little novelty or interest. It is the avowed produc tion of Mr. Farley.

The actors acquitted themselves with considerable ability, particularly Mr. H. Johnston, the hero of the piece. There was a quickness, and a savage energy in his manner highly impressive-Farley recommended his work with great emotion and appropriate gesture. Mrs. Gibbs exerted herself with admirable effect, and displayed great theatrical powers.

The hornpipe of Miss B. Menage, a la Parisot, was unanimously encored by the audience, and repeated with unabated spirit. This dance was composed for her by D'Egville.

The music is fanciful, characteristic, pleasing, scientific, and grand, as may well be expected from such an able composer as Dr. Arnold.

The scene is laid in Italy, and beautifully descriptive throughout the whole piece; some of the scenes were indeed peculiarly rich, and beautiful in the colouring; and they were executed in a very finished style. The view of Mount Vesuvius, its eruption, and the flowing of the lava, is very splendid, and was well managed.

With some judicious amendments, this piece will doubtless pass off with the success that usually attend such compositions; and if the events were not rather too much like what the town has often seen, it would most probably have created a strong interest. It was well received by a numerous audience, and repeated without opposition.

The following are specimens of the songs:

CHORUS OF VILLAGERS.

Welcome love, welcome joy,
Welcome cupid, amorous boy;:
Hymen now your torch prepare,
Crown the brave, and deck the fair,

DUETT.-FRANCHIO AND GAMBERIO.

Let others complain, 'tis the fisherman's pleasure,
In hail, rain, or sunshine, to search for his treasure;
Tho' dangers surround us, and tempests assail,
We defy the rough ocean, and laugh at the gale.
Só our nets full of fish, we are quite in our glory,
And we sing viva viva, huzza, Pescatori.

On the banks of the bay, at the close of our labour,
Our spirits we cheer, with the pipe and the tabor,
Nor care we how early the sun hides his head,
The fire of Vesuvius will light us to bed.

So our nets, &c.

SONG AND CHORUS.

FRANCHIO. AND FISHERMEN.

FRANCHIO.

Lead on, Galliardo, we swear,
This detestable foe to pursue;
To his castle we'll quickly repair,
And restore Fiorita to you.

CHORUS.

Yes, fair, thy avengers are nigh,
We swear to relieve thee, or die.

GRANCHIO.

The tyrant we swear to destroy;
In agonies he shall expire,
Who savagely baffled thy joy,

And murdered thy reverend sire.

CHORUS.

Yes, wretch, thy avengers are nigh,
We swear to subdue thee, or die.

MR

REMARKABLE CHARACTERS.

R. GUY, the founder of the noble hospital that bears his name in Southwark, was as remarkable for his parsimony as his public munificence. He invariably dined alone, and a soiled proof sheet, or an old newspaper, was his constant substitute for a table cloth.

It is recorded of him, that as he was one winter evening sitting in his room, meditating over a handful of half-lighted embers, confined within the narrow precincts of a brick-stove, and without any candle, a person, who came to enquire for him, was introduced, and, after the first compliments were passed, and the guest requested to take a seat, Mr. Guy lighted a farthing candle which lay on the table by him, and desired to know the purport of the gentleman's visit. The visitor was the famous Vulture Hopkins, immortalised by Pope, in the lines

"When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend

The wretch, that living, sav'd a candle's-end," &c. "I have been told," said Hopkins, "that you, sir, are better versed in the prudent and necessary art of saving, than any man now living, and I therefore wait upon you for a lesson of frugality; an art in which I used to think I excelled, but am told by all who know you, that you are greatly my supesior."-" And is that all you are come about?" said Guy, "why then, we can talk this matter over in the dark" so saying, he with great deliberation extinguished his new-lighted farthing candle. Struck with this instance of economy, Hopkins acknowledged himself convinced of the other's superior thrift, and took his leave.

THE

PARNASSIAN GARLAND,

FOR AUGUST, 1801.

A

ALL ALONE.

(From Mrs. Robinson's Lyrical Tales. }

I.

H! wherefore by the church-yard side, Poor little LORN ONE, dost thou stray ? Thy wavy locks but thinly hide

The tears that dim thy blue-eye's ray; And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan, And weep, that thou art left alone?

II.

Thou art not left alone, poor boy,
The Trav'ller stops to hear thy tale;
No heart, so hard, would thee annoy!
For tho' thy mother's cheek is pale
And withers under yon grave stone,
Thou art not, Urchin, left alone,

I know thee well! thy yellow hair
In silky waves I oft have seen :
Thy dimpled face, so fresh and fair,
Thy roguish smile, thy playful mien,
Were all to me, poor Orphan, known,
Ere fate had left thee-all alone!

IV.

Thy russet coat is scant, and torn,

Thy cheek is now grown deathly pale! Thy eyes are dim, thy looks forlorn, And bare thy bosom meets the gale;

And oft I hear thee deeply groan.
That thou, poor boy, art left alone;

V.

Thy naked feet are wounded sore
With thorns, that cross thy daily road;
The winter winds around thee roar,

The church-yard is thy bleak abode ;
Thy pillow now, a cold grave stone-
And there thou lov'st to grieve-alone!

VI.

The rain has drench'd thee, all night long;
The nipping frost thy bosom froze;
And still, the yewtree-shades among,
I heard thee sigh thy artless woes;
I heard thee, till the day-star shone
In darkness weep-and weep alone;

VII.

Oft have I seen thee, little boy,
Upon thy lovely mother's knee;
For when she liv'd-thou wert her joy,
Though now a mourner thou must be!
For she lies low, where yon grave-stone
Proclaims, that thou art left alone.

Weep, weep' no more; on yonder hill
The village bells are ringing gay;

The merry reed, and brawling rill

Call thee to rustic sports away. Then wherefore weep, and sigh, and moan, A truant from the throng-alone?

1x.

"I cannot the green hill ascend,

"I cannot pace the upland mead;

"I cannot in the vale attend,

"To hear the merry-sounding reed: "For all still, beneath yon stone, "Where my poor mother's left aloue ?