THOMSON'S RESIDENCE AT RICHMOND. THIS unostentatious building, which will always command the veneration and respect of the admirers of sublime poetry and benevolent feelings, is situate in Kew-foot Lane. It was purchased after the poet's death by George Ross, Esq. who, out of veneration to his memory, forbore tu pull it down, but enlarged and improved it at the expense of 90001.! Mrs. Boscawen repaired the poet's favourite seat in the garden, and placed in it the table on which he wrote his verses. Over the entrance is inscribed:

“Here Thomson sung the Seasons and their Change,“ The inside is adorned with suitable quotations from authors who have paid due compliments to bis talents: and in the centre appears the following inscription : “ Within this pleasing retirement, allured by the music of the nightingale, which warbled in soft unison to the melod of his soul, in unaffected cheerfulness, and genial, though simple elegance, lived James Thomson. Sensibly alive to all the beauties of Nature, he painted their images as they rose in review, and poured the whole profusion of them into his inimitable Seasons. Warmed with intense devotion to the Sovereign of the Universe, its flame glow. ing through all his compositions ; animated with un. bounded benevolence, with the tenderest social sensibility. he never gave one moment's pain to any of his fellowcreatures, save only by his death, wbich happened at this place, on the 22nd of August, 1748.”—Thomson was buried at the west end of the north aisle of Richmond church, There was nothing to point out the spot of his interment, till a brass tablet, with the following inscription was lately put up by the Earl of Buchan : “ In the earth below this tablet are the remains of James Thomson, author of the beautiful poenis entitled The Seasons, The Castle of Indolence, &c. who died at Richmond on the 22nd of August, and was buried there on the 29th 0. S. 1748. The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man and sweet a poet should be without a memorial, has denoted the place of his interment for the satisfaction of his ad. mirers, in the year of our Lord 1792.” Underneath is this quotation from his “Winter:”

Father of Light and Life, Thou God Supreme !
0, teach me what is good ! teachine Thyself!
Save me from folly, vanity, and vice,
From every low pursuit; and feed my soul
With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure;
Sacred, substantial, never fading bliss !

SHERIDAN POSSESSED all the plausibility and finesse requisite for a modern statesman, or theatrical manager, which talent he often turned to good account. On one occasion when he gave a dinner, at the Piazza Coffee-House, CoventGarden, on quitting the room, he desired that the bill might be sent to him next morning, which injunction was punctually obeyed, by one of the waiters, who, after remaining sometime below, was ordered to walk up. Mr. S. then asked him if he was fund of the play, and if he had not a friend or two he should like to take with him ?The fellow answering in the affirmative, with many obsequious bows, Mr. S. instantly presented' him with half-aduzen orders for Drury Lane, assuring him, at the same time, that he had no money just then, and begged he would look in some other day, which request the waiter, in gratitude, was unable to refuse: he quitted the house, and RICHARD was himself again!

THE DESERT OF SALT. BETWEEN Teheran and Ispaban, sir R. K. Porter crossed one of those immense deserts of salt which abound in Persia. That which stretches from the banks of the Heirmund, in Seistan, to the range of hills which divide that province from lower Mekran is 400 miles long, and 200 miles broad; apother as large is met with to the north, reaching from Koom and Kashan, to the provinces of Mazanderan and Khorassau. This extensive waste encircles the sea of Zereb, and in its dry parts presents to the eye a crusted coat of brittle earth, or a succession of sand bills which assume the appearance of waves, formed of impalpable red particles, that are driven about by the north-west winds which prevail in summer. The countries situated in the vicinity of these dreadful wilds are subject to extreme heat. . The thermometer of Fahrenheit sometimes standing at 150 degrees in a tent! Of Persia generally it may he said that its chief features are numerous chains of mountains and large tracts of desert, amidst which, are interspersed beautiful vallies and rich pasture lands. Except in the province of Mazanderan, where extensive forests are found, the mountains are generally bare, or thinly covered with underwood.

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Bid the morn of Youth,
Rise to new light, and beam afresh the days
of Innocence, Simplicity and 'Truth,
To caros estranged and manhoods thorny ways.
What transport to retrace our boyish plays,
Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied,
The woods, the inountains, and the warbling maze
or the wild brooks!


