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after telling her what had happened, it was I, sitting up in my bed and staring at agreed that I should go to bed, and that if him wildly. What rats 1-what closet ! any body came to inquire for me she should | Some closet in her bedroom,' said be say I was ill of the fever, and could not be The count sent for Didier to wall it up seen. I knew when morning came I should directly. “To wall it up-wall up the be missed, for doubtless the count would go closet ?' I gasped out. Yes, build and to my room; and besides that, I had left plaster it up. But what's the matter, Rothe sheets hanging out of the window. I sina? Oh, I shouldn't have told you the
“For two days, however, to my great countess was ill l' he cried out, terrified at surprise, we heard nothing ; but on the third, the agitation I was in. “Leave me in the Philippe (the young man I was engaged to) name of God!' I screamed, and send my hearing I was not at the Beaugency house, mother to me!' came to our cottage to inquire about me. “I remember nothing after this, madame, We had not met for some time, the countess for a long, long time. When my mother having forbidden all communication between came, she found me in my night-clothes, us, as she had a horrible dread of the fever, tying the sheets together in order to get out so that he could only bear of me through of the window, though the door was wide my mother. “Rosina is here, and unwell,' | open ; but I was quite delirious. Weeks said my mother : 'we think she's got the passed before I was in a state to remember fever ;' for though we might have trusted or comprehend any thing. Before I retorPhilippe with our lives, we thought it wouldered my senses, my poor mistress and her be safer for him to be ignorant of what had baby were in the grave, my master gwe happened. Upon this he begged leave to away, nobody knew whither, the servants see me; and she brought him into my cham- all discharged, and the accursed house sbut ber. After asking about himself, and telling up. Not long afterwards the news caine him I was very poorly, and so forth, he said: that the count had died in Paris.” * This is a sad thing for the countess !' “ But, Rosina," said I, “are you sure that • What is ?" I asked. You're being ill at M. de Beaugency was in that closet ! Hop this time,' said he, 'when she must want do you know the count had not first released you so much. What do you mean ? said him ?" I; "the countess is not at the house ? “Ah, madame," she replied, ominousit *Don't you know she's come back,' said he, shaking her palsied head, “ you would not "and that she's ill! The doctor has been ask that question if you had known Rus sent for, and they say she's very bad.' | Gonzalez as I did. The moment the words 'Gracious heavens ! I exclaimed ; is it were out of Philippe's mouth I saw it all possible? My poor dear mistress ill, and I It was just like him—just the revenge fu not with her ! · Robert, the footman, that stern and inflexible spirit to take. Be says,' continued Philippe--but he bade sides, madame, when all was over, and he me not mention it to any body—that when durst speak, Didier the mason told me that they stopped at the inn at Montlouis, Rateau / nothing should ever convince him that there the landlord came to the carriage door, and was not some living thing in that closet at asked if she had seen M. Eugène de Beau - the time he walled it up, though who ar gency; and that when the countess turned what it could be he never could imagine." quite pale and said, 'Are you not aware! “And do you think, Rosina," said I, “ do my cousin was killed in battle, M. Rateau ?' you think the countess ever suspected the he assured her it was no such thing; for secret of that dreadful closet ?” that M. Eugène had called there shortly be- “Ay did she, madame," answered she; fore on his way to her house. Rateau must " and it was that which killed her; for have taken somebody else for him of course; / when my mistress came back so unexpect but I suppose she believed it, for she returnedly, the count was closeted up stairs with ed directly.' 'Rateau told her that he had his agent, making arrangements for quitting seen M. Eugène l' said I. “So Robert says; the place for ever, and had given orders not but Didier the mason says sbe was ill before to be disturbed. He had locked up ber she went, and that it was the rats in the apartments, and had the key in his pocket; closet that frightened her.'. Rats !' said but he had forgotten that there was a spare
key for every room in the house which the over to give an account of the Exhibition, housekeeper had the charge of; 80 my lady are still among us, and still continue to comsent for her to open the doors. Now, though ment most amusingly on our manners and from putting this and that together—the customs. count's agitation, my sudden disappearance, In the “ fourth letter” to the Patrie of her own removal, and the innkeeper's story M. Jules de Prémary, we find the following: -she felt sure there was some mischief in “In coming to London, I was in hopes of the wind, she had no suspicion of what had being able to say the contrary of all that really occurred; as indeed how should she,
has been said about the English people :
with what joy I thought I should declare till her eyes fell upon the door of the closet. I that. contrary to the general belief, the Then she comprehended it all. You may English people are the merriest and most imagine the rest, madame! Words couldn't polite of the universe, that the spleep is a paint it! When they came into the room, she
fantastic malady, and that the fogs of the
Thames do not exist. But que voulez-vous ? was battering madly at the walls with the
The gayety of the English makes one shudpoker. But a few hours terminated her
der; their spleen creeps over one; their sufferings. She was already dead when houses are confined within iron rails like the Philippe was telling me of her return." tombs of Père la Chaise ; a veil of black
" It's a fearful tragedy to have lived crape arises every morning from the Thames, through!” said I. “And Philippe : what
spreads over the town, and at times allows
itself to be pierced by a red bullet, which I became of him ?”
