With natural expression closing; And shun low miserable prosing: Nor yet condemn it with rude passion; Seems to be creeping into fashion. Of using Gothic words and spelling, Or Ronsard's sonnets, to excel in. 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. The king he lives but to attend him ; Avail him of the hint they lend him ; Here ceas'd the ghostly Norman sage, And heretofore your only curate : Of feal friends that hope to greet you, Of sable Styx, before they meet you. Waiting, with hollo and with whoop, 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, Should you again review Gironde, But deep, clear streams, that moat the spot, 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, That favourite of divine Parnassus |