How is it we do not perceive that this world is a vast machine produced by a superhuman hand, which has given to each part a duty and not a privilege? Wherefore should the proud wheels, which serve to regulate the motion, cast reproaches at the thousand steel cranks destined to receive it, or at the bronze which adorns them, and the oil which facilitates their efforts?

My daughter wrote to me lately that, as an opportunity offered, she should not wait for the holidays to send Blanche and Henry to me; but as it depended upon the person who was to take charge of them, she could not name beforehand the exact day of their arrival.

This morning I heard all of a sudden in the hall the fresh voices of two children; the door opened, and a little girl advanced, smiling, with a boy about a year younger than herself peeping from behind her; I divined at once who they were; my heart beat faster, but I waited in expectation.

The little girl came towards me somewhat timidly, and said: "Here we are, grandpapa !"

I opened my arms, and both the children ran forward to embrace me.

Their conductor stood in the hall where he could observe our affectionate greetings. At length he determined on entering, when he gave me the best account of them both, and after the warmest expression of thanks on my part, he retired.

Well, at last, then, I behold them, these dear blossoms from a stalk almost dried up. There they stand before me in all the verdure of their spring growth; I hold Blanche on my right side, Henry on my left, and press them thus against my bosom, with their sweet faces turned towards me, and their breath fanning my cheeks.

I scan their features in order to discover that family likeness which is, as it were, the everlasting re-birth of the old who die, in the young who survive. Both of them, no doubt, very soon felt how dear they were to me, for they grew familiar at once. Blanche leaned her curly head on my shoulder, whilst Henry played with the seals of my watch; then they began to chatter away freely. In one hour I had read through those young hearts where there was nothing for concealment.

Blanche, who is the elder, already assumes the character of protectress and counsellor; she admonishes Henry, she aids. and excuses him. The sister from afar plays the part of mother. Henry, more ardent, rushes forward at a venture on every new path, but returns at the voice of Blanche; cries out to her, "I am here, fear nothing!" and starts off again. The boy is striving to become the man.

Our renewed acquaintance being thus made, I presented them both to Mr. Baptiste, who saluted them with his customary

formal bow; I explained that he would treat them just as they treated him, and Mr. Baptiste confirmed my words. The two children looked at his grave face with some wonderment, and hardly knew if they ought to feel afraid or the reverse; but habit will set all right; the birds soon grow bold enough to build their nests in the sombrest trees.

I was sure of it; Blanche, Henry, and Mr. Baptiste live very comfortably together, although a little ceremoniously. Father Labat relates that, in his time, when the Spanish soldiers relieved guard, they bowed to each other before exchanging the password, and asked most politely after each others' welfare. I am witness every morning to a similar spectacle, when for the first time the children and Mr. Baptiste encounter each other.

After all, I like these acts of politeness, even when carried to excess; they habituate us to respect others, and to maintain dominion over ourselves. It is said that politeness is the make-pretence for real kindness of heart, in which case rudeness must be the make-pretence for aversion; now, mask for mask, I prefer that which smiles on me to that which inspires disgust. There is, besides, something more in politeness than the mere appearance; it is, as its name indicates, a certain polish in our habits and manners, thanks to which the springwheels of life meet together without abrasion.

So everything goes on at home wonderfully well; no quarrels, no complaints. The house has resumed its former bustle here on the chimney-piece is some crochet work just begun; the piano is again heard; the merry laughter of children has interrupted the staid silence of old age and the widower's home; I hear little feet running about the empty and long deserted rooms, and I repeat half aloud the sweet lines of a poet whom I have the happiness to understand, although he lived before

my era:

"Preserve me, Lord, preserve my kindred and my friends,
And even those whose bitter hatred condescends

To mock at my distress.

From ever seeing, Lord, the summer without flowers,

The cage without a bird, the hives all empty in the bowers,
The home no children bless!"

Twenty times a day Blanche or Henry just opens the door of the little room which I occupy, peeps in, and says, softly "Are you busy, grandpapa ?"

I turn toward them with a smile, and beckon them in. One of the advantages at my time of life, as I have already explained, is that I am always at leisure to give audience to joy. Blanche, after kissing me, remains most frequently leaning against my shoulder without speaking; it is evident that she has come simply to be near me-not to be alone-to feel herself beloved; whereas Henry stands forward and questions me; he, for his part, begins to observe and wishes to acquire in

formation. I yield, and reply to his questions, I return his sister's caresses, I am all things to them both, without objection, and without reserve. My tenderness is restrained by no scruples, for I have not, in their case, as formerly with my own son and daughter, the responsibility of their education. Withdrawn from action, the grandfather has not time left to undertake such duties: he is in the vacation of life, and has the privilege of asking children only for their smiles and their kisses. Let others, in their turn, watch over the class with eye severe, he resembles henceforth only the ancient tree, which yields a grateful shade for the hours of recreation.

Sweet and tender privilege! Old age thus relieves us of a weight of responsibility. Whilst others, with the balance of justice in their hands, estimate the quality of action and redress wrongs, we, elevated into the serene sphere which separates the two worlds, join the rank of those princes to whom a constitutional fiction has left only the prerogative of mercy; we reign, but we do not govern.

Henry did not wish entirely to suspend his course of study; he works daily for some hours, and one of these mornings he brought me the Eclogues of Virgil, begging me to translate for him two lines which he could not understand.

My explanation no doubt satisfied him, for he shortly returned with the history of Justinian, and then with one of Cicero's essays. Insensibly our consultations merged into a veritable course of instruction, and now for three days past I have become an improvised teacher, turning over once more the leaves of my schoolday authors.

