THE SECRET OF COURAGE.

While rummaging one day in her mamma's drawers, Clementia found a tale, which had been written by one of Madame de Laumont's friends, for the purpose of throwing ridicule on the absurd fears of her daughter, as well as upon a scene to which those fears had given occasion. She asked her mother's permission to read it, this Madame de Laumont granted, and she read as follows:—

THE FORMIDABLE MONSTERS.[B]

[B] This tale is not from my own pen, it was given to me by a friend, who composed it on a scene which actually took place.

In the time of the fairies, when every story commenced with There was once upon a time, many wonderful things were to be seen. The learned men who have discovered that the bones of animals found at Montmartre, do not belong to any species existing at present, ought to endeavour to ascertain whether they may not have belonged to some animals of that period. I am going to speak of two of the most singular that then existed, and to relate the terror caused by their apparition, in a fairy castle, where dwelt the princess Tantaffaire and the princess Morgeline.

One day in the beginning of December, an animal, almost as large and strong as a man, was observed to enter the castle, walking on his hind legs, and enveloped in a covering which resembled the skin of a rhinoceros. His skull alone was covered with a species of hair, of a deep black, and the fore part of his head presented a skin nearly of the same colour as the rest of his body. He had large black and white eyes, which rolled incessantly, and which appeared to possess an extraordinary degree of vivacity, while to the two jaws of his wide mouth were attached teeth, as white as those of the elephant, and which seemed disposed to devour everything they could seize upon. The strangely-articulated growling which escaped him, seemed to indicate that he wanted something in the house, whereupon the servants eagerly chased him from room to room, until he reached the one occupied by the two princesses of whom I have spoken. In this room there was a long tube, which extended as far as the upper terraces, which were frequently visited by the cats. As soon as the monster perceived this tube, which had become blackened by the dust and smoke from the fire usually lighted in it, he took off one of the thick skins which covered the upper part of his body, and disclosed in one of his large paws, a new claw, flat and sharp, and suddenly darting into the tube, he showered after him, a black powder as offensive as the vapours of the infernal regions.

The princess Morgeline, at this unexpected sight, could not help uttering the most fearful cries. Every one tried in vain to calm her; every one pointed out to her, that the creature had not injured any one; she was not to be quieted until she had seen him disappear by the chimney, for I had forgotten to tell you that this smoky tube was precisely what at the present day is called a chimney.

The princess Tantaffaire, who was older than Morgeline, and possessed a clear and sound judgment, endeavoured to persuade her that it was absurd to be afraid; since these animals come every year, and never do anything more than pass up the tubes, and take away the dust which, in some way or other, seemed to supply them with food. Morgeline would listen to nothing. The reasonings of the other princess were soon troubled by a frightful noise, made by the monster, when he had reached the upper end of the tube. Similar cries proceeded from the neighbouring houses at the same moment, and seemed to unite in the most dreadful discord, as if to deafen the inhabitants of the country for a quarter of a league round. It appeared to be the habit of these animals to march in troops, and to spread themselves nearly all at once over the same district, for the purpose of seeking food.

However, Tantaffaire, still courageous, asserted that Morgeline, who did not know where to hide herself, ought to make an effort to overcome her fears; that she ought to be compelled to remain and see the monster again when he descended from the tube, in order to convince herself that there was nothing dangerous about him. "If we allow her to run away," she argued, "she will be again frightened at another time. Let us force her to examine, and then she will be at rest for the future."

The princess Tantaffaire reasoned very well, but all at once there came out from behind the wainscoting a little creature, which could scarcely be perceived, so rapid was its flight; it seemed to be of a dark-grey colour, and nearly as large and as formidable as a sparrow.

"Let us fly!" exclaimed the princess Tantaffaire; "run, Morgeline!" and she herself fled with the utmost precipitation.

"But what is the matter?" said the servants, who had not observed anything, and who were occupied in cutting some bread and pouring out something to drink for the first monster, who had descended from the chimney, twice as black as he was before, and who was making horrible efforts to get rid of the soot which he had swallowed.

