FIRST DIALOGUE.
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.