I can hardly describe the effect they have had upon me! My memory rushes back across their metaphors and their trains of thought, like a wanderer returning again to his native place after an absence of half a century. I recollect myself by degrees; a thousand images return; I hear again the tones once so familiar. The history of my childhood rises up, chapter by chapter, between the pages of these old volumes. I see myself again at the farther end of the dark schoolroom, with its wooden benches, and tables smeared with ink. I hear the monotonous voice of our schoolmaster in his college gown, as he murmurs from behind the shadow of his desk. Two long lines of pupils stand there, ranged against the wall; I recognize their features one after the other, and my thoughts involuntary follow them into the busy world beyond, where I rapidly survey their histories, now, alas! for the most part brought to a close.

But there is one face, above all the rest, especially impressed upon my mind, which this volume of Eclogues has recalled. In turning over the last pages, I caught sight, on the pasteboard cover, of a name almost obliterated. It is that of my first

schoolboy companion, of that schoolmate with whom one shares everything-hopes, blows, jealousies, and pots of preserve. Cherished for his sake, and transferred successively from my son to my grandson, this book seems brought back before my eyes, to reproach me with my long forgetfulness of its first

master.

Al

I fancy, indeed, that I see him again crossing our playground for the first time, led by his mother-a poor woman with pale face and stooping shoulders, clad in widow's mourning. though he was even then tall, he held her band from the still remaining habit of infancy, and we, who had interrupted our games to look at the "new boy," exchanged derisive smiles. Observing the care bestowed, down to the minutest details, on the dress of our new schoolfellow, the elegance of his manner, and the solicitude visible in every movement of his mother, who seemed to guard him as a treasure, the scapegrace of our division cried out, "Oh, here comes the Dauphin !"* and he was never known amongst us by any other name afterwards.

But the spirit of raillery which had thus maliciously christened him, after the manner of the wicked fairies in the story-book, was destined to fail like them. The natural goodness of the lad vanquished his evil god-mother; the nickname intended to make him ridiculous, clung to him indeed, but harmlessly, and his gentleness ended in drawing from the sarcasm its sting.

Poor Dauphin! how well he knew how to atone to us for his respect towards his masters, by complaisance towards his schoolfellows. When at times the recollection of his mother came upon him too forcibly, and he went down to walk by himself in the shadow of the high wall which enclosed our grounds, how at the first summons he dried his moistened cheek; how he ran up, smiling and eager, to join in the first game proposed!

But then what attention he displayed at the class when the tutor spoke! What devoton to study! There was not a single slip of memory, not a single case of negligence, not a solitary lie! At the end of each half year he carried off all the prizes, and none of us thought of envying him, so well he seemed to have deserved them; we said: "They are for the Dauphin ;" as we might have said: "The rivers are for the ocean."

He himself displayed neither ambition nor vanity, but the desire only of gratifying his mother; it was she alone whom they virtually crowned on his brow. Every year she was present at the distribution of prizes, dressed in the same mourning habits. She and her son had become the greatest objects of interest and pride on these occasions; the school, in fact, had adopted them both. When the celebration was over, the Dauphin left us, loaded with books and chaplets, and sustaining on

* The title of the heir-apparent to the French throne under the monarchy.

one arm the widow trembling with happiness: every eye followed them; we loved them for so loving each other.

Six years passed thus; the end of the last term approached, and at the same time the period of our separation. My schoolmate never spoke of it, but he redoubled his efforts; it was evident that he wished his leaving school might be for his mother the end of all her trials. To accomplish his purpose, it was necessary that he should pass with sufficient distinction to ensure a career being at once opened to him; hopes of this had already been held out, and in order to merit it, he no longer oined us during the hours of recreation; he prolonged his studies into the middle of the night, he resumed them with the first rays of the sun.

One day, however, he did not come down-stairs. We went to inquire for him. He was not able to leave his bed, where he lay suffering from an attack of fever. Our doctor had already paid his morning visit, and he was not again sent for that day; we waited in the hope that a little repose would be all that was necessary for the invalid; but by the evening his cheeks were deep scarlet, his breath burning hot, and his eyes sparkling; the next day he no longer recognized us.

Every care was now lavished on him, but in vain. The delirium of the Dauphin only increased; he fancied himself before his tutors, and repeated aloud the recent lessons he had learned. At certain moments his memory failed him, when his features would contract, his hand press convulsively against his forehead, his eyes assume a fixed and agonized expression of doubt; then by an effort of will which seemed to survive in him, he recovered the lost thread, and began his interrupted recitations once more.

At other times he fancied himself to be undergoing some important examination which was to decide his fate: he replied to imaginary questions, and translated aloud the required passages, commenting on them with painful hesitation. His schoolfellows came one after the other to his bedside, and retired, bowing their heads, and with troubled hearts; all hope was evidently gone.

I had obtained leave not to quit my companion's side, and watched the rapid progress of that delirious attack. Soon his vital powers declined, and the sufferer lay still; he repeated now indistinctly and with enfeebled voice some lines of Virgil, whose writings he was particularly fond of. It appeared to me as if all the rest-poets, orators, historians-had deserted the dying boy, and the peasant of Mantua alone remained, breathing nto his ear some melodious fragments of his verse, like a moher singing her child to sleep. In the ebb and flow of the wandering thoughts which passed through his agonized brain, each muttered line seemed an allusion, or a passing souvenir,