M. de Flaumont; Henry, Gustavus, and Clementine, his Children.

M. de Flaumont.—Children, would you like me to relate to you two stories, which I have just been reading in a foreign newspaper?

The Children.—Oh! yes, papa! are they very long?

M. de Flaumont.—No! but you may perhaps be puzzled to give me your opinion on them.

The Children.—How do you mean, papa?

M. de Flaumont.—You will see, here is the first:—

An English stage-coach, filled with passengers, was proceeding towards a large town. The conversation of the travellers turned upon the highwaymen by whom the road was infested, and who frequently stopped and searched travellers. They debated amongst themselves as to the best means of preserving their money; each boasted of having taken his measures, and being quite safe.

An imprudent young woman, wishing, doubtless, to display her superior cleverness, and forgetting that frankness, in such circumstances, is very ill-placed, said, "As for me, I carry all my wealth about me in a bank note for two hundred pounds, but I have so well concealed it, that the robbers will certainly never be able to find it, for it is in my shoe, under my stocking."

A few minutes after they were attacked by highwaymen, who demanded their purses, but, discontented with the little they found in them, they declared, in menacing tones, that they would search and ill-treat them unless they immediately gave them a hundred pounds; and they seemed prepared to put their threats into execution.

"You will easily find twice that sum," said an old man seated at the back of the coach, who during the whole journey had remained entirely silent, or had spoken only in monosyllables, "if you make that lady take off her shoes and stockings."

The robbers followed this advice, took the banknote, and departed.

What think you of the old man?

Clementine.—Oh, papa! what villany!

M. de Flaumont.—All the travellers were of your opinion. They loaded him with reproach and insult, and even threatened to throw him out of the coach. The young woman's grief exceeded description. The old man appeared insensible to these insults and menaces, and once only excused himself by saying, "Every one must think of himself first."

In the evening, when the coach reached its destination, the old man contrived to make his escape before his fellow-passengers had an opportunity of visiting their displeasure upon him. The young woman passed a frightful night. What was her surprise on the following morning, when a sum of four hundred pounds was placed in her hands, together with a magnificent comb, and the following letter:—

"Madam,—The man whom, yesterday, you detested with reason, returns to you the sum you have lost, with interest which makes it double, together with a comb nearly equal in value. I am exceedingly distressed at the grief I was compelled to cause you. A few words will explain my conduct. I have just returned from India, where I have passed ten weary years. I have gained by my industry thirty thousand pounds, and the whole of this sum I had yesterday about me in bank-notes. Had I been searched with the rigour with which we were threatened, I must have lost everything. What was I to do? I could not run the risk of having to return to India with empty hands. Your frankness furnished me with the means of escaping the difficulty. Therefore I entreat you to think nothing of this trifling present, and to believe me henceforth devotedly, Yours."

Gustavus.—Well, papa, the young woman had no longer any reason to complain, and the old man did not do wrong, since he returned much more than she lost.

Clementine.—Yes; but in her place I would much rather have been without the comb, and not have had to take off my shoes and stockings in the presence of highwaymen.

Gustavus.—Oh! that did not do her much harm.

Henry.—But, papa, if the robbers, notwithstanding their promise, had searched every one, and had taken his thirty thousand pounds away from the old man, it would have been out of his power to restore the two hundred pounds to the young woman, and yet it would have been through his means that she would have lost them.

M. de Flaumont.—Henry is right: the injury inflicted by the old man was certain, while he had no certainty of being able to repair it.

Henry.—Assuredly the word of a robber is not to be depended on.

Gustavus.—But still it was certain that had he not acted as he did, they would have taken his thirty thousand pounds.

M. de Flaumont.—That is true; but do you think, my dear Gustavus, that, in order to escape some great calamity ourselves, we have a right to inflict an equally serious injury on another? for the loss of the two hundred pounds was as great a calamity to the young woman as that of the thirty thousand would have been to the old man, since it was the whole of her wealth.

Gustavus.—Yes, papa; but he knew very well he would return them.

