THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.[It is well known that all the books of the Middle Ages were written by monks, and preserved in manuscript; printing being then an unknown art. These patient scribes had plenty of leisure, and not unfrequently an eye for artistic beauty, especially in the gorgeous style. Hence many monastic manuscripts were richly illuminated, as the phrase is, with Initial Letters of silver or gold, often surrounded with quaint devices, painted in glowing tints of blue, crimson, and purple. Paper was not then invented, and parchment was scarce. Monks generally held Greeks and Romans in contempt, as heathen, and therefore did not scruple to supply themselves with writing material by erasing the productions of classic authors. Early in the nineteenth century it was announced that Signor Maio, an Italian librarian, had discovered valuable Greek and Latin fragments concealed under monkish manuscripts, and that, by chemical processes, he could remove the later writing and bring the ancient to the surface. In this way, “The Republic,” of Cicero, deemed one of his finest works, was brought out from under a Commentary of St. Augustine on the Psalms of David. Such parchments are calledPalimpsests; from two Greek words, which signify erased and re-written. The discovery was very exciting to the scholastic world, and many learned men entered into it with absorbing interest. Several of the books of Livy’s lively and picturesque History of Rome are lost; and it was a cherished hope among scholars that they might be discovered by this new process. This explanation isnecessary to help some readers to a right understanding of the following story, which is abridged and slightly varied from an English book, entitled, “Stories by an Archæologist.”]MMydear friend, Dubois d’Erville, whose talents might have rendered him remarkable in any walk of literature, allowed the whole of his faculties to be absorbed in days, nights, years of research, upon one special point of literary interest. At school, he had become imbued with a love for classic authors, which, with regard to his favorite Livy, kindled into a passion. He sought eagerly for accounts of discoveries of lost works inpalimpsestmanuscripts. Finally, he relinquished all other objects of pursuit, and spent many years traversing Europe and Asia, visiting the public libraries and old monasteries, in search of ancient manuscripts. After a long time, when he was forgotten by family, friends, and acquaintances, he returned to Paris. Little was known of his wanderings; but there was a rumor that he formed a romantic marriage, and that his devoted wife had travelled with him among the monasteries of Asia Minor, encountering many hardships and dangers. No one but himself knew where she died.When he returned to Paris, he brought with him an only child, a girl of nineteen. She had memorable beauty, and great intelligence; but these were less noticed than her simple manners, and tender devotion to her father, whom she almostadored. He took a suite of apartments in the third story of a house, which, before the Revolution, had been the hotel of a nobleman, and surrounded by extensive gardens. It was in the old and solitary Rue Cassette. The gardens had been let out to cow-keepers; but within the enclosure of the house remained some noble trees and flowering shrubs. These apartments had been selected by his daughter Marcelline, on account of the graceful branches of the old lime-trees, which reached close to the windows, and furnished a pleasant shade in summer, when birds chirped gayly among the green foliage. Even in winter, a robin would sometimes sing snatches of song, among the naked branches, as if in return for the crumbs which his pretty patroness never failed to place on the window-sill.Beyond Marcelline’s chamber was a little sitting-room, and then came a rather large apartment, where Dubois pursued his studies, surrounded with piles of old vellum, and dusty and worm-eaten manuscripts of all descriptions. The floor was thus littered in all directions, except in a small semicircle near one of the windows, where an open space was preserved for a few chairs and a table.They had but one servant, an old woman, who had been cook in Dubois’s family in the days of his boyhood, and whom he accidentally met when he returned to Paris. Old Madeleine formed a pleasant link between the present and the past. Often,when she passed through his study, he would remind her of some prank he had played in early days, and ask her if she remembered it, with such a frank, good-natured smile, that the old servant would smile too; though there was always a tinge of melancholy in her recollections of his boyish roguery. Often, when she left the room, she would shake her head, and mutter to herself, “Ah, young Monsieur Armand was so good, so kind, so gentle! Only to think that he should leave all his family and friends, and pass his life nobody knows where! Ah! it is very mysterious. And the bright, curly hair, that I used to pat with such fondness, to think that I should never see him again, till all that is left of it is a few silver locks about his temples!” She tried to gain from Marcelline some particulars about her mother; but the young girl had only a vague recollection of a form that used to press her to her heart, during journeys through strange countries, and who had long disappeared. She remembered something of a time when her father’s tall, upright figure suddenly bent under the weight of some great sorrow, from which it never rose erect again. Then, when she grew older, they lived for years in Italian cities, where there were great libraries; whence they came to Paris.Nothing could be more delightful than the affectionate congeniality between father and daughter. Their favorite pursuits, though different, had a kind of affinity which rendered their quiet existencevery pleasant. Marcelline had a taste for painting; and her father’s mania for old manuscripts furnished her with many opportunities for examining the exquisite miniatures and ornamental illuminations, with which monkish manuscripts were frequently enriched. When new manuscripts arrived, which they did almost daily, her first impulse was to examine whether they contained any illuminations worthy of note; and if so, to copy them with the utmost care and accuracy. She had thus formed a very beautiful collection, in which she felt an interest almost as enthusiastic as that of her father in his long pursuit of a treasure, which, like the horizon, seemed always in sight, but was never reached.In the midst of the charming, harmonious routine of this little household, slight contentions would sometimes arise; but they were sure to end, like the quarrels of lovers, in a renewal of love. Sometimes a manuscript arrived which contained exquisite illuminations; but Dubois, thinking it might be apalimpsest, regarded the ornaments as so many abominations, concealing some treasure of classic literature. So the mediæval romance, with its matchless miniatures, and intricate borderings, glowing with gilding, purple, and crimson, would soon disappear beneath the sponge, soap, and acids of the indefatigable seeker after The Lost Books of Livy. These occasions were sad trials for Marcelline. She would beg for aweek’s delay, just to copy the most beautiful of the illuminations. But if Dubois thought he could perceive traces of erasure under the gorgeous ornaments, he was as impatient as a miner who fancies he sees indications of a vein of gold. When Marcelline saw the sponge trembling in his hand, so eager to commence the work of obliteration, she would turn away with a painful sense of what seemed to her a cruel desecration. She felt that the sacrifice was due to the cause in which her father had enlisted all the energies of his life; but the ruthless destruction of all those quaint and delicately beautiful works of art caused her a pang she could not quite conceal. In spite of herself, a tear would glisten in her eye; and the moment her father perceived it, his resolution melted. He would place the manuscript in her hand, and say, “There, there, my