compare them to mankind, and then naturally make such observations as the following:--

Observe, I sometimes say, how actively they fly about from place to place, like the inhabitants of a large city in pursuit of profit, pleasure, or honour; there's one about the centre of my field of view, who, by a small speck on the forehead, which I call a coronet, and by the deference which those about appear to pay him, I suppose to be a person of quality,---how proudly he moves along, scarcely deigning to cast a look to the right or to the left; there's another a little to the right, whom I take to be the widow of a person of substance and respectability,---she is rather handsome, and possesses an annuity of 2,000 blits per instant,---see what airs she gives herself, and how the males crowd about her, striving who shall win her favour,-she seems to have the person of quality also amongst her admirers, and is puzzled where to fix her choice---she has now made it, and it falls on a dancingmaster!

A little to the right are two solitary beings, who seem to be carefully shunned by the rest; one is a thief-taker--the other a tax-gatherer; and observe, the former seems to have some prey in view,---there's one appears to strain every nerve to escape him, but all in vain; he fastens on the unlucky wight, and drags him towards the centre, where a crowd is immediately round them, and amongst the rest is the person of quality, who seems to stand in the character of accuser; now the delinquent prays to the nobleman for mercy, but obtains none; see with what coldness and indifference the great one turns away from real distress---apparently he belongs to that class who reserve their tears and sympathies for the fictitious distress of the stage; with what floods of tears will he bewail the sad lot of some animaculean Belvidera, and with what honest indignation will he devote to perdition some rapacious and unforgiving Shylock, but the poor unfortunate before him is now led away, doubtless to undergo the punishment due to his crime, whatever that may be.

Towards the bottom of my field of view is a select knot, who continue about the same spot, and are visited by others; but I observe these others on quitting the select few, (whom I shall therefore call a nest of gamblers), generally destroy themselves, and amongst the rest of the victims, is the person of

quality,---see with what dignity and composure he gives himself the coup de grace, and how his friends gather about to perform the last sad office for him--there is the long drawn procession which conducts him to his final rest---and now the sculptor employs his art to preserve the memory of so worthy a pillar of the state for thousands of instants yet to come; how the marble swells into life under his skilful touch---those female. figures seem really to weep---between ourselves, they feel as much true grief as some of the deceased's surviving relatives, and all proper too; but let us see what is said of a person so sincerely regretted--

Sacred to the Memory of the Most Noble

Chinsi---tinsi

Duke of Bilnibarradin, who departed this life in the fifty thousandth instant of perfection, and the 365th of his age.

When from this scene true virtue disappears,
Well may the sad event draw forth our tears;
Weep then, ye passengers, your loss deplore,
The firmest friend of virtue is no more.
Could honors, suavity of manners save,
Their bland possessor from th' insatiate grave;
Could fate respect rare talents free from pride
Great Bilnibarradin had never died.

This epitaph it will be seen, would suit any other as well as the person for whom it is intended, only changing the name; and some of the poetic animalcula will supply them at so many blits apiece. One of these gentry, however, wrote one on the wife of his intimate

friend, which neither himself nor any one else could make any thing of, and it was generally supposed that his senses were bewildered by the greatness of the occasion. It ran thus:

"Nought is so easy as fictitions praise!
Ideal virtues call forth latent wit!
Imagination high, we then may raise,
For who can sa, th' eulogium is not fit?
But when an object, eminently good-

Try'd in the furnace of the world's ordeal, Who'd all th' temptations of that world withstood,

And bore, upon her heart, strict virtue's
seal-

Calls for the tribute verse-'tis hard to draw
The lovely portrait; lest some sceptic

voice

Bless me, what's amiss! my animalculæ are knocking one another to pieces without mercy; O for the pen of Homer to describe their daring feats---there's one stouter than the rest, before whom they all fly; he can certainly be no less than the Wellington or Napoleon of the animalculæ; but I now perceive what is the reason of all this confusion---the drop of water (their world) is evaporating very fast, and there is not sufficient room for them---now they are diminished to two or three---and now a single one flies anxiously from side to side, but cannot avoid his fate ;---there! there's an end of my profound speculations, for my animalculæ, together with the world they inhabited, have all totally disappeared! G. G.

ON COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

EPITAPHS.

"Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,

The place of Fame and Elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die." GRAY'S ELEGY.

