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dull companions: but the story that briskly about, Mr. vQjjin then took follows does honour to his good- occasion to explain himself'' by saynature, and therefore it is here fe- ing, It was now time to enter upon lected. Mr. Thomson, a Scots gen- business. Mr. Thomsoh declared he tleman, universally known by his was ready to serve him as far as his fine poems on the Seasons, on Liber- capacity would reach, in any thing ty, Sec. wben he first came to Lon- he should command, (thinking he don, was in very narrow circum- was come about some affair relating stances; and, before he was dvstin- to the drama.) Sir, fays Mr. Quifl, guithed by his writings, was many you mistake my meaning: 1 am in times put to his sliifrs even for a your debt; I owe you a hundred dinner. The debts he then con- pounds, and I am come to pay you. tracted lay very heavy upon him for Mr. Thomson, with a disconsolate a longtime afterwards; aud upon air, replied, that as he was a genthe publication of his Seasons one of tleman whom, to his knowledge, he his creditors arrested him, thinking had never offended, he wondered he that a proper opportunity to get should seek an opportunity to reJ>is money. The report of this preach him under his misfortunes, misfortune happened to reach the No, by G—d, said -Quin, raising his ears of Mr. Quin, who had indeed voice, I'd be d—n'd before I would jead the Seasons, but had never seen do that. 1 fay, I owe you a huntheir author; and .upon stricter en- dred pounds, and there it is, (laying quiry he was told, that Thomson a bank note of that value before was in the bailiff's hands at a spung- him). Mr. Thomson was astonislting-house in Holborn : thither Quin ed, and begged he would explain went; and being admitted into his himself. Why, says Quin, I'll tell chamber. Sir, said he, in his usual you; soon after I had read your tone of \oice, you don't know me, Seasons, I took it into my head that X "believe, but my name is Quin. Mr. as I had something in the world to Thomson received him politely, and leave behind me when I died, I said, that though he could not boast would make my will, and among the of the honour of a personal ac- rest of my legatees 1 set down the .quaintaoce, he was no stranger author of the Seasons a hundred either to his name or his merit; pounds, and this day hearing that and very obligingly invited him to you was in this house, I thought I sir down. Quin then told him, he might as well have the pleasure of was come to sup with him, and that paying the money myself, as to orhe had already ordered the cook to der my executors to pay it when, provide supper, which he hoped he perhaps, you might have less need would excuse. Mr. Thomson made of it; and this, Mr. Thomson, is ihe proper reply, and then the dif- the business I came about. I need

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J* Account os some subterraneous Apartments, initb Etruscan Inscriptions muj farmings, discovered at Civita Turchino in ltply: communicatedfrom Joseph Wilcox, Æ/p F. S, A. .SyiCharlej Morton, M. p. F. R. S.

(Read before the Royal Society.)

/"^IvitaTurchino, about three miles to the north of Cprneto, is an hill of an oblong form, the summit of which is almost one continued plain. From the quantities of medals, intaglio's, fragments of inIcriptions, &c. that are occasionally found here, this is believed to be the very spot where the powerful and most ancient city of Tarquinii once stood: though at present it is only one continued field of corn. On the south-east fide of it runs the ridge of an hill, which unites it to Corr.eip. • This.rid.ge is at least three or four mile; in length, and almost entirely covered by several hundreds of artificial hillocks, which are called, by the inhabitants, Monti Rossi. About twelve of these hillocks have at different times been opened; and in every one of them have been found several subterranean apartments cut out of the solid rock. These apartments are of various forms and dimensions; some consist of a large outer room, and a small one within j others ot a small room at the first entrance, and a larger one within; others are (uppuited by a column of the solid rock, left \a the centre, with openings on every parr, from twenty to thirty feet. The entrance .to them all is by a door of about live feet in height, by two feet and an ,half in breadth. Some of these, have no other light but from jhe door, while1 pthers seem to have had a small jighf from, above, through an hole pi a pyratnidical fora). Many pf

these apartments have an elevated part that runs all round the wall, being a part of the rock left for that purpose. The moveables found in these apartments consist chief!)' in Etruscan vases of various forms ; in Come indeed have been found some plain sarcophagi of stone with bones in them. The whole of these apartments are stucco'd, and ornamented in various manners; some indeed are plain, but others, particularly three, are richly adorned; having a double row of Etruscan inscriptions running round the upper parts of the walls, and under it a kind of frieze of figures in painting; fame have an ornament under the figures, that seem to supply the place of »n architrave. There have been no relievos in stucco hitherto difcortred. The paintings seem to be in fresco, and are In general in the same stile as those which are usually seen on the Etruscan vases; though some of them are much superior ptthaps to any thing as yet seen of the Etruscan art in painting. The paintings, though in general /light, are well conceived, and prove that the artist was capable of producing things more studied and more finished; though in such a subterra: nean situation, almost void of light, where the delicacy of a finished work would have been in a great measure thrown away; these artists (as the Romans did in their best ages, »hep employed in such sepulchral works) have in general contented thtmftlves wjth slightly expressing their thoughts. the learned world, at present almost unknown. This great .scene of anT liquifies is almost entirely unknown, even in Rome. Mr, Jenkins, now resident at Rome, h the first and only Englishman who ever visited ir.