child! a whole week if you want it; and then bring it to me, if you have quite done with it.” Then she would reply, “No, no, dear father. Your object is too important to be hindered by the whims of a foolish girl.” He would press it upon her, and she would refuse it; and as the combat of love went on, the old man’s eyes would fill with tears. Then Marcelline would give way, and take the proffered manuscript; and Dubois, with all the attentive politeness of a young lover, would arrange her desk, and her pieces of new vellum, and place the volume in a good light. Not till he had seen her fairly at work at hercharming task, could he tear himself away; and then not without pressing her hand, and nodding to her, as though they were going to part for some long period. She would nod too; and then they both nodded together, smiling at their own affectionate folly, with tears glistening in their eyes. Then Dubois would go to his study, and among his heaps of manuscripts, bound and unbound, rolled or folded, he would soon be immersed in the intricacies of his old pursuit.After a while, the even current of their happy life became varied by the visits of a third person. When old Madeleine came to live with them, Dubois often questioned her concerning the relatives and friends he had known in his boyhood. Her answer was, invariably, “Dead.” It seemed as if all the old he inquired for were dead, and all the young either dead or scattered. During one of these conversations, he said, “What has become of Uncle Debaye, who used to prophesy that I should be a member of the Academy, and one of the illustrious men of France? Ah, he was a pleasant specimen of the old bachelor and thebon vivant! Where is he?” “He is dead, too,” replied Madeleine; “but he did not remain an old bachelor and abon vivant. He married, some two and twenty years ago, and gave up his old luxurious habits for the sake of supporting his pretty young wife. He even left off cigars and snuff, to supply her with little luxuries. She is dead, too.But they had a very pretty child, little Hyppolite, who is a young man now.” “Then it seems that I have one relative remaining,” said Dubois; “but I suppose he has gone off to America, or Australia, or somewhere.” “No, Monsieur,” rejoined Madeleine, “he is in Paris. He got a situation out by the Barrière du Trone, where he has two thousand francs a year, and apartments in the factory to live in besides. I often meet him on a Sunday, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, and many a forty sous has he given me.”Dubois was pleased to find that he had one relative left, and Madeleine was commissioned to tell him that his father’s brother-in-law, his uncle by marriage, had returned to Paris, and would be glad to see him. The young man came soon after, and father and daughter were both pleased with their new-found kinsman. He was not very intellectual or learned; but he was lively, good-natured, and good-looking. He brought the living, moving world of the present into those secluded apartments, so entirely consecrated to the works and thoughts of ages long past. His free-and-easy conversation, without a single phrase smacking of libraries, or art-galleries, or any kind of learning, seemed a bright sparkling stream of young careless life. His uncle listened willingly to his gossiping anecdotes, told with a certain appreciation of the comic, in a clear, ringing voice, and with good-natured laughter. Hyppolite became a verywelcome visitor; and, after a while, if he did not appear on the days when he was regularly expected, a shadow of disappointment was cast over the little household in the Rue Cassette.Thus things went on for some time. Marcelline daily added to her collection of exquisite fac-similes, and her father labored diligently in the cause to which he had devoted his life. He did not obtain the result he so ardently desired; but his perseverance was not without reward. On two occasions he discovered works of great importance, in a literary point of view, covered over with a mass of old law transactions; and the sums he obtained for them enabled him greatly to increase his stock of manuscripts. He soon became so well known to all who dealt in such articles, that every new importation was offered to him, before it was shown elsewhere.Meanwhile Marcelline received increasing pleasure from the visits of Hyppolite. She began to suspect that the trivial chat uttered in that fresh young voice, with occasional peals of ringing laughter, possessed for her a greater charm than the noble words of her father, always teeming with knowledge and interest of various kinds. She shrunk from admitting this to herself. She would not believe it, but she had an uneasy suspicion of it. As for Hyppolite, his walk of two or three miles, to visit his new-found relatives, became his greatest pleasure. He found innumerable opportunitiesof making the Rue Cassette the shortest cut to one or other of the distant quarters of Paris, where the business of his employers carried him, though in fact it was often miles out of his way. To gratify Marcelline’s peculiar taste, he frequently brought her ornaments cut from the pages of old illuminated manuscripts. When asked where he obtained them, he would merely laugh, and say he would bring some more soon. Dubois began to remonstrate against the barbarism of mutilating manuscripts in that way; but Hyppolite would point to the piles of manuscripts from which he had washed both ornaments and writing, and would put on such a comic look, and laugh so merrily, that his uncle could not help laughing, too.One calm summer evening, Dubois had gone to the busy part of Paris, and Marcelline sat at the window, busily employed in copying a noble group of illuminated letters from a gorgeous manuscript of the twelfth century, which stood on the desk before her. The window was open, and the air gently moved the leaves of crisp vellum, with their antique writing and their curious enrichments. The massive silver clasps of the great folio hung back and glistened in the evening light. As the young artist looked up at her model, she felt tempted to make a drawing of the whole superb volume, instead of the especial group of letters she was copying. The foliage of the lime-trees moved gentlyin the warm evening breeze, and a linnet, hidden in its recesses, was singing his vesper hymn. Marcelline felt very happy. The balmy hour, the congenial employment, and the bright halo of her twenty young years, threw around her an atmosphere of soft, pure, gentle pleasure. Thoughts of more homely things mingled with her poetic mood. She thought of the choice little supper Madeleine was preparing for her father, and she tried to conjecture when he would arrive.The current of her ideas was interrupted by the ringing of the bell on the landing, and Madeleine announced the arrival of Monsieur Hyppolite. An uncontrollable thrill lifted her heart with one great bound. For a moment the illuminated volume, the sweet summer breeze, the tuneful linnet, and the little supper for her father, were all forgotten. By a strong effort she recovered herself, however, and received Hyppolite as usual; perhaps a little more coolly, for she was inwardly shocked to find that his presence had power, even for a moment, to obliterate the pleasures and affections she had always deemed so sacred. He brought two beautifully illuminated letters, that had evidently formed part of a very fine Italian manuscript. Being in an unusual style of art, they attracted her attention, and diverted her thoughts from the channel they had taken. She reseated herself at her work; and while he watched her skilful pencil tracing the intricate interlacingsof various and many-colored lines and branches, he sought to entertain her with his usual light chat. But Marcelline did not respond so gayly as she was accustomed to do, and he grew unwontedly silent; so silent, that the song of the linnet was heard again, and no other sound disturbed the stillness. At last, Hyppolite, with a great effort, and as if something choked his usual clear utterance, said, “Marcelline, you must have long perceived that