"What, Mademoiselle Tantaffaire, are you now afraid of the chimney-sweep?"

"No! no!" she cried, "no! but there is a mouse."

At that moment the fairy who presided over the house, entered, accompanied by a beautiful yellow cat, which, smelling the mouse, hunted for it and caught it.

The fairy turned towards poor Tantaffaire:

"You see, Mademoiselle, that it does not require the power of a fairy, nor even that of an ordinary woman, to free oneself from the terrible object which made you run away. I have only had to bring in a cat, a feeble animal, which the Savoyard who terrified Morgeline could strangle with the greatest ease: nevertheless, you had the sense not to be afraid of the latter; you reasoned very correctly while encouraging your little friend; but when it became necessary to apply to yourself the principles you so well laid down, you have altogether failed; nor have you even had the strength of mind to conceal, so far as not to infect others, a childish fear, with which you have been reproached from your infancy."

The fairy said a great deal more to the same effect, for the fairies, who have the power of doing so many things with their wands, have also the power of saying still more; but it will be sufficient for you to know, that during this lecture, Tantaffaire seemed very much ashamed, and that it is asserted, that she succeeded, in the end, in overcoming in herself, those fears which she considered so blamable and ridiculous in others.

And now, perhaps, you will ask me what there is so extraordinary in my tale? What! do we still meet with reasoning princesses who are afraid of these little creatures, a thousand times smaller than themselves, which neither bite, nor pinch, nor scratch, and which run so rapidly, that they can scarcely be perceived?

"Mamma," said Clementia, "I saw immediately that it was a chimney-sweep, and then a mouse that was meant;" and after a moment's reflection, she added, "One ought not, certainly, to be afraid of either chimney-sweeps or mice; but I do not think it was so ridiculous in the princess Tantaffaire, to have been more afraid of a mouse than of a chimney-sweep."

"Why so, my dear?"

"Why, mamma, because we know very well that the chimney-sweep is a man."

"And I think no one can be ignorant that a mouse is a mouse."

"No; but we know why the sweep comes, and what he wants to do; whereas this little creature, which runs nobody knows how, and nobody knows from where, and which goes and returns hardly giving one time to see it.... In fact, mamma, many persons who are grown up are afraid of mice, but no one is afraid of a chimney-sweep."

"And yet they are perfectly aware," said Madame de Laumont, "that the one does no more harm than the other."

"Oh! mamma, as if one was afraid of nothing but what does harm. When we are in the country, and the wind whistles through the corridors of the château, when I hear it moan in the night through the crevices of the door or of the window, I know that it can do me no harm, and yet I am so frightened, that I cover my head with the sheet, and pull the clothes as tightly round me, as if I had to protect myself from some great danger. When it thunders, I am quite aware that the peal which we hear, can do no harm, since this noise is only the echo of the sound, which has already passed, and yet you know, mamma, that at those two terrific claps of thunder which we had last year in the country, if you had not absolutely forbidden me, I could not have helped running about and screaming, as people do when they are very much afraid."

"And, when I forbade you, that prevented you from doing so; I am sure that if I were to forbid your rolling yourself up in your sheets, when you hear the wind whistle, it would prevent you from doing that also?"

"Oh! yes, certainly, mamma."

"Very well, then I forbid your doing so. Do you consider that that will prevent you from being afraid?"

Clementia reflected a moment, and then told her mother that she did not suppose it would.

"What do you think about," asked her mother, "when the wind whistles, and you roll yourself up in your sheets?"

"I do not think about anything, mamma, I assure you; I am afraid, that is all."

"And when you hear it without tightening your sheets, since I have forbidden you to do so, what will you think about then?"

"I shall think, mamma, of what you have forbidden me," said Clementia. Then, after a moment's reflection, she added, "I think, perhaps, that this idea might prevent me from being afraid; for I remember, when it thundered so loudly last year, that at the second peal I thought of your having forbidden me to cry out at the first; I thought of restraining myself, and consequently thought less of being afraid."