Ir is an incident worthy of remark, that the love of Fame, which so powerfully actuates our hearts, and predominates in our words and actions during life, does not even desert us, when the prospect of dissolution is so immediately before our eyes, and we cannot deny that all our labours for the acquisition of worldly glory are at an end. Human nature is still desirous of attracting the attention and admiration of survivors, although she is conscious of her own impotency in witnessing it. We may, indeed, have heard many exclaiming against expense and ostentation in the performance of their obsequies; but we shåll rarely meet with the man, who would willingly dispense with a plain stone to mark the resting-place of his ashes, or a short inscription to attest his existence. Few---very few, can brook the idea of a stranger treading upon the sod beneath which they repose, unless it is in their power to inform him of their names and their ages ;---unless they can remind him that they were once, as he is, living;---that they have passed the barrier which he must pass---mortality. The origin of this weakness,---this desire of posthumous fame, must be traced to the same principle which actuates us, and excites all our bodily and mental powers during life---which impels one

to grasp the pike, and another the penwhich urges some to shine in divinity, and others in driving---some to study slang, and others to study sonneteering: the very same which invites the Etonian to inscribe his name on the oaken pannels of our venerable School-room, and persuades the Churchwarden to adorn the newly-painted Commandments with his own important initials. But I am rambling in a most strange manner from my subject ;---I will, therefore (missis ambagibus), return to my original topic.

The boast of heraldry and the pomp of phraseology, which so repeatedly and disgustingly obtrude themselves upon my view, in many of the sepulchral monuments of cities, are, in my opinion, calculated to inspire no feeling, save that of derision and contempt. But the uncouth, though not always unpleasing, Epitaphs, which we generally meet with in country churchyards, are by no means undeserving of our attention. They have a peculiarity of expression, which is strikingly opposite to the polished and elaborately elegant phrases which designate the tombs of courtiers and citizens; and although we cannot always, upon perusing their awkward rhymes and measures, repress our laughter, their simplicity often merits and obtains the tribute of a sigh,

Having sometimes amused myself during my rambles, by compiling a sort of Scrap-book, in which I have inserted most of the Epitaphs remarkable for their uncouth phraseology, or their elegant simplicity, I will make a few extracts from it of both species. Take the following, Reader :--

"He died of a quinsey,
And was buried at Binsey."

This I selected from a village churchyard in Nottinghamshire, during my last Easter Vacation, and added it to my collection, as an admirable instance of the observance of that Horatian canon, "In medias res." Analyze it, Reader. How could the author have better shown his talent for brevity? A more poetical composer of Epitaphs, if he had been desired to work up a tribute of respect to the manes of poor John Doley, the above-mentioned victim of a quinsey, would have been siezed with a fit of inspiration---would have flown off in a tangent, and at length started a rhapsody, four times as pathetic, six times as flow. ery, and ten times as long as the fore going distich. He would have men, tioned "Elysian fields,' "applauding seraphs, ""morbid destruction,” “fatal

messengers, sepulchral bands," and Heaven knows what beside! But he would never when at the end of his flight, inform us what a reader would most probably wish to know; the cause of Poor John's fate, and the spot of his interment. Rhyme could never have handled the subject in such a manner ;--Reason goes straight to work, and developes the whole catastrophe. And I question whether the shade of John Doley receives not full as much consolation, from this plain, unsophisticated Epitaph, as if his death were recounted at a greater length, together with all the aid of flowery diction and poetic hyperbole. I will select another:--

"Gentle Reader, who standest by, my grave to yiew,

I was on earth, much the same as you: And as 1 am, so you must be; Therefore, I say, prepare to follow me." We shall have some difficulty in resolving such a metre as this, as I believe we cannot meet with it in any of the British Poets. There are, you see, in the first line, twelve feet;-in the second, nine ;---in the third, eight;---in the last, ten. A most unwarrantable licence of version! But observe, Reader, how civilly, and yet how forcibly, he admonishes you of your end. Mark, how he informs you that he has lived, as you do; that he has died, as you will. In these four lines a string of moral precepts is contained, which many elegiac writers would have dilated into a long, uninteresting, unintelligible composition, and dignified with the name of an Epitaph. Mark also the force of the words, "I say." They speak volumes ---they banish every shade of doubt from our minds. Scepticism itself would do well to listen to them. Take another extract :--

"Here 1, the son of John and Mary Brown, (Who liv'd until Death's scythe did cut I down),

Do he. But when the trumpet last shall sound,

Then shall I rise above the ground."

Here again appears that amiable brevity, which designates a Country Churchyard Epitaph. It is evident, that the author of it was not a little proud of his family, and was determined that the passing traveller should know who he was. We can plainly perceive that he was in some measure infected with that most exuberant species of insanity, Genealogical Pride. Nor can we blame him. He tells us at once his origin:he spares us those efforts of Patience and Labour which we so often must

exert, if we take upon ourselves to pe ruse the inscriptions beneath which the bones of many a more illustrious Personage repose. How often do we, after having laboured to no purpose in discovering the various ancestors and various intermarriages which such an inscription records, give up our task in disgust! But the son of John and Mary Brown obtains a patient reading from all. Despise not his example, ye Epitaph-Writers. Let us, after a few more specimens of the quaint, proceed to the other branch of our subject.