I—” she rose hastily, exclaiming, “O don’t say that word!Don’tsay it! To break the holy spell of filial affection which has always bound my heart, would be sacrilege.” But Hyppolite knelt at her feet, and poured forth the fervid language that comes to all when the heart is kindled by a first love. Marcelline turned away her head and wept. The bitter tears, not without sweetness, relieved the deep trouble of her heart. She resumed her seat, and told her cousin decidedly, but kindly, that he must never speak to her of love while her dear father lived; that she could never allow any earthly affection to come between her and him. The young man, in the midst of his disappointment, could not but wish that his uncle might live long; for he truly loved his genial nature, and regarded his great learning with almost superstitious veneration. He held out his hand, saying, “My cousin, it is the hand of friendship.” She pressed it kindly, and gently admonished him thathis visits must be less frequent. After a brief struggle he resigned himself to her guidance, and recovered his equanimity, if not his usual gayety. All was peaceful and pleasant when Dubois returned, and Hyppolite was urged to stay and partake of the choice little supper.The household continued to go on in the old quiet way, varied occasionally by visits from antiquarians and learned men. On such occasions, it was charming to hear Dubois descant on his favorite topics with the enthusiasm and beautiful flow of language which they always excited. Marcelline was often appealed to in these discussions; for her intimate knowledge of the beauties of illumination enabled her to judge the age of a manuscript, by delicate peculiarities in its ornaments, more readily than learned men could do by the character of the writing or the nature of the subject. Hyppolite, who was sometimes present by special invitation, would sit apart, drinking in every delicate epithet and daintly selected word uttered by his cousin, as though they were heaven-distilled drops of nectar.One morning, Dubois rushed into his daughter’s apartment, eagerly exclaiming, “Eureka! Eureka! I have found it! I have found it! My name will go down to posterity joined with that of Livy! At last I have found The Lost Books!” Joyfully, he drew his daughter into his study, and there, spread upon the floor, were several sheets of vellum stillwet from the action of his sponge. The more recent writing had been removed, and traces of a nearly erased manuscript, apparently of the tenth century, was gradually becoming more distinct under the influence of a preparation he had applied. The old man drew himself up as he pointed to it, and looking proudly at his daughter, said, “The labor of my life has been well expended. It will bemygreat privilege to be the first among moderns to read the whole of the noble history of Livy; for I believe thewholeis there.” He insisted that Hyppolite should be sent for to hear the glad tidings. The good-natured youth hastened to the Rue Cassette, and congratulated his uncle upon his great discovery. He did not, indeed, understand the importance of the recovered annals, for he thought we had a tolerably complete history of Rome without these famous Lost Books, but he cordially sympathized with the joy of his uncle and cousin. It was a day marked with “a white stone” in the annals of the quiet little family. In honor of the occasion, a bottle of the choice wine called Chateaux Margaux, was placed on the generally frugal little dinner-table, and the sun traced upon it bright lights and shadows through the branches of the lime-trees, as if to aid in the celebration.Day by day, more pages of thepalimpsestwere prepared, and the ancient text developed itself so well, that the exulting Dubois resolved to invitehis most learned friends to a grand evening reunion, in honor of his discovery. A lithographed circular was accordingly prepared, and sent round in due form. It brought together a select party of the knowing ones in such matters. Dubois was all smiles and urbanity. In the fluent language, of which he had extraordinary command, he related the successive details of his discovery. He deemed himself the most fortunate of men. His heart was running over with enthusiasm. His hearers were charmed with the copious flood of eloquence that he poured forth without stint, full of the deepest erudition, yet warmed and embellished by a pervading gleam of amiable exhilaration, and innocent exultation over the triumphant result of his life-long labors. The sheets of the recovered manuscript were placed in a good light, and eagerly examined through many pairs of glittering spectacles and powerful microscopes. It obviously related to that portion of Roman history lost from the books of Livy, but many doubts were expressed whether it were written by that great historian. Peculiarities of orthography and style were adduced to prove that the writer must have been a monk. But Dubois ingeniously converted every objection into an additional proof that they had before them the identical Lost Books of Livy.The animated discussion was interrupted by the entrance of Madeleine, who said that two men were at the door, with old manuscripts to sell. Duboiscould never resist the temptation to examine musty vellum, and he ordered them to be shown in. The manuscripts did not prove to be of any value; and Madeleine was very glad to close the door upon the intruders, for she did not like their looks. A similar impression seemed to have been made on the company; for several of them remarked that it was hazardous to introduce men of that stamp into a room filled with books clasped with silver, and with many other ancient articles of curious workmanship, some of them in the precious metals. But Dubois laughed at the idea that anybody would think of robbing a poor book-antiquarian of his musty treasures, though some of them were clasped with silver.The dimensions of the table were enlarged by piles of huge folios, and Madeleine spread it with choice viands, in the discussion of which the style and orthography of Livy were for a while forgotten. The lively sallies of Hyppolite, his funny anecdotes, and descriptions of practical jokes, began to entertain the guests more than their own conversation. His merry, thrilling laugh became infectious. First, his pretty cousin joined in with her silvery treble; then Dubois; then all of them. No one, listening to this hilarious chorus, would have supposed the company consisted of the most profound scholars that ever enlightened the halls of the Institute or the Academy.Dubois went to sleep that happy night dreamingof new discoveries among the as yet unrestored leaves of his preciouspalimpsest. He was wakened very early in the morning by a loud knock at his door, and heard the voice of old Madeleine crying out, “Monsieur Dubois! Monsieur Dubois! Get up! Pray get up immediately!” He hurried on his dressing-gown, and found Madeleine in the middle of his study, her eyes streaming with tears. The room where he had heaped up so many treasures, where he had spent so many hours of calm happiness, where he had the last evening enjoyed so much, was empty. The pile of folios, the rows of richly-bound manuscripts, with the velvet covers and silver clasps, his preciouspalimpsest, and even the bundles of musty vellum, had all disappeared. The window was open, and the little curtain torn; plainly indicating how the robbers had obtained entrance into his sanctuary. The linnet was singing a morning song in the lime-trees, and the early sun checkered the empty floor with bright light and quivering shadows of the foliage. It seemed as if the sweet sounds and the brilliant rays were rejoicing over a scene of gladness, instead of such utter desolation and wretchedness.No words can describe the pangs which wrung the heart of poor Dubois, thus suddenly and strangely deprived of the treasure which he had spent all the energies of his life in discovering. For a moment, his eyes glared with rage, like those of a tiger deprived of her young. Then he claspedhis trembling hands, and fell heavily, nearly fainting, into his chair. Alarmed by the