M. de Flaumont.—He wished to do so, no doubt; but Henry has shown you how he might have failed in the accomplishment of his wishes. Other accidents might also have prevented him. He might have lost his pocket-book by the way: he might have died suddenly, &c.

Clementine.—Oh yes, indeed; and then the young woman would neither have had her own two hundred pounds, nor the two hundred pounds additional, nor her beautiful comb.

M. de Flaumont.—He thus surrendered his honesty, and the fate of his fellow-traveller, to the chance of a future, always uncertain, and all this to spare himself a misfortune, very great, no doubt, but the certainty of which gave him no right to injure another. Here lies the difference between prudence and virtue. Prudence commences by studying how to escape a difficulty, and thinks it has done enough when it has promised itself to repair the injury inflicted on another. Virtue does not content itself with the hope of repairing this wrong at some future day: it does not commit it; and thus, though it is often more unfortunate, it is always more tranquil. So that virtue alone has no occasion to dread the future. It is in doing evil, even with the idea of its resulting in good, or with the firm determination of repairing it, that men often plunge into difficulties and errors, from which they are afterwards unable to extricate themselves. No one can flatter himself, however prudent he may be, that he has foreseen all chances, and so managed matters that nothing can turn out wrong; while, by laying it down as a law to ourselves to be virtuous before all things, we are certain of never having to reproach ourselves with any intentional wrong.

Gustavus.—But, papa, what ought to be done in such a case?

M. de Flaumont.—I cannot pretend to say; all I know is, that we ought not to do what our old man did. You will one day perceive how many misfortunes happen in the world from the false idea, so frequently entertained by men, that they are able to direct events according to their own wishes: they regulate their conduct with this hope, and afterwards events multiply, become involved, and turn out in so unforeseen a manner, that they behold their projects often, and their virtue always, wrecked beyond the possibility of recovery. Whereas, on the contrary, we ought first of all to make sure of our virtue, and then take all the advantage we can of circumstances. Besides, who knows all the resources that may be discovered, by a man resolutely determined to do nothing which his conscience disapproves? It is very convenient, no doubt, to take the first resource which presents itself to the mind; but can we be sure that it is the only one to be found, and that, by giving ourselves a little additional trouble, we might not discover another equally efficacious and more honest. Let us, after remaining firm in virtue, be ingenious and energetic, and we shall almost always be able to extricate ourselves from our difficulties. If all who are ruined were to turn robbers, they would doubtless adopt the most easy and expeditious mode of repairing their fortunes, still this is a mode which honest people do not take; and, being compelled to seek other resources, they rarely fail to discover them. I do not, at this moment, very well see what plan our old man might have hit upon to save his thirty thousand pounds; but, perhaps, if he had not so hastily adopted the idea of denouncing the young woman, some other and better expedient might have suggested itself.

Gustavus.—I agree with you, papa; but you promised us another story.

M. de Flaumont.—Here it is. You will see, that if we ought not to do a wrong because we can never be sure of being able to repair it, neither must we do wrong with a good intention.

An English nobleman was journeying to one of his estates, when he was attacked in a wood by six highwaymen; two of them seized the coachman, two others the footmen, and the remaining two, placing themselves at the doors of the carriage, presented each a pistol to his breast.

"Your pocket-book, my lord," said one of the robbers, who had a most repulsive expression of countenance.

The nobleman took a rather weighty purse from his pocket, and handed it to him. The man examined its contents, but did not seem satisfied. "Your pocket-book, if you please, my lord," and he cocked his pistol.

The nobleman quietly gave up his pocket-book. The highwayman opened it; and during this time the nobleman examined his countenance. Never had he beheld eyes so small and piercing, a nose so long, cheeks so hollow, a mouth so wide, nor a chin so prominent.

The robber took some papers from the pocket-book, and then returned it. "A pleasant journey, my lord;" and he set off rapidly with his companions.

