Page:Peterson's Magazine 1842, Volume I.pdf/283

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A lively murmur of disapprobation interrupted him,

“Ob! this ia going too far with the matter,” said one of the hosts. «Does he take us for idiots?”

A. person sitting next to Robinson said, “Come, Sir, you can put an end to thisridicalous foolery. Ie he not the great poct? Is it not Chenier's eloquent pen that has written Charles IX.”

“Chenier is a great poet,” said Robinson,

Are you not his friend 1”

“The friendship of a great man is what I have always been proud of?

“But you don't answer the question directly,” said the Hercules wha had broken in the door. “Is that person Chenier the poct, or not Hava you been telling us lies—yes or no?”

“That person is Chenier the poet,” stuttered opt the seamp.

“Very well. Now, then, Monsieur Chenier,” said this furious admirer of verses, “Z declare to you in my own name, and in thot of my fellow citizens, that your attempting to carry on this farce any farther will be considered by me end by them, a personal insult, for which you shall becomo personally responsible.”

“ What! it is to fight a duel with you 2” said Chenicr.

“ Yea, our friendship ot our vengeance—meke your choice.”.

“Oh! then since you will have it so—and that is the only condition on which I can escape—I am a great poet.”.

Thuniders of applause followed this announcement. Me hud to shake hands with every man in the room. Some even embraced him, ond muny reproached him tenderly with hie foolish obstinacy.

The Herculean orator at length asked permission to speak.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “we must try and obtain a favor from the glorious Chenier. Tt is that he will reeite for ws some of his verses.”


 * But T never made a verse in my life!”

“What, again!” roarad out the stentor, while indig- nation reddened the fuccs of those around, who were already warmed with wine.

“Gontlemen,” said a traveller, who was modeslly seated at the lower end of the table, and who had asked the permission of joining in the banquet, when he had Searncd, 26 he descended from his carriage, that the hero of the féte was Chenier, “Gentlemen,” said he, M.

he has composed; and if you permit me, I shall recite them. By this means harmony may be restored.”
 * Chenier was o kind as to teil me some of the last verses

“ Recite—recite!” was called out from all parts of the room.

tet M. Chenier tooked on the scene around him, quite stupified, the traveller stood up, and recited the seers on “Calumny,” not then published, with so

LADY'S

much’ grace, fecling, and beauty, that the unanimous and heart-felt applause of the meeting grected him at the close of every strophe. Again and again was the hero of the fete congratulated upon his incomparable versea,

The morning sun at length beamed through the windows, and put an end to the noisy fete. The poet wns permitted to retire; and however enger he was to do 60, he could not quit the hall without shuking bands with the gentleman whose poctry had so happily deli- vered him,

“TE repeat to you, Sir,” he said, in thanking the stranger, “upon my honor I am not poet—and 1 do not even know, nor evar suw M. Chenier who makes verses.”

The stranger advanced to Robinson, end said to him, «Why did you not free this gentleman from his embar- rassment 7"

The eonjuror blushed, ~.

‘The stranger continued, “ You are, Sir, with all your faults, a very umusing person, and I ain obliged to you for a night's amusement, When you come to Paria, will you favor me with a visit? ‘That is my address.”

He gave his card to Robinson; and whatever was the name that the confuror read on it, he grew pale—bowed down to the very earth, and—the next morning starled for Germany.

As to M. Chenier, the traveller and dealer in winee— he set oul for Paris the very next day. He applied for, and obtained permission from the Council of State, to insert an into his name of Chenier, and also to desig- nate himself by his native place. He for ever afterward signed bis name Cheanier de Macon.

THE SEA-MAID. °

A marnns came gliding o’er the sea,

In a boat as light x# boat could be,

Anul she sang in tones eo sweet and free, “Oh! where is the youth that will follow me?"

Wer forehead was white as the pearly shell,

And in flickering waves her ringiets fell,

Her basom heaved with a gentle swell,

‘And her voice was a distant vesper bell.

And still she sang while the western light

Fell on her fignre so soft and bright,

“Oh! where shall I find the brave young eprite

‘Phat will fullow the wack of my skiff vo-night2”

To che strand the youths of the village run,

When the witching eoug has searce begun,

And ere the set of that evening aun,

Fileen beld lovers the maid has won.

‘They hoisted the eail, and they plied the oar,

nd away they went from their native shore,

ile the damsel’s pinnace flow fast before,

But never, Oh! never we saw them more. STRRLING.

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