sound of his fall, Marcelline came running in. It was long before she and old Madeleine could rouse him from his lethargy. At last, his stupefied senses were awakened and concentrated by his daughter’s repeated assurances that the lost treasure would be recovered if an immediate pursuit were instituted. “It is not likely,” said she, “that we shall recover the richly-illuminated manuscripts, in their valuable bindings; or the carved ivories; or those codices written in gold upon grounds of purple; but the sheets of that oldpalimpsest, with its half-obliterated characters, and the old volume containing the rest of the work, cannot possibly be of use to anybody but yourself. Those can surely be recovered.”A flood of passionate tears came to her father’s relief. His usual calmness was restored; and after drinking a cup of coffee, urged upon him by the kind old Madeleine, he hurried forth to give information to the police, and to make all possible efforts to recover his treasures.Some fragments of parchment were found under the lime-trees, but no further traces were discovered, till late in the forenoon it was ascertained that one of the richly-bound manuscripts had been offered to a dealer for sale. In the afternoon, another clew was obtained from a waste-paper dealer, who described a quantity of parchment brought tohim that morning, which he had not, however, purchased. From the description, it appeared that the preciouspalimpsestwas among these bundles. Dubois’s hopes were kindled by this information. He was recommended to go to the establishments of various dealers in such articles in remote quarters of the city, and, accompanied by the police, he made diligent search. Only one more remained, and that was close to the Barrière du Trone.Arrived at this establishment, Dubois was surprised to see his nephew mounted aloft at a desk in the inner warehouse; for he had never inquired concerning the nature of the factory in which he was employed. As soon as Hyppolite perceived his uncle, he hurried forward to welcome him, and told him he had intended to call at the Rue Cassette that day, for he had just obtained possession of two illuminated letters that he wished to present to Mademoiselle Marcelline. He took two slips of vellum from his desk; “See,” said he, “these are very much in the style of that old Roman History you were exhibiting to the company last night.”“Very much in the style!” exclaimed Dubois, his eyes glistening with delight. “They are identical! Where did you get them?”“Our foreman sent them down to me,” rejoined Hyppolite. “We purchase enormous quantities of old parchment, and frequently a few painted letters are found in the mass. Our manager,in compliance with my request, cuts them out and reserves them for me.”“Then the vellum from which they were cut is here?”“Yes, it is, uncle; but why are you so agitated?”Dubois briefly related the circumstances of the robbery; and wiping the cold perspiration from his brow, he added: “But all is safe now! I would not walk twenty paces to recover all the silver-clasped volumes, if I can only hold once more the mustypalimpsestwhich contains that priceless treasure,—The Lost Books of Livy!”The flush faded from Hyppolite’s ruddy cheek. “There is not a moment to be lost!” exclaimed he. “Follow me, dear uncle.”Away he ran across court-yards, through long warehouses filled with merchandise, and up flights of stairs, two steps at a bound. Dubois, highly excited, followed with the activity of youth. They reached a small room adjoining an enormous mass of lofty chimneys, from which heavy columns of smoke rolled away before the wind.“Where is the lot of old vellum that came this morning?” gasped Hyppolite, all out of breath.A man who was busy checking off accounts, asked, “Do you mean the lot from which you cut those two letters?”“Yes, yes,” replied Hyppolite. “Where is it? Where is it? It is very important!”“Let me see,” said the man. “It was lot number fourteen, purchased at eight o’clock this morning. We happened to be very short of vellum, and I gave out that new lot directly.” He opened a creaking door, and called out, “Pierre! Pierre! what was the number of the lot you put in last?”“Number fourteen,” replied a deep voice within; and the door closed again, with dinning rattle of rope and weight.“It is too late,” said the foreman, turning to Hyppolite. “It went in at eleven o’clock.”“Wentin? Went inwhere?” exclaimed Dubois, turning first to Hyppolite, and then to the foreman, with a look of haggard anxiety.“Into the boiler,” replied Hyppolite, taking his uncle’s hand. “This is a gelatine manufactory. We boil down tons of old parchment every year.”* * * * *It was long before Dubois recovered from the shock he had received; but he did finally recover. He began to accumulate fresh bibliographical treasures around him, and many pleasant evenings were spent in those old apartments. But his former enthusiasm never returned. Any new discovery in the field of his research no longer excited a rapid flow of ardent words, but was merely indicated by a faint smile. He was always kindly and genial, and was only roused to an occasional word or look of bitterness whensome circumstance happened to remind him of the treasure he had lost. “To think that what I had been hunting for all my life should be found only to be lost in a pot of gelatine!” he would exclaim, indignantly. Then he would fall into a silence which no one ventured to disturb. But, with a slight sigh, and a quiver of his gray locks, he would soon dismiss the subject from his mind, and change the conversation.If he ever felt regret at having expended all the energies of his life among the dim shadows of the past, no one ever heard him express the feeling. And this was wise; for his habits were too firmly fixed to be changed. He lived with his dear old volumes as with friends. The monotony of his life was soothed by a daughter’s love, and cheered by the kind attentions of his gay young nephew. His uncommon talents and learning left no traces behind them, and his name passed away as do the pleasant clouds of twilight. Hyppolite’s constant love was rewarded by the heart and hand of Marcelline; and the twowho most reverenced the old man’s learning, and mosttenderly cherished the memory of his genialcharacter, lived to talk of themoften to each other, and toteach them to theirdescendants.
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
[It is well known that all the books of the Middle Ages were written by monks, and preserved in manuscript; printing being then an unknown art. These patient scribes had plenty of leisure, and not unfrequently an eye for artistic beauty, especially in the gorgeous style. Hence many monastic manuscripts were richly illuminated, as the phrase is, with Initial Letters of silver or gold, often surrounded with quaint devices, painted in glowing tints of blue, crimson, and purple. Paper was not then invented, and parchment was scarce. Monks generally held Greeks and Romans in contempt, as heathen, and therefore did not scruple to supply themselves with writing material by erasing the productions of classic authors. Early in the nineteenth century it was announced that Signor Maio, an Italian librarian, had discovered valuable Greek and Latin fragments concealed under monkish manuscripts, and that, by chemical processes, he could remove the later writing and bring the ancient to the surface. In this way, “The Republic,” of Cicero, deemed one of his finest works, was brought out from under a Commentary of St. Augustine on the Psalms of David. Such parchments are calledPalimpsests; from two Greek words, which signify erased and re-written. The discovery was very exciting to the scholastic world, and many learned men entered into it with absorbing interest. Several of the books of Livy’s lively and picturesque History of Rome are lost; and it was a cherished hope among scholars that they might be discovered by this new process. This explanation isnecessary to help some readers to a right understanding of the following story, which is abridged and slightly varied from an English book, entitled, “Stories by an Archæologist.”]
