THE STUDY OF NATURE. 27 
‘whither the village-bell summoned him,’ to use his 
oft-repeated phrase. I had not the strength to conceal 
my thoughts. Sometimes I flung my arms around his 
neck, exclaiming: ‘Papa, do not die! oh, never die!’ 
He embraced me, without replying; but his fine large 
eee 
22> 
fi 
black eyes were troubled as they gazed on me. f 
“T was attached to him by a thousand ties, by a _, i 
thousand intimate relations. I was the daughter of ‘N 
his mature age, of his shattered health, of his affections. , a 
wh 
I had not that happy equilibrium which his other chil- 
dren derived from my mother. My father was trans- 
mitted in me (passé en moi). He said so himself: 
‘How I feel that thou art my daughter!’ 
“Years and life’s trials had deprived him of nothing ; 
to his last hour he retained the vivacity, the aspira- 
tions, and even the charm of youth. Every one felt 
it without being able to account for it, and all flocked 
around him of their own accord—women, children, men. 
I still see him in his little study, seated before his 
small black table, relating his Odyssey, his long jour- 
neys in America, his life in the colonies; one never 
grew weary of his stories. A maiden of twenty years, 
in the last stage of a pulmonary disease, heard him 
shortly before her end: she would fain have listened 
to him always; implored him to visit her, for while he 
was discoursing she forgot her sufferings and her decay, 
even the approach of death. 
“This charm I speak of was not that of a clever 
talker only; it was due to the great goodness so 
plainly visible in him. The trials, the life of ad- 
venture and misfortune, which harden so many hearts, 
