The last play of Scribe, the day's
_Journal des Debats_, a bouquet, and a Bohemian glass, were on the
marble table at his side. His languid eye brightened and his feverish
hand tightened convulsively over mine; years had elapsed since he left
our native town; he had drunk of the cup of pleasure, and cultivated the
resources of literature and science in this their great centre; but now,
in the hour of physical weakness, the yearning for domestic and home
scenes filled his heart; and his mind reacted from the blandishments of
a luxurious materialism and a refined egotism of life. It was like
falling back upon the normal conditions of existence thus to behold the
'ills that flesh is heir to' in the midst of a city where such rich
outward provision for human activity and enjoyment fills the senses.
Excessive civilization has its morbid tendencies, and great refinement
in one direction is paralleled by an equal degree of savagery in
another. There is in absolute relation between the facilities for
pleasure and the frequency of suicide. Of all places in the world, Paris
is the most desolate to an invalid stranger. The custom of living there
in lodgings isolates the visitor; the occupants of the dwelling are not
alive to the claims of neighborhood; with his landlord he has only a
business and formal connection; thus thrown upon himself, without the
nerve or the spirits for external amusement, few situations are more
forlorn.
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