sitation I did so; the corrupt atmosphere of the small chamber almost suffocated me, and caused me to cough slightly, which prevented me from speaking for an instant; at a glance I was enabled to examine the miserable hole where the tragedian Ponteuil, the Achilles and Orestes of the theatre, was terminating his earthly career. and was bid to enter. After an interval of silent he-[ I laid down my helpless burden on the mattress, and descended the stairs more speedily than I had mounted them. I entered the house of the first traiteur I could find, and ordered a light and nourishing repast. I was absent but ten minutes. The eyes of Ponteuil sparkled with joy, when I re-appeared, followed by two waiters carrying soup, a roasted fowl, a plate of spinach, some wine and bread; all this I had arranged properly, and dismissed the people, pay. ing them in his name. The poor soul thanked me with moistened eyes; he hesitated, and when I pressed him to take the nourishment so necessary for his exist. In a space of twelve feet square, narrowed by the sloping roof, in which the tiles were in many places visible, was the pallet of the invalid; the rags of the miserable bed were covered, but scarcely hidden, by an old red theatrical mantle, spread over it as a counter-ence, he seized my hands in his own and pronounced pane. On this mattress reclined the person I sought, the lines from Andromache, beginning— who was now reduced to a skeleton-whose livid and emaciated appearance was aggravated by a Roman toga clasped over the right shoulder, a crown of tinsel, and tin bracelets on the lean, naked arms, which were every moment agitated, while Ponteuil declaimed, shouted and gesticulated to the honor of the eternal family of the Atrides. He was then reposing on the bed, completely exhausted by the violence of his exertions; he was the first who broke silence. "So you have come to see a poor wretch just ready to enter the bark of Charon," said he, touched and surprised by my visit. "You see that I am, nevertheless, studying a part." "Excuse my intrusion," I replied, advancing to him and taking his hand ; " but I had looked for you many days in the Luxembourg, and the fear that you were worse, forced me to discover your abode, that I might converse a little with you, and offer you the loan of some new books, or any thing else which might be of service to you." Many thanks, monsieur, but I really have no want of any thing," said Ponteuil, whose pride was wounded by my offers. "Nevertheless, I am willing to acknowledge that you are a worthy man, who have ex hibited greater interest in my fate than I have merited from you. Still you must make allowances for our peculiar situation in regard to each other, and not be surprised-" Tears sparkled in the eyes of Ponteuil, and before he had finished this reproach, he fainted so suddenly as to alarm me not a little. I searched the room for some restorative or cordial, but could find nothing bet ter than cold water, which I threw in his face, and then opened the window to obtain air, but it was with difficulty that I could recall vital energy; he could not distinguish objects, and his voice fluttered indis. tinctly, when he replied to my questions. 'Monsieur Ponteuil," I said, greatly troubled at his state, which the irregularity of his pulse rendered still more alarming; "let me run for the physician who attends you." "Give me a glass of water," he gasped out, and then added, "I have no medical attendance; and as for this attack, it is only exhaustion; because I have not had any thing to eat for two days." "Not for two days!" I exclaimed with horror, "this is too dreadful! not only suffering with illness, but dying of inanition." "Oui, puisque je retrouve un ami si fidèle," with an emphasis I shall never forget. My eyes were suffused with tears; but I renewed my entreaties that he would eat; he then not only ate, but devoured the food before him with an eagerness that terrified me, and I was forced to seize upon the fragments of a repast which I had doubted had been provided for his destruction, and conveyed them out of his reach. I exacted a promise that he would obey implicitly my despotic directions in regard to his health, and I consoled and encouraged him by showing him the bright rays of the sun, which had now reached the slanting walls of his garret; I talked to him of the fresh air of the country, of walks and rides through sylvan scenery, till I raised his fluctuating spirits to thoughts of his recovery; and then, as usual, he always spoke of his dear theatre. "During my long malady," he said, whilst rubbing together his wasted hands, "I have not passed my time idly; the public at my re-appearance will perceive the progress I have made. I have learned more than twenty new parts, and I consider that I excel in those of Hamlet and Romeo. And it is you. my true friend, who have preserved me for future