pay it, he had given a note, payable six months after
date. The grocer, at Mr. Hill&rsquo;s request, made over the note
to him, and it was determined that the money should be demanded, as
it was now due, and that, if it was not paid directly, O&rsquo;Neill
should be that night arrested. How Mr. Hill made the discovery
of this debt to the grocer agree with his former notion that the Irish
glover had always money at command we cannot well conceive, but anger
and prejudice will swallow down the grossest contradictions without
difficulty.</p>

<p>When Mr. Hill&rsquo;s clerk went to demand payment of the note, O&rsquo;Neill&rsquo;s
head was full of the ball which he was to give that evening. He
was much surprised at the unexpected appearance of the note: he had
not ready money by him to pay it; and after swearing a good deal at
the clerk, and complaining of this ungenerous and ungentleman-like behaviour
in the grocer and the tanner, he told the clerk to be gone, and not
to be bothering him at such an unseasonable time: that he could not
have the money then, and did not deserve to have it at all.</p>

<p>This language and conduct were rather new to the English clerk&rsquo;s
mercantile ears: we cannot wonder that it should seem to him, as he
said to his master, more the language of a madman than a man of business.
This want of punctuality in money transactions, and this mode of treating
contracts as matters of favour and affection, might not have damned
the fame of our hero in his own country, where such conduct is, alas!
too common; but he was now in a kingdom where the manners and customs
are so directly opposite, that he could meet with no allowance for his
national faults. It would be well for his countrymen if they were
made, even by a few mortifications, somewhat sensible of this important
difference in the habits of Irish and English traders before they come
to settle in England.</p>

<p>But to proceed with our story. On the night of Mr. O&rsquo;Neill&rsquo;s
grand ball, as he was seeing his fair partner, the perfumer&rsquo;s
daughter, safe home, he felt himself tapped on the shoulder by no friendly
hand. When he was told that he was the king&rsquo;s prisoner,
he vociferated with sundry strange oaths, which we forbear to repeat.
&ldquo;No, I am not the king&rsquo;s prisoner! I am the prisoner
of that shabby, rascally tanner, Jonathan Hill. None but he would
arrest a gentleman in this way, for a trifle not worth mentioning.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Miss Jenny Brown screamed when she found herself under the protection
of a man who was arrested; and, what between her screams and his oaths,
there was such a disturbance that a mob gathered.</p>

<p>Among this mob there was a party of Irish haymakers, who, after returning
late from a hard day&rsquo;s work, had been drinking in a neighbouring
ale-house. With one accord they took part with their countryman,
and would have rescued him from the civil officers with all the pleasure
in life if he had not fortunately possessed just sufficient sense and
command of himself to restrain their party spirit, and to forbid them,
as they valued his life and reputation, to interfere, by word or deed,
in his defence.</p>

<p>He then despatched one of the haymakers home to his mother, to inform
her of what had happened, and to request that she would get somebody
to be bail for him as soon as possible, as the officers said they could
not let him out of their sight till he was bailed by substantial people,
or till the debt was discharged.</p>

<p>The widow O&rsquo;Neill was just putting out the candles in the ball-room
when this news of her son&rsquo;s arrest was brought to her. We
pass over Hibernian exclamations: she consoled her pride by reflecting
that it would certainly be the most easy thing imaginable to procure
bail for Mr. O&rsquo;Neill in Hereford, where he had so many friends
who had just been dancing at his house; but to dance at his house she
found was one thing and to be bail for him quite another. Each
guest sent excuses, and the widow O&rsquo;Neill was astonished at what
never fails to astonish everybody when it happens to themselves.
&ldquo;Rather than let my son be detained in this manner for a paltry
debt,&rdquo; cried she, &ldquo;I&rsquo;d sell all I have within half
an hour to a pawnbroker.&rdquo; It was well no pawnbroker heard
this declaration: she was too warm to consider economy. She sent
for a pawnbroker, who lived in the same street, and, after pledging
goods to treble the amount of the debt, she obtained ready money for
her son&rsquo;s release.</p>

<p>O&rsquo;Neill, after being in custody for about an hour and a half,
was set at liberty upon the payment of his debt. As he passed
by the cathedral in his way home, he heard the clock strike; and he
called to a man, who was walking backwards and forwards in the churchyard,
to ask whether it was two or three that the clock struck. &ldquo;Three,&rdquo;
answered the man; &ldquo;and, as yet, all is safe.&rdquo;</p>

<p>O&rsquo;Neill, whose head was full of other things, did not stop
to inquire the meaning of these last words. He little suspected
that this man was a watchman whom the over-vigilant verger had stationed
there to guard the Hereford Cathedral from his attacks. O&rsquo;Neill
little guessed that he had been arrested merely to keep him from blowing
up the cathedral this night. The arrest had an excellent effect
upon his mind, for he was a young man of good sense: it made him resolve
to retrench his expenses in time, to live more like a glover and less
like a gentleman; and to aim more at establishing credit, and less at
gaining popularity. He found, from experience, that good friends
will not pay bad debts.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER II</h3>

<p>On Thursday morning our verger rose in unusually good spirits, congratulating
himself upon the eminent service he had done to the city of Hereford
by his sagacity in discovering the foreign plot to blow up the Cathedral,
and by his dexterity in having the enemy held in custody, at the very
hour when the dreadful deed was to have been perpetrated. Mr.
Hill&rsquo;s knowing friends farther agreed it would be necessary to
have a guard that should sit up every night in the churchyard; and that
as soon as they could, by constantly watching the enemy&rsquo;s motions,
procure any information which the attorney should deem sufficient grounds
for a legal proceeding, they should lay the whole business before the
mayor.</p>

<p>After arranging all this most judiciously and mysteriously with friends
who were exactly of his own opinion, Mr. Hill laid aside his dignity
of verger, and assuming his other character of a tanner, proceeded to
his tan-yard. What was his surprise and consternation, when he
beheld his great rick of oak bark levelled to the ground; the pieces
of bark were scattered far and wide, some over the close, some over
the fields, and some were seen swimming upon the water! No tongue,
no pen, no muse can describe the feelings of our tanner at this spectacle&mdash;feelings
which became the more violent from the absolute silence which he imposed
on himself upon this occasion. He instantly decided in his own
mind that this injury was perpetrated by O&rsquo;Neill, in revenge for
his arrest; and went privately to the attorney to inquire what was to
be done, on his part, to secure legal vengeance.</p>

<p>The attorney unluckily&mdash;or at least, as Mr. Hill thought, unluckily&mdash;had
been sent for, half an hour before, by a gentleman at some distance
from Hereford, to draw up a will: so that our tanner was obliged to
postpone his legal operations.</p>

<p>We forbear to recount his return, and how many times he walked up
and down the close to view his scattered bark, and to estimate the damage
that had been done to him. At length that hour came which usually
suspends all passions by the more imperious power of appetite&mdash;the
hour of dinner: an hour of which it was never needful to remind Mr.
Hill by watch, clock, or dial; for he was blessed with a punctual appetite,
and powerful as punctual: so powerful, indeed, that it often excited
the spleen of his more genteel or less hungry wife. &ldquo;Bless
my stars! Mr. Hill,&rdquo; she would oftentimes say, &ldquo;I
am really downright ashamed to see you eat so much; and when company
is to dine with us, I do wish you would take a snack by way of a damper
before dinner, that you may not look so prodigious famishing and ungenteel.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Upon this hint, Mr. Hill commenced a practice, to which he ever afterwards
religiously adhered, of going, whether there was to be company or no
company, into the kitchen regularly every day, half an hour before dinner,
to take a slice from the roast or the boiled before it went up to table.
As he was this day, according to his custom, in the kitchen, taking
his snack by way of a damper, he heard the housemaid and the cook talking
about some wonderful fortune-teller, whom the housemaid had been consulting.
This fortune-teller was no less a personage than the successor to Bampfylde
Moore Carew, king of the gipsies, whose life and adventures are probably
in many, too many, of our readers&rsquo; hands. Bampfylde, the
second king of the gipsies, assumed this title, in hopes of becoming
as famous, or as infamous, as his predecessor: he was now holding his
court in a wood near the town of Hereford, and numbers of servant-maids
and &rsquo;prentices went to consult him&mdash;nay, it was whispered
that he was resorted to, secretly, by some whose education might have
taught them better sense.</p>

<p>Numberless were the instances which our verger heard in his kitchen
of the supernatural skill of this cunning man; and whilst Mr. Hill ate
his snack with his wonted gravity, he revolved great designs in his
secret soul. Mrs. Hill was surprised, several times during dinner,
to see her consort put down his knife and fork, and meditate.
&ldquo;Gracious me, Mr. Hill! what can have happened to you this day?
What can you be thinking of, Mr. Hill, that can make you forget what
you have upon your plate?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Mrs. Hill,&rdquo; replied the thoughtful verger, &ldquo;our
grandmother Eve had too much curiosity; and we all know it did not lead
to good. What I am thinking of will be known to you in due time,
but not now, Mrs. Hill; therefore, pray, no questions, or teasing, or
pumping. What I think, I think; what I say, I say; what I know,
I know; and that is enough for you to know at present: only this, Phœbe,
you did very well not to put on the Limerick gloves, child. What
I know, I know. Things will turn out just as I said from the first.
What I say, I say; and what I think, I think; and this is enough for
you to know at present.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Having finished dinner with this solemn speech, Mr. Hill settled
himself in his arm-chair, to take his after-dinner&rsquo;s nap: and
he dreamed of blowing up cathedrals, and of oak bark floating upon the
waters; and the cathedral was, he thought, blown up by a man dressed
in a pair of woman&rsquo;s Limerick gloves, and the oak bark turned
into mutton steaks, after which his great dog Jowler was swimming; when,
all on a sudden, as he was going to beat Jowler for eating the bark
transformed into mutton steaks, Jowler became Bampfylde the Second,
king of the gipsies; and putting a horse-whip with a silver handle into
Hill&rsquo;s hand, commanded him three times, in a voice as loud as
the town-crier&rsquo;s, to have O&rsquo;Neill whipped through the market-place
of Hereford: but just as he was going to the window to see this whipping,
his wig fell off, and he awoke.</p>

<p>It was difficult, even for Mr. Hill&rsquo;s sagacity, to make sense
of this dream: but he had the wise art of always finding in his dreams
something that confirmed his waking determinations. Before he
went to sleep, he had half resolved to consult the king of the gipsies,
in the absence of the attorney; and his dream made him now wholly determined
upon this prudent step. &ldquo;From Bampfylde the Second,&rdquo;
thought he, &ldquo;I shall learn for certain who made the hole under
the cathedral, who pulled down my rick of bark, and who made away with
my dog Jowler; and then I shall swear examinations against O&rsquo;Neill,
without waiting for attorneys. I will follow my own way in this
business: I have always found my own way best.&rdquo;</p>

<p>So, when the dusk of the evening increased, our wise man set out
towards the wood to consult the cunning man. Bampfylde the Second,
king of the gipsies, resided in a sort of hut made of the branches of
trees; the verger stooped, but did not stoop low enough, as he entered
this temporary palace, and, whilst his body was almost bent double,
his peruke was caught upon a twig. From this awkward situation
he was relieved by the consort of the king; and he now beheld, by the
light of some embers, the person of his gipsy majesty, to whose sublime
appearance this dim light was so favourable that it struck a secret
awe into our wise man&rsquo;s soul; and, forgetting Hereford Cathedral,
and oak bark, and Limerick gloves, he stood for some seconds speechless.
During this time, the queen very dexterously disencumbered his pocket
of all superfluous articles. When he recovered his recollection,
he put with great solemnity the following queries to the king of the
gipsies, and received the following answers:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Do you know a dangerous Irishman of the name of O&rsquo;Neill,
who has come, for purposes best known to himself, to settle at Hereford?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, we know him well.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Indeed! And what do you know of him?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;That he is a dangerous Irishman.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Right! And it was he, was it not, that pulled down,
or caused to be pulled down, my rick of oak bark?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It was.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And who was it that made away with my dog Jowler, that used
to guard the tan-yard?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It was the person that you suspect.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And was it the person whom I suspect that made the hole under
the foundation of our cathedral?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The same, and no other.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And for what purpose did he make that hole?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;For a purpose that must not be named,&rdquo; replied the king
of the gipsies, nodding his head in a mysterious manner.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But it may be named to me,&rdquo; cried the verger, &ldquo;for
I have found it out, and I am one of the vergers; and is it not fit
that a plot to blow up the Hereford Cathedral should be known <i>to</i>
me, and <i>through</i> me?&rdquo;</p>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Now, take my word,<br />
Wise men of Hereford,<br />
None in safety may be,<br />
Till the bad man doth flee.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>These oracular verses, pronounced by Bampfylde with all the enthusiasm
of one who was inspired, had the desired effect upon our wise man; and
he left the presence of the king of the gipsies with a prodigiously
high opinion of his majesty&rsquo;s judgment and of his own, fully resolved
to impart, the next morning, to the mayor of Hereford his important
discoveries.</p>

<p>Now it happened that, during the time Mr. Hill was putting the foregoing
queries to Bampfylde the Second, there came to the door or entrance
of the audience chamber an Irish haymaker who wanted to consult the
cunning man about a little leathern purse which he had lost whilst he
was making hay in a field near Hereford. This haymaker was the
same person who, as we have related, spoke so advantageously of our
hero O&rsquo;Neill to the widow Smith. As this man, whose name
was Paddy M&rsquo;Cormack, stood at the entrance of the gipsies&rsquo;
hut, his attention was caught by the name of O&rsquo;Neill; and he lost
not a word of all that pasted. He had reason to be somewhat surprised
at hearing Bampfylde assert it was O&rsquo;Neill who had pulled down
the rick of bark. &ldquo;By the holy poker!&rdquo; said he to
himself, &ldquo;the old fellow now is out there. I know more o&rsquo;
that matter than he does&mdash;no offence to his majesty; he knows no
more of my purse, I&rsquo;ll engage now, than he does of this man&rsquo;s
rick of bark and his dog: so I&rsquo;ll keep my tester in my pocket,
and not be giving it to this king o&rsquo; the gipsies, as they call
him: who, as near as I can guess, is no better than a cheat. But
there is one secret which I can be telling this conjuror himself: he
shall not find it such an easy matter to do all what he thinks; he shall
not be after ruining an innocent countryman of my own whilst Paddy M&rsquo;Cormack
has a tongue and brains.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Now, Paddy M&rsquo;Cormack had the best reason possible for knowing
that Mr. O&rsquo;Neill did not pull down Mr. Hill&rsquo;s rick of bark;
it was M&rsquo;Cormack himself who, in the heat of his resentment for
the insulting arrest of his countryman in the streets of Hereford, had
instigated his fellow haymakers to this mischief; he headed them, and
thought he was doing a clever, spirited action.</p>

<p>There is a strange mixture of virtue and vice in the minds of the
lower class of Irish: or rather, a strange confusion in their ideas
of right and wrong, from want of proper education. As soon as
poor Paddy found out that his spirited action of pulling down the rick
of bark was likely to be the ruin of his countryman, he resolved to
make all the amends in his power for his folly&mdash;he went to collect
his fellow haymakers, and persuaded them to assist him this night in
rebuilding what they had pulled down.</p>

<p>They went to this work when everybody except themselves, as they
thought, was asleep in Hereford. They had just completed the stack,
and were all going away except Paddy, who was seated at the very top,
finishing the pile, when they heard a loud voice cry out, &ldquo;Here
they are! Watch! Watch!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Immediately all the haymakers who could, ran off as fast as possible.
It was the watch who had been sitting up at the cathedral who gave the
alarm. Paddy was taken from the top of the rick and lodged in
the watch-house till morning. &ldquo;Since I&rsquo;m to be rewarded
this way for doing a good action, sorrow take me,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;if
they catch me doing another the longest day ever I live.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Happy they who have in their neighbourhood such a magistrate as Mr.
Marshal! He was a man who, to an exact knowledge of the duties
of his office, joined the power of discovering truth from the midst
of contradictory evidence, and the happy art of soothing or laughing
the angry passions into good-humour. It was a common saying in
Hereford that no one ever came out of Justice Marshal&rsquo;s house
as angry as he went into it.</p>

<p>Mr. Marshal had scarcely breakfasted when he was informed that Mr.
Hill, the verger, wanted to speak to him on business of the utmost importance.
Mr. Hill, the verger, was ushered in; and, with gloomy solemnity, took
a seat opposite to Mr. Marshal.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Sad doings in Hereford, Mr. Marshal! Sad doings, sir.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Sad doings? Why, I was told we had merry doings in Hereford.
A ball the night before last, as I heard.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;So much the worse, Mr. Marshal&mdash;so much the worse: as
those think with reason that see as far into things as I do.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;So much the better, Mr. Hill,&rdquo; said Mr. Marshal, laughing,
&ldquo;so much the better: as those think with reason that see no farther
into things than I do.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But, sir,&rdquo; said the verger, still more solemnly, &ldquo;this
is no laughing matter, nor time for laughing, begging your pardon.
Why, sir, the night of that there diabolical ball our Hereford Cathedral,
sir, would have been blown up&mdash;blown up from the foundation, if
it had not been for me, sir!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Indeed, Mr. Verger! And pray how, and by whom, was the
cathedral to be blown up? and what was there diabolical in this ball?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Here Mr. Hill let Mr. Marshal into the whole history of his early
dislike to O&rsquo;Neill, and his shrewd suspicions of him the first
moment he saw him in Hereford: related in the most prolix manner all
that the reader knows already, and concluded by saying that, as he was
now certain of his facts, he was come to swear examinations against
this villanous Irishman, who, he hoped, would be speedily brought to
justice, as he deserved.</p>

<p>&ldquo;To justice he shall be brought, as he deserves,&rdquo; said
Mr. Marshal; &ldquo;but before I write, and before you swear, will you
have the goodness to inform me how you have made yourself as certain,
as you evidently are, of what you call your facts?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Sir, that is a secret,&rdquo; replied our wise man, &ldquo;which
I shall trust to you alone;&rdquo; and he whispered into Mr. Marshal&rsquo;s
ear that, his information came from Bampfylde the Second, king of the
gipsies.</p>

