Part 10

My acquaintance with Ganguernet continued about ten years. In the low and vulgar circles of society which he was fond of frequenting, he was held up as the most jovial, the best-natured, and the most amusing fellow in the world; although there were some, whose sense of propriety and moral feelings were not entirely destroyed, who held him in merited contempt. For my own part, I always had a dread of the man. That odious smile, forever hanging on those large red lips, singularly annoyed me; that imperturbable gayety, exhibited on all occasions of life, troubled me like the constant presence of a hideous phantom; that phrase, which he appended like a moral to every thing he did, that detested phrase, 'A capital joke,' sounded in my ears as doleful and sombre as the Trappists' motto, '_Brother, we must die_!'

There was a fatality about the man; and it was destined that a life should be sacrificed to his mad propensity for mischief. A day came, on which his famous words, 'A capital joke!' was to be pronounced over a tomb.

On the eve of my departure from Rennes, some friends invited me to join a hunting-party, of which I learned that Ganguernet was to make one. This name took from me in advance half the pleasure I had anticipated. I however repaired early in the morning to the house of one of our friends, Ernest de B----. On my arrival I found Ganguernet there with some others of the party. Ernest had just finished a letter, which he sealed, directed, and placed upon the chimney-piece. Ganguernet, in his usual inquisitive and impertinent manner, took it up, and read the direction. 'Ah ha!' said he; 'so you correspond with your pretty cousin, do you?'

'Yes,' said Ernest, with an air of indifference; 'I have informed her that we intend visiting her chateau this evening, at about seven o'clock, to take dinner there. There are fifteen of us I think, and we shall run some risk of having but poor fare, if she does not get timely notice.'

Ernest rang for a servant, and gave him the letter, without any of us noticing that Ganguernet disappeared for a moment with him. We set off on our expedition. While engaged in the chase, it so happened that Ganguernet and myself took one side of the plain on which we were hunting, while the rest of the party pursued their sport on the other.

'We shall have some fun this evening,' said he to me.

'How so?' replied I.

'Would you believe it? I have given a louis to the servant that he should not carry the letter to its address.'

'And have you taken it?'

'No, pardieu! I told him we were going to have a little joke this evening, and that he must carry the letter to the lady's husband. He is sitting this moment as president of the court of assizes, and when he finds that he is going to have fifteen stout fellows, with keen appetites, at his house this evening, he will be in a devil of a rage. He is as miserly as Harpagon; and the idea of our laying his kitchen and wine-cellar under contribution will put him in such a humor, that he will have no scruple in condemning a dozen innocent men, so that he may reach his country-house in time to prevent the pillage.'

'If this is the case,' said I to Ganguernet, 'it seems to me to be a very malicious jest.'

'Bah! a capital joke! And the best of it will be when we all arrive at the chateau. The others, ravenous with hunger and thirst, will expect to find there an excellent supper. But there will be nothing--absolutely nothing!'

'And do you think, Sir,' replied I, 'that this will be any pleasanter to me than to the rest of the party? And you yourself, will you not be one of the principal dupes of your frolic?'

'Let me alone for that! Look you here; I've got a cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux in my game-bag, and you shall have half.'

'I thank you,' said I, 'but I had rather find Ernest, and notify him of your trick.'

'Ah! good heavens! my dear Sir,' said Ganguernet, 'you cannot take a joke.'

I left him, and apprising our friends of the affair, inquired where I could find Ernest. I was told that he had gone in the direction of the chateau of his cousin, toward which I proceeded, intending to give Madame de L---- notice of the trick of Ganguernet. At a turn of the road I perceived Ernest at a distance, going toward the chateau. I increased my speed in order to overtake him, and made so much haste that I arrived almost at the same moment with him, so that he had just passed the gate as I reached it. As I was about entering, the gate was violently pulled to, and immediately I heard the report of a pistol, and then a voice cried out: 'Villain! since I have missed you, defend yourself!'

