EPISTLE TO THE COUNT DE GRAMMONT.

For who was e'er forgot by thee?
Witness, at Lérida, Don Brice,*
And Barcelona's lady nice,
Donna Ragueza, fair and free;
Witness, too, Boniface at Breda,
And Catalonia and Gasconne,
From Bourdeaux walls to far Bayonne,

From Perpignan to Pueycreda,

And we your friends of fair Garonne.

19

Even in these distant and peaceful regions, we hear, by daily report, that you are more agreeable, more unequalled, and more marvellous than ever. Our country neighbours, great news-mongers, apprized by their correspondents of the lively sallies with which you surprise the court, often ask us if you are not the grandson of that famous Chevalier de Grammont, of whom such wonders are recorded in the History of the Civil Wars? Indignant that your identity should be disputed in a country where your name is so well known, we had formed a plan of giving some faint sketch of your merits and history. But who were we, that we should attempt the task? With talents naturally but indifferent, and now rusted by long interruption of all intercourse with the court, how were it possible for us to display taste and politeness, excelling all that is to be found elsewhere, and which yet must be attributes of those it to make you their theme?

Can mediocrity avail,

To follow forth such high emprize?

In vain our zeal to please you tries,

Where noblest talents well might fail :

Where loftiest bards might yield the pen,

And own 'twere rash to dare,

'Tis meet that country gentlemen

* Don Brice is

not appear there.

Be silent in despair.

celebrated in the Memoirs, but Donna Ragueza does

*

We therefore limited our task to registering all the remarkable particulars of your life which our memory could supply, in order to communicate those materials to the most skilful writers of the metropolis. But the choice embarrassed us. Sometimes we thought of addressing our Memoirs to the Academy, persuaded that as you had formerly sustained a logical thesis, you must know enough of the art to qualify you for being received a member of that illustrious body, and praised from head to foot upon the day of admission. Sometimes, again, we thought, that, as, to all appearance, no one will survive to pronounce your eulogium when you are no more, it ought to be delivered in the way of anticipation, by the reverend Father Massillon or De la Rue. But we considered that the first of these expedients did not suit your rank, and that, as to the second, it would be against all form to swathe you up while alive in the tropes of a funeral sermon. The celebrated Boileau next occurred to us, and we believed at first he was the very person we wanted; but a moment's reflection satisfied us that he would not answer our purpose.

Sovereign of wit, he sits alone,

And joys him in his glory won;
Or if, in history to live,

The first of monarchs' feats he give,

Attentive Phoebus guides his hand,

And Memory's daughters round him stand;

He might consign, and only hc,

Thy fame to immortality.

Yet, vixen still, his muse would mix

Her playful but malicious tricks,

Which friendship scarce might smother.

So gambols the ambiguous cat,

Deals with one paw a velvet pat,

And scratches you with t'other.

*I presume, when he was educated for the church.

The next expedient which occurred to us was, to have your portrait displayed at full length in that miscellany which lately gave us such an excellent letter of the illustrious chief of your house. Here is the direction we obtained for that purpose:

Retiring from the Louvre's road,

The office opes its fruitful cell,
In choice of authors nothing nice,
To every work, of every price,
However rhymed, however writ,
Especially to folks of wit,

When by rare chance on such they hit.
From thence each month, in gallant quire,

Flit sonneteers in tuneful sallies,

All tender heroes of their alleys,

By verse familiar who aspire

To seize the honour'd name of poet.

Some scream, on mistuned pipes and whistles,
Pastorals and amorous epistles;

Some, twining worthless wreath, bestow it
On bards and warriors of their own,
In camp and chronicle unknown.
Here, never rare, though ever new,
Riddle, in veil fantastic screening,
Presents, in his mysterious masque,
A useless, yet laborious task,
To loungers who have nought to do,

But puzzle out his senseless meaning.
'Tis here, too, that, in transports old,

New elegies are monthly moaning;
Here, too, the dead their lists unfold,
Telling of heirs and widows groaning;

Telling what sums were left to glad them,

And here in copper-plate they shine,

Shewing their features, rank, and line,

And all their arms, and whence they had them.

We soon saw it would be impossible to crowd you, with

propriety, into so miscellaneous a miscellany; and these various difficulties at length reconciled us to our original intention of attempting the adventure ourselves, despite of our insufficiency, and of cailing to our assistance two persons whom we have not the honour to know, but some of whose compositions have reached us. In order to propitiate them by some civilities, one of us (he who wears at his ear that pearl, which, you used to say, his mother had hung there out of devotion), began to invoke them, as you shall hear

O! Thou, of whom the easy strain
Enchanted by its happy sway,
Sometimes the margin of the Seine,
Sometimes the fair and fertile plain,

Where winds the Maine her lingering way;
Whether the light and classic lay

Lie at the feet of fair Climéne;

Or if, La Fare, thou rather chuse
The mood of the theatric muse,
And raise again, the stage to tread,
Renowned Greeks and Romans dead;
Attend!—And thou, too, lend thine aid,
Chaulieu! on whom, in raptur'd hour,
Phoebus breath'd energy and power;
Come both, and each a stanza place,
The structure that we raise to grace;
To gild our heavy labours o'er,

Your aid and influence we implore.

The invocation was scarce fairly written out, when we found the theatric muse a little misplaced, as neither of the gentlemen invoked appeared to have written any thing falling under her department. This reflection embarrassed us; and we were meditating what turn should be given to the passage, when behold! there appeared at once, in the midst of the room, a form that surprised without alarming us--it was

that of your philosopher, the inimitable St. Evremont.*

None

of the tumult which usually announces the arrival of ghosts of consequence preceded this apparition.

us.

The sky was clear and still o'er head,

No earthquake shook the regions under,
No subterraneous murmur dread,

And not a single clap of thunder.
He was not clothed in rags, or tatter'd,
Like that same grim and grisly spectre,
Who, ere Philippi's contest clatter'd,

The dauntless Brutus came to hector:
Nor was he clad like ghost of Laius,
Who, when against his son he pled,
Nor worse nor better wardrobe had,
Than scanty mantle of Emaeus :

Nor did his limbs a shroud encumber,

Like that which vulgar sprites enfold,
When, gliding from their ghostly hold,

They haunt our couch, and scare our slumber.

By all this we saw the ghost's intention was not to frighten

He was dressed exactly as when we had first the pleasure of his acquaintance in London. He had the same air of mirth, sharpened and chastened by satirical expression, and even the same dress, which undoubtedly he had preserved for this visit. Lest you doubt it,

His ancient studying-cap he wore,

Well tann'd, of good Morocco hide ;†
The eternal double loop before,

That lasted till its master died:

*With whom, as appears from the Memoirs, the Count, while residing in London, maintained the closest intimacy. St. Evremont was delighted with his wit, vivacity, and latitude of principle: he called him his hero; wrote verses in his praise; in short, took as warm an interest in him as an Epicurean philosopher can do in any one but himself.

One of St. Evremont's peculiarities was, that instead of a wig. the universal dress of the time, he chose to wear his own grey hair, covered with the leathern cap described in the text.