"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.