<p>Mr. Marshal instantly burst into laughter; then composing himself,
said: &ldquo;My good sir, I am really glad that you have proceeded no
farther in this business; and that no one in Hereford, beside myself,
knows that you were on the point of swearing examinations against a
man on the evidence of Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies.
My dear sir, it would be a standing joke against you to the end of your
days. A grave man like Mr. Hill! and a verger too! Why you
would be the laughing-stock of Hereford!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Now Mr. Marshal well knew the character of the man to whom he was
talking, who, above all things on earth, dreaded to be laughed at.
Mr. Hill coloured all over his face, and, pushing back his wig by way
of settling it, showed that he blushed not only all over his face, but
all over his head.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Why, Mr. Marshal, sir,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;as to my being
laughed at, it is what I did not look for, being, as there are, some
men in Hereford to whom I have mentioned that hole in the cathedral,
who have thought it no laughing matter, and who have been precisely
of my own opinion thereupon.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But did you tell these gentlemen that you had been consulting
the king of the gipsies?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, sir, no: I can&rsquo;t say that I did.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then I advise you, keep your own counsel, as I will.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Mr. Hill, whose imagination wavered between the hole in the cathedral
and his rick of bark on one side, and between his rick of bark and his
dog Jowler on the other, now began to talk of the dog, and now of the
rick of bark; and when he had exhausted all he had to say upon these
subjects, Mr. Marshal gently pulled him towards the window, and putting
a spy-glass into his hand, bade him look towards his own tan-yard, and
tell him what he saw. To his great surprise, Mr. Hill saw his
rick of bark re-built. &ldquo;Why, it was not there last night,&rdquo;
exclaimed he, rubbing his eyes. &ldquo;Why, some conjuror must
have done this.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Mr. Marshal, &ldquo;no conjuror did it:
but your friend Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies, was the cause
of its being re-built; and here is the man who actually pulled it down,
and who actually re-built it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>As he said these words Mr. Marshal opened the door of an adjoining
room and beckoned to the Irish haymaker, who had been taken into custody
about an hour before this time. The watch who took Paddy had called
at Mr. Hill&rsquo;s house to tell him what had happened, but Mr. Hill
was not then at home.</p>

<p>It was with much surprise that the verger heard the simple truth
from this poor fellow; but no sooner was he convinced that O&rsquo;Neill
was innocent as to this affair, than he recurred to his other ground
of suspicion, the loss of his dog.</p>

<p>The Irish haymaker now stepped forward, and, with a peculiar twist
of the hips and shoulders, which those only who have seen it can picture
to themselves, said, &ldquo;Plase your honour&rsquo;s honour, I have
a little word to say too about the dog.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Say it, then,&rdquo; said Mr. Marshal.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Plase your honour, if I might expect to be forgiven, and let
off for pulling down the jontleman&rsquo;s stack, I might be able to
tell him what I know about the dog.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;If you can tell me anything about my dog,&rdquo; said the
tanner, &ldquo;I will freely forgive you for pulling down the rick:
especially as you have built it up again. Speak the truth, now:
did not O&rsquo;Neill make away with the dog?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not at all, at all, plase your honour,&rdquo; replied the
haymaker: &ldquo;and the truth of the matter is, I know nothing of the
dog, good or bad; but I know something of his collar, if your name,
plase your honour, is Hill, as I take it to be.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My name is Hill: proceed,&rdquo; said the tanner, with great
eagerness. &ldquo;You know something about the collar of my dog
Jowler?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Plase your honour, this much I know, any way, that it is now,
or was the night before last, at the pawnbroker&rsquo;s there, below
in town; for, plase your honour, I was sent late at night (that night
that Mr. O&rsquo;Neill, long life to him! was arrested) to the pawnbroker&rsquo;s
for a Jew by Mrs. O&rsquo;Neill, poor creature! She was in great
trouble that same time.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Very likely,&rdquo; interrupted Mr. Hill: &ldquo;but go on
to the collar; what of the collar?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;She sent me&mdash;I&rsquo;ll tell you the story, plase your
honour, <i>out of the face</i>&mdash;she sent me to the pawnbroker&rsquo;s
for the Jew; and, it being so late at night, the shop was shut, and
it was with all the trouble in life that I got into the house any way:
and, when I got in, there was none but a slip of a boy up; and he set
down the light that he had in his hand, and ran up the stairs to waken
his master: and, whilst he was gone, I just made bold to look round
at what sort of a place I was in, and at the old clothes and rags and
scraps; there was a sort of a frieze trusty.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A trusty!&rdquo; said Mr. Hill; &ldquo;what is that, pray?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A big coat, sure, plase your honour: there was a frieze big
coat lying in a corner, which I had my eye upon, to trate myself to:
I having, as I then thought, money in my little purse enough for it.
Well, I won&rsquo;t trouble your honour&rsquo;s honour with telling
of you now how I lost my purse in the field, as I found after; but about
the big coat&mdash;as I was saying, I just lifted it off the ground
to see would it fit me; and, as I swung it round, something, plase your
honour, hit me a great knock on the shins: it was in the pocket of the
coat, whatever it was, I knew; so I looks into the pocket to see what
was it, plase your honour, and out I pulls a hammer and a dog-collar:
it was a wonder, both together, they did not break my shins entirely:
but it&rsquo;s no matter for my shins now; so, before the boy came down,
I just out of idleness spelt out to myself the name that was upon the
collar: there were two names, plase your honour, and out of the first
there were so many letters hammered out I could make nothing of it at
all, at all; but the other name was plain enough to read, any way, and
it was Hill, plase your honour&rsquo;s honour, as sure as life: Hill,
now.&rdquo;</p>

<p>This story was related in tones and gestures which were so new and
strange to English ears and eyes, that even the solemnity of our verger
gave way to laughter.</p>

<p>Mr. Marshal sent a summons for the pawnbroker, that he might learn
from him how he came by the dog-collar. The pawnbroker, when he
found from Mr. Marshal that he could by no other means save himself
from being committed to prison, confessed that the collar had been sold
to him by Bampfylde the Second, king of the gipsies.</p>

<p>A warrant was immediately despatched for his majesty; and Mr. Hill
was a good deal alarmed by the fear of its being known in Hereford that
he was on the point of swearing examinations against an innocent man
upon the evidence of a dog-stealer and a gipsy.</p>

<p>Bampfylde the Second made no sublime appearance when he was brought
before Mr. Marshal, nor could all his astrology avail upon this occasion.
The evidence of the pawnbroker was so positive as to the fact of his
having sold to him the dog-collar, that there was no resource left for
Bampfylde but an appeal to Mr. Hill&rsquo;s mercy. He fell on
his knees, and confessed that it was he who stole the dog, which used
to bark at him at night so furiously, that he could not commit certain
petty depredations by which, as much as by telling fortunes, he made
his livelihood.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And so,&rdquo; said Mr. Marshal, with a sternness of manner
which till now he had never shown, &ldquo;to screen yourself, you accused
an innocent man; and by your vile arts would have driven him from Hereford,
and have set two families for ever at variance, to conceal that you
had stolen a dog.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The king of the gipsies was, without further ceremony, committed
to the house of correction. We should not omit to mention that,
on searching his hat, the Irish haymaker&rsquo;s purse was found, which
some of his majesty&rsquo;s train had emptied. The whole set of
gipsies decamped upon the news of the apprehension of their monarch.</p>

<p>Mr. Hill stood in profound silence, leaning upon his walking-stick,
whilst the committal was making out for Bampfylde the Second.
The fear of ridicule was struggling with the natural positiveness of
his temper. He was dreadfully afraid that the story of his being
taken in by the king of the gipsies would get abroad; and, at the same
time, he was unwilling to give up his prejudice against the Irish glover.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But, Mr. Marshal,&rdquo; cried he, after a long silence, &ldquo;the
hole under the foundation of the cathedral has never been accounted
for&mdash;that is, was, and ever will be, an ugly mystery to me; and
I never can have a good opinion of this Irishman till it is cleared
up, nor can I think the cathedral in safety.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;What!&rdquo; said Mr. Marshal, with an arch smile, &ldquo;I
suppose the verses of the oracle still work upon your imagination, Mr.
Hill. They are excellent in their kind. I must have them
by heart, that when I am asked the reason why Mr. Hill has taken an
aversion to an Irish glover, I may be able to repeat them:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Now, take my word,<br />
Wise men of Hereford,<br />
None in safety may be,<br />
Till the bad man doth flee.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll oblige me, sir,&rdquo; said the verger, &ldquo;if
you would never repeat those verses, sir, nor mention, in any company,
the affair of the king of the gipsies.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I will oblige you,&rdquo; replied Mr. Marshal, &ldquo;if you
will oblige me. Will you tell me honestly whether, now that you
find this Mr. O&rsquo;Neill is neither a dog-killer nor a puller-down
of bark-ricks, you feel that you could forgive him for being an Irishman,
if the mystery, as you call it, of the hole under the cathedral was
cleared up?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But that is not cleared up, I say, sir,&rdquo; cried Mr. Hill,
striking his walking-stick forcibly upon the ground with both his hands.
&ldquo;As to the matter of his being an Irishman, I have nothing to
say to it; I am not saying anything about that, for I know we all are
born where it pleases God, and an Irishman may be as good as another.
I know that much, Mr. Marshal, and I am not one of those illiberal-minded,
ignorant people that cannot abide a man that was not born in England.
Ireland is now in his majesty&rsquo;s dominions. I know very well,
Mr. Marshal; and I have no manner of doubt, as I said before, that an
Irishman born may be as good, almost, as an Englishman born.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am glad,&rdquo; said Mr. Marshal, &ldquo;to hear you speak&mdash;almost
as reasonably as an Englishman born and every man ought to speak; and
I am convinced that you have too much English hospitality to persecute
an inoffensive stranger, who comes amongst us trusting to our justice
and good nature.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I would not persecute a stranger, God forbid!&rdquo; replied
the verger, &ldquo;if he was, as you say, inoffensive.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And if he was not only inoffensive, but ready to do every
service in his power to those who are in want of his assistance, we
should not return evil for good, should we?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;That would be uncharitable, to be sure; and, moreover, a scandal,&rdquo;
said the verger.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Mr. Marshal, &ldquo;will you walk with me
as far as the Widow Smith&rsquo;s, the poor woman whose house was burnt
last winter? This haymaker, who lodged near her, can show us the
way to her present abode.&rdquo;</p>

<p>During his examination of Paddy M&rsquo;Cormack, who would tell his
whole history, as he called it, <i>out of the face</i>, Mr. Marshal
heard several instances of the humanity and goodness of O&rsquo;Neill,
which Paddy related to excuse himself for that warmth of attachment
to his cause that had been manifested so injudiciously by pulling down
the rick of bark in revenge for the rest. Amongst other things,
Paddy mentioned his countryman&rsquo;s goodness to the Widow Smith.
Mr. Marshal was determined, therefore, to see whether he had, in this
instance, spoken the truth; and he took Hill with him, in hopes of being
able to show him the favourable side of O&rsquo;Neill&rsquo;s character.</p>

<p>Things turned out just as Mr. Marshal expected. The poor widow
and her family, in the most simple and affecting manner, described the
distress from which they had been relieved by the good gentleman; and
lady&mdash;the lady was Phœbe Hill; and the praises that were bestowed
upon Phœbe were delightful to her father&rsquo;s ear, whose angry passions
had now all subsided.</p>

<p>The benevolent Mr. Marshal seized the moment when he saw Mr. Hill&rsquo;s
heart was touched, and exclaimed, &ldquo;I must be acquainted with this
Mr. O&rsquo;Neill. I am sure we people of Hereford ought to show
some hospitality to a stranger who has so much humanity. Mr. Hill,
will you dine with him to-morrow at my house?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Mr. Hill was just going to accept of this invitation, when the recollection
of all he had said to his club about the hole under the cathedral came
across him, and, drawing Mr. Marshal aside, he whispered, &ldquo;But,
sir, sir, that affair of the hole under the cathedral has not been cleared
up yet.&rdquo;</p>

<p>At this instant the Widow Smith exclaimed, &ldquo;Oh! here comes
my little Mary&rdquo; (one of her children, who came running in); &ldquo;this
is the little girl, sir, to whom the lady has been so good. Make
your curtsey, child. Where have you been all this while?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Mammy,&rdquo; said the child, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been showing
the lady my rat.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Lord bless her! Gentlemen, the child has been wanting
me this many a day to go to see this tame rat of hers; but I could never
get time, never&mdash;and I wondered, too, at the child&rsquo;s liking
such a creature. Tell the gentlemen, dear, about your rat.
All I know is that, let her have but never such a tiny bit of bread
for breakfast or supper, she saves a little of that little for this
rat of hers; she and her brothers have found it out somewhere by the
cathedral.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It comes out of a hole under the wall of the cathedral,&rdquo;
said one of the older boys; &ldquo;and we have diverted ourselves watching
it, and sometimes we have put victuals for it&mdash;so it has grown,
in a manner, tame-like.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Mr. Hill and Mr. Marshal looked at one another during this speech;
and the dread of ridicule again seized on Mr. Hill, when he apprehended
that, after all he had said, the mountain might at last bring forth&mdash;a
rat. Mr. Marshal, who instantly saw what passed in the verger&rsquo;s
mind, relieved him from this fear by refraining even from a smile on
this occasion. He only said to the child, in a grave manner, &ldquo;I
am afraid, my dear, we shall be obliged to spoil your diversion.
Mr. Verger, here, cannot suffer rat-holes in the cathedral; but, to
make you amends for the loss of your favourite, I will give you a very
pretty little dog, if you have a mind.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The child was well pleased with this promise; and, at Mr. Marshal&rsquo;s
desire, she then went along with him and Mr. Hill to the cathedral,
and they placed themselves at a little distance from that hole which
had created so much disturbance. The child soon brought the dreadful
enemy to light; and Mr. Hill, with a faint laugh, said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
glad it&rsquo;s no worse, but there were many in our club who were of
my opinion; and, if they had not suspected O&rsquo;Neill too, I am sure
I should never have given you so much trouble, sir, as I have done this
morning. But I hope, as the club know nothing about that vagabond,
that king of the gipsies, you will not let any one know anything about
the prophecy, and all that? I am sure I am very sorry to have
given you so much trouble, Mr. Marshal.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Mr. Marshal assured him that he did not regret the time which he
had spent in endeavouring to clear up all those mysteries and suspicions;
and Mr. Hill gladly accepted his invitation to meet O&rsquo;Neill at
his house the next day. No sooner had Mr. Marshal brought one
of the parties to reason and good humour than he went to prepare the
other for a reconciliation. O&rsquo;Neill and his mother were
both people of warm but forgiving tempers&mdash;the arrest was fresh
in their minds; but when Mr. Marshal represented to them the whole affair,
and the verger&rsquo;s prejudices, in a humorous light, they joined
in the good-natured laugh; and O&rsquo;Neill declared that, for his
part, he was ready to forgive and to forget everything if he could but
see Miss Phœbe in the Limerick gloves.</p>

<p>Phœbe appeared the next day, at Mr. Marshal&rsquo;s, in the Limerick
gloves; and no perfume ever was so delightful to her lover as the smell
of the rose-leaves in which they had been kept.</p>

<p>Mr. Marshal had the benevolent pleasure of reconciling the two families.
The tanner and the glover of Hereford became, from bitter enemies, useful
friends to each other; and they were convinced by experience that nothing
could be more for their mutual advantage than to live in union.</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap04"></a>MADAME DE FLEURY</h2>

<h3>CHAPTER I</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;There oft are heard the notes of infant woe,<br />
The short thick sob, loud scream, and shriller squall&mdash;<br />
How can you, mothers, vex your infants so?&rdquo;&mdash;POPE</p>
</blockquote>

<p>&ldquo;D&rsquo;abord, madame, c&rsquo;est impossible!&mdash;Madame
ne descendra pas ici?&rdquo; said François, the footman of Madame
de Fleury, with a half expostulatory, half indignant look, as he let
down the step of her carriage at the entrance of a dirty passage, that
led to one of the most miserable-looking houses in Paris.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But what can be the cause of the cries which I hear in this
house?&rdquo; said Madame de Fleury.</p>

<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis only some child who is crying,&rdquo; replied François;
and he would have put up the step, but his lady was not satisfied.</p>

<p>&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis nothing in the world,&rdquo; continued he, with
a look of appeal to the coachman, &ldquo;it <i>can</i> be nothing, but
some children who are locked up there above. The mother, the workwoman
my lady wants, is not at home: that&rsquo;s certain.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I must know the cause of these cries; I must see these children&rdquo;
said Madame de Fleury, getting out of her carriage.</p>

<p>François held his arm for his lady as she got out.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Bon!&rdquo; cried he, with an air of vexation. &ldquo;Si
madame la vent absolument, &agrave; la bonne heure!&mdash;Mais madame
sera abimée. Madame verra que j&rsquo;ai raison.
Madame ne montera jamais ce vilain escalier. D&rsquo;ailleurs
c&rsquo;est au cinquième. Mais, madame, c&rsquo;est impossible.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Notwithstanding the impossibility, Madame de Fleury proceeded; and
bidding her talkative footman wait in the entry, made her way up the
dark, dirty, broken staircase, the sound of the cries increasing every
instant, till, as she reached the fifth storey, she heard the shrieks
of one in violent pain. She hastened to the door of the room from
which the cries proceeded; the door was fastened, and the noise was
so great that, though she knocked as loud as she was able, she could
not immediately make herself heard. At last the voice of a child
from within answered, &ldquo;The door is locked&mdash;mamma has the
key in her pocket, and won&rsquo;t be home till night; and here&rsquo;s
Victoire has tumbled from the top of the big press, and it is she that
is shrieking so.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Madame de Fleury ran down the stairs which she had ascended with
so much difficulty, called to her footman, who was waiting in the entry,
despatched him for a surgeon, and then she returned to obtain from some
people who lodged in the house assistance to force open the door of
the room in which the children were confined.</p>

<p>On the next floor there was a smith at work, filing so earnestly
that he did not hear the screams of the children. When his door
was pushed open, and the bright vision of Madame de Fleury appeared
to him, his astonishment was so great that he seemed incapable of comprehending
what she said. In a strong provincial accent he repeated, &ldquo;<i>Plait-il</i>?&rdquo;
and stood aghast till she had explained herself three times; then suddenly
exclaiming, &ldquo;Ah! c&rsquo;est ça;&rdquo;&mdash;he collected
his tools precipitately, and followed to obey her orders. The
door of the room was at last forced half open, for a press that had
been overturned prevented its opening entirely. The horrible smells
that issued did not overcome Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s humanity: she
squeezed her way into the room, and behind the fallen press saw three
little children: the youngest, almost an infant, ceased roaring, and
ran to a corner; the eldest, a boy of about eight years old, whose face
and clothes were covered with blood, held on his knee a girl younger
than himself, whom he was trying to pacify, but who struggled most violently
and screamed incessantly, regardless of Madame de Fleury, to whose questions
she made no answer.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Where are you hurt, my dear?&rdquo; repeated Madame de Fleury
in a soothing voice. &ldquo;Only tell me where you feel pain?&rdquo;</p>