am assured is the sun; all of which proves “He died like the rest, madame, about that the English have not been misrepresix months after these sad events had occur. sented. i red. When I recovered my health, I went
“After all, however, London is still Lon
don—that is, the largest, the most bizarre, into service, and for the last forty years I
the most curious, and the most uninhabitahave been housekeeper to M. le curé here."
ble town in the world. And so uninbabita“And he is the only person that ever ble is it that nobody lives in it, not even the enters that melancholy house ?"
English. People pass through it, transact “ Yes, madame. I went there once_just | business, or eat and drink in it, but as soon once—to look at that fatal chamber, and the
| as they can they escape to breathe the pure
air at Greenwich or Richmond. Only the bed where my poor mistress died. When the
dead inhabit London, and I wager that at place was let, those apartments were locked night they leave Westminster and St. Paul's up; but”—and she shook her head mourn- | to stretch their legs in the adjacent parks. fully—“the tenants were glad to leave it.”
" ! “At this moment the rain is rattling " And for what purpose does M. le cure
against my windows as if it approved
of what I have written: but this wet go there so often?” I asked.
rain is nothing; we have it at Paris, "To pray for the souls of the unfor- only in smaller quantities; for at London, tunates !” said the old woman devoutly as every body knows, the year is divided crossing herself.
into eight months of winter and four months Deeply affected with her story, I took
of bad weather. What, however, we do
took not possess is dry rain. In London, all day leave of this sole surviving witness of these long, you are covered with a fine black powlong-buried sorrows; and I, too, accom-der, which sticks to the clothes, the gloves, panied by the curé, once more visited the and the hands, and forms a mark on the awful chamber. “Ah, madame !” said he,
| face. When it becomes mixed with the wet “poor human nature! with its passions, and
rain, this powder forms ink; and at London
we may say it rains ink. I fill my inkstand its follies, and its mad revenges! Is it not with drops from the spout at my window; sad to think that so much love should prove it is economical. the foundation of so much woe ?”
“ Having remarked that in Paris the English in spring wear white hats, I brought one to London; but nobody wears any, and at
present it is as black as Erebus, though I From the “Literary Gazeite."
have only worn it a week. Talking of hats
—one word on English politeness, or rather LETTRES DE LONDRES. COURRIERS l on what replaces it, for there is no politeDE LONDRES, ETC.