I hastily sprang to a grating in the wall, about the height of my head, which opened into the court-yard, and there witnessed a frightful spectacle. The husband, sword in hand, was attacking Ernest with desperate fury. 'Ah! you love her and she loves you!' cried he, in a voice hoarse with passion; 'you love her, do you? and she loves you! Your turn first, and then hers!'

The letter from Ernest to his cousin, conveyed by the malicious interference of Ganguernet to her husband, had apprised him of a secret which had remained hidden for more than four years; and before redressing the wrongs of society as a magistrate, the president of the court had hastened to avenge his own as a husband.

In vain I cried, in vain I called by name the two cousins. Monsieur de L---- with blind fury drove Ernest from one corner of the court to another. Suddenly a window opened, and Madame de L----, pale, with dishevelled hair, and terror painted on her countenance, appeared.

'Leonie!' cried Ernest, 'withdraw!'

'No! let her remain!' exclaimed Monsieur de L----, 'she is a prisoner; you need not fear that she will come to separate us.' And he again rushed upon his cousin with such fury that the fire flew from their swords.

'It is I--it is _I_ who deserve death!' cried Madame de L----; 'kill _me_!'

I added my cries to theirs. I shouted, I shook the grating. I tried to scale the wall, when suddenly, urged on by despair, bewildered, distracted, Madame de L---- threw herself from the window and fell between her lover and her husband. The latter, completely beside himself with passion, directed his sword toward her. But Ernest turned it aside, and in his turn casting off all restraint, exclaimed with vehemence: 'Madman! would you kill her? Well, then--defend yourself!' And immediately he commenced a violent assault upon his antagonist.

I could do nothing to separate them; neither could Madame de L----. The unfortunate woman had broken a limb in the fall, and lay groaning upon the pavement. It was a dreadful combat. Nothing can express the violent terror which seized me. Already the blood of the two cousins began to flow, which only served to increase their rage. I had succeeded with some difficulty in climbing to the top of the wall, and was about to leap into the court, when I perceived some of our friends approaching. Ganguernet was at their head; he drew near, calling to me:

'Halloo! what's this? Why, you bawl like a man getting flayed; we heard you a quarter of a league off. What the devil is the matter?'

At the sight of this detested wretch, I rushed upon him, seized him by the throat, and forcing him violently against the grating, I cried to him in my turn: 'Look there, miserable jester!--'a capital joke!' is it not?--a 'capital joke!''

Monsieur de L----, pierced through the heart by a plunge of his antagonist's sword, was lying by the side of his wife.

Ernest has left France to die in a foreign land. Madame de L---- committed suicide the day after this horrible duel.

'A CAPITAL JOKE!'

APOSTROPHE TO AN OLD HAT.

BY JOHN G. SAXE.

COME forth, Old Hat! I'll pluck thee from the ditch, Where thou hadst well nigh found a grave, 'unwept, Unhonor'd and unsung.' I'll rescue thee A moment longer from oblivion, Albeit thou art old, bereaved of rim, And like a prince dethroned, no more canst boast A crown! Would thou couldst talk! I'd e'en consent That thou shouldst steal my prating grandame's tongue, And so procure her silence and thy history.

Time-worn, adust, degraded as thou art, Thine ancient quality doth still appear; And this fine web, malgré thy present mien, (A batter'd cylinder of dingy brown,) Proclaims that once, some dozen years ago, Thou wert a good and fashionable hat.

Perchance thou first wert perch'd right jauntily A-top some dandy's poll; a most convenient block To keep thee in good shape, and serve beside One purpose more--to advertise thy brethren.

