title: My mother's manuscript; being a true picture of the private life of a French family during many of the most eventful periods of the nineteenth century. With annotations, prologues, and epilogues.
text: r I i* m m % I * Sal«3&f f$ IK(>•*fiaft3?? imFrfw83ft*! fturM\m<‘AQmSSk {%? s1 &j! fcr£$ \ll\vtmwn Kbit# \\ ■ * wu 'jfif v v/, at^ ?J *JBM mW/w y*Uow / »*<>Sfi </(rj ivJi< < t %v* ffiV/fAw vft#Mvi®vl f^wiwwiffi nSi^® ifcJ&Msf tjw» -v. t.-iui HWi - »ft » » s*y Ai^>c. iVf i •#‘ SB? , r?*^r& <r •/**. Miwm >> w r* UV>;v r " StK % * l I •V. MY MOTHER’S MANUSCRIPT; BEING A TRUE PICTURE OF THE PRIVATE LIFE OF A FRENCH FAMILY DURING MANY OF THE MOST EVENTFUL PERIODS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. WITH ANNOTATIONS, PROLOGUES, AND EPILOGUES. BY ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY MARIA LOUISA HELPER. ) 5 y ) > ( J ) PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1877. 4-cr I £ Copyright, 1876, by J. B. Lippincott & Co. DEDICATION TO MRS. EMILY BEACH POLK, FORMERLY OF ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA, NOW OF BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, WIDOW OF CAPT. ALEXANDER HAMILTON POLK, IN WHOSE FAMILY, CONSISTING OF THEMSELVES AND THEIR FIVE CHILDREN, MORE THAN IN ANY OTHER FAMILY OF MY ACQUAINTANCE, I HAVE SEEN EXEMPLIFIED THE NATURAL NOBLENESS AND EXALTED VIR¬ TUES OF THE FAMILY OF MADAME ALICE DE LAMARTINE, AS HEREIN PORTRAYED, THIS BOOK, WITHOUT THE SLIGHTEST KNOWLEDGE ON HER PART, IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED, IN THE HOPE AND TRUST THAT SHE WILL PARDON THE LIBERTY WHICH A SINCERE FRIEND, THE TRANSLATOR, HAS THUS TAKEN WITH HER GOOD NAME. M. L. H TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. While on a visit, in 1873, to m y family and friends at Buenos Ayres, in the Argentine Republic, “ My Mother’s Manuscript,” which was then and there serially repub¬ lished in Spanish, in La Tribuna , one of the principal newspapers of the country, casually came into my hands; and having always been a great reader and admirer of the writings of Lamartine, I read this also, his last work, with an unusual degree of interest and pleasure. So deeply impressed was I with the exquisite simplicity and pathos of this new drama of domestic life in France, that I soon formed the purpose of translating it into Eng¬ lish; and this purpose remained steadily with me until after my return to the United States, where, in the city of New York, I found and purchased (what I had not been able to find in Buenos Ayres) a copy of the original work in French; and therefrom—and not from the Span¬ ish—has been educed the translation in hand. As a mere matter of fact (yet of small moment), I may here state, that I only predetermined to make this trans¬ lation in Buenos Ayres, began it in North Carolina, con¬ tinued it in New York, and finally, after -a long sojourn in New York, returned to North Carolina, and there finished it. The further fact that, with little else to do meanwhile, I have spent more than two years in trans¬ forming this little book from French into English, only 6 TRANS LA TOR’S PREFACE. proves what a very slow and, as I fear, imperfect worker I am. This dilatoriness of action on my part has not been without result, as affecting the work, in a far-distant land. Only a few weeks before my own translation was finished, I was surprised, and yet (considering the great interest and merit of the “Manuscript”) not surprised, to read a brief item in the literary department of a New York newspaper, stating that Madame Lamartine’s diary, as revised and edited by her son Alphonse, had already been translated into English by Lady Herbert, of Lon¬ don. That the original work in French should thus, at .one and the same time, elicit absolutely different and spontaneous translation into English in both Europe and America, gives indication of the very high estimation in which the book may, perhaps, at a future period, be held throughout the republic of letters. As yet I have not seen, whether in the simple form of quotation or other¬ wise, so much as one line, nor even so much as one word, of Lady Herbert’s translation ; but, because of my curiosity to examine her labor, which, judging from the generality of British precedents in matters of this kind, I dare say has been ably and worthily performed, I have made arrangements to obtain a copy of her book, only, however, after my own rendering of the original shall have come from the press. Influenced by this deter¬ mination, I have preserved, as I wished to preserve, the perfect independence, wholeness, and uniqueness of my own translation. At first I abandoned entirely the idea of rendering into English the poetic portions of the “Manuscript,” deeming it a task altogether too formidable and hazard¬ ous for one so unskilled as myself to undertake ; but after carefully considering the subject several times, and fear- TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 7 ing that the work might be conspicuously incomplete without them, I resolved that I would at least try to translate those portions into an acceptable sort of metri¬ cal and consonant sense. If I am guilty