ness in England—there is either cordiality
or insolence. Cordiality is charming on the THE“ own correspondents" of the princi- part of ladies of good society-they offer pal Paris newspapers, who have been sent you their hands with infinite grace, and a very seducing air. In general the English | know-not-wbat mysterious instinct the wars approach ladies without bowing, with the which during centuries cost so many soldiers hat thrust on the back of the head, almost to both countries. In presence of the English down to the neck—and they unceremoniously pride of the great, and the vulgar mockery offer their hand. This constitutes cordiality, of the small, there are moments at which one and replaces our French politeness. On the is on the point of crying, “No! it is not tbe part of the ladies this way of meeting is sea which separates France from England, very pretty ; but it is grossly rude on the but Hatred land, misled, for a moment, one part of the men-they have the air of ac- dreams of taking an insensate vengeance. costing a lady as they would approach a Such an idea is bad, and, thank God, every borse. In relations with the vulgar you day draws closer two countries made to unlower yourself by being polite. If you take derstand each other, and to guide the rest off your hat on entering a shop you are of the world in the paths of civilization served last and with bad grace. Sometimes No one more than I am is a partisan of the even you are taken for a beggar, and are great ideas of union and peace, to which the turned out of doors, or have a penny offered universal Exhibition must cause great proyou. That actually happened to me in a gress to be made. But the old elements of glove shop in Regent-street.
hatred exist, and are felt, when for the first “Does a comfortable way of living exist time one's foot touches British ground, and in England ? It is always so stated, and we are obliged to call reason to our aid to the thing has passed into a proverb amongst silence them. The English women, however, us; one would almost suppose every En. fortunately plead powerfully the cause of glishman a sort of Sardanapalus. That civilization. They are the fair angels of may be true of the wealthy classes ; but peace, and Frenchmen are so fully conquerthe middle, amongst whom I live, appear to ed by them, that we think no more of underme to be completely without that comfort taking the conquest of England. of which so much is said. In my opinion “There is no more striking scene thaa there is nothing comfortable in the ordinary the transept of the Exhibition on a fine life of London. I stuff myself with bam, afternoon." What an elegant and variegs. brutify myself with beer, and drown myself ted crowd! English women are mad after in floods of tea, and yet I do not attain that gay and striking colors; their silk gowns material felicity so much vaunted, and which of green, blue, rose-colored, lilac, and some enthusiasts represent to be a foretaste striped, contrast strangely with the pale se of Paradise. I do not mean to say, however, riousness of their romantic faces. A Frenchthat I am positively arrived at the infernal woman would call their dress in bad taste, regions—that would be an exaggeration ; but I like it. All these charming and strange but assuredly, English life is decidedly a creatures pass to and fro, like a swarm of nice little purgatory. True, the houses of brilliant insects. They then seat themselves the middle class are well kept in the inte amidst flowers and verduré to eat ham; rior :-the fireplace is always full of coal, and it is not one of the least curiosities of the kettle is always boiling, and if hot London to see Clarissa Harlowes with such water caused happiness I should be the good appetites. For one shilling and eixo happiest of men. But what bedrooms ! | pence you are admitted to the refreshment simple nails to hang up your clothes-beds room, and you have the right to indulge stuffed with fir-apples-blankets of I know in all the gastronomic eccentricities of not what-and then the beds are most hor | Garagantua. Several tables laden with ribly ill made by the chambermaids. More. viands, worthy of the descriptions of Raover, in London there are no commissionaires, belais and Cervantes, and such as are only and if you have a letter to send anywhere to be seen in England, are every day you must carry it yourself if you have no crowded by famished visitors. There aniservant. No commissionaires in such an mals of all countries take their food with immense town as London-is that credible! ferocity, the mere sight of which is too And then there are few baths, and you are much for people of delicate nature. Escept not allowed to heat or cool them as you in England, meat is no where exposed to please-nay, if you stop in a bath more than the eye with so much shamefulness of half an hour, the attendants turn off the quantity, and witb that redness of color water, and leave you like a fish on dry | which makes you shudder with horror. land. And yet people talk of the comfort | | Roast beef, roast mutton, roast lamb, roast of the English way of living?
