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:

Not far from that superb abode

Where Paris bids her monarchs dwell,
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 calling 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.

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 us. 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.

In fine, the self-same equipage,

As when, with lovely Mazarine,
Still boasting of the name of Sage,

He drowned, in floods of generous wine,
The dulness and the frost of age,

And daily paid the homage due,

To charms that seem'd for ever new.

As he arrived un-announced, he placed himself between us without ceremony, but could not forbear smiling at the respect with which we withdrew our chairs, under pretence of not crowding him. I had always heard that it was necessary to question folks of the other world, in order to engage them in conversation; but he soon shewed us the contrary; for, casting his eyes on the paper which we had left on the table,— "I approve," said he, "of your plan, and I come to give you some advice for the execution; but I cannot comprehend the choice you have made of these two gentlemen as assistants. I admit, it is impossible to write more beautifully than they both do; but do you not see that they write nothing but by starts, and that their subjects are as extraordinary as their caprice?

Love-lorn and gouty, one soft swain
Rebels, amid his rhymes profane,
Against specific water-gruel;
Or cherups, in his ill-timed lay,
The joys of freedom and tokay,

When Celimena's false or cruel :

The other, in his lovely strain,

Fresh from the font of Hippocrene,

Rich in the charms of sound and sense,

Throws all his eloquence away,

And vaunts, the live-long lingering day,
The languid bliss of indolence.

"Give up thoughts of them, if you please; for though you have invoked them, they won't come the sooner to your succour: Arrange, as well as you can, the materials you had

collected for others, and never mind the order of time or events: I would advise you, on the contrary, to chuse the latter years of your hero for your principal subject: His earlier adventures are too remote to be altogether so interesting in the present day. Make some short and light observations on the resolution he has formed of never dying, and upon the power he seems to possess of carrying it into execution.*

That art by which his life he has warded,
And death so often has retarded,

'Tis strange to me,

The world's envy

Has ne'er with jaundiced eye regarded:

But mid all anecdotes he tells

Of warriors, statesmen, and of belles,

With whom he fought, intrigued, and slept,
That rare and precious mystery,

His art of immortality,

Is the sole secret he has kept.

"Do not embarrass your brains in seeking ornaments, or turns of eloquence to paint his character: That would resemnble strained panegyric; and a faithful portrait will be his best praise. Take care how you attempt to report his stories, or bons mots: The subject is too great for you. Try only, in

*The Count de Grammont, in his old age, recovered, contrary to the expectation of his physicians, and of all the world, from one or two dangerous illnesses, which led him often to say, in his lively manner, that he had formed a resolution never to die. This declaration is the subject of much raillery through the whole epistle.

+ Bussi Rabutin assures us, that much of the merit of Grammont's bons mots consisted in his peculiar mode of delivering them, although his reputation as a wit was universally established. Few of those which have been preserved are susceptible of translation; but the following may be taken as a specimen :

One day when Charles II. dined in state, he made Grammont remark, that he was served upon the knee; a mark of respect not common at other courts. "I thank your Majesty for the explanation," answered Grammont: "I thought they were begging pardon for giving you so bad a dinner."-Louis XIV., playing at tric-trac, disputed a throw with