of any undue presumption in this regard, I heartily crave my readers’ pardon. Certain it is that my own poor faculties are too, dull and prosaic to reflect anything of the artistic touch, the flowing beauty, or the majestic grandeur of Lamar¬ tine’s lofty muse. The very most that I could hope to accomplish in this particular matter was to reproduce, with passable ingenuity, the golden links of harmony and significance which exist between the author’s incompara¬ ble prose on the one side and his sublime poetry on the other. In my efforts to maintain the natural and neces¬ sary connection between these two very different yet re¬ spectively perfect forms of expression by one of the great masters in modern literature,—a man equally able and distinguished, whether as a frequenter of the Academy or as a visitor at Helicon,—I may frankly admit that I did the best I knew how to do, and that having so done, I could do no more. If, as is but too probable, I have not succeeded in ren¬ dering the obvious and impressive facts of this book more cheerful and interesting than the very best of the works of modern fiction, and more hopeful and elevating in tone than many of the distinctively moral dissertations of the times, it was and is only because of my sheer inability to do justice to the original. Yet this I may avow, with all candor, that while, even for this world, I have not been unmindful of the sacred¬ ness of my obligation to make strenuous efforts to pre¬ serve, as fully as possible, the original brilliance and purity of this French gem of perfect literature, neither have I ceased to be profoundly imbued with the thought 8 TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE. that, after the present life, a future may come when, for the manner of my translation of the work, primarily so well fitted to influence in mankind a more generous and noble order of opinions and actions within the family cir¬ cle, I may be held to account, both by the Great Spirit of Him who is always the Sum of All in All, and by the immeasurably less potent spirits of the Lamartines them¬ selves, mother and son, who first wrote, and wrote so well, in another language, the hallowed pages of this “ Manuscript/’ If the work, in the English garb in which I thus have the pleasure of presenting it to the world, shall prove to only so many as two or three of my readers half so fas¬ cinating and gratifying as the Spanish and the French editions of the same work have proved to me, I shall always feel fully justified and rewarded for my interme¬ diacy herein, which, from the very first, has been with me a self-imposed labor of both love and duty. M. L. H. Asheville, North Carolina, September 21,1876. RONCHAUD'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST FRENCH EDITION. To two minds and two hearts is due the authorship of this book. The financial distress and ruin which so sorely afflicted the closing days of Lamartine, had com¬ pelled him to sell the precious manuscript drawn from the ancient records of his family, enlarged and embel¬ lished by his own commentaries, as a filial tribute to a sacred memory. The publication of the work was even announced during his lifetime; but, at his own special and urgent request, it was deferred. Bought and reserved by the publishers of his posthumous works, the book can now properly appear; the son having gone to rejoin his mother in the tomb; and a profound and universal re¬ spect having been awakened in connection with the least recollection of the great genius who has thus descended to posterity. This work, the “ Manuscript of my Mother,” forms, with the unpublished “ Memoirs,” the last link in the narrative of his life, which Lamartine himself has prepared. It contains the sweetly romantic incidents, of his childhood and youth, so much the more precious as they are authentic, having for witness the very mother herself of the poet, a woman truly worthy and noble, who had faithfully transcribed them in a jour¬ nal, wherein it was her custom to tell to herself anew the daily events of her domestic hearth. A* 9 IO RONCHAUD'S PREFACE. Since the acquisition of the manuscript by the proprie¬ tors who now publish it, its appearance has been retarded by the late appalling events which have filled France with desolation. Now that the return to peace and order per¬ mits us to come back at last to the pure joys of literature, the moment seems opportune to recall public attention to the beautiful and elevating writings of Lamartine. After so many severe trials and so many painful humiliations, it is necessary for France to reinvigorate herself with the reading and the study of her great authors; to recount her glories, and to behold her genius shining once more in those who have carried highest and furthest her sym¬ pathetic brilliance and splendor. Of those authors La¬ martine is universally and justly acknowledged to be one of the greatest. In less troubled and less unhappy times, although him¬ self saddened also by the remembrance of revolutions and wars, he gave out, for the first time, his songs of love, of sympathy, and of hope. Is it not a singular predestination which brings out of the tomb