veal and ham, and even roast pork, only. “ Abstraction made of their usages, it is appear to disappear; and the English call impossible not to render justice to the qual- | that taking refreshment." ities which have made the English one of the first nations in the world. But in mixing
In the subsequent letters of M. de Prémawith the crowd in public places, in being | ry there is little worth the trouble of trans elbowed only by Englishmen, the newly. | lation, though, no doubt, all that he saya arrived Frenchman feels explained by I. l interesting enough to bis own countrymen
and all, it must be admitted, is written dukes, have overwhelmed strangers with inwith a good deal of off-band smartness. vitations. The foreigner, ordinarily so ill
thought of in London, has all at once become The feuilletoniste of the Siècle, M. Texier,
the lion of the season. The beard is received seems to have come over with the determi
with the most charming smile, and the musnation of finding every thing “rotten in the tache itself no longer draws from the young state of Denmark.” He not only dwells miss the exclamation “shocking ! with a sort of gloomy satisfaction on the Of all the feuilletonistes who have come misery of a certain portion of the population, amongst us, the first in talent as in rank is but actually takes his readers to the wretch-| Jules Janin of the Débats. His articles are ed quarters occupied by the lowest class of full of that brilliant sparkle, that exquisite Irish, and cries, “This, then, is proud and embroidery, that airy and elegant pbrasehaughty England l-fair to the eye, but rot
spinning for which he is noted; and in each ten within—a giant with feet of clay-of
passage may be found proofs that he posimmense wealth, but with the most horrid
sesses a good deal of classical knowledge, misery gnawing at her vitals !" Jules Janin,
and no little reading. He has, however, we observe, has had the good sense and the
unfortunately the plain common-sense which good taste, in one of his recent feuilletons,
prevents him from falling into absurdities, to rebuke his young and indiscreet confrère : or from torturing truth, or indulging in car
-“Before we denounce the defects of icature. We say “unfortunately,” because English society let us first look at home!
| the consequence is, that he writes of the And besides, when there is so much to
| English almost as an Englishman would,
English air admire, it is unjust to see only the stains
and therefore says little that calls for transon the picture!" Such is the substance, lation. On the whole he seems to have if not the exact words, of the eminent been well received, and he certainly takes critic. Here, however, is au extract on a manifest pleasure in displaying the most more agreeable subject from M. Texier :
cordial feeling towards our country. In “It is the opinion of a great many persons short, he came amongst us as a friend should that the Universal Exhibition of London -with a heart overflowing with friendliwill in no respect modify the character,
ness; and every Englishman who reads his manners, or habits of our neighbors. The islander, in fact, resists with all his power,
feuilletons, especially the later ones, will the influence of the usages which prevail on feel as much liking for the man as admirathe other side of the channel; and if com- tion for the writer. mercially he is in favor of the practice of Here is an anecdote told in his own lively free exchange, in a moral point of view he
e way:is entirely opposed to continental ex- / portations. This explains the peculiar and “I have spoken of the respect of each original physiognomy of the English people and all for the law, of which every man in in this nineteenth century, in which most the three kingdoms is naturally the protector other nations have a certain air of relation and the guardian. One of the French exship. However, if I take into account the hibitors, a distinguished manufacturer, was phenomena which have occurred during the standing the other day with a crowd to see last few days in the privileged world, called the Queen pass. He had one foot off the here. The nobility and gentry,' I must as.pavement. ' Up came the policeman, who sume that the irruption of Frenchmen will ordered our friend to stand entirely on the leave some traces, and that the old British pavement. But-oh! incredible thing in usages will receive more than one encroach- the eyes of all who knew the respect of this ment. Can it be believed that at this man for order !he refused, and declared moment, the houses of London which are that he would remain with one foot in the protected by railings, and which resemble street and the other on the pavement. Good! miniature prisons, are being opened to visi. The policeman makes his round, and returns tors? The home is invaded; the sanctuary and makes a new sign, “Either walk in the is profaned ; bearded visages show them- street, or stand on the pavement!' He does selves for the first time in drawing-rooms, more seeing the Frenchman determined which hitherto have only witnessed the fair not to obey, he draws his staff from his shoulders of ladies, and the mathematical pocket, and threatens to strike him a blow faces of stiff gentlemen. Is this a sudden which would kill an ox! The danger was conversion ? is it premeditated amiability for great; but, as I have said, the man was is it only curiosity! I cannot tell. But the obstinately bent on resistance : he would fact is, that baronets, earls, marquises, and sooner have consented to be killed on the
spot than have withdrawn his foot. But or four mourning coaches, full of people, the policeman took pity on him : he placed some of which, from the partial glimpse his staff in his pocket, and called on two or which I caught of them, appeared to be three young men to give him aid and protection against this obstinate fellow. There
| foreigners ; behind these came a very long upon these young men, faithful to the respect train of splendid carriages, all of which, of the law, which is one of the glories of without one exception, were empty. their nation, approached the offender, and, | «*Whose body is in that hearse i' said I with a severe voice, said, 'Sir, you are not
to a dapper-looking individual, seemingly a in France, where every body does what he pleases---you are in a country in which peo
shopkeeper ; who stood beside me on the ple honor themselves by obeying the law pavement, looking at the procession. you will do as we do, sir,- you will obey !' | " "The mortal relics of Lord Byron,' said And, bon gré mal gré, he had to get on the the dapper-looking individual, mouthing his pavement! What do you say to the assist.