<p>The boy, showing his sister&rsquo;s arm, said, in a surly tone&mdash;&ldquo;It
is this that is hurt&mdash;but it was not I did it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It was, it <i>was</i>!&rdquo; cried the girl as loud as she
could vociferate: &ldquo;it was Maurice threw me down from the top of
the press.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No&mdash;it was you that were pushing me, Victoire, and you
fell backwards.&mdash;Have done screeching, and show your arm to the
lady.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said the girl.</p>

<p>&ldquo;She won&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said the boy.</p>

<p>&ldquo;She cannot,&rdquo; said Madame de Fleury, kneeling down to
examine it. &ldquo;She cannot move it; I am afraid that it is
broken.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch it! don&rsquo;t touch it!&rdquo; cried the
girl, screaming more violently.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ma&rsquo;am, she screams that way for nothing often,&rdquo;
said the boy. &ldquo;Her arm is no more broke than mine, I&rsquo;m
sure; she&rsquo;ll move it well enough when she&rsquo;s not cross.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am afraid,&rdquo; said Madame de Fleury, &ldquo;that her
arm is broken.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Is it indeed?&rdquo; said the boy, with a look of terror.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh! don&rsquo;t touch it&mdash;you&rsquo;ll kill me; you are
killing me,&rdquo; screamed the poor girl, whilst Madame de Fleury with
the greatest care endeavoured to join the bones in their proper place,
and resolved to hold the arm till the arrival of the surgeon.</p>

<p>From the feminine appearance of this lady, no stranger would have
expected such resolution; but with all the natural sensibility and graceful
delicacy of her sex, she had none of that weakness or affection which
incapacitates from being useful in real distress. In most sudden
accidents, and in all domestic misfortunes, female resolution and presence
of mind are indispensably requisite: safety, health, and life often
depend upon the fortitude of women. Happy they who, like Madame
de Fleury, possess strength of mind united with the utmost gentleness
of manner and tenderness of disposition!</p>

<p>Soothed by this lady&rsquo;s sweet voice, the child&rsquo;s rage
subsided; and no longer struggling, the poor little girl sat quietly
on her lap, sometimes writhing and moaning with pain.</p>

<p>The surgeon at length arrived: her arm was set: and he said &ldquo;that
she had probably been saved much future pain by Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s
presence of mind.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Sir,&mdash;will it soon be well?&rdquo; said Maurice to the
surgeon.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh yes, very soon, I dare say,&rdquo; said the little girl.
&ldquo;To-morrow, perhaps; for now that it is tied up it does not hurt
me to signify&mdash;and after all, I do believe, Maurice, it was not
you threw me down.&rdquo;</p>

<p>As she spoke, she held up her face to kiss her brother.&mdash;&ldquo;That
is right,&rdquo; said Madame de Fleury; &ldquo;there is a good sister.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The little girl put out her lips, offering a second kiss, but the
boy turned hastily away to rub the tears from his eyes with the back
of his hand.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am not cross now: am I, Maurice?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, Victoire; I was cross myself when I said <i>that</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<p>As Victoire was going to speak again, the surgeon imposed silence,
observing that she must be put to bed, and should be kept quiet.
Madame de Fleury laid her upon the bed, as soon as Maurice had cleared
it of the things with which it was covered; and as they were spreading
the ragged blanket over the little girl, she whispered a request to
Madame de Fleury that she would &ldquo;stay till her mamma came home,
to beg Maurice off from being whipped, if mamma should be angry.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Touched by this instance of goodness, and compassionating the desolate
condition of these children, Madame de Fleury complied with Victoire&rsquo;s
request; resolving to remonstrate with their mother for leaving them
locked up in this manner. They did not know to what part of the
town their mother was gone; they could tell only &ldquo;that she was
to go to a great many different places to carry back work, and to bring
home more, and that she expected to be in by five.&rdquo; It was
now half after four.</p>

<p>Whilst Madame de Fleury waited, she asked the boy to give her a full
account of the manner in which the accident had happened.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Why, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said Maurice, twisting and untwisting
a ragged handkerchief as he spoke, &ldquo;the first beginning of all
the mischief was, we had nothing to do, so we went to the ashes to make
dirt pies; but Babet would go so close that she burnt her petticoat,
and threw about all our ashes, and plagued us, and we whipped her.
But all would not do, she would not be quiet; so to get out of her reach,
we climbed up by this chair on the table to the top of the press, and
there we were well enough for a little while, till somehow we began
to quarrel about the old scissors, and we struggled hard for them till
I got this cut.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Here he unwound the handkerchief, and for the first time showed the
wound, which he had never mentioned before.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; continued he, &ldquo;when I got the cut, I shoved
Victoire, and she pushed at me again, and I was keeping her off, and
her foot slipped, and down she fell, and caught by the press-door, and
pulled it and me after her, and that&rsquo;s all I know.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It is well that you were not both killed,&rdquo; said Madame
de Fleury. &ldquo;Are you often left locked up in this manner
by yourselves, and without anything to do?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, always, when mamma is abroad, except sometimes we are
let out upon the stairs or in the street; but mamma says we get into
mischief there.&rdquo;</p>

<p>This dialogue was interrupted by the return of the mother.
She came upstairs slowly, much fatigued, and with a heavy bundle under
her arm.</p>

<p>&ldquo;How now! Maurice, how comes my door open? What&rsquo;s
all this?&rdquo; cried she, in an angry voice; but seeing a lady sitting
upon her child&rsquo;s bed, she stopped short in great astonishment.
Madame de Fleury related what had happened, and averted her anger from
Maurice by gently expostulating upon the hardship and hazard of leaving
her young children in this manner during so many hours of the day.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Why, my lady,&rdquo; replied the poor woman, wiping her forehead,
&ldquo;every hard-working woman in Paris does the same with her children;
and what can I do else? I must earn bread for these helpless ones,
and to do that I must be out backwards and forwards, and to the furthest
parts of the town, often from morning till night, with those that employ
me; and I cannot afford to send the children to school, or to keep any
kind of a servant to look after them; and when I&rsquo;m away, if I
let them run about these stairs and entries, or go into the streets,
they do get a little exercise and air, to be sure, such as it is on
which account I do let them out sometimes; but then a deal of mischief
comes of that, too: they learn all kinds of wickedness, and would grow
up to be no better than pickpockets, if they were let often to consort
with the little vagabonds they find in the streets. So what to
do better for them I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The poor mother sat down upon the fallen press, looked at Victoire,
and wept bitterly. Madame de Fleury was struck with compassion;
but she did not satisfy her feelings merely by words or comfort or by
the easy donation of some money&mdash;she resolved to do something more,
and something better.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER II</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Come often, then; for haply in my bower<br />
Amusement, knowledge, wisdom, thou may&rsquo;st gain:<br />
If I one soul improve, I have not lived in vain.&rdquo;&mdash;BEATTIE.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>It is not so easy to do good as those who have never attempted it
may imagine; and they who without consideration follow the mere instinct
of pity, often by their imprudent generosity create evils more pernicious
to society than any which they partially remedy. &ldquo;Warm Charity,
the general friend,&rdquo; may become the general enemy, unless she
consults her head as well as her heart. Whilst she pleases herself
with the idea that she daily feeds hundreds of the poor, she is perhaps
preparing want and famine for thousands. Whilst she delights herself
with the anticipation of gratitude for her bounties, she is often exciting
only unreasonable expectations, inducing habits of dependence and submission
to slavery.</p>

<p>Those who wish to do good should attend to experience, from whom
they may receive lessons upon the largest scale that time and numbers
can afford.</p>

<p>Madame de Fleury was aware that neither a benevolent disposition
nor a large fortune were sufficient to enable her to be of real service,
without the constant exercise of her judgment. She had, therefore,
listened with deference to the conversation of well-informed men upon
those subjects on which ladies have not always the means or the wish
to acquire extensive and accurate knowledge. Though a Parisian
belle, she had read with attention some of those books which are generally
thought too dry or too deep for her sex. Consequently, her benevolence
was neither wild in theory nor precipitate nor ostentatious in practice.</p>

<p>Touched with compassion for a little girl whose arm had been accidentally
broken, and shocked by the discovery of the confinement and the dangers
to which numbers of children in Paris were doomed, she did not make
a parade of her sensibility. She did not talk of her feelings
in fine sentences to a circle of opulent admirers, nor did she project
for the relief of the little sufferers some magnificent establishment
which she could not execute or superintend. She was contented
with attempting only what she had reasonable hopes of accomplishing.</p>

<p>The gift of education she believed to be more advantageous than the
gift of money to the poor, as it ensures the means both of future subsistence
and happiness. But the application even of this incontrovertible
principle requires caution and judgment. To crowd numbers of children
into a place called a school, to abandon them to the management of any
person called a schoolmaster or a schoolmistress, is not sufficient
to secure the blessings of a good education. Madame de Fleury
was sensible that the greatest care is necessary in the choice of the
person to whom young children are to be entrusted; she knew that only
a certain number can be properly directed by one superintendent, and
that, by attempting to do too much, she might do nothing, or worse than
nothing. Her school was formed, therefore, on a small scale, which
she could enlarge to any extent, if it should be found to succeed.
From some of the families of poor people, who, in earning their bread,
are obliged to spend most of the day from home, she selected twelve
little girls, of whom Victoire was the eldest, and she was between six
and seven.</p>

<p>The person under whose care Madame de Fleury wished to place these
children was a nun of the <i>Soeurs de la Charité</i>, with whose
simplicity of character, benevolence, and mild, steady temper she was
thoroughly acquainted. Sister Frances was delighted with the plan.
Any scheme that promised to be of service to her follow-creatures was
sure of meeting with her approbation; but this suited her taste peculiarly,
because she was extremely fond of children. No young person had
ever boarded six months at her convent without becoming attached to
good Sister Frances.</p>

<p>The period of which we are writing was some years before convents
were abolished; but the strictness of their rules had in many instances
been considerably relaxed. Without much difficulty, permission
was obtained from the abbess for our nun to devote her time during the
day to the care of these poor children, upon condition that she should
regularly return to her convent every night before evening prayers.
The house which Madame de Fleury chose for her little school was in
an airy part of the town; it did not face the street, but was separated
from other buildings at the back of a court, retired from noise and
bustle. The two rooms intended for the occupation of the children
were neat and clean, but perfectly simple, with whitewashed walls, furnished
only with wooden stools and benches, and plain deal tables. The
kitchen was well lighted (for light is essential to cleanliness), and
it was provided with utensils; and for these appropriate places were
allotted, to give the habit and the taste of order. The schoolroom
opened into a garden larger than is usually seen in towns. The
nun, who had been accustomed to purchase provisions for her convent,
undertook to prepare daily for the children breakfast and dinner; they
were to sup and sleep at their respective homes. Their parents
were to take them to Sister Frances every morning when they went out
to work, and to call for them upon their return home every evening.
By this arrangement, the natural ties of affection and intimacy between
the children and their parents would not be loosened; they would be
separate only at the time when their absence must be inevitable.
Madame de Fleury thought that any education which estranges children
entirely from their parents must be fundamentally erroneous; that such
a separation must tend to destroy that sense of filial affection and
duty, and those principles of domestic subordination, on which so many
of the interests and much of the virtue and happiness of society depend.
The parents of these poor children were eager to trust them to her care,
and they strenuously endeavoured to promote what they perceived to be
entirely to their advantage. They promised to take their daughters
to school punctually every morning&mdash;a promise which was likely
to be kept, as a good breakfast was to be ready at a certain hour, and
not to wait for anybody. The parents looked forward with pleasure,
also, to the idea of calling for their little girls at the end of their
day&rsquo;s labour, and of taking them home to their family supper.
During the intermediate hours the children were constantly to be employed,
or in exercise. It was difficult to provide suitable employments
for their early age; but even the youngest of those admitted could be
taught to wind balls of cotton, thread, and silk for haberdashers; or
they could shell peas and beans, &amp;c., for a neighbouring <i>traiteur</i>;
or they could weed in a garden. The next in age could learn knitting
and plain work, reading, writing, and arithmetic. As the girls
should grow up, they were to be made useful in the care of the house.
Sister Frances said she could teach them to wash and iron, and that
she would make them as skilful in cookery as she was herself.
This last was doubtless a rash promise; for in most of the mysteries
of the culinary art, especially in the medical branches of it, in making
savoury messes palatable to the sick, few could hope to equal the neat-handed
Sister Frances. She had a variety of other accomplishments; but
her humility and good sense forbade her upon the present occasion to
mention these. She said nothing of embroidery, or of painting,
or of cutting out paper, or of carving in ivory, though in all these
she excelled: her cuttings-out in paper were exquisite as the finest
lace; her embroidered housewives, and her painted boxes, and her fan-mounts,
and her curiously-wrought ivory toys, had obtained for her the highest
reputation in the convent amongst the best judges in the world.
Those only who have philosophically studied and thoroughly understand
the nature of fame and vanity can justly appreciate the self-denial
or magnanimity of Sister Frances, in forbearing to enumerate or boast
of these things. She alluded to them but once, and in the slightest
and most humble manner.</p>

<p>&ldquo;These little creatures are too young for us to think of teaching
them anything but plain work at present; but if hereafter any of them
should show a superior genius we can cultivate it properly. Heaven
has been pleased to endow me with the means&mdash;at least, our convent
says so.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The actions of Sister Frances showed as much moderation as her words;
for though she was strongly tempted to adorn her new dwelling with those
specimens of her skill which had long been the glory of her apartment
in the convent, yet she resisted the impulse, and contented herself
with hanging over the chimney-piece of her schoolroom a Madonna of her
own painting.</p>

<p>The day arrived when she was to receive her pupils in their new habitation.
When the children entered the room for the first time, they paid the
Madonna the homage of their unfeigned admiration. Involuntarily
the little crowd stopped short at the sight of the picture. Some
dormant emotions of human vanity were now awakened&mdash;played for
a moment about the heart of Sister Frances&mdash;and may be forgiven.
Her vanity was innocent and transient, her benevolence permanent and
useful. Repressing the vain-glory of an artist, as she fixed her
eyes upon the Madonna, her thoughts rose to higher objects, and she
seized this happy moment to impress upon the minds of her young pupils
their first religious ideas and feelings. There was such unaffected
piety in her manner, such goodness in her countenance, such persuasion
in her voice, and simplicity in her words, that the impression she made
was at once serious, pleasing, and not to be effaced. Much depends
upon the moment and the manner in which the first notions of religion
are communicated to children; if these ideas be connected with terror,
and produced when the mind is sullen or in a state of dejection, the
future religious feelings are sometimes of a gloomy, dispiriting sort;
but if the first impression be made when the heart is expanded by hope
or touched by affection, these emotions are happily and permanently
associated with religion. This should be particularly attended
to by those who undertake the instruction of the children of the poor,
who must lead a life of labour, and can seldom have leisure or inclination,
when arrived at years of discretion, to re-examine the principles early
infused into their minds. They cannot in their riper age conquer
by reason those superstitions terrors, or bigoted prejudices, which
render their victims miserable, or perhaps criminal. To attempt
to rectify any errors in the foundation after an edifice has been constructed
is dangerous: the foundation, therefore, should be laid with care.
The religious opinions of Sister Frances were strictly united with just
rules of morality, strongly enforcing, as the essential means of obtaining
present and future happiness, the practice of the social virtues, so
that no good or wise persons, however they might differ from her in
modes of faith, could doubt the beneficial influence of her general
principles, or disapprove of the manner in which they were inculcated.</p>

<p>Detached from every other worldly interest, this benevolent nun devoted
all her earthly thoughts to the children of whom she had undertaken
the charge. She watched over them with unceasing vigilance, whilst
diffidence of her own abilities was happily supported by her high opinion
of Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s judgment. This lady constantly visited
her pupils every week; not in the hasty, negligent manner in which fine
ladies sometimes visit charitable institutions, imagining that the honour
of their presence is to work miracles, and that everything will go on
rightly when they have said, &ldquo;<i>Let it be so</i>,&rdquo; or,
&ldquo;<i>I must have it so</i>.&rdquo; Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s
visits were not of this dictatorial or cursory nature. Not minutes,
but hours, she devoted to these children&mdash;she who could charm by
the grace of her manners, and delight by the elegance of her conversation,
the most polished circles and the best-informed societies of Paris,
preferred to the glory of being admired the pleasure of being useful:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Her life, as lovely as her face,<br />
Each duty mark&rsquo;d with every grace;<br />
Her native sense improved by reading,<br />
Her native sweetness by good breeding.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<h3>CHAPTER III</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be;<br />
But if that pride it be which thus inspires,<br />
Beware, ye dames! with nice discernment see<br />
Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires.&rdquo;</p>

<p>SHENSTONE.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>By repeated observation, and by attending to the minute reports of
Sister Frances, Madame de Fleury soon became acquainted with the habits
and temper of each individual in this little society. The most
intelligent and the most amiable of these children was Victoire.
Whence her superiority arose, whether her abilities were naturally more
vivacious than those of her companions, or whether they had been more
early developed by accidental excitation, we cannot pretend to determine,
lest we should involve ourselves in the intricate question respecting
natural genius&mdash;a metaphysical point, which we shall not in this
place stop to discuss. Till the world has an accurate philosophical
dictionary (a work not to be expected in less than half a dozen centuries),
this question will never be decided to general satisfaction. In
the meantime we may proceed with our story.</p>

<p>Deep was the impression made on Victoire&rsquo;s heart by the kindness
that Madame de Fleury showed her at the time her arm was broken; and
her gratitude was expressed with all the enthusiastic fondness of childhood.
Whenever she spoke or heard of Madame de Fleury her countenance became
interested and animated in a degree that would have astonished a cool
English spectator. Every morning her first question to Sister
Frances was: &ldquo;Will <i>she</i> come to-day?&rdquo; If Madame
de Fleury was expected, the hours and the minutes were counted, and
the sand in the hour-glass that stood on the schoolroom table was frequently
shaken. The moment she appeared Victoire ran to her, and was silent;
satisfied with standing close beside her, holding her gown when unperceived,
and watching, as she spoke and moved, every turn of her countenance.
Delighted by these marks of sensibility, Sister Frances would have praised
the child, but was warned by Madame de Fleury to refrain from injudicious
eulogiums, lest she should teach her affectation.</p>

<p>&ldquo;If I must not praise, you will permit me at least to love
her,&rdquo; said Sister Frances.</p>