to-day, and resounds through so many ruins, a last and more melan¬ choly outburst of his pure and religious poetry? The reappearance at this time of the name of Lamar¬ tine is entitled to another welcome. Although politics are absent from this book, yet it will not the less recall to mind the Great Republican of 1848; the man who, during a revolutionary crisis, bravely recommended to France a republican form of government as her safest refuge against the recurrence of internal strife. The republic of which he had conceived the idea, and of which his name has remained the symbol, the true repub¬ lic, great, open, and generous, protecting all vested rights and legitimate interests, is the very republic which France is now again endeavoring to establish; for it alone can, RONCHAUD'S PREFACE. H at one and the same time, preserve France from the vio¬ lence of desperate demagogues and from the tendencies toward a blind and fatal reaction. Seated in the ranks of the National Assembly, more than one disciple of Lamartine is now striving to main¬ tain in France the republican form of government, and to develop to the best advantage the true republican idea. May the genius of their worthy and eminent master look down upon them, and upon all those who, with a devoted heart and with a strong and faithful hope and purpose, are engaged in the same noble work ! In an ode to Lamartine, an American poet has ex¬ pressed the opinion that, although the Republic of 1848 was only the hastily-sketched outline of a system of gov¬ ernment, yet it was the most beautiful work of the poet, as the most beautiful work of Michael Angelo was his unfinished bust of Brutus. If, as is to be sincerely hoped, the interrupted work shall be resumed and successfully terminated by other hands; if full and perfect liberty shall indeed be established in France, upon a solid and enduring basis; then the name written on the first page of this book ought certainly to be the first engraved, and the boldest in relief, on the pedestal of the statue of the French Republic. LOUIS DE RONCHAUD. Paris, July 8,1871. -V % % LAMARTINE'S OWN ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER. An entirely domestic circumstance, which it is use¬ less to disclose to the public, has finally resulted in the giving of this little manuscript to the press. Both by its nature and by intention it was expected that it would forever remain a manuscript. It should at most have constituted a part of those sacred family records which the children, the grandchildren, the nephews and the nieces, find sometimes in the dusty drawer of some old piece of furniture in the country, and which they peruse for their own interest and edification during their long leisure in the holidays of autumn. Yet, since the work has escaped from the domestic hearth, in spite of us, and is destined (with whatever re¬ luctance on our part) to come before indifferent eyes and distant minds, we here dedicate it only to the family of that beautiful and affectionate mother who, in these pages, poured out the fullness of her heart, without fore¬ seeing that she would not have time to secrete or destroy the pious pencilings of her home life. We beg that others will not attempt to read it, for they will probably find nothing here of what they are most apt to look for in a -book; the manuscript itself being especially interesting only for those to whom this virtuous woman has trans¬ mitted either a drop of her blood or otherwise a kinship *3 2 14 LAMAR TINE'S OIVN AD VER TISEMENT. of her soul. Let us here add to our limited company of natural privilege some few friends who still live in ‘the country where she resided; some old servants who only pronounce her name, weeping at the happy recollection of it ; and some peasants of the neighboring cottages, who frequently come down the mountain on pilgrimages and on days of prayer, and whose footsteps for twenty- eight years have prevented the grass from growing over the path which leads to her tear-moistened grave. ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. Saint Point, November 2, 1858. MY MOTHER’S MANUSCRIPT. I. Throughout the rural districts of France the second of November is a day that is generally designated as The Day of the Dead. When I have sufficient leisure, I pass this day in solemn meditation at Saint Point, as near as possible to the little cemetery of the village, upon which opens a small private door of my garden. Tfc|re, just there, lies in the earth, which she loved so well, my precious mother, whose coffin rests affectionately beside another coffin, smaller than hers, which she seems to have drawn along with her, as the bed that gives way above may crush down the cradle beneath it. From that coffin my imagination does not even dare to lift the shroud, lest I should see again on earth that which, being lifeless here, I desire to see hereafter only in heaven. II. During this short and chilly day of autumn, I endeavor not to allow my thoughts to be diverted by any frivolous intercourse with the living from the sad and silent com¬ munion of my soul with the souls of those who are now no more in the flesh. I delight in wandering along