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mount a coach together, exchange mutual civilities on the way, then alight in the “ Bois de Boulogne," and with the utmost pleasantry imaginable, give one another the choice of having their throats cut, or their brains blown out. In England, they lay their hat, wig and clothes in the middle of the street, and bruise each other with their fists till they are tired. This effect of rage, the least silly of all of them, inasmuch as it is least dangerous, has its particular rules, from which the combatants must never deviate, and which, besides, the spectators always take care shall be observed. The combatants are forbidden to strike each other any where below the waistband. They must not pull one another's hair, if they happen to have any; nor must either strike his antagonist while he is down. They may kill one another if they can, by blows on the head and breast, and the victor is carried off in triumph by the enraptured multitude.

ANECDOTES OF WEST, THE PAINTER. Mr. Editor. The following anecdotes of Mr. West I had from his own mouth, in a conversation which I enjoyed with him at his house, on the 15th of November, 1807. I put them to paper the instant I returned home; and, as whatever relates to the public character of a great man is public property, I trust I am not acting improperly in offering them for the enrichment of your miscellany.

I am, sir, your humble servant. When Mr. West was painting his Death of Wolfe, an heroic picture, which was treated in so novel a manner that the artist thought to conceal it until its completion, archbishop Drummond, for whom Mr. West had before painted his Agrippina, accidentally came into the room, and was so greatly struck with that boldness of innovation which dressed an heroic action in modern attire, that, after some questions of doubt as to its success, he went for Sir Joshua Reynolds, and in less than an hour they were both in Mr. West's painting room. When Sir Joshua came in, he expressed the greatest alarm for Mr. West's reputation, warned him of his hazardous attempt, and told him the people of England would never be reconciled to heroes in coats and waistcoats. How. ever, Mr. West said he would send for the archbishop and Sir Joshua when the picture was completed, and, if they condemned it then, it should go into his closet; but that he had determined to venture upon a picture which would speak to the meanest intellects, to show some illiberal critics, who had before accused him of plagiary from old basso relievos, that he could paint from himself. When the picture was completed, Mr. West brought his friends to view it, according to his engagement. Sir Joshua stood silent before it about a quarter of an hour, and then very liberally told Mr. West that the picture would not only succeed, but would open a new era in painting.

Garrick offered to lie for Wolfe; but Mr. West refused the offer upon the plea that if the general were painted from the actor, the figure would inevitably be Garrick, and not Wolfe.

Mr. West expresses himself highly thankful that his studies in painting were unknown and unregarded as they were; for by that means he went to them without any of those prejudices which schools impart. When Mr. West went to Italy, so far was he from relishing the style of painting which then obtained there, that he saw and ridiculed its absurdities at once. At that time nothing was painted there but madonas and children, with perhaps two or three Cupids in the air; and, in England, no characters in an heroic picture were represented in any thing else than Roman or Gothic armour. Even Sir Joshua Reynolds, till after Mr. West's time, never painted a portrait but in a fancy dress." All this was altered by West's Death of Wolfe; and it was for this style of painting, and not for his Regulus (the first picture Mr. West painted for the king) or his Agrippina, that France eulogized Mr. West when they gave him that sumptuous entertainment upon admitting him a member of the National Institute.

Ricant, in his History of the Turks, says of them, that they so confound chronology and history, as to assert that Job was a judge in the court of King Solomon, and ALEXANDER THE GREAT one of his generals.


IF after rude and boisterous seas,
My wearied pinnace here finds ease;

If so it be I've gain'd the shore
With safety of a faithful oar;
If, having run my bark on ground,
Ye see the aged vessel crown'd,
What's to be done, but on the sands
Ye dance, and sing, and now clap hands.
The first act's doubtful; but we say
It is the last commends the play.



Be not proud, but now incline
Your soft ear to discipline.
You have changes in your life,
Sometimes peace, and sometimes strife;
You have ebbs of face, and flows,

health or comes or goes;
You have hopes, and doubts, and fears,
Numberless as are your hairs.
You have pulses that do beat
High, and passions less of heat.
You are young, but must be old;
And, to these, you must be told,
Time, ere long, will come and flow
Loathed furrows in your brow;
And the dimness of your eye
Will no other thing imply,

But you must die
As well as I.


Here down my wearied limbs I'll laý,
My pilgrim's shaft, my weed of gray,
My palmer's hat, my scallop shell,
My cross, my cord, and all farewel!
For having now my journey done,
Just at the setting of the sun,
Here I have found a chamber fit,
(God and good friends be thank'd for it!)
Where if I can a lodger be,
A little while from tramples free,

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After the archpoet, Jonson, died,
The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride,
Together with the stage's glory, stood
Each like a poor and pitied widowhood.
The cirque profan’d was, and all postures rack'd;
For men did strut, and stride, and stare, not act.
Then temper few from words; and men did squeak,
Look red, and blow, and bluster, but not speak.
No holy rage, or frantic fires, did stir
Or flash about the spacious theatre;
No clap of hands, or shout, or praises-proof,
Did crack the playhouse sides, or cleave her roof.
Artless the scene was; and that monstrous sin
Of deep and arrant ignorance came in;
Such ignorance as theirs was, who once hiss'd
At thy unequall'd play, The Alchymist.
0! fie upon them! Lastly too, all wit
In utter darkness did, and still will, sit:
Sleeping the luckless age, till that she
Her resurrection has again with thee.

Here a solemn fast we keep,

While all beauty lies asleep.
Hush'd be all things; no noise here
But the toning of a tear,
Or a sigh of such as bring
Cowslips for her covering

Shut not too soon; the dull-ey'd night

Has not as yet begun
To make a seizure on the light,

Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are,

No shadows great appear;
Nor doth the early shepherd's star

Shine like a sparkle here.
Stay but till my Julia close

Her life-begetting eye;
And let the whole world then dispose

Itself to live or die.

Here I'll live,
And somewhat give
Of what I have
To those who crave
Little or much,
My alms is such;
But if


Of oil or meal
Shall fuller grow,
More I'll bestow.
Mean time, be it
Ev'n but a bit
Or else a crumb,
The scrip hath some.

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A willow garland thou didst send,

Perfum'd, last day, to me,
Which did but only this portend,

I was forsook by thee.
Since so it is, I'll tell thee what:

To-morrow thou shalt see
Me wear the willow; after that,

To die upon the tree.
As beasts unto the altars go

With garlands drest; so I
Will, with my willow-wreath, also
Come forth and sweetly die.

2 Q


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