"This is what always happens, my child. The best means of overcoming fear, is to think of something which may divert our thoughts from it. Those who are afraid of mice, are quite capable of being afraid of chimney-sweeps, if, when one made his appearance, they did not think he came to sweep the chimney, and that it is desirable that chimneys should be swept, in order to prevent their catching fire; in fact, if they did not think of many things which prevent them from dwelling upon the impression which his disagreeable appearance might make upon them. If mice were as useful to every one as sweeps are, no one would be afraid of them."

"Do you think so, mamma?"

"You know well enough, for instance, that if it were the custom to make ragouts of them, Catherine, who runs away the moment she sees one, would, instead of doing so, think only of catching it, and would be no more afraid of it than she is of the eel, which twists about in her hand like a serpent, and which you think it would be impossible for you to touch. In the same way she would think only of the ragout she was going to prepare, and not of her absurd fears."

"But, mamma, one cannot always conjure up an idea which will enable us to overcome fear."

"Nothing is easier. You see that by a simple prohibition, I have given you sufficient means to diminish your fear of the thunder, and of the wind; as to those things which I do not forbid, you have only to forbid them yourself."

"One cannot always find something to forbid oneself."

"Always, my child, when we are disposed to yield to fear, for we are led to do many things which we ought to think of forbidding ourselves, and when we do not yield to them, we soon lose the habit of doing so. Do you remember the habit you had two years ago, of looking, before you went to bed, both under your own bed and mine, and of examining all the closets and doors of the apartment? When I compelled you to go to bed without all these precautions, were you any longer tormented by fear?"

"Oh! dear, no, mamma; the following day I thought no more about it; but I am quite sure, however, that if I had missed of my own accord, I should have fancied that that was the very time when there would be some one concealed."

"Because you were not then convinced that it was unreasonable, and that you ought not to yield to it. The idea of resisting a bad habit, by reasoning against it, would have diverted your mind, as much as my prohibition, from the fear which had induced you to form it."

"In fact, mamma, those who are afraid of nothing, must, I should suppose, be thus fearless, because they never think about fear, otherwise I could not comprehend them."

"And those who are afraid of everything, are so because they are in the habit of thinking about what may frighten them. Do you suppose that the soldiers in a battle, if they allowed themselves to think of all the balls which might reach them, would have sufficient courage to stand their ground for a minute? Instead of this, they think only of what they have to do, of repelling the enemy, of gaining ground upon him, or of distinguishing themselves, in order to gain reward. It is thus they forget the bullets and press forward; it is thus also that you, who are so afraid of a little pain, do not, when you romp with your brother, regard the blows you may receive, because you think only of those you wish to give. Think of anything but that which may cause fear. In this, my child, lies the whole secret of courage."

In the evening, Clementia, having occasion to pass through some of her mother's apartments, and afterwards through a long corridor, wanted to take a light. Her mother asked her whether she did not know the way well enough to do without it. Clementia did, but she felt timid; her mother perceived this, and Clementia acknowledged it. After having reasoned with her respecting the kind of danger she might encounter, "Come, let us make a trial," she said, "go very slowly, examine well whether you are afraid, and of what you are afraid, so that you may give me an account of what you have felt; if you feel too much afraid, come back."

Clementia hesitated; her mother's pleasantries, by making her laugh, diminished a little her fear. At the first emotion of terror which she experienced, she stopped, according to her mother's advice, in order to ascertain what had caused it; she felt that it had no reasonable foundation, and continued her way: she stopped again at the entrance of the dark corridor, to consider whether she should retrace her steps; but she thought she was not sufficiently frightened to return, and when she entered the corridor, she found she was not so much afraid as she had at first expected to be, because indeed there was no cause for fear. Having reached the spot to which she was going, she returned with much less difficulty, and agreed with her mother that her fear had been less than usual. Repeated experiments rendered her quite courageous against the night, the mice, and all other imaginary dangers. As to real dangers, every one knows that we ought not to expose ourselves to them without necessity, and she learned, by her own experience, that in these cases, it is not of the danger we think. She had occasion to attend upon a person, of whom she was very fond, through a contagious disease, and every one was astonished that she had no fear on her own account. It was because her mind was so much occupied with the illness which she was attending, that she had no fear of that to which she exposed herself.