the most gloomy paths of the woods, which still have a suf¬ ficient quantity of discolored leaves to intercept the pale rays of the sun; whilst here and there the faded and wilted foliage falls to the ground, signifying to us that all i5 i6 MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. living creatures are breathing death, and that, in verity, every terrestrial thing not dead must die. Outward Na¬ ture, in this month, is but a vast elegy which associates itself harmoniously with the eternal elegy- of the heart of man. I go, I come, I linger upon the wet grass, without any object but merely to go over and about the footsteps of dear and departed ones, who, in other days, would gently walk before me, behind me, or by my side, in these very by-paths. Unconsciously I stop every few moments, and, half transfixed in contemplation, my feet seem to become buried in the soil near the great isolated trees of the border of the woods, at the edge of which, either by chance or by habit, the older and the younger people used to meet together,—the mothers, the children^ the uncles, the aunts, the nieces, the nephews, and the inti¬ mate friends of the family. Even yet do I seem to hear their mingling and melodious voices, grave or gay, amid the murmuring of the sometimes dull and sometimes merry rippling of the neighboring stream. Alas, they have risen forever from the trunks and roots of those trees, where they would sit in the beautiful mornings and evenings of September; but they have left behind them such enchanting impressions of memory, that I am fre¬ quently inclined to think that they have only wandered a few steps away, or that I have mistaken the tree or the glade which would guide me to join them again, and that I am, indeed, certainly going to see them and hear them once more at the very next turn of the footpath. iii. There, very near by me, is one of the particular places where my eyes never tire of looking earnestly for those who will never more come to meet me. It is only a few MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. 17 hundred steps from the house. To get there one has to follow a narrow road, over which the cattle go to graze, fringed with two hedges of thorn-bushes, through a large field covered with rocks, and a sloping meadow, where groups of oxen chew their cuds, and whose white and red marble-resembling flanks, flushed with fat, reflect the bright and glittering rays of a summer sun. This road, without either shade or grass, makes one long for the cool and shady vault of the woods, which may be seen waving under the breeze on the side of the mountain, near the boundary of the field and meadow. At last one glides into a cooler place, all panting for breath, under the first screen of aspen-trees and alder- bushes, which grow on the margin of the meadow, where the oozings of the little fens and quagmires of the hills quench the thirst of their roots. There we breathe the humid moisture of a meadow stream. Soon the alders disappear, as the rocky soil becomes high and warm ; then come in view the old trunks of the yoke-elms, hollowed like hives; the great beech-trees, whose bark is speckled like a fleece of gilded moss; the chestnut-trees, with their branches extended like the cedar, and which, with their sharp-pointed leaves, like lance-heads, decorate the en¬ tire length of the road. This road is suddenly terminated by a rough and precipitous declivity, which, however, is so situated as to be equally favored with all the dazzling light and heat of a bright summer sky. Here, indeed, is a very hollow and deep-cut valley, with an abrupt descent, which on one side plunges its disintegrations into the darkness of the forest, and on the other gradually spreads out into the well-cultivated fields and grassy meadows of the fertile lowlands. The common grass of this locality, grazed with so much avidity by the goats and sheep, grows fine and yellow, 2* i8 MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. like those rare downs and lichens which, blown and sown by the winds, vegetate on the almost barren rocks of the escarpments of the Alps. The field-flowers here do not rise higher than the shorn and outspread fleece of a sheep; in fact, one must some¬ times stoop down to see them well; but their fragrance is delicious; and when you pick them, and lay them on the palm of your hand to examine their tissues, their corollas, their stamens, and their colors in miniature, you will per¬ ceive that Providence has taken as much pains with these minute and almost imperceptible germinations as with the most gigantic vegetables of our hot-houses or of our forests. The busy bees, the beautiful butterflies, the bril¬ liant humming-birds, and the numerous winged insects without name, love these flowers, suck them in the sun, delight in the perfumed and genial warmth of the soil, and fill with happy music the valley of this little southern plain; merrily chasing one another in mock combat, and rapidly flying and buzzing hither and thither in the full joyousness of life. iv. Upon the hill opposite the road, cut off by this rugged opening in the earth, forty-five old oaks, spared for cen¬ turies by the wood-chopper, are scattered in disorder, and at considerable distances from one another, at the edge of the ravine. White, violet, and rose-colored heaths cover like an elegant carpet, as varied and velvety as the wool of Smyrna, the half-shaded spaces between the trees. The tops of these trees, beaten and bent for so many years by southerly winds, are half bald ; their lower branches, especially those of the middle clump, are becoming black, and give other unmistakable evidences of saplessness and decay. Only a few small tufts of yellowish leaves dangle MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. x 9 from these limbs, and fall from time to time, forced from their twigs by the gusts of the equinoctial winds, with a husky and sudden noise, which causes the timid jays and blackbirds to fly away with fright. Upon the border which overlooks the ravine, the seven oaks which form the front of the grove hang their wide- outstretched arms over sound and vigorous trunks, and show themselves to be the strongest and grandest old men of their race. Their more leafy tops do not permit us to see any of those black arrows, those slender and lifeless limblets, upon which the thrushes delight to dwell, and which serve as retreats and observatories for so many other kinds of birds. These trees extend their branches ma¬ jestically over the slope of the valley, and their roots, almost on a level with the surface of the ground, cause the grass and the moss which cover them to swell with kindred and magnetic growth. v. It is at the foot of the largest of these oaks, the one nearest to the dense forest, that I used to light bonfires in my childhood; and the smoke-stains and cinders, though washed by the copious rains of so many winters, still blacken and deaden its rough bark. It is there that, later in youth and in early manhood, I have written with pencil so many poetical melodies, which came as lightly and merrily to my imagination as the warm breezes of spring came genially through the branches of the trees over my head, making them resound with sweet harmony. It is there that, in happier and still more lengthened days, we would sometimes come with the old people, and with the cradles of the family, to pass the warm hours of the afternoon, as we would otherwise do in a commodious and delightful drawing-room. 20 MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. Nothing was there lacking of the natural stock of fur¬ niture requisite for a spot of repose and delight; neither the rustic pillars formed by the forty-five oaks standing erect over the grass-plot; nor the green canopies of leaves set in motion by the circulating breeze of the neighboring woods; nor the varied music of the lark and the nightin¬ gale perched and singing near the nests over which their mothers brooded; nor the soft cushions of dry moss grow¬ ing from the roots and trunks of the trees; nor the musical drippings of the drains of the hill-side filtering through the clusters of little bushes of a darker and more lustrous green in the lower meadow; nor, finally, the dreamy smokiness of the distant mountains, which resemble so greatly those of Greece, and which are seen under the branches of the taller trees, like a picture through the open windows, draped with gorgeous and wavy curtains. VI. A perspective of that sweet place and that lovely time spreads itself out before both my eyes and my heart as I behold again the half-leafless branches of the oak-grove, which has now become tinged with yellow under the last rays of the summer sun. Upon the roots of one of the oldest and most bended trees which form the boundary of the forest an aged woman, bowed down by her years, like the tree itself, is seated; her trembling hands spinning at a distaff filled with wool whose fibres are not whiter than her own hair. She exchanges, from time to time, with a young attend¬ ant, a few words in a foreign language. Her physiog¬ nomy has the placid appearance of the peace of a finished life which expects its reward in heaven, but which is born again upon the earth, in other and later generations, under her own eyes. MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. 21 Another woman, in the sound and plump maturity of age, holds in her hand a half-closed book, which she opens and shuts at intervals, and occasionally reads a pas¬ sage therein. Soon she closes it entirely, and uncon¬ sciously presses it between her two hands, as if earnestly and sincerely reflecting upon what she has read. One can see, by the serious fixedness of her features, that the book entertains her with the solemnity of eternal things. Her pious meditations lower, from time to time, her long and transparent eyelids; then she lifts up toward heaven the pensive globes of her black eyes. Her sedate and ascetic face is pale, and one can see in it the delicate lines of an exquisite moral beauty. It is the veil of a soul rather than the visage of a body; but the habit of a sweet and tender smile softens its austerity even in prayer. She turns her eyes, dazzling with celestial light, upon everything that surrounds her; and when, finally, they fall upon me, they linger there