UNCLE MAURICE
Juh, Four Oclock A.M.
I am not surprised at hearing, when I awake, the birds singing sojoyfully outside my window; it is only by living, as they and I do, in atop story, that one es to know how cheerful the ms really are upamong the roofs. It is there that the sun sends his first rays, and thebreeze es with the fragrance of the gardens and woods; there that awandering butterfly sometimes ventures among the flowers of the attid that the songs of the industrious work-woman wele the dawn of day.
The lower stories are still deep in sleep, silence, and shadow, whilehere labor, light, and song already reign.
What life is around me! See the swallow returning from her search forfood, with her beak full of is for her young ohe sparrowsshake the dew from their wings while they chase one another in thesunshine; and my neighbors throw open their windows, and wele them with their fresh faces! Delightful hour of waking, whehiurns to feeling and to motion; when the first light of daystrikes upoion, and brings it to life again, as the magidstruck the palace of the Sleepiy in the wood! It is a moment ofrest from every misery; the sufferings of the sick are allayed, and abreath of hope enters into the hearts of the despairing. But, alas! itis but a short respite! Everything will soon resume its wonted course:
the great human mae, with its long strains, its deep gasps, itscollisions, and its crashes, will be again put in motion.
The tranquillity of this first m hour reminds me of that of ourfirst years of life. Then, too, the sun shines brightly, the air isfragrant, and the illusions of youth-those birds of our lifes m-sing around us. Why do they fly away when we are older? Where do thissadness and this solitude, which gradually steal upon us, e from? Thecourse seems to be the same with individuals and with unities: atstarting, so readily made happy, so easily ented; and at the goal,the bitter disappoi or reality! The road, which began amonghawthorns and primroses, ends speedily is or in precipices! Whyis there so much fide first, so much doubt at last? Has, then,the knowledge of life no other end but to make it unfit for happiness?
Must we n ourselves to ignorance if we would preserve hope? Is theworld and is the individual man intended, after all, to fi only iernal childhood?
How many times have I asked myself these questions! Solitude has theadvantage or the danger of making us tinually search more deeply intothe same ideas. As our discourse is only with ourself, we always givethe same dire to the versation; we are not called to turn it tothe subject which occupies another mind, or is anothers feelings;and so an involuntary ination makes us return forever to knock at thesame doors!
I interrupted my refles to put my atti order. I hate the lookof disorder, because it shows either a pt for details or anunaptness for spiritual life. Te the things among which we haveto live, is to establish the relation of property and of use between themand us: it is to lay the foundation of those habits without which mantends to the savage state. What, in fact, is social anization but aseries of habits, settled in accordah the dispositions of ournature?
I distrust both the intelled the morality of those people to whomdisorder is of no sequence--who live at ease in an Augean stable.
What surrounds us, reflects more or less that which is within us. Themind is like one of those dark lanterns