glory! It must be owned that I was a hot-headed fool, a brawler, and headstrong brute, when I wanted to kill you." "Have you not a claim on the pension for retired actors?" I asked, willing to alter the turn which the conversation had taken. "I think my interest could obtain it for you." "You are joking," replied Ponteuil; "I am not yet thirty, and that pension is only granted to actors who have reached their sixtieth year; people of our profession live a long time." Witness the celebrated Baron," I replied, sadly thinking of the contrast before me, "who played the lover with so much spirit at forescore. But notwithstanding your youth, I think the theatre owes you this memorial of respect and gratitude." "For players, there is never any remembrance of the past," Ponteuil replied, smiling bitterly. “I sup pose we concentrate to our art all we possess of the faculty of memory, therefore it fails us when we ought to exert it for our friends. Even Préville, who received me like a father under his roof when my prospects were bright and my hopes were high-Préville has forgotten who I am." 4 " "I always thought him a time-server," I replied, | Billard had not been blended with these benefits, Pon'during my dealings with him in my literary capa- teuil would have been transported with joy. I saw city. But if he has forgotten us, we will return the the interior struggle he suffered before he could accompliment by forgetting him; when your prospects cept the benefit bestowed by the object of his averbrighten, I will represent your case once more to the sion. At last he took me by the hand, kissed it, and first gentleman of the bed-chamber. I can solicit the thanked me; then he blessed me, and, without menroyal munificence in your behalf, through the inter- tioning the name of Billard, for the first time heard it vention of the Duc de Choiseul, who honors me with pronounced without a comment of bitterness. This his friendship." was something; but his time was short for forgiveness. Alas! the autumn was beautiful this year, but still the leaves fell! From this moment Ponteuil enjoyed all the comforts that could belong to his desperate state; every thing that science or affection could provide were his. Every day something was done or sent which was calculated to relieve the ennui occasioned by a sick "You are only too generous," said Ponteuil, "and I repeat that I was an odious person to want to kill you; but it was all owing to the absurdities of that troublesome Billard, who embroiled us with his folly." "Nevertheless, forgive him, I beg of you," I said, taking the offered hand of Ponteuil; "for if you reflect on the past, you will find that you gave him no little provocation, yet I know he has not the least ill-bed, with a slow fever and a furious cough. Somewill towards you." 66 times magnificent fruits arrived for him, delicate pastry, or delicious sweetmeats. Every book or engraving published concerning the theatre was also sent him as soon as it appeared. Whenever I dared mention the name of Billard, it was heard with profound silence by Ponteuil. Not a word more about him," cried Ponteuil, extending his arm in the theatrical attitude for a vow; between us there is a hatred unto death, for that Billard is my evil genius! I hope never to see him again, at least while the blood circulates in my veins." He accompanied this menace with a look so terri. The fruits came from the garden of Billard; the ble, and a gesture so expressive, that I dared no longer sweetmeats were chosen by him; the books were sent irritate him by proceeding with the defence of Bil-from his library. The coach of Billard carried us to lard, but turned the conversation to his theatrical illu- take the air every sunshiny morning to the Cours-lasions, and we discussed the parts he best knew, speak-Reine. Billard sent an invitation for Ponteuil to take ing of the provinces where he had played, and of the up his abode in an unoccupied chateau, in the neighsuccess with which he had been welcomed. The re- borhood of Paris; and Billard entreated him to use, at collections of an art which had destroyed his health his pleasure, both his purse and his credit. These and withered his youth were still dear to him; he de- reiterated attacks at last began to sap the obduracy of claimed fragments of speeches, he adjusted the folds Ponteuil's aversion; he began to mention the name of of his Roman toga with theatrical skill, and, in ima- Billard of his own accord, not only without antipathy, gination, he heard thunders of applause, and saw but with gratitude. I saw the moment drew near for crowns of laurel while agitated by the convulsions of reconciliation; I was anxious to expedite it, for the a mortal cough. leaves now fell fast. The next morning I recounted to Billard the whole of these incidents, and described the deplorable state of Ponteuil, his mortal malady, his poverty, and, above