A pitched battle for one hundred guineas, was fought at Bognor, Bucks, between a farmer of the name of Mitchell, who resides at Bognor, and a publican of the name of George. The match was made in consequence of a dispute respecting their merits as boxers. The battle lasted fiftyfive minutes, in the presence of about one thousand spectators. It was what a professional boxer would have termed gluttony from beginning to ending. There was no advantage in skill, strength or bottom, the former of which neither of the champions possessed, but it was fighting in earnest at a scratch, until one was knocked down. Mitchell at length gave in, but he was able to walk away, which was not the case with the victor, who was put to bed at the house next the scene of action. The victor was seconded by Jones, a professional bruiser from London.

A remarkable instance of the effects of fear on irrational animals lately occurred in Blickling Park, Norfolk, during the races there: At the very height of sport, a covey of partridges sprang up, and were flying across the ground, when overcome with alarm at the noise, and bustle of the scene, they fell lifeless among the crowded throng, and were picked up by some of the spectators.

A singular occurrence lately took place at Cobham church: The earl of Darnley was followed there by one of his pointers, which shortly became mad, and threw the whole congregation into confusion and alarm. A countryman, with great courage, procured a rope, and slipped it round the animal's neck, and hung him across one of the pews. Fortunately no person sustained any injury.

A most enormous shark was lately caught by the fisher. men at Hastings; it was entangled in seventeen of their nets, and completely broke them all; but being wounded and nearly spent, they contrived to tow on shore this monster of the deep. It measures thirty feet in length, and upwards of

twenty in circumference, and is supposed to weigh at least ten ton; has four rows of teeth, and the throat is so large that it could swallow a man with the greatest ease. It is considered to be the largest of the species ever met with in any of the seas of Europe. Colonel Bothwell has purchased it for his friend Mr. Home, the surgeon, of Sackvillestreet, who intends to dissect it, and place the skeleton in his museum.

DUCK SHOOTING.

FROM "FOWLING,”—A POEM.

THE shadowy Night has nearly run her course
Over the silent world-the cock repeats
His warning note-behooves us to prepare
For our expected sport. Now when the stars
Slowly decrease, and the faint glimmering light,
First trembles in the east, we hasten forth,
To seek the rushing river's wandering wave.
The doubtful gloom shall favour our approach,
And should we through th' o'erhanging bushes view
The dim-discovered flock, the well-aim'd shot
Shall have insur'd success, nor leave the day
To be consum'd in vain. For shy the game,

Nor easy of access: the fowler's toils

Precarious; but inur'd to ev'ry chance,

We urge those toils with glee. E'en the broad sun,

In his meridian brightness, shall not check

Our steady labour; for some rushy pool,

Some hollow willowy bank, the skulking birds

May then conceal, which our stanch dogs shall pierce,
And drive them clam'ring forth. Those tow'ring rocks,
With nodding wood o'erhung, that faintly break

Upon the straining eye, descending deep,
A hollow basin form, the which receives
The foaming torrent from above. Around
Thick alders grow. We steal upon the spot
With cautious step, and peering out, survey

The restless flood. No object meets our eye.

But hark what sound is that approaching near,

"Down close," The wild-ducks come, and darting down, Throw up on ev'ry side the troubled wave;

Then gayly swim around with idle play,

With breath restrain'd, and palpitating heart,

I view their movements, whilst my well-taught dog's
Like lifeless statues crouch. Now is the time,
Closer they join; nor will the growing light
Admit of more delay-with fiery burst,
The unexpected death invades the flock;
Tumbling they lie, and beat the dashing pool,
Whilst those remoter from the fatal range
Of the swift shot, mount up on vig'rous wing,
And wake the sleeping echoes as they fly.
Quick on the floating spoil my spaniels rush,
And drag them to the shore.

MISCELLANY.

A MORE lively and yet poignant satire upon the wilful corruption of the stage, the degeneracy of the public taste, and the reigning follies of the British nation can scarcely be imagined than the following, which, with several more under the same signature, has appeared in a celebrated periodical work in London.

