LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1812, 11 December 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MODERN JOURNALISM:. His name was Contre-de-Quarte. At least that was the name I learned to know him by at the Oafe de I’lslo d’Elbe, where I first made hi* acquaintance, and that was the name he signed in the ‘ Good Cause,’ a paper of which ho was the secretaire do redaction, or fighting editor. His sole mission in journalism, indeed, wa» to sign offensive paragraphs likelyjto provoke a demand for explanations, and to offer a duel instead of an apology to the offended parties. He never wrote anything but his own signature, though he more than once confided to me that he bad received in his youth some notions of composition and style, and had he not forgotten the rudiments of spelling, he would have made as good a journalist a* any editor of them all. He took a deep interest in politics ; and whenever I asked him for news he would shake his head gravely, and say in a melancholy tone—‘Ah! mon ami, France is passing through a terrible crisis !’ Then after heading a deep sigh he would add—‘Canyon lend me five francs ?’ I have thus had the happiness of temporarily saving France, at a comparatively small cost, on more than one occasion. Contre-de-Qnarto had been a fencing master in one of the crack regiments of the Imperial Guard, and it was chiefly in the salles d’armes of the Paris barracks that he prepared himself for the future role he was to play in French journalism. On leaving the army he was engaged, at a salary of 40 ' francs a month, by the pugnacious editor of the ‘ Good Cause,’ with nothing to do for it but to fight the ngly customers with whom the other editors deemed it prudent to avoid a recontre. The story of his last duel is worth relating A non-fighting j ournalist of the party represented by the ‘Good Cause,’ the talented Lecaneur, had insulted Bostangi, a fire-eat-ing member of the Republican party, and had refused him satisfaction on the terrain The whole party represented by the ‘ Good Causa’ found itself dishonored by the pusillanimity of Leoaneur, and Ficrabras, the chief editor of that organ, to save the reputation of his friends, published a libellous paragraph, signed, of course, by Contre-de-Qaarte against the fiery Bostangi. The latter sent his seconds to wait upon Contre-de-Qaarte, and they proved to him that, besides exposing himself to a duel, he had signed a series of nntrnths, for which he might be prosecuted and condemned to fine and imprisonment. Now Contre-de Quarte was afraid neither of the duel nor of the tribunals ; but he was honest, and when ho had been convinced that the paragraph was not only offensive, which was of no importance to him, but also contained statements that were not true, he promised that a rectificitive note should appear in next day’s paper. The fury of Kierabras, when he heard of the transaction, may be imagined—at any rate, it cannot be described. ‘ I pay yon to fight, monsieur,’ he said to Centre-de-Qnartre, ‘ and not to make apologies to the impertinent people who ask for them. And here, when an admirable opportunity occurs for washing away with blood the ignoble stain Lecanenr has bronght upon onr party, yon let it escape, and talk of sallying the ‘ Good Cause ’ with a rectificative note. Parbleu 1 Sacreblen 1 Abomination and malediction! At the end of the month your services on the ‘ Good Cause ’ cease.’ When I met Centre de Quarte at the Cafe de ITsle d’Elbe that evening, he was gloomy. Divining from that circumstance that France was passing through a crisis more terrible than ever, I spontaneously and delicately proffered the usual modest sum f r tiding it over temporarily. That kind intention on my part led Contre-de-Quartre to make me his confidant. After he had told mo the facts related above, he added— * If I could only get a duel on before the end of the month, and shed my blood for the ‘ Good Cause,’ I think Fierabras would relent.’ ‘ There is nothing easier,’ said I. ‘ Lot yonr note to-morrow be more offensive than the paragraph complained of. without being libellous. Lecaneur called Bostangi a circus soldier ; you call him a paste-board soldier, and the thing is done,’ I have felt remorse for that wicked advice ever since, Contre-de-Qnarte, however, thought it a stroke of genius, mi rushed off at once to the office to put it in execution Matters turned out exactly as I expected. Bostangi’s seconds, finding in next day’s paper a fresh insnlt instead of tho rectification promised, were at the office of the • Good Cause ’ before the ink on the paper was well dry. I met Contro-de-Qusrte in the afternoon as ninal. His eyes were sparkling with pleamre. ‘ It’s all right,’ he added, robbing his hands with glee. ‘ We fight to-morrow morning at five. It was Tagrague who re-

