at him. The room, like others of the same kind, was very dark. Crebillon took the visitor to be the wished-for cat, and held out some victuals to invite the animal, which drew near, when, to his extreme surprise, he discovered it to be a well-fed rat, of prodigious size. Having a great antipathy, to rats, he gave a loud shriek and his unwelcome guest instantly disappeared. The jailor being drawn to the place by the noise, laughed, and told Crebillon that the last inmate of the apartment had made the rat, when quite young, so tame that it always partook of his repast, and even slept in his bed. "I was so pleased with it," continued the jailor, "that I tried to make the fellow familiar with myself, and you shall see whether I have succeeded;" so saying, he laid a piece of meat upon his hand, calling "Raton! Raton! come out, my little friend!" Raton immediately put forth his head, and seeing his well-known benefactor, jumped upon his hand, and there ate the meat offered to him. "From that moment," said Crebillon, relating the story to his friends, "Raton was my constant companion: he was restored to the possession of all the rights which he had enjoyed

under the protection of my predecessor, except sharing my bed; and, on my departure, I was desirous of taking him with me to Paris, but the jailor protested against it. Nay, I cannot deny that I parted from Raton with tears in my eyes."

BUTLER'S CHARACTER OF AN EPIGRAMMATIST.

AN epigrammatist is a poet of small wares, whose muse is short-winded, and quickly out of breath. She flies like a goose, that is no sooner upon the wing, but down again. He was originally one of those authors that used to write upon white walls, from whence his works being collected and put together, pass in the world, like single money, among those who deal in small matters. His wit is like fire in a flint, that is nothing while it is in, and nothing again as soon as it is out.

He is a kind of vagabond writer, that is never out of his way, for nothing is beside the purpose with him, that purposes none at all. His works are like a running banquet, that have much variety but little of a sort; for he deals in nothing but scraps and parcels, like a tailor's broker.

VOLTAIRE, AND THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGH.

VOLTAIRE was employed by that eccentric great man, the famous Earl of Peterborough, to write some considerable work. His Lordship supplied the money whenever importuned by Voltaire, then under his roof for that purpose, and rather impatiently waited for its completion, urging Voltaire to expedite the publication, who replied, that booksellers and printers were dilatory.

The bookseller employed by Voltaire, having frequently demanded from him more money, his constant reply was, that Lord Peterborough could not be prevailed upon to advance more until the completion of the work; for which event, Voltaire, as it should seem, was in no great haste. The bookseller, at length, began to suspect Monsieur de Voltaire, and determined on making a personal application to the Earl. He, accordingly set out in a stage coach, and arrived at his Lordship's, in the afternoon. After dining, the Earl, and two or three gentlemen who had dined with him, walked in the garden, when a servant came to announce that Mr. wanted an interview with his Lordship, who immediately said, "Shew

him into the garden." On his being introduced, he told Lord Peterborough, that the work had long stood still for want of money. His Lordship's choler, upon this, began to rise, saying, "That he had never failed to send, immediately, all that was demanded." The poor bookseller declared, that "Monsieur de Voltaire had never given more than ten pounds, at the same time informing him, that he could not prevail on Lord Peterborough to advance any more; that he suspected Monsieur de Voltaire might have slandered his Lordship; and he, therefore took the liberty of obtaining an interview."

The indignation of his Lordship overcame him for a time: he did, at length, utter, "The villain" At that moment, Voltaire appearing at the end of a very long gravel walk, the Earl exclaimed, "Here he comes, and I will kill him instantly." So saying, he drew his sword and darted forward to the object of his revenge. A fatal catastrophe was prevented by M. St. André, then present, catching Lord Peterborough in his arms, and exclaiming, "Good God! my Lord, if you murder him you will be hanged.""I care not for that. I will kill the villain!" The walk being one of the old

fashioned garden walks of King William, was of great length: Voltaire proceeded some way before he descried the bookseller. At that moment, M. St. André screamed out, " Fly for your life, for I cannot hold my Lord many moments longer."-Voltaire fled, concealed himself that night in the village, and, the next day, he went to London, where, on the following day, he embarked for the continent, leaving his portmanteau, papers, &c. at Lord Peterborough's. Gent. Mag. 1797:

THOMAS TUSSER.

THOMAS TUSSER was one of our earliest didactic poets, in a science of the highest utility, and which produced one of the most beautiful poems of antiquity. The vicissitudes of this man's life have uncommon variety and novelty, for the life of an author, and his history conveys some curious traces of the times as well as of himself. He seems to have been, alike, the sport of fortune, and the dupe of his own discontented disposition and his perpetual propensity to change of situation.

He was born of an ancient family, about the year 1523, at Rivenhall, in Essex, and was placed