"Here lies a much-lov'd Son, for whom we cried;

He only griev'd his parents when he died.” "To the memory of a faithful Wife, a friend sincere;

Who died at Kew, and with her Child lies sleeping here."

"My Parents dear, shed not a tear,
Although I am dead and buried;
Give up your sorrows and your fear,

To happier shores 1 am ferried."

"Death smote me hard; but, though in earth I lie,

Some day he will be conquer'd, just as I."

"To the memory of Father, Mother, and 1,
Who all of us died in one year;
Father lies at Salisbury

And Mother and 1 lies here."

"Her temper mild, her manners such Her language good, but not too much."

pression is breathed in these lines! What a variety of sentiment and excould Longinus, Scaliger, or Toup, live again, how many beauties would they not discover in them-how many dissertations would they not enter into, resPecting them? Their inequality of measure, their freedom of system, their multitudinous combination of ideas, are equally entitled to the disquisitions and labours of the most eminent Commentators.

The more elegant Epitaphs which I have met with, and which I truly admire for their sweetness and simplicity, I will present to my readers without further observation. What commment is needed for such as the following:--

ON TWO INFANTS.

"The storm that sweeps the wintry sky, No more disturbs their deep repose, The Summer Ev'ning's latest sigh

That shuts the rose."

Found the taste bitter, and refus'd the rest:
"Just to her lips the cup of life she prest;
She felt averse to life's returning day,
And softly sigh'd her little soul away.'

"Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade.
Death came with friendly care;

The op'ning bad to Heav'n convey'd, And bade it blossom there."

"How sweet a thing is Death, to all who know

That all on Earth is vanity and woe? Who, taught by sickness, long have ceas'd to dread

The stroke that bears them to this peaceful bed? Few are our days: yet, while those days remain,

Our Joy must yield to Grief; our ease to pain: Then tell me, weary Pilgrim, which is best, The toilsome journey, or the Trav'ller's rest!"

I will conclude these extracts with a few beautiful lines which I picked up at an obscure village in the North of England. They are inscribed by a husband to the memory of a beloved wife.

A tender Plant, borne from the fost❜ring gales

That breathe on Avon's margin, droop'd and died.

Yet Time shall be, sweet Plant, a gale divineShall Thee restore. And Thou, in health and youth,

By the pure streams of peace shall ever live,
And flourish in the Paradise of God!"

My latest wish will be, that whenever I am no more of this world, my remains may be deposited in a Country Churchyard, and that my eulogy may be intrusted to a village poet. I. care not whether my epitaph be short or long; whether it be elegant or quaint, so that it be divested of those pompous ornaments of language, those gross effusions of adulation, which too often disgrace The marble upon which they are graved. Who can forget that our worldly glory must end with our life ;--that the Sculptor's art and the Panegyrists abilities are alike unable to preserve our ashes from annihilation, or our fame from oblivion? J. H.

BELZONI.

en

The following letter from a young Gentleman, of Liverpool, to Mr. A. Hodgson, communicated the particulars of the death of this enterprising 'Traveller:

"Brig Castor, British Accarah, Jan. 7, 1824. "I wrote you some time, almost at a venture, mentioning the arrival in Benin River of Mr. G. Belzoni, the celebrated traveller, who was attempting to reach Houssa and Timbuctoo, by way of Benin. I am sorry to inform you that, like all others who have made this trial, he has perished. He died at Gato, the 3d of Dec., 1823,

wer.

"He had been a considerable time a very welcome guest on board this brig, waiting for the time a Mr. J. Houtson could accompany him to Benin, whose interest with the King of that place he considered would be serviceable to him. On the night of the 24th of November he left us, with Mr. Houtson, for Gato. On parting with us, he seemed a little agitated, particularly when the crew, to each of whom he had made a present, gave him three loud cheers on leaving the vessel. 'God bless you, my fine fellows, and send you a happy sight of your country and friends,' was his ansOn the 3d of December I received a letter from Mr. Houtson, requesting me to come to Benin, as Mr. B. was lying dangerously ill, and, in case of death, wishing a second person to be present. I was prevented going, not only by business, but a severe fever, which had then hold of me. On the 5th, I had a second letter from Mr. H., with the particulars of Mr. B.'s end, and one from himself, almost illegible, dated Dec. 2, requesting me to assist in the disposal of his effects, and to remit the proceeds home to his agents, Messrs. Briggs, Brothers and Co., Americasquare, London, together with a beautiful amethyst ring he wore, which he seemed particularly anxious should be delivered to his wife, with the assurance that he died in the fullest affection for her, as he found himself too weak to write his last wishes and adieus. He was interred at Gato, next day, with all the respect possible; and I furnished a large board, with the following inscription, and which was placed over his grave:"Here lie the remains of G. BELZONI, Who was attacked with dysentery at Benin (On his way to Houssa and Timbuctoo), On the 26th of Nov., and died at this place, December 3, 1823.