cerved Bostangi’s seconds, because I was not in the office. But,’ added the worthy fellow, ‘he acted for me as if the affair hid been his own, or as if I would have acted tor him. Yet, he might have fixed the meeting later, for he knows I have rheumatism, and the c'dd mornings make mo stiff in the arms and legs. N’i ro porte, I’ll have myself well rubbed before starting, and the ‘ Good Cause” shall have reason to be satisfied with me,’ Then, after a pause —‘Apropos,’ he asked, • who is this Bostangi V Is he a big or little man ? stout or thin ? I could not give the information, as I had not the honor of Bostangi’s acquaintance. So we parted. The duel took place next morning at the honr fixed. Oontre-do Qnarte was slightly wounded in the breast, and Bostangi more seriously in the arm. Honor was satisfied, but not so the ‘Good Cause.’ Contre-de-Qnarte, though he had shed his blood for it, had to leave it. The last time I met him ho was seeking subscriptions to help him to publish a work entitled, ‘The Art of becoming a iv millionaire, placed within the Beach of the Meanest Capacity.’ I lent him two francs, and wo parted again for the last time.

MAXWELL’S IDEA. The villages in the neighborhood of Boston present some curious social aspects Every morning the railroad takes almost the entire male population to the city. At night it returns them again. The village is practically a sleeping place for people whose every thought is of the town. Their very manners and customs are of the city, and yet in reality the people are only villagers. Love is a never-ending theme with all story-tellers, and they delight to tell the tale in every tongue. Hear, then, a story of love under new and peculiar circumstance—a tale of mingled love and social martyrdom, tho highest moral courage, aud the most pitiful slights and insults. The village of Weston consists of one main street, where stand the churches, the town hall, Post office, and sundry feebleminded stores. There are noble elms, a wide road, and a few pretty houses. The belter clai-s of dwellings are on the hill-side beyond tho railroad, or to the north, on the meadows. By day a sleepy place ; at night every house is filled with city people sound asleep. The people live here, but their hearts are in the town. Every boy looks forward to the time when ho shall join the pilgrims to the city. To go into an office or store in Beaton is the only thing for a young man to do. He must have business in town or lose caste. Tom Maxwell had the misfortune to be born in Weston, and early imbibed its peculiar notions concerning life and tho thing to do. For instance, no young gentleman must work with his hands ; he mast dress well, be able to take part in the Lyceum debates, and he must not on any account stay in the village during the day. Unless he could do all this, he had better remove to New York or Chicago, and dwell among the unenlightened in enter darknsr. gjgg 'lorn had secured a place as acconctant in a wholesale grocery house, and was considered a lucky fellow. He had a small property of his own, and he had fallen in love. The Object had oven said she would some day wear his name. She wore his diamond ring already. Suddenly Tom Maxwell appeared at the village station at eleven o’clock in the morning, and in an hour it was known of all women that the wholesale grocery concern had failed. The Object knew it first, and straightway all knew it. Of course, the engagement would come to an immediate end. There was not the least furs about it. Weston prided itself on its dignified serenity nnder trials. It stopped, and that was the end of it. The next day Tom had a diamond ring on storage at his rooms. Thereupon the young man sat down to consider the situation. Ho was now twentytwo, had a eood general education, and didn’t know anything very well. His hands were soft j he knew how to dance ; ha could sing tolerably and paint a little ; he could not dig, neither could he steal. He was, in fact, a fair sample of the Weston young gentlemen. He also considered the situation from a lover’s point of view. Hera wo have no right to intrude, and we must learn his thoughts from his actions. For several days he wandered aronnd in the open air, casting about to see wbat he might do, but really curing his heart wound in silent contemplation of nature. Herein was he doubly wise. In a moment of inspiration he thought of emigrating to New York. Other fellows had gone there, and had made money; why not he? He even investigated the expense