Ah! if, in the worst days of revolutions, ignorance has revolted and raised a cry of hatred against genius, the fault is not alone in the envious malice of ignorance, but comes in part, too, from the contemptuous pride of knowledge.

Alas!  I have too completely forgotten the fable of the two sons of the magician of Bagdad.

One of them, struck by an irrevocable decree of destiny, was born blind, while the other enjoyed all the delights of sight.  The latter, proud of his own advantages, laughed at his brother’s blindness, and disdained him as a companion.  One morning the blind boy wished to go out with him.

“To what purpose,” said he, “since the gods have put nothing in common between us?  For me creation is a stage, where a thousand charming scenes and wonderful actors appear in succession; for you it is only an obscure abyss, at the bottom of which you hear the confused murmur of an invisible world.  Continue then alone in your darkness, and leave the pleasures of light to those upon whom the day-star shines.”

With these words he went away, and his brother, left alone, began to cry bitterly.  His father, who heard him, immediately ran to him, and tried to console him by promising to give him whatever he desired.

“Can you give me sight?” asked the child.

“Fate does not permit it,” said the magician.

“Then,” cried the blind boy, eagerly, “I ask you to put out the sun!”

Who knows whether my pride has not provoked the same wish on the part of some one of my brothers who does not see?

But how much oftener have I erred through levity and want of thought!  How many resolutions have I taken at random! how many judgments have I pronounced for the sake of a witticism! how many mischiefs have I not done without any sense of my responsibility!  The greater part of men harm one another for the sake of doing something.  We laugh at the honor of one, and compromise the reputation of another, like an idle man who saunters along a hedgerow, breaking the young branches and destroying the most beautiful flowers.

And, nevertheless, it is by this very thoughtlessness that the fame of some men is created.  It rises gradually, like one of those mysterious mounds in barbarous countries, to which a stone is added by every passerby; each one brings something at random, and adds it as he passes, without being able himself to see whether he is raising a pedestal or a gibbet.  Who will dare look behind him, to see his rash judgments held up there to view?

Some time ago I was walking along the edge of the green mound on which the Montmartre telegraph stands.  Below me, along one of the zigzag paths which wind up the hill, a man and a girl were coming up, and arrested my attention.  The man wore a shaggy coat, which gave him some resemblance to a wild beast; and he held a thick stick in his hand, with which he described various strange figures in the air.  He spoke very