On reaching home the nobleman examined his pocket-book, to see what had been taken from it, and found that bank notes to the amount of two thousand five hundred pounds had been extracted, and that five hundred pounds had been left. He congratulated himself on this, and said to his friends, that he would willingly give a hundred pounds could they but have seen the fellow. Never had highwayman a countenance so suited to his calling.

The nobleman soon forgot his loss, and thought no more of the occurrence; when, some years afterwards, he received the following letter:—

"My Lord,—I am a poor Jew. The prince in whose dominions I lived robbed us of everything. I went to England, accompanied by five other Jews, that I might at least save my life. I fell ill at sea; and the vessel in which we sailed was wrecked near the coast.

"A man wholly unknown to me was upon the shore: he leaped into the water, and saved me at the peril of his life. This was not all; he led me to his house, called in a physician, and took care of me until I was cured; and asked nothing in return. This man was a woollen manufacturer, who had twelve children. Some time afterwards, I found him very sad. The disturbances in America had just broken out, and the American merchants with whom he traded were base enough to profit by this circumstance, and refused to pay him. 'In a month,' he said to me, 'I shall be completely ruined; for I have bills coming due which I am wholly unable to meet.'

"His grief threw me into despair: I formed a desperate resolution. 'I owe my life to him,' I said, 'and I will sacrifice it for him.' With the five Jews who had followed me to England, I placed myself upon the highway. You know what happened. I sent to the man of whom I have spoken the money I took from you, and saved him for that time. But his creditors never paid him; and about a week ago he died, without having discharged all his debts.

"The same day I gained four thousand pounds in the lottery. I return to you all I took from you, with interest. Forward the remaining thousand pounds to the unfortunate family of the manufacturer (he gave their address at the end of the letter), and make inquiries of them respecting a poor Jew, whom they so generously saved and entertained.

"P.S.—I solemnly declare that, when we attacked you, not one of our pistols was charged, and that we had no intention of drawing a cutlass from its scabbard.

"Spare yourself all search. When this letter reaches you I shall again be upon the ocean. May God preserve you."

The nobleman made inquiries, and found that the Jew's account was strictly true. From that time forward he took the family of the manufacturer under his protection. He frequently said, "I would give a hundred pounds to any one who would inform me of the death of my terrible Jew; and a thousand pounds to any one who should bring him to me alive."

Henry.—But why did he wish for his death, papa?

M. de Flaumont.—Because this Jew was a very dangerous person. A man capable of doing such things, even from generous motives, is always to be dreaded. The safety and happiness of society depend upon the submission and respect due to the laws, which maintain order, and preserve the persons and property of all. The laws cannot take into account the motives which induce a man to injure another in person or property. In such cases they can only judge and punish the act itself. If this nobleman had been a judge, and the Jew had been brought before his tribunal, he could not, even when all the facts of the case were before him, have avoided condemning him to the penalty prescribed by the law, though he might afterwards have endeavoured to obtain his pardon from the sovereign.

Gustavus.—The Jew, however, had not loaded his pistols: he did not intend to commit murder.

M. de Flaumont.—Consequently, he would have been sentenced to a punishment less severe than that inflicted upon murderers; but still he committed robbery.

Clementine.—Yes; but it was to save the life of his benefactor: he exposed his own from gratitude; this was assuredly a great sacrifice. He would not have robbed from any other motive.

M. de Flaumont.—Therefore this Jew was doubtless susceptible of very generous sentiments and of noble devotion; this ought to count for much in the opinion we form of him: it would probably have obtained for him his pardon, or at least a great mitigation of his punishment; but, in a moral point of view, and for the interests of society, justice and firmness of principle are still more necessary than generosity of sentiment. It would be impossible to allow every man the privilege of making use of whatever means he pleased to gratify his feelings and display his generosity. Even virtue itself is subject to laws, whose wisdom is recognised and whose advantages are unquestionable. These prescribe the route in which it must exercise itself, and the bounds which it must not overleap. Thus, in the conduct of our Jew, everything which preceded and followed his act, and some of the circumstances of the act itself, were praiseworthy; his sole object was to preserve his benefactor: he took only what was required for that purpose: he kept nothing for himself, he scrupulously repaid the sum with interest, he did not even reserve any portion of the prize gained in the lottery, since, after having returned to the nobleman the two thousand five hundred pounds and interest, he gave the remainder to the manufacturer's children. All this was very well, and very disinterested, but it does not prevent the action itself from being blameable. And this is what often happens, when we allow ourselves to be governed by our feelings, however good they may be, instead of regulating our conduct by steady principles, which, though they may sometimes restrain the feelings, always insure virtue.