as agents of the purest gentleness and love. One can readily see that it is a saintly mother who joyfully contemplates the happiness of her son. VII. Lower down upon the grass-plot, here in shadow, and there in sunshine, a young lady with golden hair and blue eyes, and whose slender and graceful figure resembles one of the Nymphs of Ocean, is, with crayon and paper upon her knees, drawing sketches. She reproduces on paper a part of the beautiful scene before us, enlivened by the accidents of light and shade, by the smoke of the cot¬ tages, and by the goats frisking upon the rocks. At each stroke of the pencil she is interrupted by the happy ex¬ clamations of a beautiful and charming little child of about four years of age. This child becomes enraptured 22 MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT on discovering in the moss a tiny buttercup, which she eagerly plucks for her mother. She brings her harvests in handfuls, and throwing them pell-mell upon the pic¬ ture-page, receives an audible and affectionate kiss in recompense. Again she goes running toward the moss- plot, and when she stops and kneels upon the grass, to catch a winged insect within the calyx of a flower, she disappears almost entirely, as if covered by a veil, under her golden and disheveled hair, brightly gilded by the light of a perfect day. One might more readily imagine, in place of her, one of those curiously wound skeins of gold-colored silk which the washers of the cocoons hang on the hedges of the meadows to dry in the sun. In the half shade of the background of the oak-grove a young man observes, at a distance, this scene of domes¬ tic life in the country. He walks, with uneven steps, from one tree to another; the moss deadens the sound of his footsteps; he holds in one of his hands a book, whose pages are blank; at intervals he stops to write down, with pencil, a few lines. Here is what I wrote that day. Alas, how little did I then suspect that these verses would so soon turn to tears ! THOUGHTS ON THE DEAD. Here are leaves without sap, Which fall upon the grass; There is the wind which rises And moans in the valley; Here is the wandering swallow Which grazes with the tip of its wing The sleeping waters of the swanjp; There is the child of the cottage, Who gleans upon the heath The boughs fallen from their trunks. MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. 2 3 No longer do the billows murmur With the song which enchanted the woods; Under the branches without verdure The birds are heard no more. The night will soon follow the twilight; Scarcely have the stars begun to shine In the paths of their measureless orbits; At intervals they throw A pale glimmering light Not wholly unlike the day. The ewe upon the hills Finds no more the grass-plot; Her lamb leaves in the thorns The loose fibres of its fleece. The goldfinch, bird of sweet music, Rejoices the beech-tree no longer With its airs of joy or of love. All the grass in the meadow is mowed. This is the way in which the year ends; And thus too are ended our days! It is the season when everything falls By the augmented gusts of October. A blast-wind which comes from the tomb Likewise the living cuts down ; They fall then by thousands, Like the superfluous feathers Which the eagle shakes off to the air At a time when the new plumage Comes again to warm its strong wing, At the chilly approach of December. Then was it that my eyes beheld So many dear ones grow pale and die; Tender fruits they were to the light, But God would not let them get ripe! Although myself young on the earth, I am already left quite alone Amidst relics of friends now no more; And when of myself I ask, sadly, “ Where are those whom my heart loves?" I look fixedly down on the grass. 24 MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. The cradle has just been bereft Of a child whom malevolent death Cruelly cast down from the breast Into the black bed of the grave; All those, in fact, whose fast-ebbing lives Have, in their time, taken flight far away, And carried off with them some atoms of us, Are now whispering under the earth, “ You who still enjoy the sight of light, Do you yet remember us?” Where are they ? What orbs cast upon them More abiding or more resplendent days? Do they inhabit those upper isles of light ? Or do they now hover between heaven and earth? Are they drowned in the ethereal depths? Have they lost the loved names they bore here below ? The dear names of sister, sweetheart, and wife? To these affectionate calls will they nevermore answer ? No, no, my God! If celestial glory Had from them taken all human remembrance, Thou wouldst also from our own memories have taken them ; Our sighs and our tears for them,—are all these in vain ? Ah, let their souls in Thy bosom find rest! Yet retain us our places in their hearts. They who of old did partake of our joys, Can we be truly blest without their happiness ? Over them extend Thy merciful hand! They, as we, have sinned; but heaven is a gift! They have suffered; and that purifies ! They have loved; that is the seal of pardon ! They were the same as we are,— Dust, the sport of the winds; Fragile, like all mankind ; Weak, like nothingness. If their feet often slipped, If their lips did transgress MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. 