our study. 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. He was born in the
lowest social station, he battled against every disadvantage, the
hospital was his sick-chamber, his funeral was at the Government's
expense, and everybody eminent in literature and art followed his
remains to the grave, over which, after a proper interval of time, a
monument was erected by public subscription to his memory. His father
was a porter at the door of one of the houses in the Rue des Trois
Freres. He added the tailor's trade to his poorly paid occupation. A
native of Savoy, he possessed the mountaineer's taciturnity and love of
home. War carried him to Paris. The rigors of conscription threw him
into the ranks of the army; and when the first Empire fell, the child of
Savoy made Paris his home, married a young seamstress, and obtained the
lodge of house No. 5 Rue des Trois Freres. This marriage gave to French
letters Henry Murger. It had no other issue.

Henry Murger was born March 24th, 1822. His earlier years seemed likely
to be his last; he was never well; his mother gave many a tear and many
a vigil to the sickly child she thought every week she must lose. To
guard his days, she placed him, to gratify a