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Epitaph on old SCARLETT the Sexton, in Peterborough Cathedral. Above the Epitaph is his Picture: He is represented holding the Keys of the Cathedral in one hand, a Shovel in the other, a Skull and Mattock under his Feet. The Inscription is:

You see old Scarlett's picture stand on hie,
But at your feete there does his body lie;
His grave-stone doth his age and death-tyme
show,

His office by theis tokens you may know,
Second to none for strength and sturdye limb,
A scarbabe mighty voice, and visage grim.
Hee had inter'd two queens within this place,

And this townes householders in his life's space
Twice over; but at length his one turn came,
What he for others did, for him the same

Was done: No doubt his soule does live for aye In heaven, tho' kere his body clad in clay.

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Yet credit but lightly what more may be said; For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet counting so far as to fifty his years,

His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceiv'd, and he smother'd great fears,

In a life party colour'd, half pleasure, half care. Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree; In publick employments industrious and grave; But alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he try'd, but to neither would
trust,
[about,
And whirl'd in the round, as the wheel turn'd
He found riches had wings, and knew man was
but dust.

This verse, little polish'd, tho' mighty sincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merits to view:
It says, that his relicks collected lie here,

And no mortal yet knows too if this may be
true.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Matt may be kill'd, & his bone never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Matt may yet chance to be hang'd or be drown'd.

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Epitaph, written by COWLEY, for himself.
The English by Mr. Addison.

Hic, O Viator, sub lare parulo,
Couleius hic est conditus, hic jacet
Defunctus humani laboris

Sorte, supervacueque vita.
Non indecora pauperie nitens,
Et non inerti nobilis otio,
Vanoque dilectis popello

Divitiis animosus hostis.
Possis ut illum dicere mortuum,
En terra jam nunc quantula sufficit!
Exempta fit curis, Viator,

Terra sit illa levis, precare.
Hic sparge flores, sparge rosas breves,
Nam vita gaudet mortua floribus,
Herbisque odoratis corona

Vatis adhuc cinerem calentem.
"From life's superfluous cares enlarg'd,
His debt of human toil discharg'd,
Here Cowley lies! beneath this shed,
To ev'ry worldly int'rest dead;
With decent poverty content,
His hours of ease not idly spent ;
To fortune's goods a foe profest,
And hating wealth by all carest.
"Tis true he's dead; for Oh! how small
A spot of earth is now his all;
Oh! wish that earth may lightly lay,
And ev'ry care be far away;

Bring flowers; the short-liv'd roses bring,
To life deceas'd, fit offering:

And sweets around the poet strow,
Whilst yet with life his ashes glow."

In Salisbury Cathedral, over the Figures of
DEATH and a TRAVELLER.
Traveller.

Alasse, death, alasse a blessful thing that were,
Yf thou wolldyst spare us in our lustyness
And cum to wretches that be foe of hevy chere,
When that ye clere to slake their dystresse;
Crewelly wemith the seygh wayle and wepe,
To close there yen that after ye doth clepe.
Death.

Grastles galante in all thy luste and pryde,
Remember that thaw shalte gyve due;
Death shold fro thy body thy fowle devyde,
Thou mayst not hym escape certaynly:
To ye dede bodyes cast down thyne ye,

Queen Catharine, and Mary, Queen of Scots, Be holde thayne well considere and see, afterwards removed to Westminster.

For such thay ar, such shalt yow be.

EPITAPH for HIMSELF, by Mr. POPE. Under this marble, or under this fill, Or under this turf, or e'en what they will; Whatever an heir, or a friend in his stead, Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head, Lics one who ne'er car'd, & still cares not a pin, What they said, or may say, of the mortal within: But, who living and dying, serene still and free, Trusts in God that as well as he was he shall be.

On the Monument of the EARL of ARGYLE,
who was beheaded June 30, 1685, in the Grey
Friers, Edinburgh. Written by himself.
Thou passenger, that shalt have so much time,
To view my grave, and ask what was my crime;

No stain of error, no black vice's brand,
Was that which chased me from my native land.
Love to my country, twice sentenc'd to die,
Constrain'd my hands forgotten arms to try.
More by friends' frauds my fall proceeded hath.
Than foes; tho' now they thrice decreed iny death.
On my attempt, tho' Providence did frown,
His oppress'd people God at length shall own.
Another hand, by more successful speed,
Shall raise the remnant, bruise the serpent's head.
Tho' my head fall, that is no tragick story,
Since going hence, I enter endless glory.

A SCOTCH EPITAPH.

