HUMAN FOLLIES. HUMAN FOLLIES. (_La Bêtise Humaine._) BY JULES NORIAC. _Translated from the_ SIXTEENTH _Paris Edition_. BY GEORGE MARLOW. [Illustration] PHILADELPHIA: FREDERICK LEYPOLDT. NEW YORK: F. W. CHRISTERN. 1863. HUMAN FOLLIES. CHAPTER I. When Eusebe Martin had attained his twenty-first year, his father, who was a man of sense, thus addressed him:-- “Eusebe, you are no longer a child: it is time to begin your education. You were but eight years old when you lost your mother, my beloved wife. This was a great misfortune, no doubt; for her heart would have been to you a treasure of affection. However, if we were permitted to believe in compensations in this world, I should think that you had been recompensed for this loss, great as it was. Your mother, had she lived, would have spoiled you, and to-day you would not have been half the man you are. “Remember that I have been to you a father full of solicitude. Since the day of your mother’s death, I have left you as free as the bird that at this moment is singing on the linden-tree at the door. I have clothed you according to the season,--in summer in linen, in winter in wool. My table has always been abundantly supplied. As I never told you that you ate too much, you have never shown a desire to overload your stomach. I have accustomed you to running in the fields and to working with the peasants, which has rendered you strong and vigorous. “Morally, I owed you nothing more. Nevertheless, I have taught you to read and to write. I cannot tell you how thankful I am that you have not a thick head: instead of six months, you would have wearied me two long years,--perhaps more. What use have you made of the little learning I have given you? I have never taken the pains to inquire. I have left my library entirely at your disposal, because I knew that if it contained no good books it also contained no bad ones. Have the books you have read tended to form or deform your judgment? Little do I care; for, since no one can know where falsehood is to be found and where truth is hidden, my reflections would, probably, have been at war with reason.” “Books generally tire me,” interrupted Eusebe. “Up to the present time I have read nothing but the adventures of a sailor named Robinson Crusoe, and of one Telemachus, son of Ulysses.”