Henry.—Still, papa, the nobleman promised more to him who should bring him the Jew alive, than to him who should inform him of his death.

M. de Flaumont.—That was because he knew that a man capable of such generous sentiments and remarkable devotion was one who, to be rendered altogether virtuous, only required firmer principles, and a less embarrassing position. He doubtless wished to make him feel, that if it be noble to sacrifice one's life for gratitude, that sacrifice ought never to be made at the expense of honesty; perhaps, too, he wished to take him into his service, to place him in easy circumstances, to remove him, in fact, out of the way of those temptations in which generosity of feeling so easily deceives us in regard to the true nature of our duties. Generosity may carry us farther than mere duty; but it should always go in a right line, and never lead us to neglect duty.

SECOND DIALOGUE.

Caroline—Madame de Boissy, working.

Madame de Boissy.—Caroline, did you really require that sash, which you induced your uncle to give you, by asking him to lend you the money to buy it?

Caroline.—I am very glad to have it, mamma, since it has cost me nothing.

Madame de Boissy.—You knew, then, that your uncle would make you a present of it?

Caroline.—Mamma, I only asked him to lend me the money.

Madame de Boissy.—I know that; but did you expect you would have to repay him?

Caroline.—Certainly! if he wished it.

Madame de Boissy.—But did you think he would wish it?

Caroline (embarrassed).—I do not know, mamma.

Madame de Boissy.—Tell me candidly,—when you asked your uncle to lend you the money to purchase this sash, which you did not want, and which, in all probability, you would not have bought had you been alone,—did you not know that it was a means of obtaining it as a gift?

Caroline.—Dear me, mamma! you make me examine my conscience as if I were going to confession.

Madame de Boissy.—And it is thus you should always examine it, my child.

Caroline.—Yes, mamma, when one has done anything wrong.

Madame de Boissy.—Or to ascertain whether one has done wrong.

Caroline (much confused).—But what wrong can I have done? My uncle could act as he pleased, and it was certainly quite true that I had no money in my purse.

Madame de Boissy.—There was one thing, however, which was not quite true, but which you, nevertheless, wished to make him believe, and that was, that you really intended to buy this sash yourself.

Caroline (still confused).—But, mamma, my intentions do not concern any one but myself.

Madame de Boissy.—You seem to fear the contrary, since you conceal them. You would not have been willing that your uncle should have discovered them; therefore, while you were really actuated by one motive, you led him to suppose that you were influenced by another. You would not have asked him to give you this ribbon, because you know that we ought not to accept a gift, unless we feel that the giver has as much pleasure in presenting it as we have in receiving it, and, in that case, it will occur to him as readily as to ourselves. You have, therefore, allowed your uncle to believe that you had the delicacy not to desire a present, which it had not occurred to him to make you, while, at the same time, you endeavoured to make him think of it by underhand means. You have sought to obtain, at one and the same time, both the esteem which delicacy merits, and the gift which it would be necessary to sacrifice in order to deserve this esteem. It is evident that both cannot belong to you, and that you have committed a theft in the transaction.

Caroline (shocked).—Oh! mamma, we only commit theft when we injure some one, and I have not injured any one.

Madame de Boissy.—You have extorted from your uncle a present, which he probably would not have made to any one whom he believed capable of subterfuge. You have cheated his intentions of giving you an unexpected pleasure.

