Virginia Argus

DEFERRED ARTICLES.

ANECDOTE OF PIRON

Alexis Piron.-- The celebrated French wit, was in the habit of retiring every morning, to muse at his ease in the Bois de Boulogne. His abstraction often led him into the most remote parts of the wood, and as his sight was bad, he sometimes lost his way, and did not regain it until late in the evening. One day, having thus missed his path, he found himself so fatigued, on coming out of the wood, that he was obliged to rest himself upon a bench, attached to one of the pillars of the Conference-Gate. Hardly was he seated, when, on the right hand and on the left, he was saluted, by all the passengers, either coming in, or going out, on foot, or horseback, or in carriages. He lifted his hat more or less to each, according to their apparent quality. "Surely!" thought he to himself, surely, I am much more known, than I supposed. Oh! that Mr. A *** before whom I almost prostrated myself this morning, without his deigning to answer but by a slight nod of the head oh! that he were now here, to witness the respect that is shown me!" While he made these reflections, the crowd passed in so quick succession that at last the exercise of the hat became quite fatiguing. He took it entirely off, and contented himself with bowing to all that saluted him.--Suddenly an old woman cast herself on her knees before him, with her hands together, "Rise my good woman," said he, astonished, and wondering what this could mean, "rise; you treat me as you would a maker of epic poems or tragedies; but you are deceived: I have never arrived at that high honor as yet I have never risen above a song or an epigram." But the old woman still continuing on her knees, without seeming to hear him, Piron though he saw her lips move, and supposed she was speaking to him. He leaned forward and listened.-- He did indeed hear her muttering something between her teeth; it was an Ave. addressed to an image of the Virgin placed directly over his head. It was then upon raising his eyes, he discovered the true object of all the salutations, which he had believed were directed to himself. "So it is with poets," said he, as he walked off. they think that all the world is looking at them or is at their feet, while, in truth, nobody cares, whether they exist.