The Sun. — 1851-01-03 (London, England)

DEATH BY CHARCOAL.  The day before yesterday (says the Gazette des Tribunaux) the inhabitants of a house in the Faubourg St. Germain were alarmed by a strong smell of burning charcoal proceeding from a room occupied by aM. de C—. The Commissary of Police having been sent for, had the door broken open, when M. de C— was found as if engaged in writing. He was seated in an arm-chair, before a table, on which were books and papers ; his head was slightly bent down on his breast, and he still held a pen between the fingers of the left hand. M. de C-- was about 30, possessed a considerable fortune, and occupied himself in literary pursuits. The following writing was found on the table : " Lara about to die—to die while writing. It is midnight—the fatal hour, to use the language of romace writers. I hear the charcoal crackling, and I shall continue writing until the shades of death veil my sight. It is in the full possession of my faculties that, without any cause but my own pleasure, I commit suicide. I feel my ideas flowing, and I shall give free scope to them. Yesterday I was walking in the Boulevards smoking, I think a cigar. I saw a crowd of passers by, without fixing my looks on one person more than another. I must have appeared very deeply ab• sorbed in thought to all those whom chance or idleness threw into my way, and nevertheless to idea, no feeling, occupied my mind. These fits of total absence of mind frequently happen to me, and they are not, I assure you, my happiest moments. I was suddenly arrested in my walk by a friend of my youth, who told me that a great misfortune had happened to him. He commenced the recital of it, when the soft murmurs of a running stream which flowed at our feet threw me insensibly into a reverie. I was :seated at the foot of a tuft of tre s, the thick foliage of which protected me from the sun, and in my rapid couse on the vigorous steed which my well-beloved had presented me with, I flew as far as the camp of the Arabs, thinking to sow there affright and death. I was well received, and, what is very surprising, I was not at all astonished at it. 1 jumped lightly off—l feel an insupportdb:e smell of charcoal—l jumped off, I say, like a young fawn, to take part in their repast I had the greatest difficulty in the world to make my lefthand neighbour, who was a retired grocer, understated that, having paid for my place at the bureau, I had as much right as he had to express my opinion— I breathe with difficulty, I accustom myself to the smell of charcoal—the quarrel between the grocer and me became warm, and I was at length compelled to put up my umbrella to protect the hat of my wife, for the rain fell in torrents. My head becomes heavy—l feel some dimness. At length this scene of carnage was transformed into a race in the Champ de Mars. I considered that it would be impossible for me—l am suffering—and then the water was transparent, and our umbrella was unable to resist it, and that is why we determined to go and dine in the Palais Royal—my dimnesss increase—my respiration is stopped—l can scarcely see to write."—(At this point the writing of M. de C— is scarcely IA scarcely legible.) " I think the hour advances—my strength —J. M." It is presumed that the writing of this paper, which betrays such evidence of insanity and delirtum, occupied about three quarters of an hour."  THE POPISH AGGRESSION AND ITS RESULTS, TOGE lIIER