The gentlemen who placed this inscription over the grave of this intrepid and enterprising traveller, hope that every European visiting this spot will cause the ground to be cleared, and the fence round the grave repaired, if

necessary.

"At the time of Mr. Belzoni's death, Mr. Houtson had every thing arranged with the King of Benin for his departure, and had his health continued, there is no doubt he would have succeeded. Mr. B. passed at Benin as an inhabitant, or rather native of the interior, who had come to England when a youth, and was now trying to return to his country. The King and Emegrands (or nobles) gave credit to this, Mr. B. being in a Moorish dress, with his beard nearly a

foot in length. There was, however. some little jealousy amongst them, which was removed by a present or two, well applied: and the King of Benin's messenger was to accompany Mr. B. with the King's cane, and as many men as were considered necessary for a guard, and baggage carriers. The King's name is respected as far as Houssa, and he has a messenger, or ambassador stationary there. On Mr. B.'s arrival at Houssa, he was to leave his guard there, and proceed to Timbuctoo, the King not guaranteeing his safety farther than Houssa, and Timbuctoo not beiug known at Benin. On his return to Houssa, he would make the necessary preparations for going down the Niger, and dispatch his messenger and guard back with letters to his agents and to Mr. John Houtson. The messenger to be rewarded according to the accounts the letters gave of his behaviour, and the King to receive a valuable stated present. This was the plan, and I think it would have proved fortunate had Mr. B. lived.

"The distance from Benin to Houssa is not so great. The King gave the following account of the route :-From Benin to Jaboo, six days' journey; Jaboo to Eyoo, three; Eyoo to Tappa, nine; Tappa to Nyffo, four; and Nyffo to Houssa, three. I am sorry I cannot find the memorandum I made of this, but I think I am correct, Between Nyffoo and Houssa, the 'Big Water' is to be crossed, considerably above Tangara, at which place it is tremendously rapid and wide; farther down the natives of Benin know nothing of it, except that it runs to the southward. I wish it was a settled point. Mr. B. began to waver in his opinion of the Niger being a branch of the Nile, after having seen one or two of these rivers in the bight of Benin. I will give you my idea on this subject. If the Niger does not empty itself into the bights of Beapa and Benin, there must be some other immense course of water in the interior, to supply these rivers, viz., Benin, Dos EscraTOS, Dos Ramas, Bonny, New Calabar, Old Calabar, and Rio del Rey, with the numerous intersecting creeks, and which any person, I think, only need see to know they run from one great stream. Add to this, the land to the westward of river Lagos, though not high, is perfectly dry, and free from marsh; from Lagos to the west side of Rio del Rey, there is scarcely a spot of land that is not overflowed at high tides. The east

side of Del Rey is the contrary, being high and mountainous, viz., the high land of Cameroons and Reconly Lard. The intervening marsh between Lagos and Del Rey has evidently been formed by the soil and mud washed down these rivers. That the coast here has been carried further out, in my opinion cannot be doubted, as, in a conversation I had with the King of Wanu, he informed me 'six or seven of his father's back was when white man first came to Wanu; that then they came to the town in their ships, as they could then soon catch the sea; but now the river had gone a long way urther out.' Of course he meant the land further out. I suppose Wanu is forty miles from the sea now. At the same time he showed me some of the guns brought out by the first ship that came there, with matchlocks and stands. The old gentleman was very communicative. He related the history of his family being made kings, which would please you, but I have no time for it here; I hope I may relate it to you in Liverpool. Of course, you know the various opinions against the Niger terminating here or in the Congo. I may add another. None of the natives of the interior having come down the river, nor none of the river people gone up to look for trade more than two days' journey in a canoe. Yet they describe it at that distance as large as at the entrance. I may also remark, that I never could find any of the natives who had been at Houssa, that had crossed or seen those mountains, which are considered as insuperable obstacles to the Niger running south, viz.-'the Mountains of the Moon.'-But their heads here are so thick, it is difficult to get correct information out of them. There are several natives of Houssa slaves in the river. You will perceive, by what I have said, the opinion I have formed, that the Niger empties itself by a great Delta, of which Rio Formoso, or Benin, is the western, and Rio del Rey the eastern branch, with several rivers between them from the same source.'

This distinguished traveller was a native of Padua, in Italy, (the birthplace of Livy), of a Roman family who resided in that city for some years. The state and troubles of Italy in 1800, compelled him to leave it, and from that time he visited several different parts of Europe, and suffered, as he himself expresses it, many vicissitudes.

The greater part of his younger days he passed in Rome, the former abode of