erased from his last will, in which there is, doubtless, a good legacy provided for you."

After these reflections I made others of a quite contrary nature. To give the notice in question seemed a delicate point. I imagined that an author, conceited of his own works, might receive it ill; but, rejecting this suggestion, I represented to myself that he could not possibly take it amiss after having exacted it of me. in so pressing a manner. Add to this, that I depended upon my being able to mention it with address, and make him swallow the pill without reluctance. In a word, finding that I ran a greater risk in keeping silence than breaking it, I determined to speak.

The only thing that embarrassed me now was how to break the ice. Luckily, the orator himself extricated me from that difficulty, by asking what people said of him, and if they were satisfied with his last discourse. I answered that his homilies were always admired; but, in my opinion, the last had not succeeded so well as the rest in affecting the audience. "How, friend!" replied he with astonishment; "has it met with any Aristarchus?"-"No, sir," said I, "by no means: such works as yours are not to be criticised; everybody is charmed with them. Nevertheless, since you have laid your injunctions upon me to be free and sincere, I will take the liberty to tell you that your last discourse, in my judgment, has not altogether the energy of your other performances. Are not you of the same opinion?"

My master grew pale at these words, and said with

a forced smile, "So, then, Mr. Gil Blas, this piece is not to your taste!"-"I don't say so, sir," cried I, quite disconcerted; "I think it excellent, although a little inferior to your other works."—"I understand you," he replied; "you think I flag, don't you? Come, be plain: you think it is time for me to think of retiring."—"I should not have been so bold," said I, "as to speak so freely, if your grace had not commanded me. I do no more, therefore, than obey you; and I most humbly beg that you will not be offended at my freedom."-"God forbid!" cried he, with precipitation; "God forbid that I should find fault with it. In so doing, I should be very unjust. I don't at all take it ill that you speak your sentiment; it is your sentiment only that I find bad. I have been most egregiously deceived in your narrow understanding.

Though I was disconcerted, I endeavoured to find some mitigation in order to set things to rights again; but how is it possible to appease an incensed author, one, especially, who has been accustomed to hear himself praised? "Say no more, my child," said he; you are yet too raw to make proper distinctions. Know that I never composed a better homily than that which you disapprove; for my genius (thank Heaven!) has as yet lost nothing of its vigour. Henceforth I will make a better choice of a confidant, and keep one of greater ability than you. Go," added he, pushing me by the shoulders out of his closet, "go, tell my treasurer to give you a hundred ducats, and may Heaven conduct

!

you with that sum Adieu, Mr. Gil Blas; I wish you all manner of prosperity, with a little more taste!"

LE SAGE (Gil Blas).

morceaux (morsö), bits, morsels. French, plur. of morceau. Baotian ears. The people of Boeotia, a rich agricultural district of Greece, were proverbial, in ancient times, for dulness. The usual contrast between quick-witted city life (as at Athens) and country life.

Cardinal Ximenes. A great

Spanish statesman, archbishop (of Toledo), and cardinal (1437-1517). Aristarchus. The greatest critic of antiquity; flourished 156 B.C. His chief labours were devoted to the poems of Homer, his revision of which has been the basis of the text down to the present time.

THE CHARMS OF NATURE.

THE love of Nature and the scenes she draws
Is Nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found,
Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons,
Renounce the odours of the open field
For the unscented fictions of the loom;
Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes,
Prefer to the performance of a God
The inferior wonders of an artist's hand!
Lovely, indeed, the mimic works of Art;
But Nature's works are lovelier. I admire,
None more admires, the painter's magic skill,
Who shows me that which I shall never see,

Conveys a distant country into mine,

And throws Italian light on English walls.
But imitative strokes can do no more

Than please the eye-sweet Nature's, every sense.

The air salubrious of her lofty hills,
The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales,
And music of her woods-no works of man
May rival these; these all bespeak a power
Peculiar, and exclusively her own

Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;
'Tis free to all-'tis every day renew'd;
Who scorns it starves deservedly at home.
He does not scorn it, who, imprison'd long
In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey
To sallow sickness, which the vapours, dank
And clammy, of his dark abode have bred,
Escapes at last to liberty and light :

His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue;
His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires;

He walks, he leaps, he runs-is wing'd with joy,
And riots in the sweets of every breeze.
He does not scorn it, who has long endured
A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.

Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed
With acrid salts, his very heart athirst
To gaze at Nature in her green array.
Upon the ship's tall side he stands possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire :
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find-
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.
The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;
The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown,
And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort,
And mar the face of beauty, when no cause
For such immeasurable woe appears.
These Flora banishes, and gives the fair

Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.

COWPER.