Francis S. Mahony

The Autobiography of P. J. De Béranger

(From the French of Béranger)

Paris! gorgeous abode of the gay! Paris! haunt of despair!

            There befell in thy bosom one day an occurrence most weighty,

At the house of a tailor, my grandfather, under whose care

            I was nursed, in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and eighty.

By no token, ‘tis true, did my cradle announce a young Horace—

            And the omens were such as might well lead astray the unwary;

But with utter amazement one morning my grandfather, Maurice,

            Saw his grandchild reclining asleep in the arms of a fairy!

                        And this fairy so handsome

                        Assumed an appearance so striking

                        And for me seemed to take such a liking,

            That he knew not what gift he should offer the dame for my ransom.

Had he previously studied thy Legends, O rare Crofty Croker!

            He’d have learnt how to act from thy pages—(‘tis there that the charm is!)

But my guardian’s first impulse was rather to look for the poker,

            To rescue his beautiful boy from her hands vi et armis.

Yet he paused in his plan, and adopted a milder suggestion,

            For her attitude, calm, and unterrifiéd, made him respect her,

So he thought it was best to be civil, and fairly to question,

            Concerning my prospects in life, the benevolent spectre.

                        And the fairy, prophetical,

                        Read my destiny’s book in a minute,

                        With all the particulars in it;

            And its outline she drew with exactitude most geometrical.

“His career shall be mingled with pleasure, though checkered with pain,

            And some bright sunny hours shall succeed to a rigorous winter;

See him first a garçon at a hostelry—then, with disdain

            See him spurn that vile craft, and apprentice himself to a printer.

As a poor university-clerk view him next at his desk;—

            Mark that flash!—he will have a most narrow escape from the lightning:

But behold after sundry adventures, some bold, some grotesque,

            The horizon clears up, and his prospects appear to be brightening.”

                        And the fairy, caressing

                        The infant, foretold that, ere long,

                        He would warble unrivalled in song;

            All France in the homage which Paris had paid acquiescing.

“Yes, the muse has adopted the boy! On his brow see the laurel!

            In his hand ‘tis Anacreon’s cup!—with the Greek he has drank it.

Mark the high-minded tone of his songs, and their exquisite moral,

            Giving joy to the cottage, and heightening the blaze of the banquet.

Now the future grows dark—see the spectacle France has become!

            Mid the wreck of his country, the poet, undaunted and proud,

To the public complaints shall give utterance: slaves may be dumb,

            But he’ll ring in the hearing of despots defiance aloud!”

                        And the fairy addressing

                        My grandfather, somewhat astonished,

                        So mildly my guardian admonished,

            That he wept while he vanished away with a smile and a blessing.