Permit us to forbear
arraigning him at the public bar. He is dead,--and everybody respects
the dead, except profligate editors, prostitutes, and political
clergymen. Besides, his life was such a hard one,--so full of clouds,
with so few gleams of sunshine,--so agitated by storm,--so bereaved of
halcyon days,--'twould be most cruel to deny him the grave's dearest
privilege, peace and quiet. Amen! Amen! with all my heart to thy
benediction and prayer, O priest! as, aspersing his lifeless remains
with holy-water, thou sayest, _Requiescat!_ So mote it be! _Requiescat!
Requiescat! Requiescat in pace!_
Approach, then, reader, with softest step, and we will, in lowest
whispers, pour into your ear the story of the battle of life as 'tis
fought in Paris. We will show you the fever and the heartache, the
corroding care and the panting labor which oppress life in Paris. Then
will you say, No wonder they all die of a shattered heart or consumed
brain at Paris! No wonder De Balzac died of heart-disease! No wonder
Frederic Soulie's heart burst! No wonder Bruffault went crazy, and
Eugene Sue's heart collapsed, and Malitourne lives at the mad-house! It
is killing!
We will show you this life, not by didactic description, but by example,
by telling you the story of one who lived this life.
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