Mayhap a lawyer, in thy pristine years And his, with thy possession much enhanced His meagre sum of personal estate; And, in phrase professional, call'd thee 'chattel'-- A vile distinction for a beaver hat! A lawyer's hat!--alack! what teeming store-house oft Of mischiefs dire; ill-boding parchment; 'writs,' With hieroglyphics mystical inscribed; Invention curious of graceless men, And in sad mock'ry named 'the grace of God!' What mighty 'suits at law,' begot and born Within thy strait enclosure, yet survive Thy tenth successor! And what mighty 'suits In chancery,' (so named from CHANCE, who sits Alternate there and in the legal courts,) Still flourish, endless as the heap of words Which mark the spot where Justice lies entomb'd!

Perhaps at first thou wert allow'd to crown The 'honorable' head of some grave senator; Or judge astute; or member of 'the other House;' pregnant perforce with weighty matters; 'Petitions' humbly praying to abolish Slavery and 'hard times.' 'Bills' to promote The better culture of morality And morus multicaulis! Mayhap a brief And formal letter to a brother member, In courteous phrase requesting leave to shoot him. 'Notes,' 'Resolutions,' 'Speeches' of vast length, And just adapted to produce what thou Hast wanted many a year--a decent _nap_.

Perchance an editor, by some mysterious accident Made passing rich with five-and-forty shillings, First bore thee off in triumph; 'tis pity then Thou canst not speak; else should we hear Of much before unpublished; of countless 'bills' Unpaid; of libels prudently suppress'd; Of 'Stanzas' much, of 'Lines' innumerable; And love-sick 'Songs' to goddesses mundane, All wickedly committed to the Persian's god!

Thou mayst have crown'd a parson, and couldst tell, If thou hadst power of verbal utterance, Of 'the divinity that stirred within thee' In shape of sermons; faithful or smooth-tongued, As he who wrote them chanced to covet most The smile of God or man. A lover's hat Thou surely wert, (since all men love, Who have a head,) and oft no doubt hast given To scented billet-doux and amorous rhymes Thy friendly guardianship; secure from aught Save lifting winds and porter's curious eye.

At second-hand 'tis ten to one thou wert A Jew's possession, got in honest barter; Next, John the ostler's; last of all, past doubt A vagrant's hat; the equitable purchase Of an ill-sung song. Till quite worn out With rain, and wind, and sleet, and other 'ills Thy race is heir to,' the beggar cast thee From his plebeian pate--and here thou liest.

_St. Alban's, Vermont._

THE COUNTRY.

There is something very pleasant in the country, particularly about Thanksgiving-time, when families gather together from north, south, east and west, around the huge roast turkey, and many pairs of jaws masticate vigorously in gratitude for blessings received. At this season of the year the bird which was fortunate enough to excite the enthusiasm of Brillat-Savarin, and to be the theme of many chapters in his immortal 'Physiologie,' is the emblem of our republic. A bald eagle indeed! Who ever heard of a roast eagle? But a turkey:

'The state of a fat turkey, the decorum He marches in with, all the train and circumstance! 'Tis such a matter, such a glorious matter! And then his sauce with oranges and onions; And he displayed in all parts! for such a dish now, And at my need, I would betray my father.'

What native American does not respond _Amen!_ from the depths of his stomach to these appetizing verses of Beamount and Fletcher? But higher far rises the gastronomic phrenzy of the Travelled, who have known the bird, grand in his stuffing of chestnuts, sublime when swelling with the bliss-bringing truffle!

And the country is at all seasons a pleasant idea, if properly considered; but beware of the man of one idea, if that one be Country, as you would of the _homo unius libri_. If you cannot distinguish timothy from clover, and beets from carrots; if, agriculturally speaking, you don't 'know beans;' he will annihilate you with his rural wisdom. For his whole existence is in the soil. He worships things under the earth. Dust he is, and to dust he shall return; (the sooner the better!) He prattles of potatoes, talks of turnips, harangues about horse-radish, knows no composition except compost. Speak to him of manners, and he will answer of manures. Like the Egyptians, he worships a bull; and has all the fondness of Pythagoras for beans. His only literature is Liebig's Animal Chemistry; his lighter reading, the Cultivator and the New-England Farmer.