<p>Her affection for Victoire was increased by compassion: during two
months the poor child&rsquo;s arm hung in a sling, so that she could
not venture to play with her companions. At their hours of recreation
she used to sit on the schoolroom steps, looking down into the garden
at the scene of merriment in which she could not partake.</p>

<p>For those who know how to find it, there is good in everything.
Sister Frances used to take her seat on the steps, sometimes with her
work and sometimes with a book; and Victoire, tired of being quite idle,
listened with eagerness to the stories which Sister Frances read, or
watched with interest the progress of her work; soon she longed to imitate
what she saw done with so much pleasure, and begged to be taught to
work and read. By degrees she learned her alphabet, and could
soon, to the amazement of her schoolfellows, read the names of all the
animals in Sister Frances&rsquo; picture-book. No matter how trifling
the thing done, or the knowledge acquired, a great point is gained by
giving the desire for employment. Children frequently become industrious
from impatience of the pains and penalties of idleness. Count
Rumford showed that he understood childish nature perfectly well when,
in his House of Industry at Munich, he compelled the young children
to sit for some time idle in a gallery round the hall, where others
a little older than themselves were busied at work. During Victoire&rsquo;s
state of idle convalescence she acquired the desire to be employed,
and she consequently soon became more industrious than her neighbours.
Succeeding in her first efforts, she was praised&mdash;was pleased,
and persevered till she became an example of activity to her companions.
But Victoire, though now nearly seven years old, was not quite perfect.
Naturally, or accidentally, she was very passionate, and not a little
self-willed.</p>

<p>One day being mounted, horsemanlike, with whip in hand, upon the
banister of the flight of stairs leading from the schoolroom to the
garden, she called in a tone of triumph to her playfellows, desiring
them to stand out of the way, and see her slide from top to bottom.
At this moment Sister Frances came to the schoolroom door and forbade
the feat; but Victoire, regardless of all prohibition, slid down instantly,
and moreover was going to repeat the glorious operation, when Sister
Frances, catching hold of her arm, pointed to a heap of sharp stones
that lay on the ground upon the other side of the banisters.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am not afraid,&rdquo; said Victoire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But if you fall there, you may break your arm again.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And if I do, I can bear it,&rdquo; said Victoire. &ldquo;Let
me go, pray let me go: I must do it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No; I forbid you, Victoire, to slide down again. Babet
and all the little ones would follow your example, and perhaps break
their necks.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The nun, as she spoke, attempted to compel Victoire to dismount;
but she was so much of a heroine, that she would do nothing upon compulsion.
Clinging fast to the banisters, she resisted with all her might; she
kicked and screamed, and screamed and kicked, but at last her feet were
taken prisoners; then grasping the railway with one hand, with the other
she brandished high the little whip.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What!&rdquo; said the mild nun, &ldquo;would you strike me
with that <i>arm</i>?&rdquo;</p>

<p>The arm dropped instantly&mdash;Victoire recollected Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s
kindness the day when the arm was broken; dismounting immediately, she
threw herself upon her knees in the midst of the crowd of young spectators,
and begged pardon of Sister Frances. For the rest of the day she
was as gentle as a lamb; nay, some assert that the effects of her contrition
were visible during the remainder of the week.</p>

<p>Having thus found the secret of reducing the little rebel to obedience
by touching her on the tender point of gratitude, the nun had recourse
to this expedient in all perilous cases; but one day, when she was boasting
of the infallible operation of her charm, Madame de Fleury advised her
to forbear recurring to it frequently, lest she should wear out the
sensibility she so much loved. In consequence of this counsel,
Victoire&rsquo;s violence of temper was sometimes reduced by force and
sometimes corrected by reason; but the principle and the feeling of
gratitude were not exhausted or weakened in the struggle. The
hope of reward operated upon her generous mind more powerfully than
the fear of punishment; and Madame de Fleury devised rewards with as
much ability as some legislators invent punishments.</p>

<p>Victoire&rsquo;s brother Maurice, who was now of an age to earn his
own bread, had a strong desire to be bound apprentice to the smith who
worked in the house where his mother lodged. This most ardent
wish of his soul he had imparted to his sister; and she consulted her
benefactress, whom she considered as all-powerful in this, as in every
other affair.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your brother&rsquo;s wish shall be gratified,&rdquo; replied
Madame de Fleury, &ldquo;if you can keep your temper one month.
If you are never in a passion for a whole month, I will undertake that
your brother shall be bound apprentice to his friend the smith.
To your companions, to Sister Frances, and above all to yourself, I
trust, to make me a just report this day month.&rdquo;</p>

<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;You she preferred to all the gay resorts,<br />
Where female vanity might wish to shine,<br />
The pomp of cities, and the pride of courts.&rdquo;</p>

<p>LYTTELTON.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>At the end of the time prescribed, the judges, including Victoire
herself, who was the most severe of them all, agreed she had justly
deserved her reward. Maurice obtained his wish; and Victoire&rsquo;s
temper never relapsed into its former bad habits&mdash;so powerful is
the effect of a well-chosen motive! Perhaps the historian may
be blamed for dwelling on such trivial anecdotes; yet a lady, who was
accustomed to the conversation of deep philosophers and polished courtiers,
listened without disdain to these simple annals. Nothing appeared
to her a trifle that could tend to form the habits of temper, truth,
honesty, order, and industry: habits which are to be early induced,
not by solemn precepts, but by practical lessons. A few more examples
of these shall be recorded, notwithstanding the fear of being tiresome.</p>

<p>One day little Babet, who was now five years old, saw, as she was
coming to school, an old woman sitting at a corner of the street beside
a large black brazier full of roasted chestnuts. Babet thought
that the chestnuts looked and smelled very good; the old woman was talking
earnestly to some people, who were on her other side; Babet filled her
work-bag with chestnuts, and then ran after her mother and sister, who,
having turned the corner of the street, had not seen what passed.
When Babet came to the schoolroom, she opened her bag with triumph,
displayed her treasure, and offered to divide it with her companions.
&ldquo;Here, Victoire,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;here is the largest chestnut
for you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>But Victoire would not take it; for she said that Babet had no money,
and that she could not have come honestly by these chestnuts.
She spoke so forcibly upon this point that even those who had the tempting
morsel actually at their lips forbore to bite; those who had bitten
laid down their half-eaten prize; and those who had their hands full
of chestnuts rolled them back again towards the bag. Babet cried
with vexation.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I burned my fingers in getting them for you, and now you won&rsquo;t
eat them!&mdash;And I must not eat them!&rdquo; said she: then curbing
her passion, she added, &ldquo;But at any rate, I won&rsquo;t be a thief.
I am sure I did not think it was being a thief just to take a few chestnuts
from an old woman who had such heaps and heaps; but Victoire says it
is wrong, and I would not be a thief for all the chestnuts in the world&mdash;I&rsquo;ll
throw them all into the fire this minute!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No; give them back again to the old woman,&rdquo; said Victoire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But, may be, she would scold me for having taken them,&rdquo;
said Babet; &ldquo;or who knows but she might whip me?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And if she did, could you not bear it?&rdquo; said Victoire.
&ldquo;I am sure I would rather bear twenty whippings than be a thief.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Twenty, whippings! that&rsquo;s a great many,&rdquo; said
Babet; &ldquo;and I am so little, consider&mdash;and that woman has
such a monstrous arm!&mdash;Now, if it was Sister Frances, it would
be another thing. But come! if you will go with me, Victoire,
you shall see how I will behave.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;We will all go with you,&rdquo; said Victoire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, all!&rdquo; said the children; &ldquo;And Sister Frances,
I dare say, would go, if you asked her.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Babet ran and told her, and she readily consented to accompany the
little penitent to make restitution. The chestnut woman did not
whip Babet, nor even scold her, but said she was sure that since the
child was so honest as to return what she had taken, she would never
steal again. This was the most glorious day of Babet&rsquo;s life,
and the happiest. When the circumstance was told to Madame de
Fleury, she gave the little girl a bag of the best chestnuts the old
women could select, and Babet with great delight shared her reward with
her companions.</p>

<p>&ldquo;But, alas! these chestnuts are not roasted. Oh, if we
could but roast them!&rdquo; said the children.</p>

<p>Sister Frances placed in the middle of the table on which the chestnuts
were spread a small earthenware furnace&mdash;a delightful toy, commonly
used by children in Paris to cook their little feasts.</p>

<p>&ldquo;This can be bought for sixpence,&rdquo; said she: &ldquo;and
if each of you twelve earn one halfpenny apiece to-day, you can purchase
it to-night, and I will put a little fire into it, and you will then
be able to roast your chestnuts.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The children ran eagerly to their work&mdash;some to wind worsted
for a woman who paid them a <i>liard</i> for each ball, others to shell
peas for a neighbouring <i>traiteur</i>&mdash;all rejoicing that they
were able to earn something. The older girls, under the directions
and with the assistance of Sister Frances, completed making, washing,
and ironing, half a dozen little caps, to supply a baby-linen warehouse.
At the end of the day, when the sum of the produce of their labours
was added together, they were surprised to find that, instead of one,
they could purchase two furnaces. They received and enjoyed the
reward of their united industry. The success of their first efforts
was fixed in their memory: for they were very happy roasting the chestnuts,
and they were all (Sister Frances inclusive) unanimous in opinion that
no chestnuts ever were so good, or so well roasted. Sister Frances
always partook in their little innocent amusements; and it was her great
delight to be the dispenser of rewards which at once conferred present
pleasure and cherished future virtue.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER V</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;To virtue wake the pulses of the heart,<br />
And bid the tear of emulation start.&rdquo;</p>

<p>ROGERS.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Victoire, who gave constant exercise to the benevolent feelings of
the amiable nun, became every day more dear to her. Far from having
the selfishness of a favourite, Victoire loved to bring into public
notice the good actions of her companions. &ldquo;Stoop down your
ear to me, Sister Frances,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and I will tell you
a secret&mdash;I will tell you why my friend Annette is growing so thin&mdash;I
found it out this morning&mdash;she does not eat above half her soup
every day. Look, there&rsquo;s her porringer covered up in the
corner&mdash;she carries it home to her mother, who is sick, and who
has not bread to eat.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Madame de Fleury came in whilst Sister Frances was yet bending down
to hear this secret; it was repeated to her, and she immediately ordered
that a certain allowance of bread should be given to Annette every day
to carry to her mother during her illness.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I give it in charge to you, Victoire, to remember this, and
I am sure it will never be forgotten. Here is an order for you
upon my baker: run and show it to Annette. This is a pleasure
you deserve; I am glad that you have chosen for your friend a girl who
is so good a daughter. Good daughters make good friends.&rdquo;</p>

<p>By similar instances of goodness Victoire obtained the love and confidence
of her companions, notwithstanding her manifest superiority. In
their turn, they were eager to proclaim her merits; and, as Sister Frances
and Madame de Fleury administered justice with invariable impartiality,
the hateful passions of envy and jealousy were never excited in this
little society. No servile sycophant, no malicious detractor,
could rob or defraud their little virtues of their due reward.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Whom shall I trust to take this to Madame de Fleury?&rdquo;
said Sister Frances, carrying into the garden where the children were
playing a pot of fine jonquils, which she had brought from her convent.&mdash;&ldquo;These
are the first jonquils I have seen this year, and finer I never beheld!
Whom shall I trust to take them to Madame de Fleury this evening?&mdash;It
must be some one who will not stop to stare about on the way, but who
will be very, very careful&mdash;some one in whom I can place perfect
dependence.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;It must be Victoire, then,&rdquo; cried every voice.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes, she deserves it to-day particularly,&rdquo; said Annette
eagerly; &ldquo;because she was not angry with Babet when she did what
was enough to put anybody in a passion. Sister Frances, you know
this cherry-tree which you grafted for Victoire last year, and that
was yesterday so full of blossoms&mdash;now you see, there is not a
blossom left!&mdash;Babet plucked them all this morning to make a nosegay.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But she did not know,&rdquo; said Victoire, &ldquo;that pulling
off the blossoms would prevent my having any cherries.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, I am very sorry I was so foolish,&rdquo; said Babet; &ldquo;Victoire
did not even say a cross word to me.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Though she was excessively anxious about the cherries,&rdquo;
pursued Annette, &ldquo;because she intended to have given the first
she had to Madame de Fleury.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Victoire, take the jonquils&mdash;it is but just,&rdquo; said
Sister Frances. &ldquo;How I do love to hear them all praise her!&mdash;I
knew what she would be from the first.&rdquo;</p>

<p>With a joyful heart Victoire took the jonquils, promised to carry
them with the utmost care, and not to stop to stare on the way.
She set out to Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s hotel, which was in <i>La Place
de Louis Quinze</i>. It was late in the evening, the lamps were
lighting, and as Victoire crossed the Pont de Louis Seize, she stopped
to look at the reflection of the lamps in the water, which appeared
in succession, as they were lighted, spreading as if by magic along
the river. While Victoire leaned over the battlements of the bridge,
watching the rising of these stars of fire, a sudden push from the elbow
of some rude passenger precipitated her pot of jonquils into the Seine.
The sound it made in the water was thunder to the ear of Victoire; she
stood for an instant vainly hoping it would rise again, but the waters
had closed over it for ever.</p>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Dans cet état affreux, que faire?<br />
. . . Mon devoir.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Victoire courageously proceeded to Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s, and
desired to see her.</p>

<p>&ldquo;D&rsquo;abord c&rsquo;est impossible&mdash;madame is dressing
to go to a concert,&rdquo; said François. &ldquo;Cannot
you leave your message?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh no,&rdquo; said Victoire; &ldquo;it is of great consequence&mdash;I
must see her myself; and she is so good, and you too, Monsieur François,
that I am sure you will not refuse.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well, I remember one day you found the seal of my watch, which
I dropped at your schoolroom door&mdash;one good turn deserves another.
If it is possible it shall be done&mdash;I will inquire of madame&rsquo;s
woman.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Follow me upstairs,&rdquo; said he, returning
in a few minutes; &ldquo;madame will see you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She followed him up the large staircase, and through a suite of apartments
sufficiently grand to intimidate her young imagination.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Madame est dans son cabinet. Entrez&mdash;mais entrez
donc, entrez toujours.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Madame de Fleury was more richly dressed than usual; and her image
was reflected in the large looking-glass, so that at the first moment
Victoire thought she saw many fine ladies, but not one of them the lady
she wanted.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well, Victoire, my child, what is the matter?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, it is her voice!&mdash;I know you now, madame, and I am
not afraid&mdash;not afraid even to tell you how foolish I have been.
Sister Frances trusted me to carry for you, madame, a beautiful pot
of jonquils, and she desired me not to stop on the way to stare; but
I did stop to look at the lamps on the bridge, and I forgot the jonquils,
and somebody brushed by me and threw them into the river&mdash;and I
am very sorry I was so foolish.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And I am very glad that you are so wise as to tell the truth,
without attempting to make any paltry excuses. Go home to Sister
Frances, and assure her that I am more obliged to her for making you
such an honest girl than I could be for a whole bed of jonquils.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Victoire&rsquo;s heart was so full that she could not speak&mdash;she
kissed Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s hand in silence, and then seemed to
be lost in contemplation of her bracelet.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Are you thinking, Victoire, that you should be much happier
if you had such bracelets as these? Believe me, you are mistaken
if you think so; many people are unhappy who wear fine bracelets; so,
my child, content yourself.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Myself! Oh, madame, I was not thinking of myself&mdash;I
was not wishing for bracelets; I was only thinking that&mdash;&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;That what?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;That it is a pity you are so very rich; you have everything
in this world that you want, and I can never be of the least use to
<i>you</i>&mdash;all my life I shall never be able to do <i>you</i>
any good&mdash;and what,&rdquo; said Victoire, turning away to hide
her tears, &ldquo;what signifies the gratitude of such a poor little
creature as I am?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Did you never hear the fable of the lion and the mouse, Victoire?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, madame&mdash;never!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Then I will tell it to you.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Victoire looked up with eyes of eager expectation&mdash;François
opened the door to announce that the Marquis de M--- and the Comte de
S--- were in the saloon; but Madame de Fleury stayed to tell Victoire
her fable&mdash;she would not lose the opportunity of making an impression
upon this child&rsquo;s heart.</p>

<p>It is whilst the mind is warm that the deepest impressions can be
made. Seizing the happy moment sometimes decides the character
and the fate of a child. In this respect, what advantages have
the rich and great in educating the children of the poor! they have
the power which their rank and all its decorations obtain over the imagination.
Their smiles are favours; their words are listened to as oracular; they
are looked up to as beings of a superior order. Their powers of
working good are almost as great, though not quite so wonderful, as
those formerly attributed to beneficent fairies.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Knowledge for them unlocks her <i>useful</i> page,<br />
And virtue blossoms for a better age.&rdquo;&mdash;BARBAULD.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>A few days after Madame de Fleury had told Victoire the fable of
the lion and the mouse, she was informed by Sister Frances that Victoire
had put the fable into verse. It was wonderfully well done for
a child of nine years old, and Madame de Fleury was tempted to praise
the lines; but, checking the enthusiasm of the moment, she considered
whether it would be advantageous to cultivate her pupil&rsquo;s talent
for poetry. Excellence in the poetic art cannot be obtained without
a degree of application for which a girl in her situation could not
have leisure. To encourage her to become a mere rhyming scribbler,
without any chance of obtaining celebrity or securing subsistence, would
be folly and cruelty. Early prodigies in the lower ranks of life
are seldom permanently successful; they are cried up one day, and cried
down the next. Their productions rarely have that superiority
which secures a fair preference in the great literary market.
Their performances are, perhaps, said to be <i>wonderful, all things
considered</i>, &amp;c. Charitable allowances are made; the books
are purchased by associations of complaisant friends or opulent patrons;
a kind of forced demand is raised, but this can be only temporary and
delusive. In spite of bounties and of all the arts of protection,
nothing but what is intrinsically good will long be preferred, when
it must be purchased. But granting that positive excellence is
attained, there is always danger that for works of fancy the taste of
the public may suddenly vary: there is a fashion in these things; and
when the mode changes, the mere literary manufacturer is thrown out
of employment; he is unable to turn his hand to another trade, or to
any but his own peculiar branch of the business. The powers of
the mind are often partially cultivated in these self-taught geniuses.
We often see that one part of their understanding is nourished to the
prejudice of the rest&mdash;the imagination, for instance, at the expense
of the judgment: so that whilst they have acquired talents for show
they have none for use. In the affairs of common life they are
utterly ignorant and imbecile&mdash;or worse than imbecile. Early
called into public notice, probably before their moral habits are formed,
they are extolled for some play of fancy or of wit, as Bacon calls it,
some juggler&rsquo;s trick of the intellect; they immediately take an
aversion to plodding labour, they feel raised above their situation;
possessed by the notion that genius exempts them not only from labour,
but from vulgar rules of prudence, they soon disgrace themselves by
their conduct, are deserted by their patrons, and sink into despair
or plunge into profligacy.</p>

