very well supplied with refreshments, which to him was exceedingly mortifying, as he generally prided himself upon the keenness of bis appetite. However, on this occasion he was obliged, to his no small chagrin, to sup upon bread and cheese, the latter article in appearance having been dried up by the sun, did not contribute much to the enjoyment of the meal. After supper, and having drank several glasses of gin and water, being the best beverage the house afforded, he seemed very much inclined for sleep, but no bed was to be had, poor con solation this after the fatigue of the day. Neither the servant or host, who were repeatedly applied to by our traveller, could be prevailed on upon any ternis to relinquish their beds, and no alternative was left but to sleep on the floor. Our host, however, who had an eye to that which was more for his own benefit than the traveller's, contrived at last to introduce to his notice that there was a double bedded room in the house, and one of the beds therein was unoccupied and at his service, if he saw no objection to sleeping in the same room with another. It may readily be imagined that our traveller, being tired and sleepy, was not long in giving his assent to the taking possession of the second bed, which he was accordingly shewn to, and was very soon in the arms of Morpheus.

At six o'clock in the morning, (by his previous direction) he was awakened by the servant, who brought him a light to dress by, and he arose and began to shave himself. While shaving himself his unlucky genius gave him a hint to peep at his neighbour; and having noticed the very quiet manner in which his neigh bour had passed the night, it occurred to him that perhaps it might be a female, whose modesty had kept her from making the least noise, from an apprehension that she might

attract attention; enraptured with the idea of some blooming damsel, our presumptuous hero stole quietly to the bed, and gently withdrew the curtain; at this moment the light shewed full on the bed, and what was the horror and astonishment of our traveller to discover the corpse of a man, (who had died in the house a few days before) quite naked, laid out at full length. The sight so appalled the traveller, that in the twinkling of an eye, he caught up his clothes and rushed into the street, happy in the opportunity of dressing himself there, and lost no time in settling with the host, between whom and himself an explanation not very pleasant, took place, and pursued his journey,

BEN JONSON'S MEMORANDA.

6

At Dulwich College are preserved some of Ben Jonson's Memoranda, which proved that he owed much of his inspiration to good wine and the convivial hours he passed at the Devil, a tavern then situated in Fleet-street, near Temple Bar, on the site where Child'splace now stands. Mem. I laid the plot of my Volpone,' and wrote most of it, after a present of 10 dozen of palm sack from my very good Lord T.; that play I am positive will live to posterity and be acted when I and envy be friends, with applause.' Mem. The first speech in my Catalina,' spoken by Sylla's ghost, was writ after I parted with my friend "in the Devil Tavern. I had drank well that night, and had brave notions.There is one scene in that play which I think is flat. I resolve to drink no more water with my Mem. Upon the 20th of May, the King (Heaven reward him!) sent me a hundred pounds.'

wine.' 6

The manager of a theatre in Staffordshire, having been irritated by the repeated defections of his first tragedian, at length came to the resolution of deciding his differences

vi et armis.' Accordingly a pasture field in the neighbourhood of Leek was fixed upon as the place of meeting. The first shot was fired and grazed the cheek of Silvester Daggerwood. His opponent fired with all his choler, and carried away the collar and breast work of a new coat, which had been provided for the part of Bob Acres. At this moment the seconds interfered, and Bombastes Furioso was performed the same evening to the satisfaction of all.'

The following account of the Miller's tomb in Sussex, is extracted from 'Taylor's Brighton Guide.'

This curious monument is on Heydown Hill, about four miles from Worthing. Its sides are built of brick, is six feet long, and three broad, the tops and ends of stone, and is encircled by iron rails. It was erected in the year 1766, by John Oliver, the miller, being 27 years previous to his disease; he died April 22, 1793, aged 84 years. The monument is strewed with many a pious text out of the burial service, and some poetical inscriptions-the effusions of his own muse. This singular man is said to have had his coffin for many years before his death; and that, having a taste for mechanism, he caused it, upon touching a certain spring, to run out on castors; it was wheeled every night under his bed. The summer house near the tomb was also built by the miller; the delightful prospect from it constituted his greatest enjoyment; and it is to be regretted that this house is suffered to remain in its present dilapidated state, as Oliver left handsome annuity (201. per annum) to keep this and the tomb from falling into decay. This tomb is much resorted to by the visitors of Brighton and Worthing, not only for its singularity, but to gaze on the most enchanting scenery the eye can wander over.'

a

Nor seek yon mouldering turret's height,
Whose ruins overhang the stream;
For there, 'tis said, at dead of night,
A gliding torch is seen to glean.
Oh, lady! mournful was the sound,

Late heard upon the midnight gale;
It rang yon cork-tree wood around,
Then died within yon lonely dale.
And thou, my uursling, dearer far

Than all these arms have e'er upborne, What cares have ris'n thy bliss to mar? What griefs have taught thee thus to mourn!

For sure thy cheek its rose hath lost,

And wild and wandering is thine eye: As though, by secret conflict toss'd, Thy soul some direful thought would fly.

Thou art thy father's only child,

His house's heir, its only stay; Then why should'st thou, by pride beguiled,

Its last remaining hope delay?

Ay, dearest ! let me braid thy hair,
And deck with gems that beauteous
brow;
The bridal robe consent to wear,

And take the lord Alonzo's vow!