of the journey; but something stood in the way. He loved the Object still. One day he happened to pass through the main street at high noon. There was not a aonl to be seen in all the drowsy place. Some stray hens gathered round the overflowing water trough before the chief store, and a solitary cow cropped the grass along the sidewalk. He was a trifle hungry, and went up the decayed and broken steps of the store to purchase a lunch The door was locked, aud he peered in at tho dirty windows. Was it here tho housekeepers of Weston bought their sugars and molasses, their teas and spices ? He felt glad he had not known it before. What a horrible place 1 Dark, dingy, confuted with halfopened boxes and barrels, a broken scale on the counter, rows of fly-specked bottles on the shelves, confusion and disorder everywhere. Just then a man in shirt sleeves and frowzy hair appeared and opened the door. Tom asked for bread and cheese. Ho paid for something, took it away in a newspaper, and charitably bestowed the whole of it upon the ancient hens in the street. It was a good investment. With the purchase he had gained an idea. Ideas are money to the wise, and Tom Maxwell was wise above his generation. He looked up and down the sleepy street, and contemplated the three establishments that supplied the village needs ; one variety place, where nails, needles, and fried fish found a home ; one butcher’s shop—a horrid den, fall of unspeakable abominations ; and the dismal grocery. The idea grew upon him rapidly. He considered it two days, and then resolved to try it. Little did he imagine the immense social changes his decision would involve. How could he foresee the slights, the sneers, and insulting or ndeecension that would be bestowed upon him ? He taw nothing, not even the outcome of his love experience that would soring from his new idea. The following week the village carpenter received an order to turn the lower story of tho old Allen mansion into something new — what, ho could not exactly comprehend. There were to be two immense windows, with a wide opening into a parlour, Behind this were to be two large rooms, and in front there was to be a wide piazza, with ample canopy and broad steps, and with spaces for flower borders on either side. The news spread quickly through the village. Everybody knew that Tom Maxwell had embarked in some insane scheme, and was tearing the Allen mansion to pieces Poor boy !hia sad love experience had injured his mind. He was throwing his money away. His friends should interfere and save him from ruin. At night the returning merchants paused before the dismantled mansion, and wondered what new folly had broken loose in the town. Maxwell heard of these things, and the next morning a high board fence shut the work from view. This only excited the greater curiosity. Every female tongue wagged fust over Tom’s consummate folly. What did he intend to do ? Was it a house, theatre, shop, or studio ? Weeks passed. There was much hammering behind the high Ln e. Then came the silent painters; aud lastly one night two huge waggons unloaded sundry boxes and barrels at the door. The raise evening every family in the village, and in all the villages round about, received a polite invitation to inspect, cn tho following night, tho new establishment. The next afternoon at half past six the carpenters pulled down tho high fence, and displayed—well, it could not bo called anything. Nothing like it had ever been seen in the world —at least so they said ; but then Weston sight never extends beyond Boston. To ere was in front a neat garden with a grave'led walk. At one side the ro>d passed close to tho steps, so that carriages came diiectly to the piazza. Tho immense plate-glass windows and a double door tilled the entire front of the lower part of the building. Over the door waa a simple sign, or card : ‘Thomas Maxwell,’ Through ihe windows could be seen tables spread with white covers, and laid with dishes of tho

most delicate dried fruit, golden batter, bread, cake, every thing that could, delight the heart of the housekeeper. The door opened npoa a parlor, carpeted, a-d furnished with numerous chairs and email tables. Nearly every table had some choice display of tilings desirable in a gastronomic sense. A tea-urn graced one corner, and beade it stood a oaffte urn, while on the table before it were cups, sugar, aud spoons. Two doors at the bock led to large rooms completely filled with tables loaded with foreign and domestic groceries. No counters, no shelves, not a thing to suggest a store. English neatness, Parisian elegance in arrangement, American convenience everywhere. (7W<! cnvtinur.rl.)