HERE fast a sleep lies Saunders Scott,

Lang may he snort and snore;
His brains are now in Gorman's pot,
That us'd to strut the streets before.
He liv'd a lude and tastrel life,

For gude he nae regarded,
His perjur'd clack rais'd mickle strife,
For whilk belike he'll be rewarded.
Ill temper'd loon that us'd to snort,
When ilk his neighbours fell in trouble,
His gybes do now lie in the dirt,

To satisfy his brethren double: The bread of life was offer'd him,

For to abate his evil;

But he refus'd, and sae he's dead;
Wha kens but now he's wi' the devil.
But syne he's gane, I'll say nae maiṛ,
In Abram's bosom may he waken,
But gin he meet with sic gude fare,
There's mair than ane will be mistaken,

Frayment.

THE WIFE.

THE storm still raged, and Ellen's heart still beat with terror.-In the pauses of the thun

dering elements, the raven's shrieks alone were heard, and to her startled ear they sounded like the shrieks of death. She prest her burning forehead, and leaving the tremendous forest, rushed wildly over a drawbridge, swift as her feet would bear her. The place she entered was an ancient desolated hall, where flapped with solemn murmuring to and fro, as many a tattered trophy hung around, which the winds whistled through the broken casements. She stopped for breath, and, trembling, turned her eyes to see if still the assassin followed-but all was dark. Scarce knowing how to act, she leaned against a mutilated pillar, and clung, like the ivy's tendrils, round it for support. Awhile the thunder ceased, but still the rain poured down in torrentssinking on her knees, her lips breathed holy wishes, and she addressed herself to Heaven; but soon again the thunders rolled, and as the lightnings darted round, once more she saw the ruffian whom she dreaded-uttering a convulsive cry, which fortunately was buried in the raging of the tempest, she clung still nearer to the pillar, and scarcely dared to breathe- her eyes were fixed upon him; at in tervals the flashes made him visible-he advanced-again-still nearer-she now heard his footsteps he was within a stride of where she lay-in suspensive agony she watchedhe was opposite her, muttering some words of dark intent-another flash, more vivid than the rest, glanced o'er a dagger which he held; it met her eye, and she sank insensible on the pavement.

When Ellen awoke to feeling, the storm fiend howled no more, the thunder's bursts were hushed, and the feeble moon appeared attempting to break through the heavy clouds that still encompassed and almost concealed her. The hapless lady looked around, but no forbidding object met her sight. She pressed her beating heart, and tried to recollect her self, but her thoughts were all confused."Oh! what a night have I encountered," she exclaimed. A groan was heard in answer, and she started up it seemed, though distant, to come from an unfortunate-another followed, and then some words, which she could not perfectly distinguish, though their import was of murder. She heaved a shuddering sigh, and the warm blood icicled in her veins.And now at the extremity of the hall, there beamed a glimmering light-she looked a man, whose eyes scowled cruelty and malice from beneath his bushy eye brows, bore it, and in the other hand he grasped a poniard.Again she looked and beheld, oh heaven! the wretch who had traced her through the forest, and caused her terrors-he spoke, she eagerly listened, and faintly caught these words"The storm is over, and dost thou still trem ble, Maurice? Art thou still afraid, dastard?” -"But to stab him!" muttered the other.and Ellen's brain throbbed. "And why not

he sleeps," They paused, and gazed upon

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each other; the one who bore the lamp seemed to shudder, for it trembled in his hand.Sleeps?" murmured he. Aye, soundly too."-" And in such a night as this, Irwan. Oh God! oh God! when shall I sleep?"Thou fool?"-Ellen heard no more; for they had crossed the hall, and unbarring a ponderous door, they slowly ascended some steps, which apparently led to the upper apartments, and disappeared. Again her thoughts were chaos.-"Stab him while he sleeps!" the cried, "Oh God!" A sudden thought gleamed upon her brain, and quick as her trembling legs would carry her, she followed the murderers' track. Passing the heavy portal, she listened, but heard them not-wildly she rushed on; the winding steps flew beneath her; she ascended an immense height, in pitchy darkness, fearful every moment, in her baste, of dashing down some broken chasm, At length a light glimmered on the rugged stones, of which the tower (for such appeared what she was now encompassed by) was formed, and presently she beheld those whom she pursued. Slackening her pace, she breathed awhile, though still keeping them in view. Seeming to have gained the height, they forced open an iron door, and entered. Regardless of her danger, for the events of the night had followed in such quick succession, that they had nearly unthroned her reason) she still continued on, nor stopped till she had also reached the entrance. Beyond appeared a dismal prison, and in a niche, some one stretched on straw, in slumber-no doubt the murderers' victim. Not daring to advance further, she saw but imperfectly, though understanding that their intention was to morder while he slept, she was surprized to hear Maurice, as his companion named him, awake the stranger. Are ye then come?" in feeble accents he exclaimed. She thought she knew the sounds, but remembrance told her not whose they were. "And has the curst, the cruel Baron, then determined? what has his malice at length invented? Am I to be hurled from the casement of this tower, to dash from rock to rock, until I reach my grave-the waves that wash its base? or has he still more

