To my lasting shame and contrition, it was not I.
He was short and thick and middle-aged, and had a very jolly red face
and immense whiskers--quite a common sort of man, who seemed by no means
tired of life.
His heroism was wasted, as it happened; for the house was an empty one,
as we all heard, to our immense relief, before he had managed to force a
passage into the burning room. His whiskers were not even singed!
Nevertheless, I slunk home, and gave up all thoughts of
self-destruction--even in a noble cause; and there, in penance, I
somewhat hastily committed to flame the plodding labor of many
midnights--an elaborate copy in pen and ink, line for line, of Retel's
immortal wood-engraving "Der Tod als Freund," which Mrs. Lintot had been
kind enough to lend me--and under which I had written, in beautiful
black Gothic letters and red capitals (and without the slightest sense
of either humor or irreverence), the following poem, which had cost me
infinite pains:
I.
_F, i, fi--n, i, ni!
Bon dieu Pere, j'ai fini...
Vous qui m'avez lant puni,
Dans ma triste vie,
Pour tant d'horribles forfaits
Que je ne commis jamais
Laissez-moi jouir en paix
De mon agonie!_
II.
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