<p>Convinced of these melancholy truths, Madame de Fleury was determined
not to add to the number of those imprudent or ostentatious patrons,
who sacrifice to their own amusement and vanity the future happiness
of their favourites. Victoire&rsquo;s verses were not handed about
in fashionable circles, nor was she called upon to recite them before
a brilliant audience, nor was she produced in public as a prodigy; she
was educated in private, and by slow and sure degrees, to be a good,
useful, and happy member of society. Upon the same principles
which decided Madame de Fleury against encouraging Victoire to be a
poetess, she refrained from giving any of her little pupils accomplishments
unsuited to their situation. Some had a fine ear for music, others
showed powers of dancing; but they were taught neither dancing nor music&mdash;talents
which in their station were more likely to be dangerous than serviceable.
They were not intended for actresses or opera-girls, but for shop-girls,
mantua-makers, work-women, and servants of different sorts; consequently
they were instructed in things which would be most necessary and useful
to young women in their rank of life. Before they were ten years
old they could do all kinds of plain needlework, they could read and
write well, and they were mistresses of the common rules of arithmetic.
After this age they were practised by a writing-master in drawing out
bills neatly, keeping accounts, and applying to every-day use their
knowledge of arithmetic. Some were taught by a laundress to wash
and get up fine linen and lace; others were instructed by a neighbouring
traiteur in those culinary mysteries with which Sister Frances was unacquainted.
In sweetmeats and confectioneries she yielded to no one; and she made
her pupils as expert as herself. Those who were intended for ladies&rsquo;
maids were taught mantua-making, and had lessons from Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s
own woman in hairdressing.</p>

<p>Amongst her numerous friends and acquaintances, and amongst the shopkeepers
whom she was in the habit of employing, Madame de Fleury had means of
placing and establishing her pupils suitably and advantageously: of
this, both they and their parents were aware, so that there was a constant
and great motive operating continually to induce them to exert themselves,
and to behave well. This reasonable hope of reaping the fruits
of their education, and of being immediately rewarded for their good
conduct; this perception of the connection between what they are taught
and what they are to become, is necessary to make young people assiduous;
for want of attending to these principles many splendid establishments
have failed to produce pupils answerable to the expectations which had
been formed of them.</p>

<p>During seven years that Madame de Fleury persevered uniformly on
the same plan, only one girl forfeited her protection&mdash;a girl of
the name of Manon; she was Victoire&rsquo;s cousin, but totally unlike
her in character.</p>

<p>When very young, her beautiful eyes and hair caught the fancy of
a rich lady, who took her into her family as a sort of humble playfellow
for her children. She was taught to dance and to sing: she soon
excelled in these accomplishments, and was admired, and produced as
a prodigy of talent. The lady of the house gave herself great
credit for having discerned, and having brought forward, such talents.
Manon&rsquo;s moral character was in the meantime neglected. In
this house, where there was a constant scene of hurry and dissipation,
the child had frequent opportunities and temptations to be dishonest.
For some time she was not detected; her caressing manners pleased her
patroness, and servile compliance with the humours of the children of
the family secured their goodwill. Encouraged by daily petty successes
in the art of deceit, she became a complete hypocrite. With culpable
negligence, her mistress trusted implicitly to appearances; and without
examining whether she were really honest, she suffered her to have free
access to unlocked drawers and valuable cabinets. Several articles
of dress were missed from time to time; but Manon managed so artfully,
that she averted from herself all suspicion. Emboldened by this
fatal impunity, she at last attempted depredations of more importance.
She purloined a valuable snuff-box&mdash;was detected in disposing of
the broken parts of it at a pawnbroker&rsquo;s, and was immediately
discarded in disgrace; but by her tears and vehement expressions of
remorse she so far worked upon the weakness of the lady of the house
as to prevail upon her to conceal the circumstance that occasioned her
dismissal. Some months afterwards, Manon, pleading that she was
thoroughly reformed, obtained from this lady a recommendation to Madame
de Fleury&rsquo;s school. It is wonderful that, people, who in
other respects profess and practise integrity, can be so culpably weak
as to give good characters to those who do not deserve them: this is
really one of the worst species of forgery. Imposed upon by this
treacherous recommendation, Madame de Fleury received into the midst
of her innocent young pupils one who might have corrupted their minds
secretly and irrecoverably. Fortunately a discovery was made in
time of Manon&rsquo;s real disposition. A mere trifle led to the
detection of her habits of falsehood. As she could not do any
kind of needlework, she was employed in winding cotton; she was negligent,
and did not in the course of the week wind the same number of balls
as her companions; and to conceal this, she pretended that she had delivered
the proper number to the woman, who regularly called at the end of the
week for the cotton. The woman persisted in her account, and the
children in theirs; and Manon would not retract her assertion.
The poor woman gave up the point; but she declared that she would the
next time send her brother to make up the account, because he was sharper
than herself, and would not be imposed upon so easily. The ensuing
week the brother came, and he proved to be the very pawnbroker to whom
Manon formerly offered the stolen box: he knew her immediately; it was
in vain that she attempted to puzzle him, and to persuade him that she
was not the same person. The man was clear and firm. Sister
Frances could scarcely believe what she heard. Struck with horror,
the children shrank back from Manon, and stood in silence. Madame
de Fleury immediately wrote to the lady who had recommended this girl,
and inquired into the truth of the pawnbroker&rsquo;s assertions.
The lady, who had given Manon a false character, could not deny the
facts, and could apologise for herself only by saying that &ldquo;she
believed the girl to be partly reformed, and that she hoped, under Madame
de Fleury&rsquo;s judicious care, she would become an amiable and respectable
woman.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Madame de Fleury, however, wisely judged that the hazard of corrupting
all her pupils should not be incurred for the slight chance of correcting
one, whose bad habits were of such long standing. Manon was expelled
from this happy little community&mdash;even Sister Frances, the most
mild of human beings, could never think of the danger to which they
had been exposed without expressing indignation against the lady who
recommended such a girl as a fit companion for her blameless and beloved
pupils.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Alas! regardless of their doom,<br />
The little victims play:<br />
No sense have they of ills to come,<br />
No care beyond to-day.&rdquo;&mdash;GRAY.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Good legislators always attend to the habits, and what is called
the genius, of the people they have to govern. From youth to age,
the taste for whatever is called <i>une f&ecirc;te</i> pervades the
whole French nation. Madame de Fleury availed herself judiciously
of this powerful motive, and connected it with the feelings of affection
more than with the passion for show. For instance, when any of
her little people had done anything particularly worthy of reward, she
gave them leave to invite their parents to a <i>f&ecirc;te</i> prepared
for them by their children, assisted by the kindness of Sister Frances.</p>

<p>One day&mdash;it was a holiday obtained by Victoire&rsquo;s good
conduct&mdash;all the children prepared in their garden a little feast
for their parents. Sister Frances spread the table with a bountiful
hand, the happy fathers and mothers were waited upon by their children,
and each in their turn heard with delight from the benevolent nun some
instance of their daughter&rsquo;s improvement. Full of hope for
the future and of gratitude for the past, these honest people ate and
talked, whilst in imagination they saw their children all prosperously
and usefully settled in the world. They blessed Madame de Fleury
in her absence, and they wished ardently for her presence.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The sun is setting, and Madame de Fleury is not yet come,&rdquo;
cried Victoire; &ldquo;she said she would be here this evening&mdash;What
can be the matter?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Nothing is the matter, you may be sure,&rdquo; said Babet;
&ldquo;but that she has forgotten us&mdash;she has so many things to
think of.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Yes; but I know she never forgets us,&rdquo; said Victoire;
&ldquo;and she loves so much to see us all happy together, that I am
sure it must be something very extraordinary that detains her.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Babet laughed at Victoire&rsquo;s fears; but presently even she began
to grow impatient; for they waited long after sunset, expecting every
moment that Madame de Fleury would arrive. At last she appeared,
but with a dejected countenance, which seemed to justify Victoire&rsquo;s
foreboding. When she saw this festive company, each child sitting
between her parents, and all at her entrance looking up with affectionate
pleasure, a faint smile enlivened her countenance for a moment; but
she did not speak to them with her usual ease. Her mind seemed
preoccupied by some disagreeable business of importance. It appeared
that it had some connection with them; for as she walked round the table
with Sister Frances, she said, with a voice and look of great tenderness,
&ldquo;Poor children! how happy they are at this moment!&mdash;Heaven
only knows how soon they may be rendered, or may render themselves,
miserable!&rdquo;</p>

<p>None of the children could imagine what this meant; but their parents
guessed that it had some allusion to the state of public affairs.
About this time some of those discontents had broken out which preceded
the terrible days of the Revolution. As yet, most of the common
people, who were honestly employed in earning their own living, neither
understood what was going on nor foresaw what was to happen. Many
of their superiors were not in such happy ignorance&mdash;they had information
of the intrigues that were forming; and the more penetration they possessed,
the more they feared the consequences of events which they could not
control. At the house of a great man, with whom she had dined
this day, Madame de Fleury had heard alarming news. Dreadful public
disturbances, she saw, were inevitable; and whilst she trembled for
the fate of all who were dear to her, these poor children had a share
in her anxiety. She foresaw the temptations, the dangers, to which
they must be exposed, whether they abandoned, or whether they abided
by the principles their education had instilled. She feared that
the labour of years would perhaps be lost in an instant, or that her
innocent pupils would fall victims even to their virtues.</p>

<p>Many of these young people were now of an age to understand and to
govern themselves by reason; and with these she determined to use those
preventive measures which reason affords. Without meddling with
politics, in which no amiable or sensible woman can wish to interfere,
the influence of ladies in the higher ranks of life may always be exerted
with perfect propriety, and with essential advantage to the public,
in conciliating the inferior classes of society, explaining to them
their duties and their interests, and impressing upon the minds of the
children of the poor sentiments of just subordination and honest independence.
How happy would it have been for France if women of fortune and abilities
had always exerted their talents and activity in this manner, instead
of wasting their powers in futile declamations, or in the intrigues
of party!</p>

<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;E&rsquo;en now the devastation is begun,<br />
And half the business of destruction done.&rdquo;</p>

<p>GOLDSMITH.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Madame de Fleury was not disappointed in her pupils. When the
public disturbances began, these children were shocked by the horrible
actions they saw. Instead of being seduced by bad example, they
only showed anxiety to avoid companions of their own age who were dishonest,
idle, or profligate. Victoire&rsquo;s cousin Manon ridiculed these
absurd principles, as she called them, and endeavoured to persuade Victoire
that she would be much happier if she followed the fashion.</p>

<p>&ldquo;What! Victoire, still with your work-bag on your arm,
and still going to school with your little sister, though you are but
a year younger than I am, I believe!&mdash;thirteen last birthday, were
not you?&mdash;Mon Dieu! Why, how long do you intend to be a child?
and why don&rsquo;t you leave that old nun, who keeps you in leading-strings?&mdash;I
assure you, nuns, and school-mistresses, and schools, and all that sort
of thing, are out of fashion now&mdash;we have abolished all that&mdash;we
are to live a life of reason now&mdash;and all soon to be equal, I can
tell you; let your Madame de Fleury look to that, and look to it yourself;
for with all your wisdom, you might find yourself in the wrong box by
sticking to her, and that side of the question.&mdash;Disengage yourself
from her, I advise you, as soon as you can.&mdash;My dear Victoire!
believe me, you may spell very well&mdash;but you know nothing of the
rights of man, or the rights of woman.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I do not pretend to know anything of the rights of men, or
the rights of women,&rdquo; cried Victoire; &ldquo;but this I know:
that I never can or will be ungrateful to Madame de Fleury. Disengage
myself from her! I am bound to her for ever, and I will abide
by her till the last hour I breathe.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Well, well! there is no occasion to be in a passion&mdash;I
only speak as a friend, and I have no more time to reason with you;
for I must go home, and get ready my dress for the ball to-night.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Manon, how can you afford to buy a dress for a ball?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;As you might, if you had common sense, Victoire&mdash;only
by being a good citizen. I and a party of us denounced a milliner
and a confectioner in our neighbourhood, who were horrible aristocrats;
and of their goods forfeited to the nation we had, as was our just share,
such delicious <i>marangues</i> and charming ribands!&mdash;Oh, Victoire,
believe me, you will never get such things by going to school, or saying
your prayers either. You may look with as much scorn and indignation
as you please, but I advise you to let it alone, for all that is out
of fashion, and may, moreover, bring you into difficulties. Believe
me, my dear Victoire, your head is not deep enough to understand these
things&mdash;you know nothing of politics.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;But I know the difference between right and wrong, Manon:
politics can never alter that, you know.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Never alter that! there you are quite mistaken,&rdquo; said
Manon. &ldquo;I cannot stay to convince you now&mdash;but this
I can tell you: that I know secrets that you don&rsquo;t suspect.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I do not wish to know any of your secrets, Manon,&rdquo; said
Victoire, proudly.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Your pride may be humbled, Citoyenne Victoire, sooner than
you expect,&rdquo; exclaimed Manon, who was now so provoked by her cousin&rsquo;s
contempt that she could not refrain from boasting of her political knowledge.
&ldquo;I can tell you that your fine friends will in a few days not
be able to protect you. The Abbé Tracassier is in love
with a dear friend of mine, and I know all the secrets of state from
her&mdash;and I know what I know. Be as incredulous as you please,
but you will see that, before this week is at end, Monsieur de Fleury
will be guillotined, and then what will become of you? Good morning,
my proud cousin.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Shocked by what she had just heard, Victoire could scarcely believe
that Manon was in earnest; she resolved, however, to go immediately
and communicate this intelligence, whether true or false, to Madame
de Fleury. It agreed but too well with other circumstances, which
alarmed this lady for the safety of her husband. A man of his
abilities, integrity, and fortune, could not in such times hope to escape
persecution. He was inclined to brave the danger; but his lady
represented that it would not be courage, but rashness and folly, to
sacrifice his life to the villainy of others, without probability or
possibility of serving his country by his fall.</p>

<p>Monsieur de Fleury, in consequence of these representations, and
of Victoire&rsquo;s intelligence, made his escape from Paris; and the
very next day placards were put up in every street, offering a price
for the head of Citoyen Fleury, <i>suspected of incivisme</i>.</p>

<p>Struck with terror and astonishment at the sight of these placards,
the children read them as they returned in the evening from school;
and little Babet in the vehemence of her indignation mounted a lamplighter&rsquo;s
ladder, and tore down one of the papers. This imprudent action
did not pass unobserved: it was seen by one of the spies of Citoyen
Tracassier, a man who, under the pretence of zeal <i>pour la chose publique</i>,
gratified without scruple his private resentments and his malevolent
passions. In his former character of an abbé, and a man
of wit, he had gained admittance into Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s society.
There he attempted to dictate both as a literary and religious despot.
Accidentally discovering that Madame de Fleury had a little school for
poor children, he thought proper to be offended, because he had not
been consulted respecting the regulations, and because he was not permitted,
as he said, to take the charge of this little flock. He made many
objections to Sister Frances, as being an improper person to have the
spiritual guidance of these young people; but as he was unable to give
any just reason for his dislike, Madame de Fleury persisted in her choice,
and was at last obliged to assert, in opposition to the domineering
abbé, her right to judge and decide in her own affairs.
With seeming politeness, he begged ten thousand pardons for his conscientious
interference. No more was said upon the subject; and as he did
not totally withdraw from her society till the revolution broke out,
she did not suspect that she had anything to fear from his resentment.
His manners and opinions changed suddenly with the times; the mask of
religion was thrown off; and now, instead of objecting to Sister Frances
as not being sufficiently strict and orthodox in her tenets, he boldly
declared that a nun was not a fit person to be intrusted with the education
of any of the young citizens&mdash;they should all be <i>des élèves
de la patrie</i>. The abbé, become a member of the Committee
of Public Safety, denounced Madame de Fleury, in the strange jargon
of the day, as &ldquo;<i>the fosterer of a swarm of bad citizens, who
were nourished in the anticivic prejudices</i> de l&rsquo;ancien régime,
<i>and fostered in the most detestable superstitions, in defiance of
the law</i>.&rdquo; He further observed, that he had good reason
to believe that some of these little enemies to the constitution had
contrived and abetted Monsieur de Fleury&rsquo;s escape. Of their
having rejoiced at it in a most indecent manner, he said he could produce
irrefragable proof. The boy who saw Babet tear down the placard
was produced and solemnly examined; and the thoughtless action of this
poor little girl was construed into a state crime of the most horrible
nature. In a declamatory tone, Tracassier reminded his fellow-citizens,
that in the ancient Grecian times of virtuous republicanism (times of
which France ought to show herself emulous), an Athenian child was condemned
to death for having made a plaything of a fragment of the gilding that
had fallen from a public statue. The orator, for the reward of
his eloquence, obtained an order to seize everything in Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s
school-house, and to throw the nun into prison.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Who now will guard bewildered youth<br />
Safe from the fierce assault of hostile rage?&mdash;<br />
Such war can Virtue wage?&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>At the very moment when this order was going to be put in execution,
Madame de Fleury was sitting in the midst of the children, listening
to Babet, who was reading Æsop&rsquo;s fable of <i>The old man
and his sons</i>. Whilst her sister was reading, Victoire collected
a number of twigs from the garden: she had just tied them together;
and was going, by Sister Frances&rsquo; desire, to let her companions
try if they could break the bundle, when the attention to the moral
of the fable was interrupted by the entrance of an old woman, whose
countenance expressed the utmost terror and haste, to tell what she
had not breath to utter. To Madame de Fleury she was a stranger;
but the children immediately recollected her to be the chestnut woman
to whom Babet had some years ago restored certain purloined chestnuts.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Fly!&rdquo; said she, the moment she had breath to speak:
&ldquo;Fly!&mdash;they are coming to seize everything here&mdash;carry
off what you can&mdash;make haste&mdash;make haste!&mdash;I came through
a by-street. A man was eating chestnuts at my stall, and I saw
him show one that was with him the order from Citoyen Tracassier.
They&rsquo;ll be here in five minutes&mdash;quick!&mdash;quick!&mdash;You,
in particular,&rdquo; continued she, turning to the nun, &ldquo;else
you&rsquo;ll be in prison.&rdquo;</p>

