With natural expression closing;
Let every rhyme fall in express;
Avoid poetical excess,

And shun low miserable prosing:
Doat not on modish style, I pray,

Nor yet condemn it with rude passion;
There is a place near the Marais,
Where mimicry of antique lay

Seems to be creeping into fashion.
This new and much-admired way,

Of using Gothic words and spelling,
Costs but the price of Rabelais,

Or Ronsard's sonnets, to excel in.
With half a dozen ekes and ayes,
Or some such antiquated phrase,
At small expense you'll lightly hit
On this new strain of ancient wit.

We assured the spirit we would try to profit by this last advice, but that his caution against falling into the languor of a prosing narration appeared to us more difficult to follow. "Once for all,” said he, "do your best; folks that write for the Count de Grammont have a right to reckon on some indulgence. At any rate, you are only known through him, and, apparently, what you are about will not increase the public curiosity on your own account. I must end my visit," he continued, "and by my parting wishes convince my hero that I continue to interest myself in his behalf."

Still may his wit's unceasing charms

Blaze forth, his numerous days adorning ;

May he renounce the din of arms,

And sleep some longer of a morning:

Still be it upon false alarms,

That chaplains come to lecture o'er him ;*

* De Grammont having fallen seriously ill, at the age of seventy-five, the king, who knew his free sentiments in religious matters, sent Dangeau

That all the doctors give him o'er,

And king and court are weeping for him.
May such repeated feats convince

The king he lives but to attend him ;
And may he, like a grateful prince,

Avail him of the hint they lend him ;
Live long as Grammont's age, and longer,
Then learn his art still to grow younger.

Here ceas'd the ghostly Norman sage,
A clerk whom we as well as you rate;
The choicest spirit of his age,

And heretofore your only curate :
Though not a wit, you see, his spectre
Doth, like a buried parson's, lecture.
Then off he glided to the band

Of feal friends that hope to greet you,
But long may on the margin stand,

Of sable Styx, before they meet you.
No need upon that theme to dwell,
Since none but you the cause can tell ;
Yet, if, when some half century more,
In health and glee, has glided o'er,
You find you, maugre all your strength,
Stretch'd out in woeful state at length,
And forc'd to Erebus to troop,
There shall you find the joyous group,
Carousing on the Stygian border !

Waiting, with hollo and with whoop,
To dub you brother of their order :
There shall you find Dan Benserade,
Doughty Chapelle and Sarazine,
Voiture and Chaplain, gallants fine,

And he who ballad never made,

Nor rhymed without a flask of wine.

give him ghostly advice. The Count, finding his errand, turned to his ife, and cried out, "Countess, if you don't look to it, Dangeau will ■eat you of my conversion."

Of whose high merits fame did tattle,
As sturdy tilier, knight renown'd.
Before the warfare of the Fronde,

Should you again review Gironde,
Travelling in coach, by journeys slow,
You'll right hand mark a sweet chateau,
Which has few ornaments to show,

But deep, clear streams, that moat the spot,
'Tis there we dwell,-forget us not!

Think of us then, pray, Sir, if, by chance, you should take a fancy to revisit your fair mansion of Semeac. In the mean while, permit us to finish this long letter; we have endeavoured in vain to make something of it, by varying our language and style-you see how our best efforts fall below our subject. To succeed, it would be necessary that he whom our fictions conjured up to our assistance were actually among the living. But, alas!

No more shall Evremont incite us,

That chronicler whom none surpasses,
Whether his grave or gay delight us;

That favourite of divine Parnassus
Can find no ford in dark Cocytus:
From that sad river's fatal bourne,
Alone De Grammont can return.

MEMOIRS

OF

COUNT GRAMMONT.

t