M3g.- Method of guarding against smutty Crops of Wheat, 545

thoughts. But among the immense art, in times of such early and renumber of those subterranean apart- mote antiquity, but as perhaps it pients which are yet unopened, it is' may also be the occasion os making to all appearance very probable that some considerable discoveries in the many paintings and inscriptions may' history of a nation, in itself very be discovered, sufficient to form, a great, though, to the regret of all very entertaining, and perhaps a very useful, work; a work which would doubtless interest all the learned and curious world, not only as it may bring to light (if success attends this undertaking) many works of

Method of guarding against smutty Cross ef fFhtai, bj a dtu Prefaratic*

of the Seed,

To the jfuthori of the British Magas;ij<e,

Gentlemen, *'

AS the smut in wheat is an evij greatly complained of, and not without some reason, among farmers, I have no doubt but your readers will be well pleased to be informed of a means of preventing the damage which is annually experienced in this respect.

As I write from experience, what I communicate may be depended on ; and I have great foundation for thinking it will be found of particular service to, su^h of your readers as are practical farmers, and who yet are unacquainted with the method 1 intend to recommend.

I have, for many years past, escaped hayjng smutty crops, by a proper carp of the feed-wheat before it is put into the ground; and the method I pursue, though efficacious, is in itself firnpje and cheap.

I take spur bushels of pigeons dung, which I put into a large tub; on this I pour a sufficient quantity pf boiling water, and, mixinglh'em jyejl togetoer/j^'T'f)^gi stanjf'/fa

hour?, rill a kmd of strong lye is made, which,' at the end of that time, the grosser matter being subsided, I cause to be carefully drained off, and put into a large keeve, or tub, for use.

This quantity is sufficient for eighty bushels of feed-wheat.

My next care is to shoot into thi* steep a manageable quantity of my seed, which is immediately to be yiolently agitated,with either birchen brooms, or the rudders that are made use of in stirring the malt in the mash tub in a brewing-office. As the light grains rife, they must be diligently skimmed off; and after the seed has been agitated in this manner for the space of perhaps half an hour, it may be taken out of the steep, and sown out of hand, with great safety; and I can venture to say, that if the land is in good heart, and has been properly tilled, it will not, when sown with these precautions, produce a srrutty crop.

J am, &c.


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Rec Itat Ivjc.

THUS of his Delia, forc'd away,
An anxious swain was heard to fay :•-
His folded arms and head reclin'd,
Eiprest the tempest in his mind.

O- let the lonely grove,

Responsive to my woes,
Tell my departed love

How much my bosom glows.
For you, my absent Maid,

I quit all circles gay,
And feck the silent shade,

And shun the light of day.

That day, which once so bright

Arose when you were here,
Se:s low'ring into night,

Since you no more appear.
Mt, in the dusky gloom,

Let weeping Cut-ins join:
To me let So now come,

And mingle woes with mine.

With these Til spend my days,

From ev'ry scene rerir'd,
Whero erst 1 tun'd the lays

Our mutual flame ir.spir'd.
Thro' vallies and o'er lulls

Our silent course we'll steer)
And s*ell the weeping rills

With many a pensive tear.

There oft, in happier loves,

The downy flocks combine j
And, as kind Nature moves,

Obey its call divine.
O.! wou'd the fates decree,

Dear Maid! whom I adore,
You thus shou'd live with me —

What cou'd the gods give more?


The Shepherd paus'd, o'ercome with jrricf j
■>Vhen;rf divinest Hope arise5
Her smiling face foretold relies,
And pleasure sparkled in her eyes.

Placed before the shining fair
Were bright pahicet os air,
Villas fine and gardens rare,
With rrujDy a ghtt'rinj crown j

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Ait by HOPE.

To fortune never yield,
Nor let thine adverse t.ve surprize;

Thy bliss may be conceal'd
In what has fill'd thy breast with sight.

By constancy you'll gain, But never, never by despair,

What thus you wish in vain—r The piesence of thine absent fair.

Quick from these vales retreat,

0 Youth! of heart and foul finesse. New pleasures thou shalt meet;

But thou can'st never find them here.

In lovely Delia's arms, rosiest of every social bliss,

Thou (hale forget all harms.
Adieu 1 'TU Heft who tells yon this.