<p>At these words, the children, who had clung round Sister Frances,
loosed their hold, exclaiming, &ldquo;Go! go quick: but where? where?&mdash;we
will go with her.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, no!&rdquo; said Madame de Fleury, &ldquo;she shall come
home with me&mdash;my carriage is at the door.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ma belle dame!&rdquo; cried the chestnut woman, &ldquo;your
house is the worst place she can go to&mdash;let her come to my cellar&mdash;the
poorest cellar in these days is safer than the grandest palace.&rdquo;</p>

<p>So saying, she seized the nun with honest roughness, and hurried
her away. As soon as she was gone, the children ran different
ways, each to collect some favourite thing, which they thought they
could not leave behind. Victoire alone stood motionless beside
Madame de Fleury; her whole thoughts absorbed by the fear that her benefactress
would be imprisoned. &ldquo;Oh, madame! dear, dear Madame de Fleury,
don&rsquo;t stay! don&rsquo;t stay!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Oh, children, never mind these things.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t stay, madame, don&rsquo;t stay! I will stay
with them&mdash;I will stay&mdash;do you go.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The children hearing these words, and recollecting Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s
danger, abandoned all their little property, and instantly obeyed her
orders to go home to their parents. Victoire at last saw Madame
de Fleury safe in her carriage. The coachman drove off at a great
rate; and a few minutes afterwards Tracassier&rsquo;s myrmidons arrived
at the school-house. Great was their surprise when they found
only the poor children&rsquo;s little books, unfinished samplers, and
half-hemmed handkerchiefs. They ran into the garden to search
for the nun. They were men of brutal habits, yet as they looked
at everything round them, which bespoke peace, innocence, and childish
happiness, they could not help thinking it was a pity to destroy what
could do the nation no great harm after all. They were even glad
that the nun had made her escape, since they were not answerable for
it; and they returned to their employer satisfied for once without doing
any mischief; but Citizen Tracassier was of too vindictive a temper
to suffer the objects of his hatred thus to elude his vengeance.
The next day Madame de Fleury was summoned before his tribunal and ordered
to give up the nun, against whom, as a suspected person, a decree of
the law had been obtained.</p>

<p>Madame de Fleury refused to betray the innocent woman; the gentle
firmness of this lady&rsquo;s answers to a brutal interrogatory was
termed insolence&mdash;she was pronounced a refractory aristocrat, dangerous
to the state; and an order was made out to seal up her goods, and to
keep her a prisoner in her own house.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER X</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Alas! full oft on Guilt&rsquo;s victorious car<br />
The spoils of Virtue are in triumph borne,<br />
While the fair captive, marked with many a scar,<br />
In lone obscurity, oppressed, forlorn,<br />
Resigns to tears her angel form.&rdquo;&mdash;BEATTIE.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>A close prisoner in her own house, Madame de Fleury was now guarded
by men suddenly become soldiers, and sprung from the dregs of the people;
men of brutal manners, ferocious countenances, and more ferocious minds.
They seemed to delight in the insolent display of their newly-acquired
power. One of those men had formerly been convicted of some horrible
crime, and had been sent to the galleys by M. de Fleury. Revenge
actuated this wretch under the mask of patriotism, and he rejoiced in
seeing the wife of the man he hated a prisoner in his custody.
Ignorant of the facts, his associates were ready to believe him in the
right, and to join in the senseless cry against all who were their superiors
in fortune, birth, and education. This unfortunate lady was forbidden
all intercourse with her friends, and it was in vain she attempted to
obtain from her gaolers intelligence of what was passing in Paris.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Tu verras&mdash;Tout va bien&mdash;&Ccedil;a ira,&rdquo; were
the only answers they deigned to make; frequently they continued smoking
their pipes in obdurate silence. She occupied the back rooms of
her house, because her guards apprehended that she might from the front
windows receive intelligence from her friends. One morning she
was awakened by an unusual noise in the streets; and, upon her inquiring
the occasion of it, her guards told her she was welcome to go to the
front windows and satisfy her curiosity. She went, and saw an
immense crowd of people surrounding a guillotine that had been erected
the preceding night. Madame de Fleury started back with horror&mdash;her
guards burst into an inhuman laugh, and asked whether her curiosity
was satisfied. She would have left the room; but it was now their
pleasure to detain her, and to force her to continue the whole day in
this apartment. When the guillotine began its work, they had even
the barbarity to drag her to the window, repeating, &ldquo;It is there
you ought to be!&mdash;It is there your husband ought to be!&mdash;You
are too happy, that your husband is not there this moment. But
he will be there&mdash;the law will overtake him&mdash;he will be there
in time&mdash;and you too!&rdquo;</p>

<p>The mild fortitude of this innocent, benevolent woman made no impression
upon these cruel men. When at night they saw her kneeling at her
prayers, they taunted her with gross and impious mockery; and when she
sank to sleep, they would waken her by their loud and drunken orgies&mdash;if
she remonstrated, they answered, &ldquo;The enemies of the constitution
should have no rest.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Madame de Fleury was not an enemy to any human being; she had never
interfered in politics; her life had been passed in domestic pleasures,
or employed for the good of her fellow-creatures. Even in this
hour of personal danger she thought of others more than of herself:
she thought of her husband, an exile in a foreign country, who might
be reduced to the utmost distress now that she was deprived of all means
of remitting him money. She thought of her friends, who, she knew,
would exert themselves to obtain her liberty, and whose zeal in her
cause might involve them and their families in distress. She thought
of the good Sister Frances, who had been exposed by her means to the
unrelenting persecution of the malignant and powerful Tracassier.
She thought of her poor little pupils, now thrown upon the world without
a protector. Whilst these ideas were revolving in her mind one
night as she lay awake, she heard the door of her chamber open softly,
and a soldier, one of her guards, with a light in his hand, entered;
he came to the foot of her bed, and, as she started up, laid his finger
upon his lips.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t make the least noise,&rdquo; said he in a whisper;
&ldquo;those without are drunk, and asleep. Don&rsquo;t you know
me?&mdash;don&rsquo;t you remember my face?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Not in the least; yet I have some recollection of your voice.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The man took off the bonnet-rouge&mdash;still she could not guess
who he was. &ldquo;You never saw me in a uniform before nor without
a black face.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She looked again, and recollected the smith to whom Maurice was bound
apprentice, and remembered his <i>patois</i> accent.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I remember you,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;at any rate; and your
goodness to that poor girl the day her arm was broken, and all your
goodness to Maurice. But I&rsquo;ve no time for talking of that
now&mdash;get up, wrap this great coat round you&mdash;don&rsquo;t be
in a hurry, but make no noise&mdash;and follow me.&rdquo;</p>

<p>She followed him; and he led her past the sleeping sentinels, opened
a back door into the garden, hurried her (almost carried her) across
the garden to a door at the furthest end of it, which opened into Les
Champs Elysées&mdash;&ldquo;La voil&agrave;!&rdquo; cried he,
pushing her through the half-opened door. &ldquo;God be praised!&rdquo;
answered a voice, which Madame de Fleury knew to be Victoire&rsquo;s,
whose arms were thrown round her with a transport of joy.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Softly; she is not safe yet&mdash;wait till we get her home,
Victoire,&rdquo; said another voice, which she knew to be that of Maurice.
He produced a dark lantern, and guided Madame de Fleury across the Champs
Elysées, and across the bridge, and then through various by-streets,
in perfect silence, till they arrived safely at the house where Victoire&rsquo;s
mother lodged, and went up those very stairs which she had ascended
in such different circumstances several years before. The mother,
who was sitting up waiting most anxiously for the return of her children,
clasped her hands in an ecstasy when she saw them return with Madame
de Fleury.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Welcome, madame! Welcome, dear madame! but who would
have thought of seeing you here in such a way? Let her rest herself&mdash;let
her rest; she is quite overcome. Here, madame, can you sleep on
this poor bed?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;The very same bed you laid me upon the day my arm was broken,&rdquo;
said Victoire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ay, Lord bless her!&rdquo; said the mother; &ldquo;and though
it&rsquo;s seven good years ago, it seemed but yesterday that I saw
her sitting on that bed beside my poor child looking like an angel.
But let her rest, let her rest&mdash;we&rsquo;ll not say a word more,
only God bless her; thank Heaven, she&rsquo;s safe with us at last!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Madame de Fleury expressed unwillingness to stay with these good
people, lest she should expose them to danger; but they begged most
earnestly that she would remain with them without scruple.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Surely, madame,&rdquo; said the mother, &ldquo;you must think
that we have some remembrance of all you have done for us, and some
touch of gratitude.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And surely, madame, you can trust us, I hope,&rdquo; said
Maurice.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And surely you are not too proud to let us do something for
you. The lion was not too proud to be served by the poor little
mouse,&rdquo; said Victoire. &ldquo;As to danger for us,&rdquo;
continued she, &ldquo;there can be none; for Maurice and I have contrived
a hiding-place for you, madame, that can never be found out&mdash;let
them come spying here as often as they please, they will never find
her out, will they, Maurice? Look, madame, into this lumber-room;
you see it seems to be quite full of wood for firing; well, if you creep
in behind, you can hide yourself quite snug in the loft above, and here&rsquo;s
a trap-door into the loft that nobody ever would think of, for we have
hung these old things from the top of it, and who could guess it was
a trap-door? So you see, dear madame, you may sleep in peace here,
and never fear for us.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Though but a girl of fourteen, Victoire showed at this time all the
sense and prudence of a woman of thirty. Gratitude seemed at once
to develop all the powers of her mind. It was she and Maurice
who had prevailed upon the smith to effect Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s
escape from her own house. She had invented, she had foreseen,
she had arranged everything; she had scarcely rested night or day since
the imprisonment of her benefactress, and now that her exertions had
fully succeeded, her joy seemed to raise her above all feeling of fatigue;
she looked as fresh and moved as briskly, her mother said, as if she
were preparing to go to a ball.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ah! my child,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;your cousin Manon, who
goes to those balls every night, was never so happy as you are this
minute.&rdquo;</p>

<p>But Victoire&rsquo;s happiness was not of long continuance; for the
next day they were alarmed by intelligence that Tracassier was enraged
beyond measure at Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s escape, that all his emissaries
were at work to discover her present hiding-place, that the houses of
all the parents and relations of her pupils were to be searched, and
that the most severe denunciations were issued against all by whom she
should be harboured. Manon was the person who gave this intelligence,
but not with any benevolent design; she first came to Victoire, to display
her own consequence; and to terrify her, she related all she knew from
a soldier&rsquo;s wife, who was M. Tracassier&rsquo;s mistress.
Victoire had sufficient command over herself to conceal from the inquisitive
eyes of Manon the agitation of her heart; she had also the prudence
not to let any one of her companions into her secret, though, when she
saw their anxiety, she was much tempted to relieve them, by the assurance
that Madame de Fleury was in safety. All the day was passed in
apprehension. Madame de Fleury never stirred from her place of
concealment: as the evening and the hour of the domiciliary visits approached,
Victoire and Maurice were alarmed by an unforeseen difficulty.
Their mother, whose health had been broken by hard work, in vain endeavoured
to suppress her terror at the thoughts of this domiciliary visit; she
repeated incessantly that she knew they should all be discovered, and
that her children would be dragged to the guillotine before her face.
She was in such a distracted state, that they dreaded she would, the
moment she saw the soldiers, reveal all she knew.</p>

<p>&ldquo;If they question me, I shall not know what to answer,&rdquo;
cried the terrified woman. &ldquo;What can I say?&mdash;What can
I do?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Reasoning, entreaties, all were vain; she was not in a condition
to understand, or even to listen to, anything that was said. In
this situation they were when the domiciliary visitors arrived&mdash;they
heard the noise of the soldiers&rsquo; feet on the stairs&mdash;the
poor woman sprang from the arms of her children; but at the moment the
door was opened, and she saw the glittering of the bayonets, she fell
at full length in a swoon on the floor&mdash;fortunately before she
had power to utter a syllable. The people of the house knew, and
said, that she was subject to fits on any sudden alarm; so that her
being affected in this manner did not appear surprising. They
threw her on a bed, whilst they proceeded to search the house: her children
stayed with her; and, wholly occupied in attending to her, they were
not exposed to the danger of betraying their anxiety about Madame de
Fleury. They trembled, however, from head to foot when they heard
one of the soldiers swear that all the wood in the lumber-room must
be pulled out, and that he would not leave the house till every stick
was moved; the sound of each log, as it was thrown out, was heard by
Victoire; her brother was now summoned to assist. How great was
his terror when one of the searchers looked up to the roof, as if expecting
to find a trap door; fortunately, however, he did not discover it.
Maurice, who had seized the light, contrived to throw the shadows so
as to deceive the eye. The soldiers at length retreated; and with
inexpressible satisfaction Maurice lighted them down stairs, and saw
them fairly out of the house. For some minutes after they were
in safety, the terrified mother, who had recovered her senses, could
scarcely believe that the danger was over. She embraced her children
by turns with wild transport; and with tears begged Madame de Fleury
to forgive her cowardice, and not to attribute it to ingratitude, or
to suspect that she had a bad heart. She protested that she was
now become so courageous, since she found that she had gone through
this trial successfully, and since she was sure that the hiding-place
was really so secure, that she should never be alarmed at any domiciliary
visit in future. Madame de Fleury, however, did not think it either
just or expedient to put her resolution to the trial. She determined
to leave Paris; and, if possible, to make her escape from France.
The master of one of the Paris diligences was brother to François,
her footman: he was ready to assist her at all hazards, and to convey
her safely to Bourdeaux, if she could disguise herself properly; and
if she could obtain a pass from any friend under a feigned name.</p>

<p>Victoire&mdash;the indefatigable Victoire&mdash;recollected that
her friend Annette had an aunt, who was nearly of Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s
size, and who had just obtained a pass to go to Bourdeaux, to visit
some of her relations. The pass was willingly given up to Madame
de Fleury; and upon reading it over it was found to answer tolerably
well&mdash;the colour of the eyes and hair at least would do; though
the words <i>un nez gros</i> were not precisely descriptive of this
lady&rsquo;s. Annette&rsquo;s mother, who had always worn the
provincial dress of Auvergne, furnished the high <i>cornette</i>, stiff
stays, bodice, &amp;c.; and equipped in these, Madame de Fleury was
so admirably well disguised, that even Victoire declared she should
scarcely have known her. Money, that most necessary passport in
all countries, was still wanting: as seals had been put upon all Madame
de Fleury&rsquo;s effects the day she had been first imprisoned in her
own house, she could not save even her jewels. She had, however,
one ring on her finger of some value. How to dispose of it without
exciting suspicion was the difficulty. Babet, who was resolved
to have her share in assisting her benefactress, proposed to carry the
ring to a <i>colporteur</i>&mdash;a pedlar, or sort of travelling jeweller&mdash;who
had come to lay in a stock of hardware at Paris: he was related to one
of Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s little pupils, and readily disposed of the
ring for her: she obtained at least two-thirds of its value&mdash;a
great deal in those times.</p>

<p>The proofs of integrity, attachment, and gratitude which she received
in these days of peril, from those whom she had obliged in her prosperity,
touched her generous heart so much, that she has often since declared
she could not regret having been reduced to distress. Before she
quitted Paris she wrote letters to her friends, recommending her pupils
to their protection; she left these letters in the care of Victoire,
who to the last moment followed her with anxious affection. She
would have followed her benefactress into exile, but that she was prevented
by duty and affection from leaving her mother, who was in declining
health.</p>

<p>Madame de Fleury successfully made her escape from Paris. Some
of the municipal officers in the towns through which she passed on her
road were as severe as their ignorance would permit in scrutinising
her passport. It seldom happened that more than one of these petty
committees of public safety could read. One usually spelled out
the passport as well as he could, whilst the others smoked their pipes,
and from time to time held a light up to the lady&rsquo;s face to examine
whether it agreed with the description.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Mais toi! tu n&rsquo;as pas le nez gros!&rdquo; said one of
her judges to her. &ldquo;Son nez est assez gros, et c&rsquo;est
moi qui le dit,&rdquo; said another. The question was put to the
vote; and the man who had asserted what was contrary to the evidence
of his senses was so vehement in supporting his opinion, that it was
carried in spite of all that could be said against it. Madame
de Fleury was suffered to proceed on her journey. She reached
Bordeaux in safety. Her husband&rsquo;s friends&mdash;the good
have always friends in adversity&mdash;her husband&rsquo;s friends exerted
themselves for her with the most prudent zeal. She was soon provided
with a sum of money sufficient for her support for some time in England;
and she safely reached that free and happy country, which has been the
refuge of so many illustrious exiles.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER XI</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Cosi rozzo diamante appena splende<br />
Dalla rupe natia quand&rsquo; esce fuora,<br />
E a poco a poco lucido se rende<br />
Sotto l&rsquo;attenta che lo lavora.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Madame de Fleury joined her husband, who was in London, and they
both lived in the most retired and frugal manner. They had too
much of the pride of independence to become burthensome to their generous
English friends. Notwithstanding the variety of difficulties they
had to encounter, and the number of daily privations to which they were
forced to submit, yet they were happy&mdash;in a tranquil conscience,
in their mutual affection, and the attachment of many poor but grateful
friends. A few months after she came to England, Madame de Fleury
received, by a private hand, a packet of letters from her little pupils.
Each of them, even the youngest, who had but just begun to learn joining-hand,
would write a few lines in this packet.</p>

<p>In various hands, of various sizes, the changes were rung upon these
simple words:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;MY DEAR MADAME DE FLEURY,</p>

