Oh, my husband! I cannot endure this—I was quite unprepared for this. So ends my life.
November, 1843.—Plus ne m’est rien, rien ne m’est plus.
The winter fire kindles alone for me now. The chair, the
table, the lamp, the very books and paper-cutter, all these are here, this November—gloomy, wretched November!! How I
used to long for November—social, home-girt November; now I spend it in
wandering through this deserted house. Is it possible? “Ce
que je serai dorénavant ne sera plus qu’une demi
être!—ne sera plus moi—je m’échappe tous
les jours.” When I first transcribed that mono-
| DEATH OF SIR CHARLES MORGAN—1843. | 481 |