all, the lively hatred he still nourished against the author of the Suborneur. The kind heart of Billard was sensibly touched by these details; he implored me to redouble my efforts to remove the resentment of the poor invalid; and if that could not be done, at least to contrive some way of providing him the comforts he would procure for him, without irritating his proud spirit by the knowledge of the source from whence they came. In fact, I continued to visit poor Ponteuil most assiduously, who daily grew worse My first step towards pacification between him and the object of his hatred, was the information that my exertions, in order to procure him the theatrical pension, would, I found, have been the work of time; but as his wants were pressing, and his impatience of private obligation great, I had used the great court interest of Billard, who had exerted himself with such good will, that he had obtained for him a pension of of 1200 livres from the theatrical chest, and a gratuity of fifty livres from the royal bounty; this last was, in reality, the bounty of my charitable friend, who well knew the poor soul would never receive one quarter's payment of his pension. If the name of One morning, without having mentioned it to Ponteuil, whose strength was now deplorably diminished, I resolved that Billard should accompany me in my daily visit. Billard no longer ran about with an enormous manuscript under his arm; he was dressed in cut velvet, and wore diamonds on every finger. Ponteuil was slumbering when Billard followed me into the sloping garret, which, notwithstanding all my entreaties, our patient still chose to inhabit. Awakened by the sound of our footsteps, Ponteuil opened his eyes, and though he certainly did not recognize Billard, a vindictive instinct made him guess who he was, for a nervous agitation seized him, and he enveloped himself in the sheets as if they had been his shroud, all the time that Billard was offering him excuses for his uninvited visit, with a kind humility of soul that would have touched a heart of less natural feeling than that of poor Ponteuil's. After our invalid had got over the first sight of Billard, he relaxed by degrees from his stiff coldness of manner; the expression of his lips was less bitter, and his features more placid. I did all I could to turn the conversa tion on pleasant general subjects, and Billard carefully avoided all mention of the Suborneur, and the opinion of M. Bauvin, author of the Cheruscans. irony, of which he afterwards repented, “you do not speak of your comedy! Has it been played? Has it been applauded?" "It has been both played and applauded in society," replied Billard, without seeming to be piqued. "You have not, then, forgotten the Suborneur, in five acts, and in verse? M. Bauvin, author of the Cheruscans, is not now the only person who gives it his suffrages; M. de la Harpe, author of the Barmecides, of Menzikoff, and of Coriolanus, has praised it before the Academy, who assisted at a private representation; and the celebrated Madame de Graffigny, author of the Peruvian Letters, told me that my work gave hopes. I should like to read it to you, for the benefit of your advice." "We will certainly hear it," said Ponteuil, sighing heavily, "and I anticipate taking a part when this comedy is played, which recalls so many afflicting remembrances; and I must make amends to its author by the applauses I shall endeavor to merit, when it is brought on the boards." I observed that Ponteuil did not present his hand to Billard at parting, yet, on the whole, I was satisfied with the result of the visit. I went the next day without Billard to see the invalid, and though he did not ask to see him, I observed that he led the conversation so as to induce me to speak of my friend; and when I purposely abstained, he broke out, with his usual impetuosity, in terms expressive of the sense he felt of the unmerited kindness he had received from the generous Billard, and in condemnation of his own prejudices. I said little, and turned the conversation; but my heart rejoiced that the dying man was reconciled with his enemy, for the autumnal leaves had nearly all fallen. my dear friends." And saying this, Ponteuil took our In these I have conveyed to both of you expreesions 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 permit 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 convul sive cough which tormented him. The keen northwest which ushers in the winter, whistled and howled Billard was my companion in my visit next day to the sick, and from that moment all feelings of hatred and vengeance were changed into love and friendship. No man could surpass Billard in the bienséances of social life: his goodness and benevolence gave the most attractive expression to his plain person and homely features. Among his other attainments, he read well, and he brought all the most popular pieces and read them aloud to Ponteuil; he read the responses to all Ponteuil's favorite parts, who declaimed his speeches in a half smothered extinct voice. There was a compact entered into between Billard and my-round the chimney-tops, and whirled the light asbes self, that we should vie with each other in attentions to the poor dying creature; and I think I can answer that we were faithful to our engagements. He had now entered into the last stage of pulmonary consumption; he was wasted to the bone, and coughing away his life; he often gazed upon us with looks of ineffable gratitude, which spoke to our hearts more than words could. 