[It is well known that all the books of the Middle Ages were written by monks, and preserved in manuscript; printing being then an unknown art. These patient scribes had plenty of leisure, and not unfrequently an eye for artistic beauty, especially in the gorgeous style. Hence many monastic manuscripts were richly illuminated, as the phrase is, with Initial Letters of silver or gold, often surrounded with quaint devices, painted in glowing tints of blue, crimson, and purple. Paper was not then invented, and parchment was scarce. Monks generally held Greeks and Romans in contempt, as heathen, and therefore did not scruple to supply themselves with writing material by erasing the productions of classic authors. Early in the nineteenth century it was announced that Signor Maio, an Italian librarian, had discovered valuable Greek and Latin fragments concealed under monkish manuscripts, and that, by chemical processes, he could remove the later writing and bring the ancient to the surface. In this way, “The Republic,” of Cicero, deemed one of his finest works, was brought out from under a Commentary of St. Augustine on the Psalms of David. Such parchments are calledPalimpsests; from two Greek words, which signify erased and re-written. The discovery was very exciting to the scholastic world, and many learned men entered into it with absorbing interest. Several of the books of Livy’s lively and picturesque History of Rome are lost; and it was a cherished hope among scholars that they might be discovered by this new process. This explanation isnecessary to help some readers to a right understanding of the following story, which is abridged and slightly varied from an English book, entitled, “Stories by an Archæologist.”]
Mydear friend, Dubois d’Erville, whose talents might have rendered him remarkable in any walk of literature, allowed the whole of his faculties to be absorbed in days, nights, years of research, upon one special point of literary interest. At school, he had become imbued with a love for classic authors, which, with regard to his favorite Livy, kindled into a passion. He sought eagerly for accounts of discoveries of lost works inpalimpsestmanuscripts. Finally, he relinquished all other objects of pursuit, and spent many years traversing Europe and Asia, visiting the public libraries and old monasteries, in search of ancient manuscripts. After a long time, when he was forgotten by family, friends, and acquaintances, he returned to Paris. Little was known of his wanderings; but there was a rumor that he formed a romantic marriage, and that his devoted wife had travelled with him among the monasteries of Asia Minor, encountering many hardships and dangers. No one but himself knew where she died.
When he returned to Paris, he brought with him an only child, a girl of nineteen. She had memorable beauty, and great intelligence; but these were less noticed than her simple manners, and tender devotion to her father, whom she almostadored. He took a suite of apartments in the third story of a house, which, before the Revolution, had been the hotel of a nobleman, and surrounded by extensive gardens. It was in the old and solitary Rue Cassette. The gardens had been let out to cow-keepers; but within the enclosure of the house remained some noble trees and flowering shrubs. These apartments had been selected by his daughter Marcelline, on account of the graceful branches of the old lime-trees, which reached close to the windows, and furnished a pleasant shade in summer, when birds chirped gayly among the green foliage. Even in winter, a robin would sometimes sing snatches of song, among the naked branches, as if in return for the crumbs which his pretty patroness never failed to place on the window-sill.
Beyond Marcelline’s chamber was a little sitting-room, and then came a rather large apartment, where Dubois pursued his studies, surrounded with piles of old vellum, and dusty and worm-eaten manuscripts of all descriptions. The floor was thus littered in all directions, except in a small semicircle near one of the windows, where an open space was preserved for a few chairs and a table.
They had but one servant, an old woman, who had been cook in Dubois’s family in the days of his boyhood, and whom he accidentally met when he returned to Paris. Old Madeleine formed a pleasant link between the present and the past. Often,when she passed through his study, he would remind her of some prank he had played in early days, and ask her if she remembered it, with such a frank, good-natured smile, that the old servant would smile too; though there was always a tinge of melancholy in her recollections of his boyish roguery. Often, when she left the room, she would shake her head, and mutter to herself, “Ah, young Monsieur Armand was so good, so kind, so gentle! Only to think that he should leave all his family and friends, and pass his life nobody knows where! Ah! it is very mysterious. And the bright, curly hair, that I used to pat with such fondness, to think that I should never see him again, till all that is left of it is a few silver locks about his temples!” She tried to gain from Marcelline some particulars about her mother; but the young girl had only a vague recollection of a form that used to press her to her heart, during journeys through strange countries, and who had long disappeared. She remembered something of a time when her father’s tall, upright figure suddenly bent under the weight of some great sorrow, from which it never rose erect again. Then, when she grew older, they lived for years in Italian cities, where there were great libraries; whence they came to Paris.
Nothing could be more delightful than the affectionate congeniality between father and daughter. Their favorite pursuits, though different, had a kind of affinity which rendered their quiet existencevery pleasant. Marcelline had a taste for painting; and her father’s mania for old manuscripts furnished her with many opportunities for examining the exquisite miniatures and ornamental illuminations, with which monkish manuscripts were frequently enriched. When new manuscripts arrived, which they did almost daily, her first impulse was to examine whether they contained any illuminations worthy of note; and if so, to copy them with the utmost care and accuracy. She had thus formed a very beautiful collection, in which she felt an interest almost as enthusiastic as that of her father in his long pursuit of a treasure, which, like the horizon, seemed always in sight, but was never reached.
