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."

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?" de

manded he, gruffly. "Who are you, Sir?" addressing himself to Piron; " your name?” "Piron."- "What are you?” "A poet."" A 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, Free-mason, economist, bard, politician,— How had Europe rejoic'd if a Christian he'd been! If a man, how he then had enraptur'd his Queen!" 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

that remonstrance was vain; and after submitting with the best grace he could, opened the door, and made the farewell bow to his unwelcome visitor; who did not offer to depart, but told him, with the utmost gravity, that the ceremony was not yet concluded: for that the monarch he had the honour of serving must be convinced that his commission was punctually fulfilled, on which account he must have a receipt. This was also submitted to, and given in manner and form following:

"Received from the right-hand of Conrad Bachoffner, thirty lashes on my naked back, being in full for an Epigram on Frederic the Third, King of Prussia; I say, received by me, VOLTAIRE. Vive le Roi."

ROUCHER.

THIS Poet, author of that beautiful production "Les Mois," was one of the victims of Robespierre's black dictatorship. Of the many prisoners in St. Lazare, none excited a higher interest. During his imprisonment, he was occupied in the instruction of his son Emilius, and thus banished the worst trouble of confinement-its irksomeness.

As soon as he saw the act of accusation, he was convinced of the certain destiny which awaited him, and sent his son home with a portrait which Suvet had taken when in the jail, and a paper, with these words addressed to his wife and family:

"Ne vouz etonnez pas, objêts charmans et doux!
Si quelqu'air de tristesse obscurcit mon visage;
Lorsqu'un savant crayon ou dessinait cet ouvrage,
On dressait l'echafaud et je pensais à vous.”

"Wonder not,-O ye dear and delightful objects!-Wonder not, if you observe a tinge of melancholy o'ershadowing my countenance: while the pencil of art was thus tracing its lineaments, my persecutors were preparing my scaffold, and my thoughts were dwelling upon you."

WYCHERLEY'S MEMORY.

"WYCHERLEY used to read himself asleep o'nights, either in Montaigne, Rochefoucault, Seneca, or Gracian; for these were his favourite authors. He would read one or other of them in the evening, and the next morning, perhaps, write a copy of verses on some subject similar