shortly after this time; but as I will never again, in the course of
this recital, have a more vivid impression of her, I will here insert
what I know of her history.

It seems that in the stress of all sorts of troubles she had been a
brave and noble mother. After reverses that were so general in those
days, after losing her husband at the Battle of Trafalgar, and her
elder son at the shipwreck of the Medusa, she went resolutely to work to
educate her younger son, my father, until such time as he should be
able to support himself. At about her eightieth year (which was not far
distant when I came into the world) the senility of second childhood
had set in; at that time I knew nothing about the tragedy of the loss of
memory and I could not realize the vacancy of her mind and soul.

She would often stand for a long time before a mirror and talk in a most
amiable way to her own reflection, which she called, "my good neighbor"
or "my dear neighbor." It was also her mania to sing with a most
excessive ardor the Marseillaise, the Parisiennes, the "Song of
Farewell," and all the noble songs of the transition time, which had
been the rage in her young womanhood.

During these exciting times she had lived quietly, and had occupied
herself entirely with her household cares and her son's education. For
that reason it seems the more singular that from her disordered mind,
just about as it was to take its journey into complete darkness and to
become disintegrated through death, there should come this tardy echo of
that tempestuous time.

I enjoyed listening to her very much and often I would laugh, but
without any irreverence, and I never was the least afraid of her. She