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lingering torments for me?"- "The Baron is merciful, you may still live," cried Ellen's persecutor, but on this condition-consent to let the Baron possess your wife, the beauteous

" and Ellen started, for herself was named.-Heavens! was it possible? could it be her idolized Edmund they were going to murder? Where was she? Who was the Baron? And how came her husband there? All passed over her thoughts, and she vainly tried to recollect. "Never," cried Edmund, " never will I consent-sooner would I cherish the envenomed adder in my bosom, than see her rest on his!-sooner would I suck the poison with my lips, than see him steal a honied kiss from hers! Consent!-No, no, ere my tongue

utters such a word, may lightnings blister
it!"-"You have pronounced your doom,"
exclaimed the savage." Yet," said Edmund,
"spare, oh! spare my boy, my son, my Henry?"
-Ellen stopt no longer-Henry! that name
was madness! Her son there too! She ran,
and found herself in her startled husband's
arms, who pressed her fondly to him, while
eyes upon
the big tears trickled from his
"Tear them asunder," cried Mau-
bosom.
rice. "No, never," shrieked Ellen. "Here,
here in my Edmund's heart have I lived, here
will I grow, and when you pierce his breast,
"Irwan, what must
mine too shall bleed."
"There is no

be done?" asked Maurice.

her

time to consider," replied Irwan," our deeds must be instantaneous-this, this," continued he, "shall effect it."-Ellen gazed, and saw her child in the feil monster's gripe-her head whirled round, and madness raged within. The casement was thrown open, and the waves, swelled by the late storm, were heard, in hollow, chilling sounds, to dash against the tower. Already had Irwan raised the boy, who crying, stretched his little arms for safety to his mother.-Already he appeared to cast him from him, when, regardless of every other tie, she darted from her husband's side, snatched her Henry from his threatened death, and, sinking with him to the ground, was raising her eyes towards her God, when they encountered Maurice, who at that moment plunged his dagger in her husband's heart! Uttering a dreadful piercing shriek, she awoke-finding herself encircled in her beloved Edmund's arms, while her sweet boy lay calmly slumbering by her. Her joy was unutterable-imprinting a kiss upon his rosy cheek, and enfolding her husband still closer to her heart, she breathed a silent, grateful prayer to Heaven, that 'twas but a-Dream.

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Humour.

TRAVELLING BY STEAM;
OR,

A VOYAGE TO THE MOON.

Old Plum one morning scratch'd his pate,
And quoth to Jane, his spousey,
Dwelling whole years in Cripplegate,
Makes one feel fat and frousy!
So, wench, that Country air may blow
Upon this fusty jacket,
To-morrow, you and I will go
To Margate by the packet."
Quoth Mistress Plum-“La! I did dream

We for a ship were looking;
And that we sail'd along by steam,

Such as the patent Cooking.
La me! well Bridget strait shall come,
To Mistress Suds to hie her,

And fetch my muslin dresses home,
My poplin from the dyer."

Away went Mistress Plum, with speed,
All in a monstrous fidget;
And with as quick a step, indeed,
Away ran humbler Bridget.

And from his chair then Old Plum rose,
Thro' his long warehouse bustling;
And soon pull'd up his Sunday clothes,
And Mistress Plum her muslin.
And now from Cripplegate, they bent
Their way thro' Cheapside flying,

And thro' transcendant Thames-street went
To where the Yatcht was lying.
And flaunting now in streamers gay,

Her liquid course she urges,
'Mid clouds of smoke pursues her way,
And grinds the saucy surges.

The fishes flew-the Lord knows where!
Scar'd by the fearful motion;
And clouds of fog that dimm'd the air,
And darken'd all the ocean.

And Mister Plum and his dear spouse,
Whom nought but death could sunder,
Open'd their eyes, compress'd their brows,
And twirl'd their thumbs with wonder.
Eight hours had pass'd-the vessel sped
Swift tow'rds the destin'd haven;
And brandy arm'd the heart and head

Of every trembling Craven,

But fate, who loveth frequently
To deal in frightful frolic,
Soon chang'd the universal glee

To universal cholic.

While dance the crew in merry reel,

Reckless of care and evil,
A d-d explosion rends the keel,
And sends it to the devil.
Aloft the shatter'd timbers fly,
Whirling in rapid motion;
Dance a fandango in the sky,

And fall again to ocean.

But Mister Plum and his dear wife,
Athwart the rudder striding,
Struggled most gallantly for life
Upon the billows riding.

Then quoth this frighted citizen,

"This may be good intention,
But you'll not catch poor Plum again
In your d-d steam invention.