THE DREAM;
AN EASTERN TALE.

Narzim was a pious child, filled with filial love, and ever obedient to his mother Missour, a poor widow who lived with him, in a little hut, in the environs of the mighty Delhi. With them also lived the young Elima, the daughter of Missour's sister. Elima had large black eyes, a mild expression, and a sweet smile. Narzim would sometimes say to her, "Elima, you shall be my wife, and we will not leave Missour: when her sight, which daily becomes weaker, has altogether gone, we will lead her under the palm-trees, and the pleasure of hearing you will make her forget, for a few moments, that she is no longer able to see. I shall be strong then; I will cultivate our fields of rice, and the sweet voice of Elima will render my labour light." Elima smiled, and rejoiced at the thought of never leaving Missour.

Their union was their only happiness. Missour's husband had been killed by robbers, who had ravaged his field, and since that time Missour had been able to cultivate only a portion of it, hardly sufficient for herself and family. Often the remembrance of her husband's death, of his last looks, and of his last words, would occasion her inexpressible anguish. In those moments, when she was overwhelmed with fatigue, misery embittered her heart; and, ready to murmur against the Author of her being, she would say, "Has Brama then created us for the purpose of rendering us unhappy?" Then she would shed torrents of bitter tears. Narzim and Elima beheld her weep, and wept also: without being able to understand the whole amount of her grief, they felt it; it surrounded them with a dark cloud, filling their hearts with sadness; at those times their childish sports were suspended, and even their voices died away upon their lips, for they could only have uttered words of sorrow. Elima no longer dared to smile; Narzim remained motionless, while the vivacity of his age which boiled within him made him rebel against the grief with which he felt himself overwhelmed, and he repeated to Brama the words he had heard his mother Missour utter, "Why hast thou created us to render us unhappy?"

One evening he fell asleep in the midst of these sad and culpable thoughts. Scarcely had slumber sealed his eyelids, when a soothing balm seemed to flow through his veins, and calm the agitation of his soul. A celestial form appeared before him: it was that of a young and handsome man; his eyes were as soft as those of Elima, and his hair fell in ringlets round his neck, like that of Narzim. White and glittering wings sustained him in the air, where his light and pliant limbs seemed to float, like the folds of his garments. Narzim recognised in him one of the angels[C] commissioned to execute the will of the great Brama.

[C] In the East these angels are denominated Deptas.

"Narzim," said the angel, in accents so sweet, as almost to conceal the reproach which they conveyed, "you think that you were created to be unhappy."

"Mighty Depta," replied Narzim, "from the moment of my birth, misfortune has constantly been my lot: without the affection of Missour and of Elima, I should know no happiness on earth, and even this happiness is embittered by their misfortunes."

"Narzim," replied the angel, "it is the will of Brama that you should be happy; but such is the condition of mortals, that happiness cannot be attained without some sacrifices. The great Brama will render them for you as light as possible, he only requires you to renounce one of the blessings you possess; and in the place of this single one, all the happiness of the earth shall be yours. Come, you are about to enjoy riches and pleasure."

With these words, he took him in his arms, and raised him into the air; at least so it seemed to Narzim in his dream. It also appeared to him, that in proportion as he withdrew from the earth, his heart became torn with anguish, while the air resounded with his cries. "Let me return to Missour and Elima," he said. "What will they think of my absence? what will become of them?"

"The happiness of seeing them," said the genius, "is the sacrifice which is demanded from you. You must renounce them for ever."

"Without them," replied Narzim, "what happiness can I enjoy? Pleasures and riches would only be a torment to me."

"You will forget them," said the angel. "A breath will erase from your mind every trace of their remembrance."

"Stop!" exclaimed Narzim, turning away his face, for already he thought he felt the icy breath which was to destroy all his tenderness for the objects of his affection. "Stop! it is far better to suffer with them than to forget them."

