I was born; I saluted by their names the members of all the families of the valley. And now, when I go to the country, it is always a great pleasure to visit these houses, one by one, and take by the hand those from whom I have been so long separated. But this happiness is always mingled with sorrow; the number of those I knew diminishes with each visit, and those who have come since cannot replace them for me.
Permit me to give you the history of one of these families. It occurs to me first, as it contrasted with all the others by its miserable dwelling. This was a little thatch-built cottage, standing by itself at the foot of an irregular slope of perfectly bare rocks. It consisted of a single story, with only one room, scarcely larger than one of our bedrooms; the wall, built without mortar, was any thing but regular; the roof consisted of flags of stone, retaining, as well as they were able, a mass of straw and branches. Between the rocks that supported this house and the wall, there was a little place where was kept a pig, the ordinary resource of all Cévennol house-keeping.
This cottage was occupied, when I was eleven or twelve years old, by a man with his wife and four children. The father and mother worked in the field; the eldest child, scarcely of my age, had begun to be useful, particularly in the time of gathering the mulberry-leaves; the smaller ones drove the pig along the road, where it grew and fattened, the best it could, without any expense.
After an absence of ten years, I returned to my mountains, and the first thing was to call upon my old neighbors, those of whom I have spoken among the rest. In approaching, I scarcely knew the place. The rocks that supported the house had disappeared to make way for those traversiers of which I shall tell you presently; the house had been rebuilt, it had gained a story, and was of double its former extent; its walls were laid in mortar; its roof covered with beautiful slate. The master of the house was absent, but his wife welcomed me with a glass of wine from a neat walnut table. Then she showed me, with proper pride, a room with two beds at the farther end, the first portion being devoted to the rearing of silk-worms; and, above all, the favorite article of furniture of all good Cévennol housekeeping—an immense cupboard of walnut, crammed with clothing, dresses, and raiment of all sorts. At the same time she gave me news of all the family: the eldest son was a soldier; a daughter was married; the eldest remaining children attended to the business, and, as of old, the younger ones ran about watching the pig. I clasped with pleasure the hand of this brave woman, because this competence was the fruit of good conduct, of industry, of perseverance, and of economy. And what the silk-worm did in ten years for one family it has been doing for nearly a century for the whole region of Cévennes, because among them you generally find the same elements of success.
That you may better understand me, I wish to give you some idea