For sure a nobler, braver knight,
Ne'er strove by Guadalquiver's side;
Oft has his sword, in holy fight,

With Moorish blood its waters dy'd.

Then, lady, thank the saints above

That champion of the cross is thine! May numerous pledges bless your love, And distant ages hail your line!

We have been much amused by American stories, but the following beats Jonathan hollow :

As a proof of the severity of the weather, a singular circumstance occurred on Sunday night last, at the tan yard of Messrs. Cooper, in St. Mildred, in this city. One of the men employed on the premises had occasion to drain a hide from the pit, and took it, as is usually the case, to the river, where a small projecting bridge is erected for the purpose, supported by two iron bars. On looking over the side, the man observed something, having the appearance of a small animal, firmly frozen to one of the bars, which upon close inspection, proved to be a full grown waterrat, which had swam across the river, and no doubt, from exhaustion, had remained upon the iron to recover itself; but the inclemency of the weather, acting upon the wetness of its coat, had firmly frozen its limbs to the situation described. It was also evident, from the quantity of blood, and the almost utter destruction of one leg, that the unfortunate creature had attempted to detach itself, by gnawing off the limb, without success. It was quite dead.'

Kent Herald.

A barber, who was a great talker, said to a person on whom he was about to operate. How do you choose that I should shave you, sir?'

Original Poetry.

LINN CLOUDEN ABBEY.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

Ye holy walls, that still, sublime,
Resist the crumbling touch of time;
How strongly still your form displays
The piety of ancient days!

As through your ruins, hoar and grey-
Ruins, yet beauteous in decay-
The silvery moon-beams trembling fly,
The form of ages long gone by

Crowd thick on Fancy's wondering eye,
And wake the soul to musings high.
Even now, as lost in thought profound,
I view the solemn scene around,
And pensive gaze, with wistful eyes,
The past returns, the present flies;
Again the dome, in pristine pride
Lifts high its roof, and arches wide,
That knit with curious tracery
Each gothic ornament display.
The high-arched windows, painted fair,
Shew many a saint and martyr there;
As on their slender forms I gaze,
Methinks they brighten to a blaze;
With noiseless step and taper bright,
What are yon forms that meet my sight?
Slowly they move, while every eye
Is heavenward raised in extacy.
"Tis the fair, spotless vestal train,
That seek in prayer the midnight fane.
And hark! what more than mortal sound
Of music, breathes the pile around?
'Tis the soft chaunted choral song,
Whose tones the echoing ailes prolong;

Till thence returned they softly stray
O'er Clouden's wave with fond delay;
Now on the rising gale swell high,
And now in fainting murmurs die.
The boatinen on Nith's gentle stream
That glistens in the pale moon's-beam,
Suspend their dashing oars to hear
The holy anthem, loud and clear;
Each worldly thought awhile forbear,
And mutter forth a half-formed prayer.
But as I gaze the vision fails,
Like frost-work touched by southern
gales;

The altars sink, the tapers fade,
And all the splendid scene's decayed.
In window fair the painted pane,
No longer glows with holy stain,
But through the broken glass, the gale
Blows chilly from the misty vale.
The bird of eve flits sullen by,
Her home these aisles and arches high;
The choral hymn, that erst so clear,
Broke softly sweet on fancy's ear,
Is drowned amid the mournful scream,
That breaks the magic of my dream ;
Roused by the sound, I start and see
The ruined sad reality!

MAN AND WIFE.

A wit, as every one has heard,
A woman to a cloud compar'd;
But I should think one might as soon
Compare the lady to the moon :
For let mankind say what they will,
The sea, or heavenly bodies, still
Grant me, to mimic human life,
That sun and moon are man and wife.
Whate'er kind Sol contrives to lend her,
She dissipates in midnight splendour:
And when to rest he lays him down,
She's up and flaunting about town.
From him her beauties oft confining,
And brightest in his absence shining:
For ever changing time and place,
Presenting still a different face,
Except to shew a wife's ambition,
When full she glares in opposition.
Eclips'd, like any belle dejected,
With vapours, too, as oft affected.
Say, is not this a inodish pair,

When each for other feels no care?
Whole days in separate coaches driving;
Whole nights to keep asunder striving;
Both in the dumps in gloomy weather,
Sleeping but once a month together.
In one sole point, unlike the case is,
On her own head the horns she places.

BANNOCKBURN.

Wide on Bannock's heathy wold
Scotland's deathful banuers roll'd,
And spread their wings of sparkled gold,
To the purpling east.
Freedom beam'd in every eye,
Devotion breath'd in every sigh,
Death or Freedom? was the cry;
Valour steel'd each breast.

Charging then the coursers sprang,
Sword and helmet crashing rang;
Steel-clad warriors' mixing clang

Echoed round the field.
Deathful see their eye-balls glare;
See the nerves of battle hare;
Arrowy tempests cloud the air,

And glance from every shield.

Hark! the bowmen's quivering strings
Death on grey goose pinions springs ;
Deep they dip their dappled wings,
Drunk in heroes' gore;

Lo! Edward, springing from the rear,
Waves his Caledonian spear;
Ruin with him hovers near,

And sweeps them from the shore! See the backward striding foe! Streamlets deeper redd'ning flow Valleys carnage cover'd glow!

Tyrants and the free!

Darker yet the scene appears;
Mixing groves of flaming spears
Hark! a voice exulting rears-

Bruce has victorie!