<p>&ldquo;I love you&mdash;I wish you were here again&mdash;I will be
<i>very very</i> good whilst you are away. If you stay away ever
so long, I shall never forget you, nor your goodness; but I hope you
will soon be able to come back, and this is what I pray for every night.
Sister Frances says I may tell you that I am very good, and Victoire
thinks so too.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>This was the substance of several of their little letters.
Victoire&rsquo;s contained rather more information:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;You will be glad to learn that dear Sister Frances
is safe, and that the good chestnut-woman, in whose cellar she took
refuge, did not get into any difficulty. After you were gone,
M. T--- said that he did not think it worth while to pursue her, as
it was only you he wanted to humble. Manon, who has, I do not
know how, means of knowing, told me this. Sister Frances is now
with her abbess, who, as well as everybody else that knows her, is very
fond of her. What was a convent is no longer a convent&mdash;the
nuns are turned out of it. Sister Frances&rsquo; health is not
so good as it used to be, though she never complains. I am sure
she suffers much; she has never been the same person since that day
when we were driven from our happy schoolroom. It is all destroyed&mdash;the
garden and everything. It is now a dismal sight. Your absence
also afflicts Sister Frances much, and she is in great anxiety about
all of us. She has the six little ones with her every day in her
own apartment, and goes on teaching them as she used to do. We
six eldest go to see her as often as we can. I should have begun,
my dear Madame de Fleury, by telling you, that, the day after you left
Paris, I went to deliver all the letters you were so very kind to write
for us in the midst of your hurry. Your friends have been exceedingly
good to us, and have got places for us all. Rose is with Madame
la Grace, your mantua-maker, who says she is more handy and more expert
at cutting out than girls she has had these three years. Marianne
is in the service of Madame de V---, who has lost a great part of her
large fortune, and cannot afford to keep her former waiting-maid.
Madame de V--- is well pleased with Marianne, and bids me tell you that
she thanks you for her. Indeed, Marianne, though she is only fourteen,
can do everything her lady wants. Susanne is with a confectioner.
She gave Sister Frances a box of <i>bonbons</i> of her own making this
morning; and Sister Frances, who is a judge, says they are excellent&mdash;she
only wishes you could taste them. Annette and I (thanks to your
kindness!) are in the same service with Madame Feuillot, the <i>brodeuse</i>,
to whom you recommended us. She is not discontented with our work,
and, indeed, sent a very civil message yesterday to Sister Frances on
this subject; but believe it is too flattering for me to repeat in this
letter. We shall do our best to give her satisfaction. She
is glad to find that we can write tolerably, and that we can make out
bills and keep accounts, this being particularly convenient to her at
present, as the young man she had in the shop is become an orator, and
good for nothing but <i>la chose publique</i>; her son, who could have
supplied his place, is ill; and Madame Feuillot herself, not having
had, as she says, the advantage of such a good education as we have
been blessed with, writes but badly, and knows nothing of arithmetic.
Dear Madame de Fleury, how much, how very much we are obliged to you!
We feel it every day more and more; in these times what would have become
of us if we could do nothing useful? Who would, who could be burdened
with us? Dear madame, we owe everything to you&mdash;and we can
do nothing, not the least thing for you! My mother is still in
bad health, and I fear will never recover; Babet is with her always,
and Sister Frances is very good to her. My brother Maurice is
now so good a workman that he earns a louis a week. He is very
steady to his business, and never goes to the revolutionary meetings,
though once he had a great mind to be an orator of the people, but never
since the day that you explained to him that he knew nothing about equality
and the rights of men, &amp;c. How could I forget to tell you,
that his master the smith, who was one of your guards, and who assisted
you to escape, has returned without suspicion to his former trade? and
he declares that he will never more meddle with public affairs.
I gave him the money you left with me for him. He is very kind
to my brother. Yesterday Maurice mended for Annette&rsquo;s mistress
the lock of an English writing-desk, and he mended it so astonishingly
well, that an English gentleman, who saw it, could not believe the work
was done by a Frenchman; so my brother was sent for, to prove it, and
they were forced to believe it. To-day he has more work than he
can finish this twelve-month&mdash;all this we owe to you. I shall
never forget the day when you promised that you would grant my brother&rsquo;s
wish to be apprenticed to the smith, if I was not in a passion for a
month; that cured me of being so passionate.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Dear Madame de Fleury, I have written you too long a letter,
and not so well as I can write when I am not in a hurry; but I wanted
to tell you everything at once, because, may be, I shall not for a long
time have so safe an opportunity of sending a letter to you.</p>

<p>&ldquo;VICTOIRE.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Several months elapsed before Madame do Fleury received another letter
from Victoire; it was short and evidently written in great distress
of mind. It contained an account of her mother&rsquo;s death.
She was now left at the early age of sixteen an orphan. Madame
Feuillot, the <i>brodeuse</i>, with whom she lived, added few lines
to her letter, penned with difficulty and strangely spelled, but, expressive
of her being highly pleased with both the girls recommended to her by
Madame de Fleury, especially Victoire, who she said was such a treasure
to her, that she would not part with her on any account, and should
consider her as a daughter. &ldquo;I tell her not to grieve so
much; for though she has lost one mother she has gained another for
herself, who will always love her; and besides she is so useful, and
in so many ways, with her pen and her needle, in accounts, and everything
that is wanted in a family or a shop; she can never want employment
or friends in the worst times, and none can be worse than these, especially
for such pretty girls as she is, who have all their heads turned, and
are taught to consider nothing a sin that used to be sins. Many
gentlemen, who come to our shop, have found out that Victoire is very
handsome, and tell her so; but she is so modest and prudent that I am
not afraid for her. I could tell you, madame, a good anecdote
on this subject, but my paper will not allow, and, besides, my writing
is so difficult.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Above a year elapsed before Madame de Fleury received another letter
from Victoire: this was in a parcel, of which an emigrant took charge;
it contained a variety of little offerings from her pupils, instances
of their ingenuity, their industry, and their affection; the last thing
in the packet was a small purse labelled in this manner&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;<i>Savings from our wages and earnings for her who taught
us all we know</i>.&rdquo;</p>

<h3>CHAPTER XII</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Dans sa pompe élégante, admirez
Chantilly,<br />
De héros en héros, d&rsquo;&acirc;ge en &acirc;ge, embelli.&rdquo;&mdash;DE
LILLE.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>The health of the good Sister Frances, which had suffered much from
the shock her mind received at the commencement of the revolution, declined
so rapidly in the course of the two succeeding years, that she was obliged
to leave Paris, and she retired to a little village in the neighbourhood
of Chantilly. She chose this situation because here she was within
a morning&rsquo;s walk of Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s country-seat.
The Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury had not yet been seized as national property,
nor had it suffered from the attacks of the mob, though it was in a
perilous situation, within view of the high road to Paris. The
Parisian populace had not yet extended their outrages to this distance
from the city, and the poor people who lived on the estate of Fleury,
attached from habit, principle, and gratitude, to their lord, were not
disposed to take advantage of the disorder of the times, to injure the
property of those from whom they had all their lives received favours
and protection. A faithful old steward had the care of the castle
and the grounds. Sister Frances was impatient to talk to him and
to visit the ch&acirc;teau, which she had never seen; but for some days
after her arrival in the village she was so much fatigued and so weak
that she could not attempt so long a walk. Victoire had obtained
permission from her mistress to accompany the nun for a few days to
the country, as Annette undertook to do all the business of the shop
during the absence of her companion. Victoire was fully as eager
as Sister Frances to see the faithful steward and the Ch&acirc;teau
de Fleury, and the morning was now fixed for their walk; but in the
middle of the night they were awakened by the shouts of a mob, who had
just entered the village fresh from the destruction of a neighbouring
castle. The nun and Victoire listened; but in the midst of the
horrid yells of joy no human voice, no intelligible word could be distinguished;
they looked through a chink in the window-shutter and they saw the street
below filled with a crowd of men, whose countenances were by turns illuminated
by the glare of the torches which they brandished.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Good Heavens!&rdquo; whispered the nun to Victoire: &ldquo;I
should know the face of that man who is loading his musket&mdash;the
very man whom I nursed ten years ago when he was ill with a gaol fever!&rdquo;</p>

<p>This man, who stood in the midst of the crowd, taller by the head
than the others, seemed to be the leader of the party; they were disputing
whether they should proceed further, spend the remainder of the night
in the village ale-house, or return to Paris. Their leader ordered
spirits to be distributed to his associates, and exhorted them in a
loud voice to proceed in their glorious work. Tossing his firebrand
over his head he declared that he would never return to Paris till he
had razed to the ground the Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury. At these
words, Victoire, forgetful of all personal danger, ran out into the
midst of the mob, pressed her way up to the leader of these ruffians,
caught him by the arm, exclaiming, &ldquo;You will not touch a stone
in the Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury&mdash;I have my reasons&mdash;I say you
will not suffer a stone in the Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury to be touched.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And why not?&rdquo; cried the man, turning astonished; &ldquo;and
who are you that I should listen to you?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No matter who I am,&rdquo; said Victoire; &ldquo;follow me
and I will show you one to whom you will not refuse to listen.
Here!&mdash;here she is,&rdquo; continued Victoire, pointing to the
nun, who had followed her in amazement; &ldquo;here is one to whom you
will listen&mdash;yes, look at her well: hold the light to her face.&rdquo;</p>

<p>The nun, in a supplicating attitude, stood in speechless expectation.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ay, I see you have gratitude, I know you will have mercy,&rdquo;
cried Victoire, watching the workings in the countenance of the man;
&ldquo;you will save the Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury for her sake&mdash;who
saved your life.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I will,&rdquo; cried this astonished chief of a mob, fired
with sudden generosity. &ldquo;By my faith you are a brave girl,
and a fine girl, and know how to speak to the heart, and in the right
moment. Friends, citizens, this nun, though she is a nun, is good
for something. When I lay ill with a fever, and not a soul else
to help me, she came and gave me medicines and food&mdash;in short,
I owe my life to her. &rsquo;Tis ten years ago, but I remember
it well, and now it is our turn to rule, and she shall be paid as she
deserves. Not a stone of the Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury shall be
touched!&rdquo;</p>

<p>With loud acclamations the mob joined in the generous enthusiasm
of the moment and followed their leader peaceably out of the village.
All this passed with such rapidity as scarcely to leave the impression
of reality upon the mind. As soon as the sun rose in the morning
Victoire looked out for the turrets of the Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury,
and she saw that they were safe&mdash;safe in the midst of the surrounding
devastation. Nothing remained of the superb palace of Chantilly
but the white arches of its foundation.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER XIII</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;When thy last breath, ere Nature sank to rest<br />
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed;<br />
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,<br />
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed;<br />
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave&mdash;<br />
Its hope in death, its triumph o&rsquo;er the grave?<br />
The sweet remembrance of unblemished youth,<br />
Th&rsquo; inspiring voice of innocence and truth!&rdquo;&mdash;ROGERS.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>The good Sister Frances, though she had scarcely recovered from the
shock of the preceding night, accompanied Victoire to the Ch&acirc;teau
de Fleury. The gates were opened for them by the old steward and
his son Basile, who welcomed them with all the eagerness with which
people welcome friends in time of adversity. The old man showed
them the place; and through every apartment of the castle went on talking
of former times, and with narrative fondness told anecdotes of his dear
master and mistress. Here his lady used to sit and read&mdash;here
was the table at which she wrote&mdash;this was the sofa on which she
and the ladies sat the very last day she was at the castle, at the open
windows of the hall, whilst all the tenants and people of the village
were dancing on the green.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Ay, those were happy times,&rdquo; said the old man; &ldquo;but
they will never return.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Never! Oh do not say so,&rdquo; cried Victoire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Never during my life, at least,&rdquo; said the nun in a low
voice, and with a look of resignation.</p>

<p>Basile, as he wiped the tears from his eyes, happened to strike his
arm against the chord of Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s harp, and the sound
echoed through the room.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Before this year is at an end,&rdquo; cried Victoire, &ldquo;perhaps
that harp will be struck again in this Ch&acirc;teau by Madame de Fleury
herself. Last night we could hardly have hoped to see these walls
standing this morning, and yet it is safe&mdash;not a stone touched!
Oh, we shall all live, I hope, to see better times!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Sister Frances smiled, for she would not depress Victoire&rsquo;s
enthusiastic hope: to please her, the good nun added, that she felt
better this morning than she had felt for months, and Victoire was happier
than she had been since Madame de Fleury left France. But, alas!
it was only a transient gleam. Sister Frances relapsed and declined
so rapidly, that even Victoire, whose mind was almost always disposed
to hope, despaired of her recovery. With placid resignation, or
rather with mild confidence, this innocent and benevolent creature met
the approach of death. She seemed attached to earth only by affection
for those whom she was to leave in this world. Two of the youngest
of the children who had formerly been placed under her care, and who
were not yet able to earn their own subsistence, she kept with her,
and in the last days of her life she continued her instructions to them
with the fond solicitude of a parent. Her father confessor, an
excellent man, who never even in these dangerous times shrank from his
duty, came to Sister Frances in her last moments, and relieved her mind
from all anxiety, by promising to place the two little children with
the lady who had been abbess of her convent, who would to the utmost
of her power protect and provide for them suitably. Satisfied
by this promise, the good Sister Frances smiled upon Victoire, who stood
beside her bed, and with that smile upon her countenance expired.&mdash;It
was some time before the little children seemed to comprehend, or to
believe, that Sister Frances was dead: they had never before seen any
one die; they had no idea what it was to die, and their first feeling
was astonishment; they did not seem to understand why Victoire wept.
But the next day when no Sister Frances spoke to them, when every hour
they missed some accustomed kindness from her,&mdash;when presently
they saw the preparations for her funeral,&mdash;when they heard that
she was to be buried in the earth, and that they should never see her
more,&mdash;they could neither play nor eat, but sat in a corner holding
each other&rsquo;s hands, and watching everything that was done for
the dead by Victoire.</p>

<p>In those times, the funeral of a nun, with a priest attending, would
not have been permitted by the populace. It was therefore performed
as secretly as possible: in the middle of the night the coffin was carried
to the burial-place of the Fleury family; the old steward, his son Basile,
Victoire, and the good father confessor, were the only persons present.
It is necessary to mention this, because the facts were afterwards misrepresented.</p>

<h3>CHAPTER XIV</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;The character is lost!<br />
Her head adorned with lappets, pinned aloft,<br />
And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised,<br />
Indebted to some smart wig-weaver&rsquo;s hand<br />
For more than half the tresses it sustains.&rdquo;&mdash;COWPER.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Upon her return to Paris, Victoire felt melancholy; but she exerted
herself as much as possible in her usual occupation; finding that employment
and the consciousness of doing her duty were the best remedies for sorrow.</p>

<p>One day as she was busy settling Madame Feuillot&rsquo;s accounts
a servant came into the shop and inquired for Mademoiselle Victoire:
he presented her a note, which she found rather difficult to decipher.
It was signed by her cousin Manon, who desired to see Victoire at her
hotel. &ldquo;<i>Her hotel</i>!&rdquo; repeated Victoire with
astonishment. The servant assured her that one of the finest hotels
in Paris belonged to his lady, and that he was commissioned to show
her the way to it. Victoire found her cousin in a magnificent
house, which had formerly belonged to the Prince de Salms. Manon,
dressed in the disgusting, indecent extreme of the mode, was seated
under a richly-fringed canopy. She burst into a loud laugh as
Victoire entered.</p>

<p>&ldquo;You look just as much astonished as I expected,&rdquo; cried
she. &ldquo;Great changes have happened since I saw you last&mdash;I
always told you, Victoire, I knew the world better than you did.
What has come of all your schooling, and your mighty goodness, and your
gratitude truly? Your patroness is banished and a beggar, and
you a drudge in the shop of a <i>brodeuse</i>, who makes you work your
fingers to the bone, no doubt. Now you shall see the difference.
Let me show you my house; you know it was formerly the hotel of the
Prince de Salms, he that was guillotined the other day; but you know
nothing, for you have been out of Paris this month, I understand.
Then I must tell you that my friend Villeneuf has acquired an immense
fortune! by assignats made in the course of a fortnight. I say
an immense fortune! and has bought this fine house. Now do you
begin to understand?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;I do not clearly know whom you mean by &lsquo;your friend
Villeneuf,&rsquo;&rdquo; said Victoire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The hairdresser who lived in our street,&rdquo; said Manon;
&ldquo;he became a great patriot, you know, and orator; and, what with
his eloquence and his luck in dealing in assignats, he has made his
fortune and mine.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And yours! then he is your husband?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;That does not follow&mdash;that is not necessary&mdash;but
do not look so shocked&mdash;everybody goes on the sane way now; besides,
I had no other resource&mdash;I must have starved&mdash;I could not
earn my bread as you do. Besides, I was too delicate for hard
work of any sort&mdash;and besides&mdash;but come, let me show you my
house&mdash;you have no idea how fine it is.&rdquo;</p>

<p>With anxious ostentation Manon displayed all her riches to excite
Victoire&rsquo;s envy.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Confess, Victoire,&rdquo; said she at last, &ldquo;that you
think me the happiest person you have ever known.&mdash;You do not answer;
whom did you ever know that was happier?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Sister Frances, who died last week, appeared to be much happier,&rdquo;
said Victoire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;The poor nun!&rdquo; said Manon, disdainfully. &ldquo;Well,
and whom do you think the next happiest?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Madame de Fleury.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;An exile and a beggar!&mdash;Oh, you are jesting now, Victoire&mdash;or&mdash;envious.
With that sanctified face, citoyenne&mdash;perhaps I should say Mademoiselle&mdash;Victoire
you would be delighted to change places with me this instant.
Come, you shall stay with me a week to try how you like it.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; said Victoire, firmly; &ldquo;I cannot stay
with you, Manon; you have chosen one way of life and I another&mdash;quite
another. I do not repent my choice&mdash;may you never repent
yours!&mdash;Farewell!&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;Bless me! what airs! and with what dignity she looks!
Repent of my choice!&mdash;a likely thing, truly. Am not I at
the top of the wheel?&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;And may not the wheel turn?&rdquo; said Victoire.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Perhaps it may,&rdquo; said Manon; &ldquo;but till it does
I will enjoy myself. Since you are of a different humour, return
to Madame Feuillot, and figure upon cambric and muslin, and make out
bills, and nurse old nuns all the days of your life. You will
never persuade me, however, that you would not change places with me
if you could. Stay till you are tried, Mademoiselle Victoire.
Who was ever in love with you or your virtues?&mdash;Stay till you are
tried.&rdquo;</p>

<h3>CHAPTER XV</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;But beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree,<br />
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard<br />
Of dragon watch with unenchanted eye<br />
To save her blossoms, or defend her fruit.&rdquo;&mdash;MILTON.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>The trial was nearer than either Manon or Victoire expected.
Manon had scarcely pronounced the last words when the ci-devant hairdresser
burst into the room, accompanied by several of his political associates,
who met to consult measures for the good of the nation. Among
these patriots was the Abbé Tracassier.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Who is that pretty girl who is with you, Manon?&rdquo; whispered
he; &ldquo;a friend of yours, I hope?&rdquo;</p>

