ens your ardour, we feel ourselves die anew, and it
is a more perceptible, irrevocable death than was our other; bending
too often over our tombs, you rob us of the life, the courage and love
that you imagine you restore.

"It is in you that we are, it is in all your life that our life
resides; and as you become greater, even while forgetting us, so do we
become greater too, and our shades draw the deep breath of prisoners
whose prison door is flung open.

"If there be anything new we have learned in the world where we are
now, it is, first of all, that the good we did to you when we were,
like yourselves, on the earth, does not balance the evil wrought by a
memory which saps the force and the confidence of life."

12

Above all, let us envy the past of no man. Our own past was created by
ourselves, and for ourselves alone. No other could have suited us, no
other could have taught us the truth that it alone can teach, or given
the strength that it alone can give. And whether it be good or bad,
sombre or radiant, it still remains a collection of unique masterpieces
the value of which is known to none but ourselves; and no foreign
masterpiece could equal the action we have accomplished, the kiss we
received, the thing of beauty that moved us so deeply, the suffering we
underwent, the anguish that held us enchained, the love that wreathed
us in smiles or in tears. Our past is ourselves, what we are and shall
be; and upon this unknown sphere there moves no creature, from the
happiest down to the most unfortunate, who could foretell how great a
loss would be his could he substitute the trace of another for the
trace which he himself must leave in life. Our past is our secret,
promulgated by the voice of years; it is the most mysterious image of
our being, over which Time keeps watch. This image is not dead; a mere
nothing degrades or adorns it; it can still grow bright or sombre, can
still smile or weep, express love or hatred; and yet it remains
recognisable for ever in the midst of the myriad images that surround
it. It stands for what we once were, as our aspirations and hopes
stand for what we shall be; and the two faces blend, that they may
teach us what we are.

Let us not envy the facts of the past, but rather the spiritual garment
that the recollection of days long gone will weave around the sage.
And though this garment be woven of joy or of sorrow, though it be
drawn from the dearth of events or from