I was very much disturbed while writing this article, chiefly by the agonising cries of a neighbour who died of cholera, and I must here lay stress on the fact that the events of that time had a sad influence on the following pages. I am not indeed conscious that I was in the least troubled, but it is very disgusting when the whetting of the scythe of Death rings distinctly in our ears. A disorder or discomfort which was more physical than mental, for which nothing could be done, would have driven me from Paris, but then my best friend would have been left here alone, and seriously ill. I note this that my remaining in Paris may not be considered as a mere bravado. Only a fool would have found pleasure in braving the cholera. It was a reign of terror far more dreadful than the first, because the executions took place so rapidly and mysteriously.[1] It was a masked executioner who passed through Paris with an invisible guillotine ambulante. "We shall all be stuck into the sack, one after the other," said my servant, with a sigh,
- ↑ It might be here added that it was far more terrible, owing to the number of victims, since people died in Paris at the rate of from 1000 to 2000 per diem, as I remember to have heard at the time. There are not many of my readers who now remember the cholera of 1832 and its horrors. I can recall distinctly passing through New York when it was at its worst, and that the city seemed to be almost deserted.—Translator.