In the midst of the charming, harmonious routine of this little household, slight contentions would sometimes arise; but they were sure to end, like the quarrels of lovers, in a renewal of love. Sometimes a manuscript arrived which contained exquisite illuminations; but Dubois, thinking it might be apalimpsest, regarded the ornaments as so many abominations, concealing some treasure of classic literature. So the mediæval romance, with its matchless miniatures, and intricate borderings, glowing with gilding, purple, and crimson, would soon disappear beneath the sponge, soap, and acids of the indefatigable seeker after The Lost Books of Livy. These occasions were sad trials for Marcelline. She would beg for aweek’s delay, just to copy the most beautiful of the illuminations. But if Dubois thought he could perceive traces of erasure under the gorgeous ornaments, he was as impatient as a miner who fancies he sees indications of a vein of gold. When Marcelline saw the sponge trembling in his hand, so eager to commence the work of obliteration, she would turn away with a painful sense of what seemed to her a cruel desecration. She felt that the sacrifice was due to the cause in which her father had enlisted all the energies of his life; but the ruthless destruction of all those quaint and delicately beautiful works of art caused her a pang she could not quite conceal. In spite of herself, a tear would glisten in her eye; and the moment her father perceived it, his resolution melted. He would place the manuscript in her hand, and say, “There, there, my child! a whole week if you want it; and then bring it to me, if you have quite done with it.” Then she would reply, “No, no, dear father. Your object is too important to be hindered by the whims of a foolish girl.” He would press it upon her, and she would refuse it; and as the combat of love went on, the old man’s eyes would fill with tears. Then Marcelline would give way, and take the proffered manuscript; and Dubois, with all the attentive politeness of a young lover, would arrange her desk, and her pieces of new vellum, and place the volume in a good light. Not till he had seen her fairly at work at hercharming task, could he tear himself away; and then not without pressing her hand, and nodding to her, as though they were going to part for some long period. She would nod too; and then they both nodded together, smiling at their own affectionate folly, with tears glistening in their eyes. Then Dubois would go to his study, and among his heaps of manuscripts, bound and unbound, rolled or folded, he would soon be immersed in the intricacies of his old pursuit.
After a while, the even current of their happy life became varied by the visits of a third person. When old Madeleine came to live with them, Dubois often questioned her concerning the relatives and friends he had known in his boyhood. Her answer was, invariably, “Dead.” It seemed as if all the old he inquired for were dead, and all the young either dead or scattered. During one of these conversations, he said, “What has become of Uncle Debaye, who used to prophesy that I should be a member of the Academy, and one of the illustrious men of France? Ah, he was a pleasant specimen of the old bachelor and thebon vivant! Where is he?” “He is dead, too,” replied Madeleine; “but he did not remain an old bachelor and abon vivant. He married, some two and twenty years ago, and gave up his old luxurious habits for the sake of supporting his pretty young wife. He even left off cigars and snuff, to supply her with little luxuries. She is dead, too.But they had a very pretty child, little Hyppolite, who is a young man now.” “Then it seems that I have one relative remaining,” said Dubois; “but I suppose he has gone off to America, or Australia, or somewhere.” “No, Monsieur,” rejoined Madeleine, “he is in Paris. He got a situation out by the Barrière du Trone, where he has two thousand francs a year, and apartments in the factory to live in besides. I often meet him on a Sunday, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, and many a forty sous has he given me.”
Dubois was pleased to find that he had one relative left, and Madeleine was commissioned to tell him that his father’s brother-in-law, his uncle by marriage, had returned to Paris, and would be glad to see him. The young man came soon after, and father and daughter were both pleased with their new-found kinsman. He was not very intellectual or learned; but he was lively, good-natured, and good-looking. He brought the living, moving world of the present into those secluded apartments, so entirely consecrated to the works and thoughts of ages long past. His free-and-easy conversation, without a single phrase smacking of libraries, or art-galleries, or any kind of learning, seemed a bright sparkling stream of young careless life. His uncle listened willingly to his gossiping anecdotes, told with a certain appreciation of the comic, in a clear, ringing voice, and with good-natured laughter. Hyppolite became a verywelcome visitor; and, after a while, if he did not appear on the days when he was regularly expected, a shadow of disappointment was cast over the little household in the Rue Cassette.
Thus things went on for some time. Marcelline daily added to her collection of exquisite fac-similes, and her father labored diligently in the cause to which he had devoted his life. He did not obtain the result he so ardently desired; but his perseverance was not without reward. On two occasions he discovered works of great importance, in a literary point of view, covered over with a mass of old law transactions; and the sums he obtained for them enabled him greatly to increase his stock of manuscripts. He soon became so well known to all who dealt in such articles, that every new importation was offered to him, before it was shown elsewhere.
Meanwhile Marcelline received increasing pleasure from the visits of Hyppolite. She began to suspect that the trivial chat uttered in that fresh young voice, with occasional peals of ringing laughter, possessed for her a greater charm than the noble words of her father, always teeming with knowledge and interest of various kinds. She shrunk from admitting this to herself. She would not believe it, but she had an uneasy suspicion of it. As for Hyppolite, his walk of two or three miles, to visit his new-found relatives, became his greatest pleasure. He found innumerable opportunitiesof making the Rue Cassette the shortest cut to one or other of the distant quarters of Paris, where the business of his employers carried him, though in fact it was often miles out of his way. To gratify Marcelline’s peculiar taste, he frequently brought her ornaments cut from the pages of old illuminated manuscripts. When asked where he obtained them, he would merely laugh, and say he would bring some more soon. Dubois began to remonstrate against the barbarism of mutilating manuscripts in that way; but Hyppolite would point to the piles of manuscripts from which he had washed both ornaments and writing, and would put on such a comic look, and laugh so merrily, that his uncle could not help laughing, too.
One calm summer evening, Dubois had gone to the busy part of Paris, and Marcelline sat at the window, busily employed in copying a noble group of illuminated letters from a gorgeous manuscript of the twelfth century, which stood on the desk before her. The window was open, and the air gently moved the leaves of crisp vellum, with their antique writing and their curious enrichments. The massive silver clasps of the great folio hung back and glistened in the evening light. As the young artist looked up at her model, she felt tempted to make a drawing of the whole superb volume, instead of the especial group of letters she was copying. The foliage of the lime-trees moved gentlyin the warm evening breeze, and a linnet, hidden in its recesses, was singing his vesper hymn. Marcelline felt very happy. The balmy hour, the congenial employment, and the bright halo of her twenty young years, threw around her an atmosphere of soft, pure, gentle pleasure. Thoughts of more homely things mingled with her poetic mood. She thought of the choice little supper Madeleine was preparing for her father, and she tried to conjecture when he would arrive.