At these words, the angel opened his arms, and Narzim felt as if he were descending gently towards the earth. "You have refused happiness at the price at which it was offered to you," said the angel, as he flew away; "but Brama is good; when you can no longer endure your misfortunes, call to me, and I shall be ever at hand to aid you."

He disappeared, and Narzim imagined in his dream that years passed rapidly before him; he seemed to have arrived at manhood, and to have acquired a friend. This friend said to him, "We will dwell in the same cottage. Missour shall be my mother; Elima shall be my sister. We will cultivate together the field of rice; the labour of our hands will render their subsistence more abundant." Afterwards it appeared to him that he went one day to the city of Delhi, to sell a little rice, a portion of the surplus of their crop; and that on his return he found neither his friend nor Elima. Missour, dying with grief, informed him that his friend, assisted by two men as wicked as himself, had carried her away by force; that she had never ceased to call her dear Narzim to her aid; that for a long time she had heard her cries; and that for herself, overwhelmed by the loss of Elima, and by the ill-treatment she had received in endeavouring to defend her, she felt that she was on the point of death. And indeed Missour expired shortly after she had said these words. Such, at least, was the dream of Narzim.

He fell into the deepest despair. "For them," he said, "I have refused both riches and pleasures, and, behold, they are both torn from me."

"Come, then," said the angel, suddenly presenting himself before him, "the sacrifice shall this time be very light. The faint hope of recovering Elima, is all that Brama desires you to abandon, in exchange for the delights that he will heap upon you."

"May I still preserve this hope then?" exclaimed Narzim.

"Brama," said the angel, "has given me no commands to take it from you, but I can do nothing to restore Elima to you."

"Mighty Depta, I will hasten to seek Elima through the whole world. The hope which you leave me is a blessing, which I cannot exchange for any other."

"Go! and when you are still more unhappy, call upon me. Brama has commanded me never to refuse you my aid."

Narzim sold his little inheritance and departed, seeking everywhere for his lost Elima, sometimes believing himself on the point of discovering her, at others despairing of ever beholding her again; and though often ready to sink overcome by grief, fatigue, and hunger, he never felt tempted to call upon the Depta, who would have required him to renounce the hope of finding her.

It seemed to him in his dream, that one evening, having sunk down at the gates of a large city, no longer able to struggle with his misfortunes, he awaited death, and did not desire to live. The angel presented himself before him, surrounded with a great light.

"Narzim," said he, "you may live, you may revive to joy and health; Elima, even, may be restored to you. Listen only to this man, and learn from him what sacrifice Brama demands for so many benefits."

Narzim turned round, and by the light that emanated from the body of the angel, he saw beside him a man richly clad, but pale and trembling, and with looks gloomy and terrified.

"Hearken," said the man, hurriedly. "A shameful crime has just been committed; I am the author of it; I have been discovered; I am pursued, and shall soon be taken; the condemnation, which I cannot escape, will deprive me of my honours and of my wealth; you, poor unfortunate, have nothing to lose; a slight but ignominious punishment will be the only chastisement that you have to fear; take this dress, which will be recognised, give me yours, declare yourself the culprit, and you shall enjoy for the remainder of your days, the wealth which will be insured to you by the necessity I have for your secrecy."

Narzim remained silent.

"Quick! the moments are precious: you hesitate, miserable wretch, who have not two hours to breathe the air of the living? Can you value their esteem?"

"Let me die," said Narzim, "unknown to men; I aspire not to their esteem, but I could not live an object of their contempt."

The angel disappeared, and darkness again enveloped Narzim. The culprit was still beside him, endeavouring to force upon him the exchange, which was to load him with the appearance of crime: but the presence of the angel had restored all his strength to the son of Missour; he defended himself. The vigilant eyes which had discovered the crime, had pierced the darkness, even to the very spot where the criminal had taken refuge; he was seized; and Narzim, freed and restored to misery, did not regret the disgrace which would have enriched him.

However, his ideas became confused, as often happens during sleep; and without being able to follow the thread of his destiny, he found himself plunged into new and deeper misfortunes. Accused of a murder which he had not committed, he had been thrown into a dungeon, and was on the point of suffering the punishment of the crime. Mute, overwhelmed with the deepest despair, he saw the angel appear before him.

