bark violently, which put him in mind of a trick that had formerly been played at Lyons, and he communicated his suspicions to some intimate friends, who advised him to carry the portmanteau to some distance upon the waste, and they would shoot at it; which they had no sooner done than they heard the groans of a dying man. On opening the trunk they found the villain just expiring, with a brace of pistols, a dagger, and a whistle by him. They apprized the proper officer with what had happened, who came immediately, and having prepared proper assistance, in the middle of the night they blowed the whistle, when six men approached, two of whom they killed, two they took, and two made their escape."

The following epitaph is translated verbatim, from a tomb-stone in the aisle of a church in Burgundy: "Here lies John Verolet, a farmer and labourer in this parish: he never asked a favour of any man: he never was in a city; he loved his King, but never saw him. He never knew what it was to fear himself, nor make others afraid he never was acquainted with want, pain, or prison, during a life of 94 years: he never saw in his house accident, dispute, or disease."

The following elegant and interesting Verses are attributed to the Hon. William Spencer.

The Emigrant's Grave.

FOUNDED ON A TRUE STORY.

Why mourn ye, why strew ye those flow'rets around,
In yon new-sodded grave, as your slow steps advance;
In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground!)
Lies the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile from France.

And is the poor exile at rest from his woe,

No longer the sport of misfortune and chance! Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow For the stranger ye lov'd, the poor exile of France. Oh! kind was his nature, though bitter his fate,

And gay was his converse, though broken his heart; No comfort, no hope, his own heart could relate, Though comfort and hope he to all could impart.

Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain

Still foremost was he, mirth and pleasure to raise,
And sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain,
When he sung the glad song of more fortunate days!

One pleasure he knew; in his straw cover'd shed
For the snow-beaten beggar his faggot to trim,
One tear of delight he could drop on the bread
Which he shar'd with the poor, though still poorer than

him.

And when round his death-bed profusely we cast
Ev'ry gift, ev'ry solace our hamlet could bring,
He blest us with sighs, which we thought were his last;
But he still had a pray'r for his country and king.

Poor exile, adieu! undisturb'd be thy sleep!

From the feast, from the wake, from the village green

dance,

How oft shall we wander, by moonlight to weep,

O'er the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.

To the church-going bride shall thy mem❜ry impart
One pang as her eyes on thy cold relics glance,
One flow'r from her garland, one tear from her heart,
Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France.

W. S.

An Eclogue,

ON THE DEATH OF MISS MARIA

Departing suu proclaim'd approaching night,
And the moon shone with faint, yet pleasing light,
When Damon, fairest of the village swains,

On his soft pipe began th' untutor'd strains;
He sung how Thyrsis for Maria dead,

The tears of pity and affection shed.

Ob! come, ye nymphs and swains, the shepherd said,
Let cypress boughs adorn the mourner's head;
Let tender bosoms heave with pitying sighs,
And tears bedim the lustre of your eyes:
Whilst o'er the tomb where innocence is laid,
You pensive stand, and mourn the absent maid.
Oh! come, ye nymphs, the yews and cypress bring,
And come, ye swains, the solemn dirges sing.

Swains.

Thyrsis how oft beneath the moon's pale light,
In pleasing converse you've beguil'd the night.
No one was nigh to envy, or to hear,

९

Those soft embraces which fond lovers share.

No one was nigh to listen, or reveal,
Lovers do nothing that they would conceal.
Ah! now no more soft converse will delight,
But tears and sighs wear out the tedious night.

The Morning.

Bright on her golden car Aurora rides,

The lark, high soaring hails the dappled morn!
Itchin's blue stream in smoaking currents glides,
Cathrin's† glad brow the sparkling dews adorn.
Through yonder field, new-gilded by the ray,
The whistling shepherd to his crowded pens
Plods with uneven gait; while watchful Tray,
With studious eyes, his master's flock attends.

Theatrical Intelligence extraordinary.-Friday, September 16. Yesterday departed this kingdom, to the inexpressible grief of Drury Lane theatre, David Garrick, Esq. poet, painter, and philosopher; musician, manager, and mimic; critic, censor, and composer, and professor of tragedy, comedy, and farce. This unhappy poor gentleman had long been in a languishing condition, from a surfeit which he took at the astonishing success of Covent Garden house, and his distemper daily threatening him with a relapse, he was advised by his first physicians to recruit his con

* A river near Winchester.

† A hill near Winchester, belonging to the College.

stitution, or at least endeavour to avoid, by retiring into the air of another country, the dramatical pestilence which he found himself utterly incapable of opposing in this. His chariot was attended out of town by innumerable sons of the buskin, and a prodigious train of danglers on the sock. Mr. Holland, in the character of 'Tragedy, was dressed in a deep suit of mourning, and poor Mrs. Cibber had her hair all dishevelled, representing a picture of the greatest distress. A universal silence for a long time reigned through the cavalcade, which Mrs. Clive at last broke by an exclamation of "G-d's b-d!" and a rivulet of tears. At parting, poor Mr. Garrick recommended his memory with much condescension to them all, while the pious Mr. Charles Churchill offered a solemn prayer for his happy return, to which the sensible Mr. Thomas Clough officiated as clerk, and pronounced a hearty Amen.

We hear the principal performers of the house intend furnishing themselves with black, upon this melancholy occasion; and that every person under fifty shillings a week is to be provided with a second-hand suit out of the stock. We are further informed, that Mr. Scott, of the Black Lion in Russel Street, has generously promised to supply any ten with board, during the whole season, upon tick; an example which, it is hoped, Carter of the Blue Posts, and Jupp of the Queen's Head, will good-naturedly follow; and moreover, that if any benefactions should be left for the relief of

VOL. I.