Robson.
"My dear madam," said he, "all is over with my poor friend. Will you
do me the kindness to perform those duties to his sacred relics which
I cannot?"
Thaddeus would not allow any person to watch by his friend's coffin
besides himself. The meditations of this solitary night presented to
his sound and sensible mind every argument rather to induce rejoicing
than regret that the eventful life of the brave Butzou was
terminated.
"Yes, illustrious old man!" cried he, gazing on his marble features;
"if valor and virtue be the true sources of nobility, thou surely
wast noble! Inestimable defender of Stanislaus and thy country! thou
hast run a long and bright career; and though thou art fated to rest
in the humble grave of poverty, it will be embalmed by the tears of
Heaven--it will be engraven on my heart."
Thaddeus did not weep whilst he spoke. Nor did he weep when he beheld
the mold of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, close from his view the last
remains of his friend. It began to rain. The uncovered head of the
officiating minister was wet; and so was that of a little delicate
boy, in a black cloak, who stood near, holding the aged rector's hat
during the service. As the shower descended faster, Dr. Cavendish put
his arm through the count's to draw him away, but he lingered an
instant, looking on the mold while the sexton piled it up.
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