“Who,” my dear children,“can view this amiable countenance, without feeling interested for the object, a mother, and in sorrow—a mother in want—a mother in despair.
“The poor dear woman seems to be without the most distant prospect of relief; without the most remote chance of meeting with a friend; without means of extricating herself and her little ones from ruin; yet she ought not to despair, for Providence, when none appears, can find itself a way.
“There were two of those unhappy beings in the world, whose profits and enjoyments arise out of the distresses of their fellow-creatures—two huissiers, as they are called in France, or what we call sheriff’s officers; yet these people, my dear children, are necessary in the community, to preserve property, and to cause us to act with justice to each other; and when their unpleasant office is performed with decency and mildness, they do not deserve disapprobation. It happened, however, that the two officers who were in the poor widow’s room were of that description who debase the very nature of man, by rapacity and cruelty, and who, hardened by constant scenes of misery, commit every possible outrage on the distressed and friendless.
“See them busily employed, taking an inventory of the little effects of the poor widow, with an unfeeling composure, that disgraced even their profession. Here is the portrait of one of them, full of officious consequence and contempt for poverty. To the applications which are made to him by the poor widow for lenity, his hard inflexible features present only the face of
SCORN;
and here are its lively and strong features. The forehead wrinkled; the eyebrows knit; the side of it next the nose drawn down, and the other side rising very much; the eye is very open, and the eyeball is in the middle; the nostrils rise and draw towards the eyes, and make wrinkles in the cheeks; the mouth shuts, its sides sinking down, and the under lip is pushed out beyond the upper one. With what detestation do we view such a face as this!
“The scholar, mute with astonishment and terror, was some time before he addressed these harpies. He gazed first at the widow, whose interesting countenance engaged his attention, then at the children about her, and then on the officers—‘How much, sir,’ cried he to one of them who was writing at a table, ‘does the debt amount to?’—‘I should like to know what business it is of yours,’ answered the bailiff, in a surly tone, still continuing to write, without deigning even to look at the person who addressed him. ‘You are mighty curious,’ continued he; ‘what business is it of yours how much the woman owes? I suppose that you wont pay the money for her, will you?’
“The scholar’s attention was now taken off by a heavy sigh, which he found proceeded from the breast of an aged man, who was seated in an old elbow chair by the fireside. It was the poor widow’s father, mourning for her sorrows, and grieving for her distress; for as far as respected himself, he had but little care. He was near eighty years of age. Here is the countenance of the poor old man; it is the face of