The current of her ideas was interrupted by the ringing of the bell on the landing, and Madeleine announced the arrival of Monsieur Hyppolite. An uncontrollable thrill lifted her heart with one great bound. For a moment the illuminated volume, the sweet summer breeze, the tuneful linnet, and the little supper for her father, were all forgotten. By a strong effort she recovered herself, however, and received Hyppolite as usual; perhaps a little more coolly, for she was inwardly shocked to find that his presence had power, even for a moment, to obliterate the pleasures and affections she had always deemed so sacred. He brought two beautifully illuminated letters, that had evidently formed part of a very fine Italian manuscript. Being in an unusual style of art, they attracted her attention, and diverted her thoughts from the channel they had taken. She reseated herself at her work; and while he watched her skilful pencil tracing the intricate interlacingsof various and many-colored lines and branches, he sought to entertain her with his usual light chat. But Marcelline did not respond so gayly as she was accustomed to do, and he grew unwontedly silent; so silent, that the song of the linnet was heard again, and no other sound disturbed the stillness. At last, Hyppolite, with a great effort, and as if something choked his usual clear utterance, said, “Marcelline, you must have long perceived that I—” she rose hastily, exclaiming, “O don’t say that word!Don’tsay it! To break the holy spell of filial affection which has always bound my heart, would be sacrilege.” But Hyppolite knelt at her feet, and poured forth the fervid language that comes to all when the heart is kindled by a first love. Marcelline turned away her head and wept. The bitter tears, not without sweetness, relieved the deep trouble of her heart. She resumed her seat, and told her cousin decidedly, but kindly, that he must never speak to her of love while her dear father lived; that she could never allow any earthly affection to come between her and him. The young man, in the midst of his disappointment, could not but wish that his uncle might live long; for he truly loved his genial nature, and regarded his great learning with almost superstitious veneration. He held out his hand, saying, “My cousin, it is the hand of friendship.” She pressed it kindly, and gently admonished him thathis visits must be less frequent. After a brief struggle he resigned himself to her guidance, and recovered his equanimity, if not his usual gayety. All was peaceful and pleasant when Dubois returned, and Hyppolite was urged to stay and partake of the choice little supper.
The household continued to go on in the old quiet way, varied occasionally by visits from antiquarians and learned men. On such occasions, it was charming to hear Dubois descant on his favorite topics with the enthusiasm and beautiful flow of language which they always excited. Marcelline was often appealed to in these discussions; for her intimate knowledge of the beauties of illumination enabled her to judge the age of a manuscript, by delicate peculiarities in its ornaments, more readily than learned men could do by the character of the writing or the nature of the subject. Hyppolite, who was sometimes present by special invitation, would sit apart, drinking in every delicate epithet and daintly selected word uttered by his cousin, as though they were heaven-distilled drops of nectar.
One morning, Dubois rushed into his daughter’s apartment, eagerly exclaiming, “Eureka! Eureka! I have found it! I have found it! My name will go down to posterity joined with that of Livy! At last I have found The Lost Books!” Joyfully, he drew his daughter into his study, and there, spread upon the floor, were several sheets of vellum stillwet from the action of his sponge. The more recent writing had been removed, and traces of a nearly erased manuscript, apparently of the tenth century, was gradually becoming more distinct under the influence of a preparation he had applied. The old man drew himself up as he pointed to it, and looking proudly at his daughter, said, “The labor of my life has been well expended. It will bemygreat privilege to be the first among moderns to read the whole of the noble history of Livy; for I believe thewholeis there.” He insisted that Hyppolite should be sent for to hear the glad tidings. The good-natured youth hastened to the Rue Cassette, and congratulated his uncle upon his great discovery. He did not, indeed, understand the importance of the recovered annals, for he thought we had a tolerably complete history of Rome without these famous Lost Books, but he cordially sympathized with the joy of his uncle and cousin. It was a day marked with “a white stone” in the annals of the quiet little family. In honor of the occasion, a bottle of the choice wine called Chateaux Margaux, was placed on the generally frugal little dinner-table, and the sun traced upon it bright lights and shadows through the branches of the lime-trees, as if to aid in the celebration.
Day by day, more pages of thepalimpsestwere prepared, and the ancient text developed itself so well, that the exulting Dubois resolved to invitehis most learned friends to a grand evening reunion, in honor of his discovery. A lithographed circular was accordingly prepared, and sent round in due form. It brought together a select party of the knowing ones in such matters. Dubois was all smiles and urbanity. In the fluent language, of which he had extraordinary command, he related the successive details of his discovery. He deemed himself the most fortunate of men. His heart was running over with enthusiasm. His hearers were charmed with the copious flood of eloquence that he poured forth without stint, full of the deepest erudition, yet warmed and embellished by a pervading gleam of amiable exhilaration, and innocent exultation over the triumphant result of his life-long labors. The sheets of the recovered manuscript were placed in a good light, and eagerly examined through many pairs of glittering spectacles and powerful microscopes. It obviously related to that portion of Roman history lost from the books of Livy, but many doubts were expressed whether it were written by that great historian. Peculiarities of orthography and style were adduced to prove that the writer must have been a monk. But Dubois ingeniously converted every objection into an additional proof that they had before them the identical Lost Books of Livy.
The animated discussion was interrupted by the entrance of Madeleine, who said that two men were at the door, with old manuscripts to sell. Duboiscould never resist the temptation to examine musty vellum, and he ordered them to be shown in. The manuscripts did not prove to be of any value; and Madeleine was very glad to close the door upon the intruders, for she did not like their looks. A similar impression seemed to have been made on the company; for several of them remarked that it was hazardous to introduce men of that stamp into a room filled with books clasped with silver, and with many other ancient articles of curious workmanship, some of them in the precious metals. But Dubois laughed at the idea that anybody would think of robbing a poor book-antiquarian of his musty treasures, though some of them were clasped with silver.
The dimensions of the table were enlarged by piles of huge folios, and Madeleine spread it with choice viands, in the discussion of which the style and orthography of Livy were for a while forgotten. The lively sallies of Hyppolite, his funny anecdotes, and descriptions of practical jokes, began to entertain the guests more than their own conversation. His merry, thrilling laugh became infectious. First, his pretty cousin joined in with her silvery treble; then Dubois; then all of them. No one, listening to this hilarious chorus, would have supposed the company consisted of the most profound scholars that ever enlightened the halls of the Institute or the Academy.
