remains in me to express my sense of it. Yours has, indeed, been friendship, and I now feel the want of belief in God*, because I cannot pray to him to bless you for it." "We will hope that this is the crisis of the disease, which will soon take a favourable turn," I replied, affecting hope, when I really felt none. "There is no hope, I feel, and I must no longer flatter myself with the expectation of recovery, since your brotherly charity has failed to make me well. All that I possess you have bestowed upon me, therefore I have nothing to leave you but my thanks and gratitude, my dear friends." And saying this Pontueil took our hands; he would have kissed them had we permitted him. We mingled our tears and sobs, for after all our cares the poor invalid had become exceedingly dear to us, and we could not bear to part with him, but I felt his hour was nigh, for the wintry wind moaned among the distant trees of the Luxembourg, and shook the last leaves from their branches. Ponteuil then gave us two letters. "In these I have conveyed to both of you expressions of my gratitude, which I cannot utter with an audible voice. My gratitude ought to survive me. I leave you all that is my own-my dramatic library. You will divide my books between you, and sometimes when you look upon them, give a thought to Ponteuil, who would, perhaps, one day have been a great actor, if death had not let fall the curtain before his part was half played. To you, my dear Billard, I owe a reparation which you must mit me to pay. I have always felt regret for having condemned your Suborneur unheard-read it to me." "Indeed, my friend," replied Billard, "when you are something better it will be a pleasure to me to deliver up to your critical judgment my Suborneur, tied hand and foot; but we will put off this fatiguing reading till then. Nevertheless we will read it—yes, we will read it, very soon. You shall hear it before long." "If it is ever heard by me, it must be directly," returned Ponteuil firmly. "At ten o'clock to-morrow I entreat you to be with me; we will form a committee, and I will accept your comedy." Billard promised to bring his manuscript at the hour named, and we took our adieus for the night with more sadness than usual. As we went out, he begged us to be punctual to our next day's appointment. We went away with a mournful foreboding, for we felt that the loss of our friend would be a cruel affliction. The next morning, precisely at ten, we were seated round his bed; his emaciated hand rested on the outside, his haggard eyes wandered from Billard to me, and now and then I heard a hollow sound in his throat, which seemed to be distinct from the convulsive cough which tormented him. The keen northwest which ushers in the winter, whistled and howled round the chimney-tops, and whirled the light ashes in eddies from among the glowing embers on the hearth. I tried to persuade Ponteuil to take some repose before he imposed on himself the fatigue of listening to two thousand verses divided into five acts. Billard joined his entreaties to mine, but Ponteuil claimed of Billard the fulfilment of his given promise. "My friend," said Billard, unfolding "I implore you to stop his manuscript, perme when you feel fatigued. This piece has already caused some accidents which I greatly regret, and notwithstanding the merit which M. Bauvin, author of the Cheruscans, attributes to it, I doubt whether you are in a state to appreciate it. I will begin. The Suborneur— comedy in five acts, and in verse. I prefer the title of comedy to that of drama; you will presently see the reason of this choice. Act 1st, scene 1st. Lord Arundel seated in his study, reads a letter which he has written, and looks at the miniature of a lady—” The reader must remember that this is no fiction, but a plain picture of the state of men's minds in France just preceding the great revolution; the most terrific scenes in that national convulsion were produced by the fact, that the great mass of the Parisian population, even of those who were not especial misdoers, lived and died in the godless state of the unfortunate Ponteuil. Even now we find persons belonging to the French world of fashion, who talk in the coolest way of not being Christians; who say in conversation, "You are a Christian, but I am not.", you • If have the true talent of an author," interrupted Ponteuil in a faint voice, "labour-persevere; no actors in the world can hinder you from acquiring fame-but nothing can avail against death. Adieu, Billard-adieu Jmy friend-thus ends hatred to death." With a bitter exclamation of grief I threw myself towards him-he replied not. I snatched his hand-it was cold. I felt his heart-it had ceased to beat Ponteuil had expired without convulsion or other suffering. Billard, who had a keen sense of religion, knelt and prayed, whilst