Caroline.—He cannot know that; therefore his pleasure will be all the same.

Madame de Boissy.—Caroline, would you think you were not stealing, if you took money from the coffers of a rich man who made no use of it, and did not know how much he had? If you did not do him an injury of which he was conscious, you injured those to whom his money would one day go, and who might not be either so rich or so indifferent as himself. In like manner, if you did not do your uncle any positive wrong, by usurping an esteem which was not your due, you at least were unjust to those whom he might place on a level with you in his esteem, or whom he might set beneath you; for either you must share with them an esteem which you did not merit, and which is always more flattering when obtained alone, or you must diminish the consolation they would otherwise have in finding an additional example to excuse them. Be well assured that we can never deceive without injuring some one, and that there can be no unfair advantage which is not gained at the expense of our neighbours.

Caroline.—But really, mamma, this advantage is so very trifling.

Madame de Boissy.—The case is trifling, but the principle is the same, and you would no more wish to steal needles than diamonds. Besides, my child, we must attach some value to, and derive some advantage from, a thing which we take the trouble to steal; and who can, with propriety, desire an advantage which he has not merited? Listen, Caroline: you are now growing a great girl, and it is time you should understand all that is due to yourself and others, in regard to uprightness and honesty in the most trifling things, and how mean it is to wish to deceive others, or to think it necessary to do so.

Caroline.—Mamma, I have never wished to deceive any one, I assure you.

Madame de Boissy.—I grant you that we do not say to ourselves, I wish to deceive; we should be horrified; but, without telling absolute falsehoods, people often pass their lives in endeavouring to make others believe things which are untrue. If we are cold, or hot, or tired, we complain of our sufferings; we exaggerate them in order to attract attention, and gain pity, or at least to make people think of us. We laugh louder than we feel inclined to do, to make it appear that we are very gay; we look in the glass, and exclaim, "How, I am sunburnt!" in order that we may be told that it is imperceptible, and be complimented on our complexion. We complain of a dress that fits badly, and say, "What a fright I look to-day," in the hope of finding some sycophant who will assure us that we look well in everything. Or, finally, we give expression to some worthy sentiment in order to be praised for it.

Caroline.—But, mamma, if the sentiment be sincere?

Madame de Boissy.—My dear child, there is always insincerity in the means employed to obtain praise for it; for good feelings are not intended to gain us admiration, but to make us do what is right. We should not esteem the benevolence of a man, who did good merely for the sake of obtaining commendation; nor the fraternal sentiments of him whose sole object in displaying them was to be praised for his attachment to his brothers and sisters. Thus, those who make a display of feeling for the sake of being praised, must take care to conceal their intentions; consequently, if they obtain the praise, it is quite clear that they have stolen it.

Caroline.—But one must then watch every movement of the mind, for these things may escape us without our in the least intending it.

Madame de Boissy.—To prevent them from doing so, it is only necessary to think, once for all, of two or three things. First, that we display very little respect or consideration for ourselves when we stoop to deceive others, in order that they may condescend to pay attention to us. Secondly, that we place ourselves in a very humiliating position when we thus beg for a flattery, a compliment, or a mark of attention, which is usually granted from mere politeness, or for the sake of pleasing us, just as we give a penny to a beggar in the street. Finally, that these kinds of stratagems, when they are discovered—and they are discovered oftener than people imagine—may overwhelm us with ridicule, or even with shame, and that the most trifling untruth exposes us to a risk far greater than the pleasure which it procures. Tell me if your sash would ever afford you a pleasure as great as the annoyance you would feel, if your uncle were to discover the subterfuge you employed in order to induce him to make you a present of it.

Caroline.—Oh! mamma, you have made me absolutely hate it. I will never even look at it again.

Madame de Boissy.—There you are wrong, my child; you must look at it, and think of it, in order that it may remind you of the necessity of always acting honourably.

THIRD DIALOGUE.

Monsieur de Bonnel—Augustus, his Son.

