His death, when comparatively young, left a distinct gap in the literary world.  A life like his could not be extinguished without general sorrow.  Although he was unduly modest, and never aspired to the role of a beacon-light in literature, always seeking to remain in obscurity, the works of Emile Souvestre must be placed in the first rank by their morality and by their instructive character.  They will always command the entire respect and applause of mankind.  And thus it happens that, like many others, he was only fully appreciated after his death.

Even those of his ‘confreres’ who did not seem to esteem him, when alive, suddenly found out that they had experienced a great loss in his demise.  They expressed it in emotional panegyrcs; contemporaneous literature discovered that virtue had flown from its bosom, and the French Academy, which had at its proper time crowned his ‘Philosophe sons les Toits’ as a work contributing supremely to morals, kept his memory green by bestowing on his widow the “Prix Lambert,” designed for the “families of authors who by their integrity, and by the probity of their efforts have well deserved this token from the Republique des Lettres.”

Joseph Bertrand
de ’Academie Francaise.

AN “ATTIC” PHILOSOPHER

BOOK 1.

CHAPTER I

NEW-YEAR’S GIFTS

January 1st

The day of the month came into my mind as soon as I awoke.  Another year is separated from the chain of ages, and drops into the gulf of the past!  The crowd hasten to welcome her young sister.  But while all looks are turned toward the future, mine revert to the past.  Everyone smiles upon the new queen; but, in spite of myself, I think of her whom time has just wrapped in her winding-sheet.  The past year!—­at least I know what she was, and what she has given me; while this one comes surrounded by all the forebodings of the unknown.  What does she hide in the clouds that mantle her?  Is it the storm or the sunshine?  Just now it rains, and I feel my mind as gloomy as the sky.  I have a holiday today; but what can one do on a rainy day?  I walk up and down my attic out of temper, and I determine to light my fire.

Unfortunately the matches are bad, the chimney smokes, the wood goes out!  I throw down my bellows in disgust, and sink into my old armchair.

In truth, why should I rejoice to see the birth of a new year?  All those who are already in the streets, with holiday looks and smiling faces—­do they understand what makes them so gay?  Do they even know what is the meaning of this holiday, or whence comes the custom of New-Year’s gifts?

Here my mind pauses to prove to itself its superiority over that of the vulgar.  I make a parenthesis in my ill-temper in favor of my vanity, and I bring together all the evidence which my knowledge can produce.