25 ( Any part of Thy law, O Father! O Judge Supreme! Do not look on them as men, But in them see only Thyself! If Thou deignest to examine the dust, Off from before Thy breath it will fly; If Thou touchest the light, It will tarnish Thy fingers; If Thine eye divine doth test The columns of this world, Under the heavens they will quake; If Thou sayest to Innocence, “ Come up and plead in my presence 1” Thine own virtues will be veiled. But Thou, O Lord, Thou possessest Thine own immortality; All the happiness Thou givest to others Only increaseth Thy bliss and perfection! Thou tellest the sun to give light, And the day gildeth space everywhere! Thou commandest time to bring forth, And eternity, submissive to Thee, Throws off the centuries by thousands, Scattering them without keeping account! Worlds which Thou dost repair, Before Thee grow young again ; And never dost Thou separate The Past from the Future. Thou livest! and Thou livest! The ages Which are unequal by Thy works, Are yet all equal under Thy hand; And never doth Thy voice accent, Alas, these three words of man: Yesterday, To-day, To-morrow! O Father of Nature ! Source and Fountain of all Goodness, 3 B 26 MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT Naught can be compared to Thee; Forever art Thou supremely incomparable! Put, O Divine Mercy, Put Thy weight in the balance, If, indeed, Thou wilt with nothingness weigh 1 Triumph, O Pre-Eminent Virtue, Whilst Thou contemplatest Thy function, Triumph forever in forgiving us all 1 VIII. When the day declines, I go back into the house at a slow pace. There I shut myself up in the high-vaulted little chamber, whose window, fronting the bell-tower of the village, receives and reverberates, like a well-articu¬ lated ear, under the acoustic structure of the apartment, not only the loud and lively peals of the bell, but also the strong gusts and whistlings of the wind. For here, indeed, nature and religion seem to be in absolute har¬ mony at this season, and especially so on this day, and to recall to the mind of the survivors pious thoughts of the tomb. The bell-ringer, clinging to the rope of the belfry, from early in the morning of the ist of November till the dawn of the following morning, gives out, inde- fatigably and measuredly, by day and by night, the moan¬ ing sounds of recollections which fail not to evoke, from the heart of every one, the deep and inextinguishable memories which the earth-filled shovel of the grave¬ digger helped to bury in the field of the dead. This bell, turned and tossed and heated by the incessant pull¬ ings and jerkings of the ringer, seems to be tortured into a state of agony, and to paralyze and break every moment as abruptly as the snap of a human fibre. These are the views which I expressed here, on the day mentioned, a little while ago, in strophes and stanzas, which still come stealing upon my memory : MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. 27 THE VILLAGE BELL. Oh, when this humble bell, with its slow dirge. Sheds like a sigh its sound upon the valley, A solemn sound echoed and re-echoed by the near ravine; When the bright and blithesome boy who pulls the rope Pours out his joyful ditty on the evening breeze, Then may one think on earth of things divine. When from the vibrating steeple its tenant the swallow Takes flight from the loud bronze that shakes its dwelling, And over the rippling pond skims but lightly its surface; Or when the widow of the village at the knell kneels down, After the finishing of the fibres which filled her distaff, Then, opportunely for future felicity, may orisons be offered. What awakens in my heart the sonorous song from the belfry Is not the bright light of the morning, Nor the sombre shade of the day near its close; Nor yet is it the mirror of my fresh young years, Fleet of foot over the hillocks, among fragrant flowers; Though these to events past doth the memory beckon back. Nor is it my childish slumbers under shades of sycamores, Nor the first transports of nature in eagerness for play, Nor my random walks over uneven vales or summits rough, Nor only quick cries of joy on inhaling zephyr tonics; O youth-beguiling morning breezes! full of fair enticing tastes, These do ever lead us onward, tantalizing us the more l Nor is it the proud steed prancing on the prairie, Bending his beauteous neck under the firmly-held bridle, And mingling his mane with his rider’s light hair; While under his feet the earth resounds like an anvil, As rushingly forward he carries me, and as his white froth Scatters and silvers all over the grass of the valley. Nor yet is it the first faint dream of Love, In the month wherein sap fast uprises with Spring, Making the pink-beds blossom and the thickets grow green; When only a glimpse of the dress, a glance of the eye, Of the fair virgins, forthcoming from the waterfall fountains, Would cause emotions and tremor deep down in my heart. 