the eggs. At last, however, he was obliged to give out, for fear of accident, being crammed to the very throat.

7. Having, therefore, eaten and drunk sufficiently, he thought proper to conclude the farce by rising from table and accosting me in these words: "Signor Gil Blas, I am too well satisfied with your good cheer to leave you without offering an important advice, which you seem to have great occasion for. Henceforth, beware of praise, and be upon your guard against everybody you do not know. You may meet with other people inclined to divert themselves with your credulity, and, perhaps, to push things still further; but don't be duped again, nor believe yourself (though they should swear it) the eighth wonder of the world." So say ing, he laughed in my face, and stalked away.

LE SAGE.

ΕΙ

1. You object to Mr. Madison, the want of energy. The want of energy! How has Mr. Madison shown it? Was it in standing abreast with the van of our revolutionary patriots, and braving the horrors of a seven years' war for liberty, while you were shuddering at the sound of the storm, and clinging closer with terror to your mothers' breasts? Was it, on the declaration of our independence, in being among the first and most effective agents in casting aside the feeble threads which so poorly connected the states together, and, in lieu of them, substituting that energetic bond of union, the Federal Constitution? Was it in the manner in which he advocated the adoption of this substitute; in the courage and firmness with which he met, on this topic, fought hand to hand, and finally vanquished, that boasted prodigy of nature, Patrick Henry? Where was this timid and apprehensive spirit which you are pleased to ascribe to Mr. Madison, when he sat under the sound of Henry's voice for days and weeks together; when he saw that Henry, whose soul had so undauntedly led the revolution, shrinking back from this bold experiment, from the energy of this new and untried Constitution; when he heard the magic of his eloquence exerted to its highest pitch, in painting, with a prophet's fire, the oppressions which would flow from it; in harrowing up the soul with anticipated horrors, and enlisting even the thunders of Heaven in his cause?

2. How did it happen that the feeble and effeminate spirit of James Madison, instead of flying in confusion and dismay before this awful and tremendous combination, sat serene and unmoved

upon its throne; that, with a penetration so vigorous and clear, he dissipated these phantoms of fancy, rallied back the courage of the House to the charge, and, in the State of Virginia, in which Patrick Henry was almost adored as infallible, succeeded in throwing that Henry into a minority? Is this the proof of his want of energy? Or will you find it in the manner in which he watched the first movements of the Federal Constitution; in the boldness with which he resisted what he deemed infractions of its spirit; in the independence, ability, and vigor, with which, in spite of declining health, he maintained this conflict during eight years? He was then in a minority. Turn to the debates of Congress, and read his arguments: you will see how the business of a virtuous and able minority is conducted. Do you discover in them any evidence of want of energy? Yes; if energy consist, as you seem to think it does, in saying rude things, in brava'do and bluster, in pouring a muddy torrent of coarse invective, as destitute of argument as unwarranted by provocation, you will find great evidence of want of energy in his speeches.

a contrast!

3. But, if true energy be evinced, as we think it is, by the calm and dignified, yet steady, zealous, and persevering pursuit of an object, his whole conduct during that period is honorably marked with energy. And that energy rested on the most solid conscious rectitude; supported by the most and durable basisprofound and extensive information, by an habitual power of investigation, which unravelled, with intuitive certainty, the most intricate subjects; and an eloquence, chaste, luminous, and cogent, which won respect, while it forced conviction. We have compared some of your highest and most vaunted displays with the speeches of Mr. Madison, during his services in Congress. What It is the noisy and short-lived babbling of a brook after a rain, compared with the majestic course of the Potomac. 4. Yet, you have the vanity and hardihood to ask for the proof of his talents! You, who have as yet shown no talents no talents beyond those that can be of service to your country, of the merciless Indian, who dexterously strikes a tomahawk into the defenceless heart! But what an idea is yours of energy! You feel a constitutional irritability;-you indulge it, and you call that indulgence energy! Sudden fits of spleen, transient starts of passion, wild paroxysms of fury, the more slow and secret workings of envy and resentment, cruel taunts and sarcasms, the dreams of disordered fancy, the crude abortions of short-sighted theory, the delirium and ravings of a hectic fever, - this is your notion of energy! Heaven preserve our country If this be the kind of energy which from such energy as this! you deny to Mr. Madison, the people will concur in your denial.

-

But, if you deny him that salutary energy which qualifies him to pursue his country's happiness and to defend her rights, we follow up the course of his public life, and demand the proof of your charge.

WM. WIRT.

1. A WINTER'S SABBATH SCENE. -- Grahame.
How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep,
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day —

Not even a footfall heard. Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain :
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged, the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered keystone of the church-yard porch.
Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried;
No step approaches to the house of prayer.

2. THE SNOW-STORM.- Emerson.

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come, see the north wind's masonry!
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door:
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work,
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work :

And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art,
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

3. A WELCOME TO WINTER. — Thomson.

See, Winter comes to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train,

Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme,
These! that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms!
Congenial horrors, hail! with frequent foot,
Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life,
When nursed by careless Solitude I lived,
And sung of Nature with unceasing joy,

Pleased have I wandered through your rough domain;
Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure;

Heard the winds roar, and the big torrents burst;
Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brewed
In the grim evening sky. Thus passed the time,
Till through the lucid chambers of the South

Looked out the joyous Spring, looked out and smiled:

4. THE NEW YEAR.

Fleetly hath passed the year. The seasons came
Duly as they were wont, the gentle Spring,
And the delicious Summer, and the cool
Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,
And Winter, like an old and hōary man,
Frosty and stiff, and so are chronicled.
We have read gladness in the new green leaf,
And in the first-blown violets; we have drunk
Cool water from the rock, and in the shade
Sunk to the noontide slumber; we have plucked
The mellow fruitage of the bending tree,
And girded to our pleasant wanderings

When the cool wind came freshly from the hills;
And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves

Had faded from its glory, we have sat

By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced
Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf.

"God hath been very good." "T is He whose hand Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out

The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep
The fountains in their secret places cool;
And it is He who leadeth up the sun,
And ordereth the starry influences,
And tempereth the keenness of the frost;
And, therefore, in the plenty of the feast,
And in the lifting of the cup, let Him
Have praises for the well-completed year.

CCVI. POPE'S EPISTLE TO DOCTOR ARBUTHNOT.

When Pope had reached the meridian of his fame, he was beset, as many distinguished literary persons are at the present day, with applications from numerous writers, who had mistaken a desire to write for the ability, to read and revise their compositions, and to use his influence in having them published. In this poetical epistle to his friend and physician, he humorously describes his annoyances; and expresses his fears that Bedlam (the madhouse) or Parnassus has sent forth the troop of poetasters and scribblers who lie in wait for him.

1. "SHUT, shut the door, good John!" fatigued, I said;
"Tie up the knocker; say I'm sick -I'm dead!"
The dog-star rages! nay, 't is past a doubt

All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out:

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide;
By land, by water, they renew the charge,

They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,

Even Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.

2. Is there a parson much be-mused in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

A clerk, fore-doomed his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engrōss?

Is there who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls?
All fly to Twickenham, and in humble strain
Apply to me to keep them mad or vain.

3. Friend to my life, which, did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song,
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
O, dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;

If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.

To laugh were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read

With honest anguish and an aching head,
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years."

* Pope's villa, on the Thames.