Public ledger. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1865-1893, 1874-09-08

Translated from the French of Alexander
Dumas.
An Italian auberge is a habtation,
tolerable while summer lasts, but IN
winter, in consequence of the total lack
of provision against the cold, it is some
thing OF which one can hardly form the
first idea. On arriving, nearly frozen,
one descends from his conveyance and
asks for room. The landlord scarcely
rousing himself from his nap, signs to
servant to conduct you to one. You
follow him in the full confidence that
you are going to find shelter. Sad mis-
take! You enter an enormous garret
with bare whitewashed walls, whose as
pect alone makes you shudder.
You look around your new dwelling
and your glance is arrested by little
bit Of fresco. This painting represents
a half nude woman balanced gracefully
upon the end of an arabesque.
At the mere sight of her cold shivers
run through you. You turn toward the
he'd; YOU perceive that it is covered with
a sort of cotton blanket and a white
dimity counterpane. You hunt every
where for the fireplace in vain. The
architect has forgotten it; you must
make the best of it.
In Italy they do not know what tire is.
In summer the sun warns them; in win
ter-Vesuyius, but as it is night and as
YOU are eighty leagues from Naples you
hasten to close the windows. This ope-
ration finished, you perceive that the
panes are broken. EIYou close up one
tagged rent with your pocket handker-
chief rolled up for a stopper, and cover
the other with towel spread out like a
sail.
You think yourself at last barricaded
against the cold without, and then pro-
ceed to fasten your door whose lock ls
missing.
You push the chest-ofdrawers against
it and commence undressing.
No sooner have you taken off your
coat than you feel chilly current OF air.
1t comes through the panels which have
warped making cracks at top and bot
tom. Now you take down the muslin
curtains from the windows and make
rolls of them to fill the cracks. Then,
when everything is well stopped up you
make tour of the apartment with the
burning candle--a last draft Of air, un-
felt before, extinguishes the light in your
hands. You hunt for bell. There is
none. You stamp violently to bring
somebody up stairs-the floor forms the
top of the stable
You remove the chest of drawers you
take down the curtains from their crew
ices; you open the door and call. Trou-
BILE wasted, for everybody is asleep, and
in Italy when they sleep they do not
waken easily, and travellers must get
what they want for themselves. Well, as
you are after your bed, of which you have
the most need, you grope about in the
dark until you gain it. You jump in,
perspiring with vexation, and awake stiff
with cold
In summer it is different, all the in
conveniences which we have described
disappear to give place to one only, but
one which alone equals all the others
put together. 1t is mosquitoes.
You cannot but have heard this little
animal spoken of which especially loves
the sea shore, lakes and ponds.
1t is to our cousins of the north what
the viper is TO the common snake.
Unhappily, instead OF heelng from
man and hiding away in desert places
like the reptile, he has taste for civili-
cation; society makes him rejoice, light
attracts him.
1t is in vain you close up every place.
He comes through every hole, crack and
Granny. The surest way to escape him
is to spend the evening in different
room from the one in which you expect
to pass the night. Then the instant you
are ready for bed, blow out the candle
and rush into the other room.
| Unfortunately the mosquito has the
eyes of an owl, the nose of a hyena and
a perseverance peculiar to himself.
BE sees you in the darkness, he tracks
you in your flight, it, indeed, to be more
certain Of securing you, he does not
perch himself on your hair.
However, you believe you have baffied
him; you advance, cropping your way to
ward the bed, upset a stand filed with
old porcelain dishes, for which to-mor
row you will be compelled to pay the
price of new. You make detour so as
not to cut your feet on the broken bits
| = -...L tba kad raiua varr