M. de Bonnel.—Augustus, I hope you have returned to George, as I told you, that little cart you took from him?

Augustus (ill-temperedly).—I was obliged to do it, since you desired me, but I did not take it from him; I paid him what it cost. If he was so obstinate as to refuse the money, that was not my fault.

M. de Bonnel.—He did not want your money, and he wished to keep his cart; you had no right to force the bargain upon him.

Augustus.—I have a right to make him do as I please.

M. de Bonnel.—And how came you by this right?

Augustus.—His father Antony is your servant.

M. de Bonnel.—And is that any reason that George should have no will of his own?

Augustus.—No; but it is a reason why he should give up to me; and the best proof that he very well knows this, is that he always does give up to me. To-day, though he would not sell me his cart, he did not think of preventing me from taking it; and had it not been for you he would certainly not have got it back again.

M. de Bonnel.—Very well; but, what is singular in the matter is that for the future he will think differently, and that henceforward he will be obliged to resist you.

Augustus.—I should like to see him do that.

M. de Bonnel.—Well, you shall be gratified. Antony had forbidden his son to use force against you for fear of hurting you. I have just told him that if he did not order George to defend himself against you when you torment him, as he would defend himself against one of his own companions, George should not come here again. You will now see whether it is his duty to humour you, and whether it is from respect that he has hitherto yielded to you.

Augustus.—It would be a fine thing for George to treat me like one of his comrades.

M. de Bonnel.—Very well; you need not make free with him.

Augustus.—Making him obey me is not making free with him.

M. de Bonnel..—When you have no right to exact obedience, you can only obtain it from his politeness by requests such as we use towards an equal, or exact it by force, which he will repel with his fist, and that is the greatest familiarity I know of.

Augustus.—But George is to be my servant one day: he has told me so a hundred times: he will have to be submissive and respectful then.

M. de Bonnel.—He will only be submissive in those things in which he has agreed to obey you: he will only be respectful so long as you fulfil your obligations to him. A servant agrees to obey in everything that concerns the service of his master, and that does not injure himself. Thus, if a master commanded him to go and fight for him, or to give him up the money which he had saved, the servant would no longer be obliged to obey.

Augustus.—But people do not require such things from servants.

M. de Bonnel.—It is quite as unjust and absurd to expect them to labour for you beyond their strength, or to compel them to give up what belongs to them at a price which does not suit them. If you force them to do anything against their inclinations, they then lay aside their respect, and resist you as well as they can, for they have only agreed to obey your orders in certain things; nor have they consented to incur any other risk, in case of disobedience, than that of being reprimanded or sent away. If you go further than this, you break a covenant of which insults formed no part any more than blows; both equally exempt a servant from all duty.

Augustus.—Nevertheless, there are servants who remain in their places, although their masters overwork or ill-treat them. I have heard my cousin Armand say all sorts of insulting things to Jack, his groom, and even threaten to horsewhip him, because he harnessed his horse badly. Jack went on with his work without saying a word, because he knew that he must bear it.

M. de Bonnel.—And what would have happened to Jack if he had answered his master impertinently, as he deserved to be answered?

Augustus.—Why, Armand would have turned him out of doors without a character, so that he would have been unable to get another situation.

M. de Bonnel.—At this rate, masters have the means of treating their servants as ill as they please; and if all masters were to do so, all servants would be obliged to submit to it, I suppose?

Augustus.—Certainly they would.

M. de Bonnel.—But if all servants were to take it into their heads to resist their masters, then the latter would either have to put up with this or do without servants.

Augustus.—But that would never happen.

M. de Bonnel.—That would happen, if service became so intolerable that servants had no interest in humouring their masters. But as masters and servants stand mutually in need of each other, they have felt it to be to their advantage that the former should be kind and the latter obedient and respectful. It is, therefore, because there are many good masters whom it is to their interest to serve, that they serve respectfully even those who are bad. Consequently, he who abuses this respect is a coward, who shelters himself behind others to take advantage of their good actions, and commit wrong with impunity.