of
great trees? The oaks that are subject the most to the stress of the
storm thrust their roots the most staunchly and firmly, deep down in
eternal soil; and the fate that unjustly pursues us is no more aware of
what comes to pass in our soul, than the wind is aware of what happens
below in the earth.

99. Here let us note how great is the power, how mysterious the
attraction, of veritable happiness. Something of a hush comes over
Saint-Simon's stirring narrative as one of the members of the "little
flock" passes through the careless, triumphant crowd, unceasingly busy
with intrigue and salutation, petty love and petty triumph, amidst the
marble staircases and magnificent halls of Versailles. Saint-Simon goes
calmly on with his story; but for one second we seem to have compared
all this jubilant vanity and ephemeral rejoicing, this brazen-tongued
falsehood that secretly trembles, with the serene, unvarying loftiness
of those strenuous, tranquil souls. It is as though there should
suddenly appear in the midst of a band of children--who are plucking
flowers, it may be, stealing fruit, or playing forbidden games--a
priest or an aged man, who should go on his way, letting fall not one
word of rebuke. The games are suddenly stopped; startled conscience
awakens; and unbidden thoughts of duty, reality, truth, rush in on the
mind; but with men no more than with children are impressions of long
duration, though they spring from the priest, or the sage, or only the
thought that has passed and gone on its way. But it matters not, they
have seen; and the human soul, for all that the eyes are only too
willing to close or turn away, is nobler than most men would wish it to
be, for it often troubles their peace; and the soul is quick to declare
its preference for that it has seen, and fain would abandon its
enforced and wearisome idleness. And although we may smile and make
merry as the sage disappears in the distance, he has, though he know it
not, left a clear track in the midst of our error and folly, where,
haply, it still will abide for a long time to come. And when the sudden
hour of tears bursts upon us, then most of all shall we see it
enwrapped in light. We find again and again, in Saint-Simon's story,
that sorrow no sooner invades a soul somewhat loftier than others,
somewhat nearer to life perhaps, than it speedily flies for comfort to
one it has thus seen pass by in the midst of the uneasy silence and
almost malevolent