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 his manuscript, "I implore you to stop me 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 il 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—” "If you have the true talent of an author," interrupted Ponteuil in a faint voice, "labor-persevere; no actors in the world can hinder you from acquiring fame-but nothing can avail against death. Adieu, Billard-adieu J-, my friend-thus ends hatred to death." 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 With a bitter exclamation of grief, I threw myself the funeral of his friend. The actors, who had fortowards him he replied not. I snatched his hand-gotten him whilst living, followed his corpse in proit was cold. I felt his heart-it had ceased to beat-cession, but I believe real grief was felt only by BilPonteuil had expired without convulsion or other suf- lard and myself. fering. 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." 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, 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 100 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 theatres 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: 44 My friend, I am shocked to see you so ill; but I have a favor to ask you, which is, to hear me read my Selfish Man.'" Consider, my friend," said Colardeau, "that I have but a few hours to live." "Alas, yes! but that is the very reason that makes me anxious to gain your opinion of my piece." He pressed the subject so much, that the dying man, to avoid the pest of his importunities, consented; and, after hearing it through without interruption, he said: "Your principal character is deficient in one quality." 66 What is that?" asked the author. "That of commanding the attention of a dying man," replied Colardeau, with a faint smile. A DEPRECATION OF THE NAME OF JOHN. FREELY RENDERED FROM THE ORIGINAL ITALIAN-BY A SUFFERER. [Giovanni de la Casa, afterwards Archbishop of Benevento, was one of the wits of Italy in the sixteenth century, and author of the famous treatise on good-breeding, entitled Galateo, is the writer of the following witticism. The name of John in Italian (Giovanni) shortens into Gian and Gianni, the sounds of which are nearly identical with those of our own John and Johnny; a circumstance which helps to maintain the integrity of the banter in English. The extreme popularity of this name in the first instance, (owing, doubtless, to a cause too reverend to be mentioned here,) rendered it at length the most trivial of appellations, and degraded it into connection with every species of familiar or despised object,-Jack-ass, Jack-pudding, Jack boot;—John-a-Nokes, and John-eStiles, &c. It would be easy to vindicate, in a counter set of verses, the dignity of a name associated with some of the greatest of men;-but it is one of the privileges of a caricature to be allowed to have its own way, and assume that it is literally true, precisely because it is not so. De la Casa's banter is so pleasant, that we wish we could have given an idea of it throughout; but some of its allusions would fail in English, from difference of customs. We have, therefore, omitted a few lines. The original is in terza rima, or what may be called the chain measure of Dante, of which the middle verse of one triplet rhymes with the first and third of the next; a system which does not suit English versification, indeed, to our ear, any other.] S'io avessi manco quindici o vent'anni, Ch'io nol senta chiamar da cinque o sei, &c. Were I some fifteen years younger, or twenty, On purpose not to be called John. I never "Tis an express insult; a mere public scandal. Looking like what it is, a simpleton's, Barber's, porkman's, or tooth-drawer's, but the fellow Seems by his look to be a John,—and is one! I verily think, that the first man who cried Boil'd apples or maccaroni, was a John; By heavens! I'd rather be a German: nay, Or some such beast,-or Simon. Really, people Who christen people, ought to pause a little, And think what they're about.-O, you who love me, If you must call me so, call it me softly; For as to mentioning the name out loud, You might as well call after one like a dog, Whistle, and snap your fingers, and cry "Here, boy." |