Such an one was whilom a citizen with protruding abdomen and white cravat, who having realized a something in business, exchanges the counter for the country; buys his acre or two, erects his manor-house, with a grass-plat in front and a tree or two behind; and with a little straw hat on his head, a linen coat on his back, and a hoe in his hand, saunters around his limited possessions, as leisurely and as frequently as an old horse in a mill, perfectly content with his place, his plans, and himself.

Call not upon him unless with double-soled boots and strapless trowsers; and choose a cool day for the visit, if it must be made; for not over 'hill and dale,' but over rock and gully you must march; through ploughed land and through weeds, through bowers of grape-vines and _bosquets_ of Lima beans; scratched by the thorns of the gooseberry and brushed by the long dew-covered leaves of the Indian corn. Numberless shrubs from a foot to eighteen inches in height he will point out to you, and name them with long names: 'This is the Prota Goras,' 'and that the Demo Creitus;' shrubs which, if you had encountered them when alone, you might have eradicated as weeds, in a moment of generous activity. And when muddy, breathless and dripping, you reach the highest point of his possessions, he will wave his hand majestically over some twenty feet of grass, and pointing to three trees and a white fence in the _distance_, talk of scenery!

Nevertheless, convinced as we are that the taste for country-places is on the increase, we think it advisable to suggest a few hints for the instruction of the aspirants after rural felicity. Saratoga and the like are no longer indispensable places of resort, but it _is_ indispensable to be out of town for three months of the year, if you would not be out of fashion during the remaining nine. Select then a bare and stony spot, for as your object is employment, the more improvements you can make the better you will be pleased, as you take it for granted of course that improvements cost almost nothing. On the highest part of this ground you will build your house: an airy situation is invaluable in warm weather; and then a view is so desirable. In the choice of a style of architecture some difficulty arises. You may either have a clap-board Parthenon, with Corinthian columns in front and Doric columns in the rear, painted white, to flash back the rays of the sun, or which is perhaps more fashionable, a Gothic cottage, with steep roof, rustic pillars, fantastic barge-boards, and numerous pinnacles painted brown, with oak-stained doors. This style looks well in the situation we have described; the absence of trees bringing out more fully the beauties of the architecture. It is attended with one or two inconveniences; scarcely however, worth mentioning: Gothic windows always leak, and the sloping roof makes the second story a little _ovenish_ in temperature, and _garrety_ in smell. Whichever of the two styles you adopt, you must not fail to refer your plans to some bustling little architect, who will be sure to write articles about himself in one of the weeklies, and will probably give a drawing of your house, and call you the 'intelligent, gentlemanly, and high-minded proprietor.' After you have removed the stones, manured the ground, and planted grass, you will have a lawn; and after you have dug deep holes and set out tall thin consumptive trees, you have a wood. Secure the whole with white fences; throw rustic bridges over the _impassable_ streams; sprinkle red dahlias and tiger-lilies here and there; buy a bull-dog to set on any small child who may be reckless enough to trespass; and lo! you have a country-seat as well as a town-house, and can invite your city friends to fill your one spare room in regular rotation.

In the important matter of a name, you must decide for yourself; but surely with Walter Scott and Lord Byron and the innumerable _What-d'ye-call-'em_ dales, _Thingumbob_ brooks, and _So-and-so_ woods, to choose from, you can have no difficulty in fixing upon a suitable one.

But, says an amateur rustic, I have no fondness for floriculture, horticulture, or agriculture; what am I to do? Buy a horse, and take a gallop of some twenty miles or so, and if the horse does not shy you off, or bolt you off, or kick you off, and you do not fall off, or he does not fall under you, you will probably arrive at home safe; but as you walk from the stable to the house, you will quote from George Colman's parody of the Lady of the Lake:

'Hunter rest, for thou must own _Leather lost_ and empty belly,' etc.