Il PtKSiaose,

Tbt D U P E.

Gratfi cojlei gran 'Tempo, eV moflro Jorjt,
Del GicTjane amoroso il pvro ejsetli:
Ma non si tojlo (er vtdi infabil Otnne '.)
Ruj1;co pjstorcl f tile guatata,
Che 1 primi sgmardi non Josienne, i primi
S*spxri,--e tut fa al nuevo amor Ji dieJe.

Il Pastor Fibo,


V^ES, Chloe once I loved, *tis true;
And Chloe said, she lov'd me toot
But, oh! too soon may jealous ejea
Could fee, that of her faithless heart,
Myrtillo had the greater part—
And all her vows to me were lyes.
O what cou'd equal my surptize!

Chloe, said I, and couYst thou bear
With me thy live long life to share;

When that Myrtillo, happy swain!
I* all thy dazzled soul's delight,
Thy wish by day, thy wish by nights

Believe me, Chloe, you'd sustain

But very ill the hated chain,

Chloe replied, Indeed, my dear,

1 blush such mortal sounds to hear.

Mag. Poetical E s S A Y S for

And why, alas! you shou'd believe,
That this Myrtillo, whom you name,
Excites within my breast a flame

That ouelit your gen'rous love to grieve,
I can't, indtui, I can't, conceive.

Convinc'd by rhetoric so great,

I blest the goodness of my fate,

Which promis'd me so fair a maid-;

And laugh'd within my sleeve to think

How poor Myrtillo's heart wou'd fink,
When he beheld the game I play'd,
And saw his darling hopes beiray'd.

The day of joy, long-wifh'd, appears—

Behold me in my nuptial gears,
All fire the lovely p.ey to seize.

But (ah! the d— take the bli d)

The traitress was already join'd

To damn'd Myrtillo. With such ease
Can maids deceive whene'er they please!


Al/WRITDRN: A Pastoral A S Damon walk'd forth on a fun-shiny d«y, [gay;

He met with y«ung Phillis, the lovely and Transported at meeting, the nymph and the swain, [strain. After kindly embracing, began thic soft Da Mon.

No shepherd was ever so lost in despair, With grief so perplex'd, and incumber'd

with care, [been;

As I in your absence, dear Phillis, have No joys have I tasted, no pleasuies have

seen: [plight. Bur, alas! in forlorn and disconsolate 1 roam all the day, and 1 muse all the



Forbear, dearest Damon, forbear to repine, My troubles and cares have been equal to

thine j. [spent, In grief and vexation my time has been And a stranaer I'm grown to the paths of


My hopes too suppressed —and when ba

nisk'd from thee, The joys ol this life are insipid to me. Damon.

Each morft as I ramble the meadow, alonr, How sweetly resounds the wood-choristers

song; [live and gay,

When the flocks on the plains are all sporAnd nature'r.enliven'd by Phccbus's ray; When pleasures and honour with fieedom

unite, [delight:

And gladness and mirth aud new scenes of

OCTOBER, 1764. 547

Even then I dejected, and joyless appear; For 'cis Phillis alone that excites all my



Let sorrow no longer appear in your face. Nor anguish and grief in your heart find a place:

Be chearful and pleasant, diive sadness away, And your kindnesses, Damon, with love I'll tepayj [hearted swain;'

With smiles crown the hopes of my trueFor to Damon sincere I will ever icmain.

Biggleswade, T c

Oft. 13,1764. J. •■*»•■«.


"IT7HERE now is that fun of repose,
"That once used to smile on thi»

On the morn that so genially rose,
And at eve set so kindly in rest?

Alas! all withdrawn from my sight,
On the morning no longer it beams j

And, instead of contentment at night.
Spreads horror alone in my dreams.

O Belmourl why e'er did I liear

What I knew must he death to believed Or drink up a strain with my tat,

When I saw it was meant to deceive? To whom, tell me now, can I speak,

That will not reproach and exclaim * And read thiouih the biulh on this cheek,

Thai guilt is the patent of shame* In vain the dark grove do I try.

Some respite from c:nsu-e to find j But, oh! siom a world I may fly,

Yet cannot escape from my mind! In the thickest recess of the shade,

My conscience cries, "Flavia, fee there, What a wretch a fond father is made.

What a mother is plunged in despair !** The Zephyr's most innocent gale

Now seems at my conduct to roar; And the stream, as it winds through the dale,

Says, "Flavia is spotless no more." At church, in the moment of pray'r,

Remorse lists her terrib'e rod, And harrows my foul with despair,

Tho' I kneel at the throne of my Cod. 'Tis just ;—and I cannot upbraid.

For Belmour jet swells in my eye 5 And this bosom, though basely betray'd,

S:i!: heaves with too leader a sigh'

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