shew you what it is to make a mockery of justice." G. "O, pray, Sir, do not disturb the repose of M. Commissary; allow him to sleep on; you are so much awake, that, without flattery, you are worth a dozen commissaries. I mock not justice, believe me; I am, indeed, a maker of songs; and you, a man of taste, must yourself have by heart the last which I wrote, and which has been, for a month past, the admiration of all Paris. Ah, Sir, need I repeat, 6 Daphnis m'amait, Le disait, Si joliment, Qu'il me plaisait Infiniment!' "You see, Sir, that I do not impose upon you. I am really a sonneteer; and, what is more, Sir, (making a profound reverence to the clerk,) a dealer in spiceries, at your service, in the Rue de la Truanderie.” Scarcely had Gallet finished, when Collé began: "I wish," said he, "to save you the trouble of asking questions. My name is Charles Collé, I live in the Rue du Jour, parish of St. Eustache; my business is to do nothing; but when the couplets of my friend here (pointing to Gallet) are good, I sing them." Collé then sung, by way of example, the following smart anacreontic: "Avoir dans sa cave profonde Il n'est point de vrais biens au monde, "And," continued Collé," when my other friend here (pointing to Piron) makes good verses, I declaim them;" to illustrate which, he with equal felicity, repeated the following appropriate couplet from Piron's Calisthenes: "J'ai tout dit, tout, seigneur ; cela doit vous suffire; Qu'on me mene à la mort, je n'ai plus rien à dire." As he finished these words, Collé, with all the air of a genuine tragedy hero, strutted towards the guard, bidding them" lead on." So burlesque a conclusion to the examination, called forth a general burst of laughter. The clerk alone, far from laughing, grew pale with rage, and denouncing vengeance, ran to awake the Commissary. "Ah, Sir," exclaimed Piron, in a tone of raillery, "do not ruin us; we are persons of family." -"A "A poet.”— The Commissary was in so profound a sleep, that some time passed before he made his appearance. Piron and his friends, however, did not suffer the action to cool; but kept the guard in a constant roar of laughter with their drolleries. At length M. Commissary was announced. "What is all this noise about?" demanded he, gruffly. "Who are you, Sir?" addressing himself to Piron; "your name?" “ Piron.”—“ What are you?" poet?" "Yes, Sir, a poet, the most noble and sublime of all professions. Alas! where can you have lived all your days, that you have not heard of the poet Piron? I think nothing of your clerk being ignorant of my name and quality; but what a scandal for a great public officer, like you, M. Commissary, not to know the great Piron, author of Fils Ingrats, so justly applauded by all Paris; and of Calisthenes, so unjustly damne as I have shewn to the public by some verses, which prove it to a demonstration." Piron would have gone on farther in this gasconading strain, but the Commissary interrupted him, by observing, pleasantly, "You speak of plays, M. Piron; don't you know that Lafosse is my brother; that he writes excellent ones, and that he is the author of Manlius? Ah, Sir, there is a man of great genius." "I believe it, Sir," replied Piron, "for I too have a brother who is a great fool, although he is a priest, and although I write tragedies." The Commissary either felt not the piquancy of this repartee, or had the good sense to conceal it. After a few more inquiries, he saw into the real character of the affair, invited Piron to relate it at length, and (to the satisfaction of all present but his sagacious clerk) not only believed, but laughed most heartily at it. He then dismissed the three friends, not with a rebuke, but with a polite invitation to dine with him at his house on the day following. "Ah! my friends," exclaimed Piron, as he left the office, “nothing more is wanting to my glory; I have made even the Alguazils laugh.” AN EPIGRAM, AND A RECEIPT. King, author, philosopher, poet, musician, If a man, THE above was many years ago handed about Berlin, and shewn to the King, (Frederic the Third,) who, deemed it a libel, because it was true; but instead of filing an information, and using the tedious methods practised in this country, he took a summary way of punishing the author, who he knew, from internal evidence, must be Voltaire, at that time a resident in Berlin. He sent his serjeant at arms (one of the tall regiment), not with a mace and scrap of parchment, but with such an instrument as the English drummers use for the reformation of such foot-soldiers as commit any offence against the law military. The Prussian soldier went to the Poet, and told him he came, by his Majesty's special command, to rewardhim for an Epigram on his royal master, by administering thirty lashes on his naked back. The poor versifier knew |