. IT was eve when I stray'd on the banks of the Lea,

And the shun of the twilight yet gleam'd in the west, And the breeze lightly ruffled the stream and the tree,

And the groves softly hushed all their songsters to rest. All bush'd save the sound of the nightingale's song,

That song which the cchocs repeated again, Whilst wildly it warbled the willows among,

Its saddest, its sweetest and mournfullest strajo. 1 stray'd while the water yet glar'd with the gleam,

And meander'd along in its beauty of light, And the lillies and flow'rets that grew by the stream,

Were closing their leaves to the gloom of the night.
Yet still sung the nightingale on the green willow,

That grew by the banks of the waters of Lea;
And wild was that song, and untam'd as the billow,

And it thrill'd to the soul like the voice of the Sea. And the sound that was breath'd from the lay of the bird,

Was like the rernembrance of joys that are past! 'Twas sweet, it was sad ; and the thoughts that recurr'd,

Sped swift on my days on the wings of the blast. My manhood appear'd to me sad like the grave;

For its days were o'ershadow'd as dark as the tomb; And my youth, that had wander'd on Ocean's wide wave,

Was clos'd in the evening of twilight and gloom.


But oh! the sweet sunshine that beam'd in my dawn,

Had glitter'd all bright on the waters of Lea; But the mirth of its gleaming for ever was gone,

And the tints of its fading were darkness to me.
Yet sweet to my thought was its halcyon of bliss,

All fragrant as roses bespangled with wet,
And it lingeringly dwelt like the balm of the kiss,

That seals the soft whispers when lovers have met.
Thus pensive and listening I wander'd along,

Where mem'ry had told me of joys that are fled: Till ceased was the sound of the nightingale's song,

That had thrillid to the heart like the wail o'er the dead. I stray'd till the Eve left the west with its gleam,

And the moon-beam enliven'd the gloom with its light; Aud the silent mist rose on the slow winding stream,

And rollid o'er its banks a soft mantle of wbite. But oh, so endearing were what I had heard,

That when I had left the sweet banks of the Lea, The tale that was breathed in the song of the bird,

Still told all its sweetness and sadness to me. For the thought that had clos’d with that soul-piercing lay,

That seem'd not as yet to have died on the air, Was the racking of madness that fades pot away,

The farewell of Love, the deep voice of despair.

The scene lies on that part of the banks of the Lea bordering on the counties of Hertford and Essex, called Cheshunt Nunnery. On the Hertfordshire side the scenery is broken by fine groups of variously tinted trees, whilst on that of the county of Essex, are seen the hills boldly rising diversified with wooded uplands, pastures and corn-fields.

R. H.

WALLER, THE POET, LIVED for some time at Hall- Barn, three-quarters of a mile south of Beaconsfield Toward the decline of life, he bought a small house with a little land, on his natal spot, Coleshill; observing, “that he should be glad to die Jike the stag, where he was roused.” This, however, did pot happen. When he was at Beaconsfield, he found his legs grow tumid: he went to Windsor, where sir Charles Scarborough then attended the king, and requested him, as both a friend and physician, to tell him what that swell. ing meant. “Sir,' answered Scarborougb, your blood wilt run no longer.' Waller repeated some lines of Virgil, and went home to die. As the disease increased upon him, bre composed himself for his departure; and calling upon Dr. Birch to give him the boly sacrament, he desired bis children to take it with him, and made an earnest declaration of bis faith in Christianity. It now appeared what part of his conversation with the great could be remembered with delight. He related, that being present when the Duke of Buckingham talked profanely before King Charles, he said to him, " My Lord, I am a great deal older than your Grace, and have, I believe, heard more arguments for atheism than ever your Grace did ; but I have lived long enough to see there is nothing in them, and so I hope your Grace will."

Waller died at Beaconsfield, in 1687, at the age of 82.

A handsome monument was erected to his memory, by his son's executor's, in 1700, on the east side of the churchyard, near the family vault, where an old walnut-tree is remaining, at the west end of the monument, enclosed within the iron rails around the tomb. Part of the branches hanging over the spiral pillar that rises from the monument has a pleasing effect, and happily illustrates the rebus alluded to jo the family arms, which is a walnut leaf. The Latin inscription on the monument is by Rymer, and is to be seen iù every edition of our poet's works.


THE GENEROUS CARIB. IN in the bosom of a thick grove of mangoes, on one of those happy islands, whose ever-verdant shores are laved by the billows of the western ocean, where nations, falsely called civilized, had never carried the desolating sword of conquest, the generous Orra had fixed his habitation. From the hour his eyes first beheld the light of heaven, he had been accustomed only to the same delightful sput.

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