28 MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. Neither is it the strange whisperings of Glory, At the outset silently navigating the billows within ; but soon A quaint voice, sweet of song, waking up in my mind A delightfully melodious murmur, with ambrosia perfumed, Which to its source bears back a whiff of poetry; . .. No, Glory, thou it is not that doth now arouse me. From my long and regretless days, Fame, hie thee away, Into the bereft stubble-fields, among the dead leaves, With thy poor renown, thou empty and mocking Echo! These flowers of the footpath are divine plants, Which perfume the feet; yes, but their roots, indeed, Do never entwine themselves around the heart. Garlands at feasts, gathered for only one night, Are oft poisoned by Hatred, or withered by Envy ; Wreaths they are whose crowns by human hands are broken; Having, though, to life imparted first a momentary glee; But no longer to their stems do the sickly flowers adhere; From the fair brow they fall; they fade; they die. ’Tis the day when the bell through the valley, in tears, Rang as if in despair after the funeral knell; When two coffins were lowered into the mournful earth. And measured sad music with the wailings of women ; Three corpses they placed in a double sepulchre, And me, aye me, they forgot at the gate! From dawn until night, and from night until dawn, O bell, thou didst weep, as I wept at that time, In accord with the suffocating sobs of my heart. With thy bitter complaint air and earth did resound, As if every star had lost its own mother, And every breeze had lost its own child 1 In that supreme hour when thy harmony sacred In my sorrowful memory to grief is united, When thy knell and my heart have only one sound, Then thy sonorous bronze, high pendent in steeple, Seems to me when it tolls a piece of my soul, In rich and rare unison touched by an angel! I say to myself, The echo of this vibrating bronze, Before reaching my heart, hath filled every pore MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. 29 Of the marble where all my dear past doth repose; Amid the din of the old dome it reverberates still; Yes, in sweet harmony with this solemn strain resounds The stone of the sepulchre where sleeps my love ! Be in no way astonished, little bell-boy, if my thought, Dreamily lulled by thy inverted but resonant urn, Desires its mystical ringing at funerals so sad; If, from the first sound that moans under its vault, I stop, my breath in suspense, to listen to what Death dares whisper to me in a voice subdued. Thou alert and faithful trumpeter of human sorrows, Born of the earth to proclaim better its griefs, Sing! for the sound of broken hearts is enchanting still! May thy loud lamentations impart life to the stones, True tears to dry eyes, strong incentives to prayer, And to the cold tomb a dolefulness due 1 When at last the grave-digger shall throw on my bier The little dust which still will be left of me here, After so many deep sighs breathed by me elsewhere; When the venal convoy of hired and prim mourners Shall deposit down in the earth my mortal remains, By grace may I enter the portals of a happier sphere! If then some pious and loving hand will ring thee, Grieve no one at all with thy symptoms of sadness; Nor implore the vale nor the horizon to weep; But strike thy festival chimes, and on my tomb jingle With the joyous sound of a chain when it falls From the limbs of a poor prisoner set free I IX. The season itself, in which the almanacs place this An¬ niversary of the Dead, is in melancholy keeping with the mournful aspects and terrors of all these sepulchres; nature droops and sobs through all her voices; so near the ex¬ piration of the year, the elements fret themselves into wailing storms; the equinoctial gale, renewed and pro- 3 * 30 MY MOTHER'S MANUSCRIPT. longed, brings with it, in the night, that peculiarly howl¬ ing tempest which is denominated, from its periodical regu¬ larity, The Chorus-Squall of the Dead ; the furious blasts beat the walls, the gusts and whirlwinds carry to¬ gether, no one knows where, clouds of dead leaves; in the midst of all of which one hears something like the cries and shrieks of distress; also the sinister croakings of the crows and ravens, awakened by the dismal surgings to and fro of the tree-tops. The more powerful blasts of the tempest shake the roof; and one might suppose that nocturnal and hostile spirits, only freshly and unpropitiously escaped from the tombs, are in terrible conflict with one another, and that what one hears are the vanquished sprites moaning pitilessly in the air. Amidst these mighty roarings, there would seem to be distinct voices, which call us by our several names; half-familiar knockings against the window-panes and the doors, as if to force open, through friendliness, or through violence, the partially deserted chambers which these boisterous souls may have formerly inhabited. Strange as it may seem, I delight in this loud and confused up¬ roar ; and I solemnly meditate upon it and upon things in general; yet I do so, as I may confess, with a degree of shuddering emotion, as, by the glimmering light of a winter fire, I recline carelessly upon the stone floor, polished by the gentle steps of those loved ones who are now reposing not far from me. 