"What do you now require of me?" he said; "What sacrifice can I offer to Brama? There is nothing left to me. I have no longer anything to relinquish in exchange for the happiness which he would offer me."

The celestial messenger, without replying, looked at him with an anxious and tender expression.

"You are mistaken," said a voice which seemed to proceed from the depths of his own thoughts, without striking upon his ears; "there still remains one sacrifice for you to make, by which you may be saved. Behold, sleeping near you that man formerly so powerful; if he sleeps, it is because misery has suspended his faculties; he has attempted the life of his sovereign, nothing can save him; neither his former power, nor his gold, nor his jewels, with which, even in his prison, he has surrounded himself, can seduce in his favour guards who would pay with their lives a moment of weakness, or even of negligence; but you, an obscure criminal, scarcely known to those who are about to punish you, take possession of his treasures; you can do so without difficulty; they will open for you the gates of your prison, they will cover your flight until you reach a place of safety. Lose not a moment; you can yet purchase your life by the sacrifice of your virtue."

Narzim raised his eyes towards the angel, and still beheld the same expression of tenderness and compassion, and felt that such words could not have come from a messenger of heaven. He looked at the riches spread out before him; they dazzled not his eyes, and he felt that it would be easier to walk to the scaffold, than to lay a hand on what did not belong to him. He again raised his eyes towards the angel: he raised them filled with an expression of noble joy, for Narzim had just discovered how much he loved virtue. The angel read his thoughts.

"Well, Narzim," he said, with a smile almost divine, "at this moment do you consider yourself created solely for misery?"

"Mighty Depta," said the son of Missour, with a transport such as he had never before experienced, "at this moment Narzim feels that he is happy."

"You see," said the angel, "that even in the deepest distress, there still remain to you possessions so precious, that you cannot make up your mind to part with them. Cease, then, to complain, and never again dare to say that beings capable of loving virtue are created solely for misery."

At this moment the eyes of the angel sparkled with a flame so dazzling, that Narzim could not endure its brightness. He prostrated himself on the ground, and on rising, beheld neither the angel nor his dungeon, nor the wretch who shared his chains. His eyes opened; he awoke; daylight was shining into his cottage; Elima and Missour still reposed there. Narzim had lost nothing; he felt his heart expand with joy. It flowed into it as from an inexhaustible fountain, which the words of the angel had unsealed. There was strength in his soul, and it seemed to communicate itself to his limbs. He appeared to himself to have passed over the days of his childhood, to such an extent did a new vigour animate his whole being. The virtue he had just contemplated presented itself to him, with all his duties; and in the fulfilment of these duties he perceived the seeds of happiness.

"Mother," said he to Missour, as soon as she had opened her eyes to the dawning day, "I complained of misery without thinking that I had not yet purchased happiness. Solely occupied in sharing the sports of Elima, I have too far prolonged my childhood, and your tenderness for me has too long forgotten the years which, as they pass, ought to bring with them the time for labour. Look at the arms of Narzim, they are strong, and shall cultivate for you our field of rice."

His mother smiled, and placed in his hands the instruments of labour. Narzim learned to use them, and use increased his strength. Missour was no longer overpowered by fatigue, nor was the end of her days overshadowed by that despair which an exhausted body sheds over a sick mind. Joy again returned to the lips of Elima, and to the eyes of Narzim. Sometimes he raised them towards heaven, as he had done at the moment when he first learned how much he loved virtue: then his soul became filled with a holy and sweet confidence, and with a deep sense of gratitude towards that great Being who has placed in the heart of man the germ of a happiness of which nothing can deprive him, but his own will.

THE END.

WYMAN AND SONS, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON.

Transcriber's note

Obvious printer errors have been silently corrected. Original spelling was kept. Variant spellings were made consistent when a predominant preference was found.

Chapter headings have been harmonized and made consistent both in text and in Table of Contents. Illustrations have been moved so that they do not break up paragraphs while remaining close to the text they illustrate.

The following changes were made: