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On the application of the term “ disinterested ” to Archbishop Moore's conduct, in communicating to his pupil, the Duke of Marlborough, the advances of the Duchess Dowager, her note is : —

Disinterested is not quite the word to use. He served his interest in preferring the Duke's power to a connection with the Duchess, who had only her life income to bestow, and a faded person possessing no attractions.

“There were a number of Members who regularly received from him (Pelham's Secretary of the Treasury) their payment or stipend at the end of every session in bank-notes.” — Wraxall.

Note. I am sorry to read these things of Mr. Pelham, whom everybody loved, and Garrick praised so sweetly, saying:

“Let others hail the rising sun,
I bow to that whose course is run,

Which sets in endless night;
Whose rays benignant blessed our Isle,
Made peaceful nature round us smile,

With calm but cheerful light.
" See as you pass the crowded street,
Despondence clouds each face you meet,

All their lost friend deplore.
You read in every pensive eye,
You hear in every broken sigh,

That Pelham is no more." This Ode, from whence I have selected two stanzas, not the best, and a comical thing called “ The News Writers' Petition," that came out a very little while before, give one the impression of his having been a very honest man. I am quite sorry Wraxall's book tends so much to destroy that impression.

Pelham's death was curious, and he thought so; for it was his favorite maxim in politics, never to stir an evil which lies quiet, “And now," said he, upon his deathbed to his doctor, “I die for having acted in contradiction to my own good rule, - taking unnecessary medicines for a stone which lay still enough in my bladder, and might perhaps never have given me serious injury.” But so it is, that though death certainly does strike the dart, it is often vice or folly poisons it, — with regard to this world or the world to come.

MISCELLANIES

OR

ORIGINAL COMPOSITIONS IN PROSE AND VERSE.

MISCELLANI ES

OR

ORIGINAL COMPOSITIONS IN PROSE AND VERSE.*

THE THREE WARNINGS.

A TALE.

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'T was therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years,
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This greatest affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old affections can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.
When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbor Dobson's wedding-day,
Death called aside the jocund groom,
With him into another room;
And looking grave, you must, says he,
Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.
With you, and quit my Susan's side ?
With you! the hapless husband cried :
Young as I am; 't is monstrous hard;
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared :
My thoughts on other matters go,

This is my wedding night, you know.
• What more he urged I have not heard,

His reasons could not well be stronger,

So Death the poor delinquent spared, * Under this head I have printed only those which were found detached. The majority of her fugitive pieces and occasional verses are contained in the Letters.

And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke,
Neighbor, he said, farewell. No more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour,
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have
Before you 're summoned to the grave:
Willing, for once, I 'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you 'll have no more to say
But when I call again this way,
Well pleased the world will leave.
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell:
He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He passed his hours in peace;
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old time whose haste no mortal spares
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought him on his eightieth year.
And now one night in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,
Th' unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.
Half stilled with anger and surprise,
So soon returned ! old Dobson cries.
So soon, d'ye call it ! Death replies :
Surely, my friend, you ’re but in jest ;

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