words and smirking—the illustrious poet, ance rendered to a subaltern agent of the public peace! In France, people would
which have been just brought from Greece, hardly take the trouble to stop a'thief !” i and are being conveyed to the family vault
in ..... shire.
« • An illustrious poet, was het' said I
“ Beyond all criticism,' said the dapper FUNERAL OF BYRON.
man ; 'all we of the rising generation are “One day I found myself about noon at under incalculable obligation to Byron ; I the bottom of Oxford-street, where it forms myself in particular, have reason to say so; a right angle with the road which leads or in all my correspondence my style is formed did lead to Tottenham Court. Happening on the Byronic model.' to cast my eyes around, it suddenly occurred: “I looked at the individual for a moment, to me that something uncommon was ex. who smiled and smirked to himself applause, pected; people were standing in groups on and then I turned my eyes upon the hearse the pavement—the upstair windows of the proceeding slowly up the almost endless houses were thronged with faces, especially street. This man, this Byron, bad for many those of women, and many of the shops years past been the demi.god of England, were partly, and not a few entirely closed and his verses the daily food of those sbo What could be the reason of all this? All read, from the peer to the dra per's assistat once I bethought me that this street of ant; all were admirers, or rather worship Oxford was no other than the far-famed pers, of Byron, and all doated on his verses; Tyburn way. Oh, oh, thought I, an execu- and then I thought of those who, with tion; some handsome young robber is about genius as high as his, or higher, had lived to be executed at the further end ; just so, and died neglected. I thought of Milton see how earnestly the women are peering; abandoned to poverty and blindness; of perhaps another Harry Symms—Gentleman witty and ingenious Butler consigned to the Harry as they called him—is about to be tender mercies of bailiffs; and starving carted along this street to Tyburn tree ; | Otway: they had lived neglected and debut then I remembered that Tyburn tree spised, and, when they died, a few poor had long since been cut down, and that mourners only bad followed them to the criminals, whether young or old, good-look- grave; but this Byron had been made a half ing or ugly, were executed before the big god of when living, and now that he was stone jail, which I had looked at with a kind | dead he was followed by worshipping of shudder during my short rambles in the crowds, and the very sun seemed to come city. What could be the matter ? Just out on purpose to grace his funeral. And, then I heard various voices cry “There it indeed, the sun, which for many days past comes !” and all heads were turned up Ox. had hidden his face in clouds, shone out that ford-street, down which a hearse was slowly morn with wonderful brilliancy, flaming coming: nearer and nearer it drew; pres- upon the black hearse and its tall ostrich ently it was just opposite the place where I plumes, the mourning coaches, and the long was standing, when, turning to the left, it train of aristocratic carriages which follor. proceeded slowly along Tottenham Road; ed behind. “Great poet, sir,' said the dapimmediately behind the hearse were three per-looking man, 'great poet, but unhappy.'