I gazed earnestly on the departed. Billard rose suddenly from his kneeling posture, and throwing his manuscript behind the fire, the flames caught the fluttering leaves, and hastily blazing up, cast a red light on the immoveable features of the corpse. "So perish the Suborneur," said Billard, "the first cause of the hatred between him and me. Detested be the theatre, which made us enemies." In the letters he had given us, Ponteuil had made it his last request that Billard would invite all his comrades to his funeral, and have a tombstone erected, which should unite both our names with his. If human beings, after their departure from the body, can be sensible of any thing which concerns their memories, Ponteuil would have been content with the fulfilment of his request. Billard spared no expense for the funeral of his friend. The actors, who had forgotten him whilst living, followed his corpse in procession, but I believe real grief was felt only by Billard and myself. In the ancient cemetery of Chamart might be seen, till it was closed in the year 1793, a stone monument, which bore no other inscription than this, composed by Ponteuil the day before his death: TO PONTEUIL, From his friends Billard and J 1781. Here ends hatred till death! Every one who has read the witty memoirs and anecdotes of Baron de Grimm, will recollect the names of most of the personages in this tragi-comedy, and will not be sorry to read the conclusion of an adventure which is left unfinished in that sprightly collection. This is the Baron's version of the story: "Yesterday, at the moment when the curtain drew up at the French Theatre, a madman, Billard by name, mounted on one of the benches of the orchestra, and began haranguing the pit, laying before them a formal complaint against the actors, whom he treated as jugglers; that they would not perform a piece of his, entitled the 'Suborneur,' which he had presented to them. The player Préville was handled with particular severity by the haranguer Billard, who informed the pit that he was grandson to one of the king's secretaries, and rich enough to have reimbursed the players for their expenses if the piece did not succeed; he concluded by calling on the audience for justice. This occasioned a great tumult among the audience, and Préville was required to appear, in a very peremptory manner. He did not, however, make his appearance, and at length the performers proceeded, though not without some difficulty, in beginning the Earl of Essex.' The tumult recommenced between the play and the afterpiece, and, according to custom, ended in nothing. Préville was to play the character of an Anglo-maniac, which begins with these words: Pardon me if I have kept the good company expecting me.' A general laugh ensued, and there was an end of the matter. "Meantime the haranguer Billard was arrested, as well as several of the boisterous parterre who had been too clamorous in giving their opinion of the matter. The latter were released, but Billard was conducted to Charenton. When he is again at liberty, he will be prohibited going to the theatre for some time, and public tranquillity will return of itself. His Suborneur' must have been wretched stuff indeed, since the players, who risk so many miserable pieces, were afraid to venture playing that." We may conclude this melancholy picture by an agreeable instance of the importunate egotism of authors of small distinction, which is recorded, by Baron de Grimm, of M. Barthe, who had written a prosy comedy called the "Selfish Man;" without perceiving how closely he was acting in unison with his title, he went to M. Colardeau, who was given over by his physicians, and thus addressed him: [A COMMEMORATION SONG OF THE 9TH OF NOVEMBER, 1837.] WHEN William the sailor, belov'd by us all, May the Queen live for ever, When Elizabeth * guardian of Britain was hail'd, But her genius and patriot spirit prevail'd Over threats which but called up a smile; And our Sovereign VICTORIA will equally prove That no foe can that armour withstand Which is form'd and fenc'd round by her people's firm love, Then huzza! huzza! May the Queen live for ever, The glory, the pride of our land. Then rise, brother freemen, and fill to the brim And though Time passes swift, in defiance of him, VICTORIA! VICTORIA! the toast shall go round, Then buzza! huzza! May the Queen live for ever, The glory, the pride of our land. See the Portrait and Memoir of Queen Elizabeth, published in this Magazine, January 1, 1837. Coiffure éxécutée par M. Lecomte. B. des Cours de France et d'Angleterre. Robe a double jupe en tulle. par Marcher C de la Reine, rue Vivienne. 8. garnie de Heurs de Chaget frères. Volant de dentelle de fil d'écosse de Violard-Robe d'enfant en poult de scie Lady's Magaane. Dobbs & C. Publishers, 10. Carey street Lincoln's Inn London |