order
to shorten the distance one-half league and travel by perhaps one-half
hour, some engineers, unaware that they were plotting murder, mapped
out another road. This new road, instead of winding around the
mountain, passed through the valley. This left the village off on its
left probably less than one-half league away. This, no doubt, seemed of
minor importance, but the village now no longer had its road. This road
had been its life; its life-force now suddenly ebbed.
The
village fell into a decline, sickened, grew seriously ill, and died. I
have since seen it dead, entirely dead, devoid of life. The houses were
quite empty, some still closed as they were on the day when those who
had lived there went away; in others open to the four winds, fires had
been made on the deserted hearths with broken furniture—perhaps by lost
travellers, perhaps by stray Bohemians. The church is still in
existence, the checker-like planting of sycamores will remain
indefinitely. But the church has lost its songs; the altar cloth hangs
in shreds; some wild animal flying perhaps in fright from the church
where it had sought refuge has overthrown one of the small wooden
saints. The sycamores, too, have lost their musicians, their dancers,
their spectators, their drinkers. In the cemetery the father waits in
vain for his son; the mother, her daughter; the grandfather, his
grandson. In their graves they are astonished not to hear the earth
moving around them, and inquire, "What are they doing up there? Do
people no longer die?"
This
is exactly what is taking place at Montmorency, which is weakening and
languishing, now that the life-giving artery has scorned this place in
favour of Enghien. Still at times mistakes are made for all strangers
make the pilgrimage to Le Chevrette. Dying, this poor village sees
protection only in death. Now genius has this salient benefit— that in
the final analysis, it can replace the sun, from whence it emanates.
What I have thought, my good friend, is that the progress of
civilization is the march of intellectual sunlight. Frequently when I
had nothing new or interesting to read I would take out some of the
maps of the world, bound into an immense book comprising endless pages
where on each page was contained the record of the rise or fall of some
empire. What history was I seeking? The history of the Egyptian,
Menes; of the Babylonian, Nimrod; of the Assyrian, Belus; of Phul, of
Nineveh; of the Mede, Arbaces; of the Persian, Cambyses; of the Syrian,
Rohob; of Scamander, of Troy; of the Lydian Meons; of Ethbaal of Tyre;
of the Carthaginian, Dido; of the Numidian, Yar-bas; of the Sicilian,
Gelon; of the Albanian, Romulus; of the Etruscan,