Have you a fondness for fire-arms? Then procure a gun and dog, and sally forth before day-light. Walk five miles through swamp and thicket without starting a bird. Sky cloudless; heat intense. Suddenly dog's tail begins to beat half-seconds; up whirrs a bird, who is out of sight in a moment; so is the dog, who indulges in an animated chase. You shout yourself hoarse; at length succeed in catching dog, and try to thresh him with decayed sticks. A little while after, dog comes to a point again. This time he stands beautifully. You walk slowly up, trembling with excitement, both barrels cocked. Why don't the bird get up? You glance inquiringly around, and at length discern a wood-turtle fast asleep near the stump of a tree. Then, if an irascible man, you curse. So passes the day. Now and then a bird springs; off fly both of your barrels, aimed at vacancy, and hurling showers of No. 8 into space; and you arrive at home late in the afternoon, sore-footed from much travel and stiffness of boots, and alas! without a feather except a small quail which your dog caught in his mouth.

No more shooting? Try fishing then. Sit all day on a rock watching your float, or cork, or _dobber_, as the Dutch boys call it, dance merrily over the waves, occasionally disappearing under the surface, when the hook catches a weed. Does not even this suit you? Then, dear friend, buy a boat of from four to six tons burthen, properly rigged and ballasted; also buy a red shirt, a small low-crowned straw hat, some tar to smear over your hands, and learn the first stanza of 'The sea! the sea!' to make every thing seem more nautical and ship-shape. Hoist jib and mainsail, and venture out. After you have drifted a mile or two, it will fall a dead calm, and the boat (Gazelle? Wave? Gull?) will float two or three hours, the sun flashing back from the glassy surface of the water, burning your face to the color of bricks, and almost frying the eyes out of your head. Then is the time to sing 'The sea! the sea!' and to take some Monongahela to still the qualmishness you begin to experience. At length the wind rises, and your boat, after many _yawings_, dashes away before it. Suddenly, without any voluntary or visible agency on your part, the main-boom sweeps from one side to the other, carrying your hat overboard in its passage, and dipping the gunwale deep under water. Agitated by this significant gesture, you steer straight for the wharf. In attempting to round-to, the bowsprit comes in contact with the piles and renounces its allegiance to the bow. The boat drifts away from the landing, and finally deposits you high and dry on the beach.

What! Disgusted with this, too? Then take our advice, and like a reasonable man, stay in town.

TO AN EVENING CLOUD.

BY A YOUNG LADY.

Thou beautiful cloud, a glorious hue is thine! I cannot think, as thy bright dyes appear To my enraptured gaze, that thou wert born Of Evening's exhalations: more sublime, Light-giver! is thy birth-place, than of earth. Wert thou not formed to herald in the day, And clothe a world in thy unborrowed light? Or art thou but a harbinger of rains To budding May?--or in thy subtle screen Nursest the lightnings that affright the world? Or wert thou born of th' thin aërial mist That shades the sea, or shrouds the mountain's brow? Whate'er thou art, I gaze on thee with joy.

Spread thy wings o'er the empyrean, and away Fleetly athwart the untravelled wilds of space, To where the Sun-light sheds his earliest beams, And blaze the stars, that vision vainly scans In distant regions of the universe! Tell me, Air-wanderer! in what burning zone Thou wilt appear, when from the azure vault Of our high heaven thy majesty shall fade; Tell me, winged Vapor! where hath been thy home Through the unchangeable serene of noon? Whate'er thy garniture, where'er thy course, Would I could follow thee in thy far flight, When the south wind of eve is low and soft, And my thought rises to the mighty source Of all sublimity! O fleeting cloud, Would I were with thee in the solemn night!

B.

LITERARY NOTICES.

HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO, with a Preliminary View of the Ancient Mexican Civilization, and the Life of the Conqueror, HERNANDO CORTES. By WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. In three volumes. New-York: HARPER AND BROTHERS.