epress
sympathy at the sight of the poor laborer, who is busy from morning to
night to earn his moderate wages, who braves every weather to sow and
harvest his crop. This laborer, however, is often happier than the
majority of the rich, who, as they pass, look on him with pity. He has
done his duty. When his task is done he sits contented at his humble
hearth. The sparkling wood, the bread on his table, he has earned
himself. He educates his child by his own exertions, and as he seeks his
bed, may say he has done his duty. He is ignorant of the troubles which
fill the hearts of the opulent. Ceaseless toil to him is a cuirass
warding off stormy passions. The door of his soul is shut to dark
chimeras, to the mad fancies which people the area of the palace, and on
his rude pillow he enjoys a peaceful repose, which the lord of his
village often asks for in vain. When I thus praise the efficaciousness of
toil, I do not speak only of manual labor. The labor of thought is often
most painful, and its fruits infinitely more valuable."

"Take care," said Ireneus, "you touch a sensitive string of my uncle's
breast."

"Yes," said the old man, "Eric has told me of your discussions on this
subject. I however know my friend M. de Vermondans, and whatever disdain
of science he may affect, I believe he would be distressed if he did not
know all that he has turned to so good a purpose in life. In attacking in
your conversations books and writers, he did not tell you how much he had
borrowed from them, and how earnestly he had read them."

"What books?" asked M. de Vermondans; "a few incomplete histories, and
some odd volumes of philosophy. One must examine closely the reveries of
human pride to be able to judge of them."

"Traitor!" said M. Guldberg, shaking his finger affectionately at his
friend, "you not only persist in hypocrisy, but you attack the character
of my library. A few incomplete histories! a few odd volumes! Must I then
recall to you the admiration with which you looked at my books, and
studied all that I had collected? Some incomplete histories! a few odd
volumes! Must I recall to you the delight with which you often have
studied my collection? Must I defend it against you? Know, that to attack
my books is to make war against myself. I passed forty years of my life
in collecting them, and to each one is attached some pleasant
remembrance. From some I date my student life, and my entry into the
priesthood. From some I