A simple ship will please me well,
With simple men to man it;
For I wish not to rush pell-mell
Into an airy planet.

I bargain'd with the lubber loon,
Just opposite the Star-gate,

Not for a voyage to the moon, But for a trip to Margate."

ON A COLD DAY.

Ah! what a task it is to rise

And leave th' inviting bed; When nippling frost spreads cold around, And snow hangs o'er your head. And when at length the mighty work,

By valiant efforts done,

Your tingling fingers soon announce
Your woes but just begun.

Now creeping to the parlour fire,

You shiv'ring take your seat; Crying the while your fast you break "It is too cold to eat."

When breakfast's o'er-then what to do Alack! you cannot tell ;

It is too cold to walk abroad,

"Tis colder to sit still. The dinner-hour at length arrives, With joy you hail the sound;

In hopes 'twill make your stomach warm; But cold e'en here is found;

For should fat mutton be your fare,

You've scarce a mouthful eat, Before the rest with grief you see

Turn cold upon the plate.

Thus on, till bed-time, you complain,
Expecting comfort there;

But 'twixt the sheets there's little warmth
Allotted to your share.

For ah! your feet, by cold benumb'd,
Your waking thoughts employ;

Or yet more cruel chilblains' twitch,
Your last sweet hopes destroy.

A HOT DAY.

WRITTEN IN A HOT DAY.

What a plague's a summer's breakfast, Eat whate'er you will;

A roll is but a nasty thing,

Toast is nastier still.

Then how to pass the time away

Till dinner-there's the doubt; You're hot if you stay in the house,

You're hot if you go out.

The dinner comes-Lord help us all;
Such frying, such a stew;
You're hot if you don't touch a bit,

You're hotter if you do.
Then after dinner what to do;

No knowing where to rove; The gentlemen are hot below; The ladies hot above.

And now the kettle comes again;

That's not the way to cool one;
Tea makes an empty stomach hot,
And hotter still a full one.

But then, an evening walk's the thing;
Not if you're hot before;

For he who sweats when he sits still,
Will, when he moves, sweat more.
And now the supper comes again,

To make bad worse, I wot,

For supper, while it heats the cool,
Will never cool the hot.

And bed, which cheers the cold man's heart

Helps not the hot a pin;

For he who sweats when out bed,
Sweats ten times more within.

Impromptus.

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To the Editor of the Tickler Magazine. SIR:-The man who wrote the following curious Letter, which is of undoubted authenticity, had long been suspected of giving trea

On seeing a Child cutting her teeth in great sonable information to the enemy; in conse

pain whilst I was losing one.

C Though tortur'din a different way,
How well our fates agree.
Louisa cuts her teeth you say,

And mine are cutting me,

quence of which, Government set a spy over him, by whose exertions the Letter, directed to a house in Paris, was intercepted. At first they imagined they had hit on the wrong per son, but a few days afterwards, a second Letter was stopt from the same hand, bearing the same address, and containing only the figures as under. This was soon discovered to be a key to the former; the writer was, therefore,

On Recovery from a Scene of Sickness and apprehended, and kept in close confinement,

Affliction.

TO thee, O God! before whose throne I bow,
The grateful tribute of my thanks I owe;
To thee alone, and thy protecting care,
Who sav'd my life, and snatch'd me from despair.
What thanks, great God, canst thou from me re-
ceive?

What thanks can I, unworthy, fitly give?
Ob let my future days more clearly shew,
The grateful tribute that to thee I owe.
Guide me, all gracious Being, with thy grace,
Protect me still, and keep my soul in peace;
The talent that in trust to me is giv'n,
Let me improve, to guide my soul to heav'n:
That when th' expiring lamp of life is out,
I may not feel one anxious, careful doubt,
But take my flight to 'that all-blest abode,
To rest assign'd-the bounty of my God.

Enscriptions.

For a Statue of CUPID.
Who'er thou art, thy master see;
He was, or is, or is to be.

till, at the earnest intercession of his friends, he was suffered to leave the Country, under a promise of not returning during the war.

"Dear Friend:-As I find there is an opdaughter Mary, who was seventeen last week, portunity, I wrote to say how we are. My has an offer; the man is a Sail-maker, honest and industrious; he is very sober, and is of respectable family. As to the trade, we do not object, since workmen in that Line are sure of employment. My wife has been almost ready to go distracted with pain at her head. After suffering for some days, she Spit blood, which greatly relieved her Head; then again became affected, and How long her illness may continue, heaven knows. Any commands you may have to execute, will be carefully attended to by your's,

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TRULY.

Your clever readers will perceive that the first Column of figures is to denote the word, and the second column the lines. In order to assist those whose are not quite so brilliant, I have put the emphatical words in Italics.

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