To the right worshipful John Bull, of the united kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

RESPECTED SIR,

Denied access to your sacred person, I avail myself of the press to solicit your notice. You have, doubtless, by this time totally forgotten poor Theobaldus Secundus, for short memories are not the exclusive property of great wits. Truth is said to lie at the bottom of a well, and as your worship seldom looks beyond the surface, I am not surprised that she should hitherto have eluded your researches. If fate has ordained my inkstand to be the bucket that shall draw her from her watery grave for your edification, I expect a premium

from your humane society for my pains. If not, "you may kill the next Percy yourself." I am now to solicit your patience, while I recount my adventures, in doing which I shall ape the dignity rather than the prolixity, of the runaway prince of Troy, when seated on the high bed of the enamoured queen of Carthage.

I am, may it please your worship, grand nephew to the renowned Lewis Theobald, one of those numerous brothspoiling commentators, who have smothered poor Shakspeare in the onion sauce of conjectural criticism. My great uncle was, with reverence be it spoken, a great blockhead; but that was no fault of his, he being a younger brother, and the family genius being vested in my grandfather, with remainder to his sons in tail male. From my earliest childhood I have looked upon Shakspeare as the real king of England, and the two winter theatres as his proper palaces. "The period spent on stubborn Troy," has now elapsed, since I be- . gan a commentary on the plays of our immortal bard. O, the rivers of ink that I have exhausted in cleansing his Augean page from the black-letter filth heaped upon it by his different commentators! The task was laborious, but such labour is my delight. The waters of Avon suit my palate better than Boniface's ale. “I eat my Shakspeare, I drink my Shakspeare, and (when certain players enact him) I always sleep upon my Shakspeare."

Apollo was a doctor of physic as well as a doctor of divinity, and Dryden, we are told, took his physic whenever he wanted to borrow his inspiration. A dramatic writer of the present day writes tragedy in a helmet facing a mirror. Ever while you live encourage the imagination! My faith in Shakspeare is so unbounded, that I verily believe the hellbroth of Macbeth's witches would, if properly mixed, engender a real armed head and bloody child. I lately at a great expense, collected all the materials in my kitchen-copper; I must own the experiment failed; but I found out the cause. The resurrection man, whom I employed to get me the "liver of blaspheming Jew," had made free with the corpse of a

very religious man of that persuasion. I must be more careful another time-but this is foreign to our present purpose.

Having completed my commentary, my parched hopes sighed for the golden shower, which I expected from presenting my dedication to your worship. The times were tempting, your two winter playhouses were at that time experiencing a nightly overflow, and a Tragedy was, as she should be, all the rage! I knew not the cause, but rejoicing in the effect, huddled my manuscript into my great-coat pocket, and trotted to your residence in Portland-place. For be it known, sir, to those whom it may concern, (your tradesmen) that you no longer reside within five minutes' walk of the Royal Exchange. Formerly you passed your evenings in posting your leger, and shaking your head at the follies of Fashion; you now exhaust that portion of the day in posting to the opera, or shaking your heels at Willis's rooms, and your elbows at the Union Club. If I felt pleased at finding you at home, how was my satisfaction increased, by hearing from a yellow-bellied waspish footman that you were busy with the first tragedian of the day? Good! said I to myself, this must be Kemble: there is no man better able to appreciate my labours-I'll break in upon them without ceremony. On approaching your worship's door, I heard the words "knuckle down" articulated in a shrill voice. I thought this an odd exclamation for the first tragedian of the day; but how was I petrified with astonishment, on entering the room, to find you on your knees, playing at marbles with the little Roscius! Speechless with admiration I retired unperceived. To have deranged a single taw would, in my mind, have been a sacrilege as great as an attempt to upset the balance of the Copernican system. I had scarce time to reflect on your improvement in dramatic taste, when I learned that you had engaged a Roscia at your theatre in Covent-Garden. Indeed, so wide had your love of the rising generation at that time extended, I was credibly informed that Genoa was on the point of shipping a squalling Roscium for the edification of your operahouse, when the bubble burst like the gas of the Pall-Mall