<p>Victoire left the room immediately, but not before the profligate
abbé had seen enough to make him wish to see more. The
next day he went to Madame Feuillot&rsquo;s under pretence of buying
some embroidered handkerchiefs; he paid Victoire a profusion of extravagant
compliments, which made no impression upon her innocent heart, and which
appeared ridiculous to her plain good sense. She did not know
who he was, nor did Madame Feuillot; for though she had often heard
of the abbé, yet she had never seen him. Several succeeding
days he returned, and addressed himself to Victoire, each time with
increasing freedom. Madame Feuillot, who had the greatest confidence
in her, left her entirely to her own discretion. Victoire begged
her friend Annette to do the business of the shop, and stayed at work
in the back parlour. Tracassier was much disappointed by her absence;
but as he thought no great ceremony necessary in his proceedings, he
made his name known in a haughty manner to Madame de Feuillot, and desired
that he might be admitted into the back parlour, as he had something
of consequence to say to Mademoiselle Victoire in private. Our
readers will not require to have a detailed account of this <i>t&ecirc;te-&agrave;-t&ecirc;te</i>;
it is sufficient to say that the disappointed and exasperated abbé
left the house muttering imprecations. The next morning a note
came to Victoire apparently from Manon: it was directed by her, but
the inside was written by an unknown hand, and continued these words:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;You are a charming, but incomprehensible girl&mdash;since
you do not like compliments, you shall not be addressed with empty flattery.
It is in the power of the person who dictates this, not only to make
you as rich and great as your cousin Manon, but also to restore to fortune
and to their country the friends for whom, you are most interested.
Their fate as well as your own is in your power: if you send a favourable
answer to this note, the persons alluded to will, to-morrow, be struck
from the list of emigrants, and reinstated in their former possessions.
If your answer is decidedly unfavourable, the return of your friends
to France will be thenceforward impracticable, and their ch&acirc;teau,
as well as their house in Paris, will be declared national property,
and sold without delay to the highest bidder. To you, who have
as much understanding as beauty, it is unnecessary to say more.
Consult your heart, charming Victoire! be happy, and make others happy.
This moment is decisive of your fate and of theirs, for you have to
answer a man of a most decided character.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Victoire&rsquo;s answer was as follows:&mdash;</p>

<p>&ldquo;My friends would not, I am sure, accept of their fortune,
or consent to return to their country, upon the conditions proposed;
therefore I have no merit in rejecting them.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Victoire had early acquired good principles, and that plain steady
good sense, which goes straight to its object, without being dazzled
or imposed upon by sophistry. She was unacquainted with the refinements
of sentiment, but she distinctly knew right from wrong, and had sufficient
resolution to abide by the right. Perhaps many romantic heroines
might have thought it a generous self-devotion to have become in similar
circumstances the mistress of Tracassier; and those who are skilled
&ldquo;to make the worst appear the better cause&rdquo; might have made
such an act of heroism the foundation of an interesting, or at least
a fashionable novel. Poor Victoire had not received an education
sufficiently refined to enable her to understand these mysteries of
sentiment. She was even simple enough to flatter herself that
this libertine patriot would not fulfil his threats, and that these
had been made only with a view to terrify her into compliance.
In this opinion, however, she found herself mistaken. M. Tracassier
was indeed a man of the most decided character, if this form may properly
be applied to those who act uniformly in consequence of their ruling
passion. The Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury was seized as national property.
Victoire heard this bad news from the old steward, who was turned out
of the castle, along with his son, the very day after her rejection
of the proposed conditions.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I could not have believed that any human creature could be
so wicked!&rdquo; exclaimed Victoire, glowing with indignation: but
indignation gave way to sorrow.</p>

<p>&ldquo;And the Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury is really seized?&mdash;and
you, good old man, are turned out of the place where you were born?&mdash;and
you too, Basile?&mdash;and Madame de Fleury will never come back again!&mdash;and
perhaps she may be put into prison in a foreign country, and may die
for want&mdash;and I might have prevented all this!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Unable to shed a tear, Victoire stood in silent consternation, whilst
Annette explained to the good steward and his son the whole transaction.
Basile, who was naturally of an impetuous temper, was so transported
with indignation, that he would have gone instantly with the note from
Tracassier to denounce him before the whole National Convention, if
he had not been restrained by his more prudent father. The old
steward represented to him, that as the note was neither signed nor
written by the hand of Tracassier, no proof could be brought home to
him, and the attempt to convict one of so powerful a party would only
bring certain destruction upon the accusers. Besides, such was
at this time the general depravity of manners, that numbers would keep
the guilty in countenance. There was no crime which the mask of
patriotism could not cover. &ldquo;There is one comfort we have
in our misfortunes, which these men can never have,&rdquo; said the
old man; &ldquo;when their downfall comes, and come it will most certainly,
they will not feel as we do, INNOCENT. Victoire, look up! and
do not give way to despair&mdash;all will yet be well.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;At all events, you have done what is right&mdash;so do not
reproach yourself,&rdquo; said Basile. &ldquo;Everybody&mdash;I
mean everybody who is good for anything&mdash;must respect, admire,
and love you, Victoire.&rdquo;</p>

<h3>CHAPTER XVI</h3>

<blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Ne mal cio che v&rsquo;annoja,<br />
Quello e vero gioire<br />
Che nasce da virtude dopo il soffrire.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>

<p>Basile had not seen without emotion the various instances of goodness
which Victoire showed during the illness of Sister Frances. Her
conduct towards M. Tracassier increased his esteem and attachment; but
he forbore to declare his affection, because he could not, consistently
with prudence, or with gratitude to his father, think of marrying, now
that he was not able to maintain a wife and family. The honest
earnings of many years of service had been wrested from the old steward
at the time the Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury was seized, and he now depended
on the industry of his son for the daily support of his age. His
dependence was just, and not likely to be disappointed; for he had given
his son an education suitable to his condition in life. Basile
was an exact arithmetician, could write an excellent hand, and was a
ready draughtsman and surveyor. To bring these useful talents
into action, and to find employment for them with men by whom they would
be honestly rewarded, was the only difficulty&mdash;a difficulty which
Victoire&rsquo;s brother Maurice soon removed. His reputation
as a smith had introduced him, among his many customers, to a gentleman
of worth and scientific knowledge, who was at this time employed to
make models and plans of all the fortified places in Europe; he was
in want of a good clerk and draughtsman, of whose integrity he could
be secure. Maurice mentioned his friend Basile; and upon inquiry
into his character, and upon trial of his abilities, he was found suited
to the place, and was accepted. By his well-earned salary he supported
himself and his father; and began, with the sanguine hopes of a young
man, to flatter himself that he should soon be rich enough to marry,
and that then he might declare his attachment to Victoire. Notwithstanding
all his boasted prudence, he had betrayed sufficient symptoms of his
passion to have rendered a declaration unnecessary to any clear-sighted
observer: but Victoire was not thinking of conquests; she was wholly
occupied with a scheme of earning a certain sum of money for her benefactress,
who was now, as she feared, in want. All Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s
former pupils contributed their share to the common stock; and the mantua-maker,
the confectioner, the servants of different sorts, who had been educated
at her school, had laid by, during the years of her banishment, an annual
portion of their wages and savings: with the sum which Victoire now
added to the fund, it amounted to ten thousand livres. The person
who undertook to carry this money to Madame de Fleury, was François,
her former footman, who had procured a pass to go to England as a hairdresser.
The night before he set out was a happy night for Victoire, as all her
companions met, by Madame Feuillot&rsquo;s invitation, at her house;
and after tea they had the pleasure of packing up the little box, in
which each, besides the money, sent some token their gratitude, and
some proof of their ingenuity. They would with all their hearts
have sent twice as many <i>souvenirs</i> as François could carry.</p>

<p>&ldquo;D&rsquo;abord c&rsquo;est impossible!&rdquo; cried he, when
he saw the box that was prepared for him to carry to England: but his
good nature was unable to resist the entreaties of each to have her
offering carried, &ldquo;which would take up no room.&rdquo;</p>

<p>He departed&mdash;arrived safe in England&mdash;found out Madame
de Fleury, who was in real distress, in obscure lodgings at Richmond.
He delivered the money, and all the presents of which he had taken charge:
but the person to whom she entrusted a letter, in answer to Victoire,
was not so punctual, or was more unlucky: for the letter never reached
her, and she and her companions were long uncertain whether their little
treasure had been received. They still continued, however, with
indefatigable gratitude, to lay by a portion of their earnings for their
benefactress; and the pleasure they had in this perseverance made them
more than amends for the loss of some little amusements, and for privations
to which they submitted in consequence of their resolution.</p>

<p>In the meantime, Basile, going on steadily with his employments,
advanced every day in the favour of his master, and his salary was increased
in proportion to his abilities and industry; so that he thought he could
now, without any imprudence, marry. He consulted his father, who
approved of his choice; he consulted Maurice as to the probability of
his being accepted by Victoire; and encouraged by both his father and
his friend, he was upon the eve of addressing himself to Victoire, when
he was prevented by a new and unforeseen misfortune. His father
was taken up, by an emissary of Tracassier&rsquo;s, and brought before
one of their revolutionary committees, where he was accused of various
acts of <i>incivisme</i>. Among other things equally criminal,
it was proved that one Sunday, when he went to see Le Petit Trianon,
then a public-house, he exclaimed, &ldquo;C&rsquo;est ici que le canaille
danse, et que les honn&ecirc;tes gens pleurent!&rdquo;</p>

<p>Basile was present at this mock examination of his father&mdash;he
saw him on the point of being dragged to prison&mdash;when a hint was
given that he might save his father by enlisting immediately, and going
with the army out of France. Victoire was full in Basile&rsquo;s
recollection; but there was no other means of saving his father.
He enlisted, and in twenty-four hours left Paris.</p>

<p>What appear to be the most unfortunate circumstances of life often
prove ultimately the most advantageous&mdash;indeed, those who have
knowledge, activity, and integrity, can convert the apparent blanks
in the lottery of fortune into prizes. Basile was recommended
to his commanding officer by the gentleman who had lately employed him
as a clerk; his skill in drawing plans, and in taking rapid surveys
of the country through which they passed, was extremely useful to his
general, and his integrity made it safe to trust him as a secretary.
His commanding officer, though a brave man, was illiterate, and a secretary
was to him a necessary of life. Basile was not only useful, but
agreeable; without any mean arts, or servile adulation, he pleased by
simply showing the desire to oblige and the ability to serve.</p>

<p>&ldquo;Diable!&rdquo; exclaimed the general one day, as he looked
at Basile&rsquo;s plan of a town which the army was besieging.
&ldquo;How comes it that you are able to do all these things?
But you have a genius for this sort of work, apparently.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; said Basile, &ldquo;these things were taught
to me when I was a child by a good friend.&rdquo;</p>

<p>&ldquo;A good friend he was, indeed! he did more for you than if
he had given you a fortune; for, in these times, that might have been
soon taken from you; but now you have the means of making a fortune
for yourself.&rdquo;</p>

<p>This observation of the general&rsquo;s, obvious as it may seem,
is deserving of the serious consideration of those who have children
of their own to educate, or who have the disposal of money for public
charities. In these times no sensible person will venture to pronounce
that a change of fortune and station may not await the highest and the
lowest; whether we rise or fall in the scale of society, personal qualities
and knowledge will be valuable. Those who fall cannot be destitute,
and those who rise cannot be ridiculous or contemptible, if they have
been prepared for their fortune by proper education. In shipwreck
those who carry their all in their minds are the most secure.</p>

<p>But to return to Basile. He had sense enough not to make his
general jealous of him by any unseasonable display of his talents, or
any officious intrusion of advice, even upon subjects which he best
understood.</p>

<p>The talents of the warrior and the secretary were in such different
lines, that there was no danger of competition; and the general, finding
in his secretary the soul of all the arts, good sense, gradually acquired
the habit of asking his opinion on every subject that came within his
department. It happened that the general received orders from
the Directory at Paris to take a certain town, let it cost what it would,
within a given time: in his perplexity he exclaimed before Basile against
the unreasonableness of these orders, and declared his belief that it
was impossible he should succeed, and that this was only a scheme of
his enemies to prepare his ruin. Basile had attended to the operations
of the engineer who acted under the general, and perfectly recollected
the model of the mines of this town, which he had seen when he was employed
as draughtsman by his Parisian friend. He remembered that there
was formerly an old mine that had been stopped up somewhere near the
place where the engineer was at work; he mentioned in private his suspicions
to the general, who gave orders in consequence. The old mine was
discovered, cleared out, and by these means the town was taken the day
before the time appointed. Basile did not arrogate to himself
any of the glory of this success; he kept his general&rsquo;s secret
and his confidence. Upon their return to Paris, after a fortunate
campaign, the general was more grateful than some others have been,
perhaps because more room was given by Basile&rsquo;s prudence for the
exercise of this virtue.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My friend,&rdquo; said he to Basile, &ldquo;you have done
me a great service by your counsel, and a greater still by holding your
tongue. Speak now, and tell me freely if there is anything I can
do for you. You see, as a victorious general, I have the upper
hand amongst these fellows&mdash;Tracassier&rsquo;s scheme to ruin me
missed&mdash;whatever I ask will at this moment be granted; speak freely,
therefore.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Basile asked what he knew Victoire most desired&mdash;that Monsieur
and Madame de Fleury should be struck from the list of emigrants, and
that their property now in the hands of the nation should be restored
to them. The general promised that this should be done.
A warm contest ensued upon the subject between him and Tracassier, but
the general stood firm; and Tracassier, enraged, forgot his usual cunning,
and quarrelling irrevocably with a party now more powerful than his
own, he and his adherents were driven from that station in which they
had so long tyrannised. From being the rulers of France, they
in a few hours became banished men, or, in the phrase of the times,
<i>des déportés</i>.</p>

<p>We must not omit to mention the wretched end of Manon. The
man with whom she lived perished by the guillotine. From his splendid
house she went upon the stage, did not succeed, sank from one degree
of profligacy to another, and at last died in an hospital.</p>

<p>In the meantime, the order for the restoration of the Fleury property,
and for permission for the Fleury family to return to France, was made
out in due form, and Maurice begged to be the messenger of these good
tidings&mdash;he set out for England with the order.</p>

<p>Victoire immediately went down to the Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury, to
get everything in readiness for the reception of the family.</p>

<p>Exiles are expeditious in their return to their native country.
Victoire had but just time to complete her preparations, when Monsieur
and Madame de Fleury arrived at Calais. Victoire had assembled
all her companions, all Madame de Fleury&rsquo;s former pupils; and
the hour when she was expected home, they, with the peasants of the
neighbourhood, were all in their holiday clothes, and, according to
the custom of the country, singing and dancing. Without music
and dancing there is no perfect joy in France. Never was <i>f&ecirc;te
du village</i> or <i>f&ecirc;te du Seigneur</i> more joyful than this.</p>

<p>The old steward opened the gate, the carriage drove in. Madame
de Fleury saw that home which she had little expected evermore to behold,
but all other thoughts were lost in the pleasure of meeting her beloved
pupils.</p>

<p>&ldquo;My children!&rdquo; cried she, as they crowded round her the
moment she got out of her carriage&mdash;&ldquo;my dear, <i>good</i>
children!&rdquo;</p>

<p>It was all she could say. She leaned on Victoire&rsquo;s arm
as she went into the house, and by degrees recovering from the almost
painful excess of pleasure, began to enjoy what she yet only confusedly
felt.</p>

<p>Several of her pupils were so much grown and altered in their external
appearance, that she could scarcely recollect them till they spoke,
and then their voices and the expression of their countenances brought
their childhood fully to her memory. Victoire, she thought, was
changed the least, and at this she rejoiced.</p>

<p>The feeling and intelligent reader will imagine all the pleasure
that Madame de Fleury enjoyed this day; nor was it merely the pleasure
of a day. She heard from all her friends, with prolonged satisfaction,
repeated accounts of the good conduct of these young people during her
absence. She learned with delight how her restoration to her country
and her fortune had been effected; and is it necessary to add, that
Victoire consented to marry Basile, and that she was suitably portioned,
and, what is better still, that she was perfectly happy? Monsieur
de Fleury rewarded the attachment and good conduct of Maurice by taking
him into his service, and making him his manager under the old steward
at the Ch&acirc;teau de Fleury.</p>

<p>On Victoire&rsquo;s wedding-day Madame de Fleury produced all the
little offerings of gratitude which she had received from her and her
companions during her exile. It was now her turn to confer favours,
and she knew how to confer them both with grace and judgment.</p>

<p>&ldquo;No gratitude in human nature! No gratitude in the lower
classes of the people!&rdquo; cried she; &ldquo;how much those are mistaken
who think so! I wish they could know my history, and the history
of these my children, and they would acknowledge their error.&rdquo;</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MURAD THE UNLUCKY AND OTHER TALES ***</div>
<div style='text-align:left'>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Updated editions will replace the previous one&#8212;the old editions will
be renamed.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG&#8482;
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
</div>

<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br />
<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br />
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span>
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
To protect the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase &#8220;Project
Gutenberg&#8221;), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg&#8482; License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
</div>

<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg&#8482;
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.B. &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg&#8482;
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (&#8220;the
Foundation&#8221; or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg&#8482; mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg&#8482;
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg&#8482; name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License when
you share it without charge with others.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg&#8482; work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work (any work
on which the phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; appears, or with which the
phrase &#8220;Project Gutenberg&#8221; is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
</div>

<blockquote>
  <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  </div>
</blockquote>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase &#8220;Project
Gutenberg&#8221; associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg&#8482;
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg&#8482; License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg&#8482;.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg&#8482; License.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg&#8482; work in a format
other than &#8220;Plain Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg&#8482; website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original &#8220;Plain
Vanilla ASCII&#8221; or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg&#8482; License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg&#8482; works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
provided that:
</div>

<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'>
    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
        &#8226; You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, &#8220;Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.&#8221;
    </div>

    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
        &#8226; You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg&#8482;
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
        works.
    </div>

    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
        &#8226; You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    </div>

    <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'>
        &#8226; You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482; works.
    </div>
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg&#8482; trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.F.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg&#8482; collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg&#8482;
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain &#8220;Defects,&#8221; such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the &#8220;Right
of Replacement or Refund&#8221; described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg&#8482; trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg&#8482; electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you &#8216;AS-IS&#8217;, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg&#8482; work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
</div>

<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg&#8482;
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Project Gutenberg&#8482; is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg&#8482;&#8217;s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg&#8482; collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg&#8482; and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
</div>

<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation&#8217;s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state&#8217;s laws.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
The Foundation&#8217;s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation&#8217;s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
</div>

<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Project Gutenberg&#8482; depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
</div>

<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'>
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg&#8482; electronic works
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg&#8482; concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Project Gutenberg&#8482; eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>.
</div>

<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg&#8482;,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
</div>

</div>

</body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-05-30 12:26:01 +0000