converted by land-jobbers into vineyards, more productive than those of Bourdeaux or Burgundy. Emigrant and eager vintagers have "looked" for the fruit of their labours, and expected to behold high piled baskets, and flasks by the dozen. Such vineyards have yielded prodigiously; barren sand and bankruptcy have been the wild grapes, which set the speculator's teeth on edge. Very sour, unpalatable fruits, too hard of digestion, even for an ostrich.

The French, for a succession of ages, blest with fertile vineyards, and crowned with chaplets, were a merry people. In an evil hour, the rage of improvement urged them to grub up that mantling vine, which had so long proved

"From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade,"

and to plant certain bastard slips, called trees of liberty. Over the whole kingdom they threw a shade more mournful, than yew or cypress. Great expectations have been entertained of the fruit of these trees; but, it is said, noblemen and gentlemen of taste declare nothing can be more" wild," and even the poor peasant

shakes his head at the forced production and mawkish flavour of the fruits of liberty, and sighs for a grape or filbert, from the gardens of St. Cloud or the Thuilleries.

iberty, a the garte

INGRATITUDE OF REPUBLICS.

"For the workman is worthy of his meat.”—Matt. x. 10.

Ir there be such a personage as Truth, this assertion certainly belongs to her family, for what can be more just, than that a vintager should eat some, at least, of those grapes, which he had planted and watered.

But, judging from the practice of the world, at the present time, one would think my text was grown obsolete, and that its principle was not recognised. In the shambles, there is always meat enough, but how little is bestowed upon workmen. Parasites, buffoons, fiddlers, equestrians, French philosophers, and speculators gormandize; but I see Merit, that excellent workman, that needeth not to be ashamed, as lank and as lean, as my old tabby cat, who has had nothing to eat but church-mice for a year.

Though I am not saluted a brother, by any legitimate parson, and belong to no ministerial

I

association on earth, yet I cherish great respect, and feel a cordial regard for the established clergy. I consider them, with few exceptions, as faithful workmen; they make us moral; they instruct our youth; they lead sober and peaceable lives.

"Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,

They keep the noiseless tenor of their way."

They are wise, they are amiable men, though they are ignorant of foolish questions, and "strivings about the law;" they understand perfectly the great rules of life. Such men, therefore, are worthy of their meat, and should be liberally provided. They labour much: few men labour more; they are compelled to exercise, not only the head, but the hands. The private estate, as well as the gospel vineyard, claims their care. When the drudgery of the year is done; when numerous sermons have been composed, and numerous sick-chambers visited; when they have been in watchings and weariness often, what meat will the benevolence of a parish bestow? Verily a morsel. A beggarly pittance, called a salary, and that pittance

scantily and grudgingly paid. When I visit a village, covered with stores and shops, and cultivated by opulent farmers; when I hear the inhabitants boast of their flourishing circumstances, and recount how many bushels of wheat they threshed last year, and how well it sold; if I should be informed, that their parson's annual stipend is but sixty pounds, in despite of all their boasted riches and ostentation, I should think them unworthy to enter a church.

If I should repair to any place, where men congregate, and describe to them one, who, in an hour of jeopardy, had quitted his hearth, travelled many wearisome miles, been exposed to sickly air, been shot at for hours, and frequently without a crust, or a draught to supply the waste of nature: If I should add, that all this peril was sustained, that we, at home, might live in security, not one of my audience, provided speculators and bloodsuckers were not of the number, would deny, that the OLD SOLDIER was a worthy workman. But where is his meat? Oh, my good sir, do not propose that question in a republic; you know that a republic is never bounteous. Belisariuses ask for their obolus here, as well as at Rome. But here the busi