Dubois went to sleep that happy night dreamingof new discoveries among the as yet unrestored leaves of his preciouspalimpsest. He was wakened very early in the morning by a loud knock at his door, and heard the voice of old Madeleine crying out, “Monsieur Dubois! Monsieur Dubois! Get up! Pray get up immediately!” He hurried on his dressing-gown, and found Madeleine in the middle of his study, her eyes streaming with tears. The room where he had heaped up so many treasures, where he had spent so many hours of calm happiness, where he had the last evening enjoyed so much, was empty. The pile of folios, the rows of richly-bound manuscripts, with the velvet covers and silver clasps, his preciouspalimpsest, and even the bundles of musty vellum, had all disappeared. The window was open, and the little curtain torn; plainly indicating how the robbers had obtained entrance into his sanctuary. The linnet was singing a morning song in the lime-trees, and the early sun checkered the empty floor with bright light and quivering shadows of the foliage. It seemed as if the sweet sounds and the brilliant rays were rejoicing over a scene of gladness, instead of such utter desolation and wretchedness.
No words can describe the pangs which wrung the heart of poor Dubois, thus suddenly and strangely deprived of the treasure which he had spent all the energies of his life in discovering. For a moment, his eyes glared with rage, like those of a tiger deprived of her young. Then he claspedhis trembling hands, and fell heavily, nearly fainting, into his chair. Alarmed by the sound of his fall, Marcelline came running in. It was long before she and old Madeleine could rouse him from his lethargy. At last, his stupefied senses were awakened and concentrated by his daughter’s repeated assurances that the lost treasure would be recovered if an immediate pursuit were instituted. “It is not likely,” said she, “that we shall recover the richly-illuminated manuscripts, in their valuable bindings; or the carved ivories; or those codices written in gold upon grounds of purple; but the sheets of that oldpalimpsest, with its half-obliterated characters, and the old volume containing the rest of the work, cannot possibly be of use to anybody but yourself. Those can surely be recovered.”
A flood of passionate tears came to her father’s relief. His usual calmness was restored; and after drinking a cup of coffee, urged upon him by the kind old Madeleine, he hurried forth to give information to the police, and to make all possible efforts to recover his treasures.
Some fragments of parchment were found under the lime-trees, but no further traces were discovered, till late in the forenoon it was ascertained that one of the richly-bound manuscripts had been offered to a dealer for sale. In the afternoon, another clew was obtained from a waste-paper dealer, who described a quantity of parchment brought tohim that morning, which he had not, however, purchased. From the description, it appeared that the preciouspalimpsestwas among these bundles. Dubois’s hopes were kindled by this information. He was recommended to go to the establishments of various dealers in such articles in remote quarters of the city, and, accompanied by the police, he made diligent search. Only one more remained, and that was close to the Barrière du Trone.
Arrived at this establishment, Dubois was surprised to see his nephew mounted aloft at a desk in the inner warehouse; for he had never inquired concerning the nature of the factory in which he was employed. As soon as Hyppolite perceived his uncle, he hurried forward to welcome him, and told him he had intended to call at the Rue Cassette that day, for he had just obtained possession of two illuminated letters that he wished to present to Mademoiselle Marcelline. He took two slips of vellum from his desk; “See,” said he, “these are very much in the style of that old Roman History you were exhibiting to the company last night.”
“Very much in the style!” exclaimed Dubois, his eyes glistening with delight. “They are identical! Where did you get them?”
“Our foreman sent them down to me,” rejoined Hyppolite. “We purchase enormous quantities of old parchment, and frequently a few painted letters are found in the mass. Our manager,in compliance with my request, cuts them out and reserves them for me.”
“Then the vellum from which they were cut is here?”
“Yes, it is, uncle; but why are you so agitated?”
Dubois briefly related the circumstances of the robbery; and wiping the cold perspiration from his brow, he added: “But all is safe now! I would not walk twenty paces to recover all the silver-clasped volumes, if I can only hold once more the mustypalimpsestwhich contains that priceless treasure,—The Lost Books of Livy!”
The flush faded from Hyppolite’s ruddy cheek. “There is not a moment to be lost!” exclaimed he. “Follow me, dear uncle.”
Away he ran across court-yards, through long warehouses filled with merchandise, and up flights of stairs, two steps at a bound. Dubois, highly excited, followed with the activity of youth. They reached a small room adjoining an enormous mass of lofty chimneys, from which heavy columns of smoke rolled away before the wind.
“Where is the lot of old vellum that came this morning?” gasped Hyppolite, all out of breath.
A man who was busy checking off accounts, asked, “Do you mean the lot from which you cut those two letters?”
“Yes, yes,” replied Hyppolite. “Where is it? Where is it? It is very important!”
“Let me see,” said the man. “It was lot number fourteen, purchased at eight o’clock this morning. We happened to be very short of vellum, and I gave out that new lot directly.” He opened a creaking door, and called out, “Pierre! Pierre! what was the number of the lot you put in last?”
“Number fourteen,” replied a deep voice within; and the door closed again, with dinning rattle of rope and weight.
“It is too late,” said the foreman, turning to Hyppolite. “It went in at eleven o’clock.”
“Wentin? Went inwhere?” exclaimed Dubois, turning first to Hyppolite, and then to the foreman, with a look of haggard anxiety.
“Into the boiler,” replied Hyppolite, taking his uncle’s hand. “This is a gelatine manufactory. We boil down tons of old parchment every year.”
* * * * *
It was long before Dubois recovered from the shock he had received; but he did finally recover. He began to accumulate fresh bibliographical treasures around him, and many pleasant evenings were spent in those old apartments. But his former enthusiasm never returned. Any new discovery in the field of his research no longer excited a rapid flow of ardent words, but was merely indicated by a faint smile. He was always kindly and genial, and was only roused to an occasional word or look of bitterness whensome circumstance happened to remind him of the treasure he had lost. “To think that what I had been hunting for all my life should be found only to be lost in a pot of gelatine!” he would exclaim, indignantly. Then he would fall into a silence which no one ventured to disturb. But, with a slight sigh, and a quiver of his gray locks, he would soon dismiss the subject from his mind, and change the conversation.
If he ever felt regret at having expended all the energies of his life among the dim shadows of the past, no one ever heard him express the feeling. And this was wise; for his habits were too firmly fixed to be changed. He lived with his dear old volumes as with friends. The monotony of his life was soothed by a daughter’s love, and cheered by the kind attentions of his gay young nephew. His uncommon talents and learning left no traces behind them, and his name passed away as do the pleasant clouds of twilight. Hyppolite’s constant love was rewarded by the heart and hand of Marcelline; and the two
who most reverenced the old man’s learning, and mosttenderly cherished the memory of his genialcharacter, lived to talk of themoften to each other, and toteach them to theirdescendants.