inquired after the man's character, and found that he was a labourer, honest and industrious; but oppressed by want and a numerous family. He went to his house, when the man fell at his feet, and implored his mercy. Shenstone carried him home, to assist at the buildings and improvements, which made himself so poor; and when Shenstone died, this labourer bedewed his grave with true tears of gratitude.

DR. YOUNG.

ONE day, as Dr. Young was walking in his garden at Welwyn, in company with two ladies, (one of whom he afterwards married,) the servant came to acquaint him, a gentleman wished to speak with him. "Tell him," said the Doctor, "I am too happily engaged to change my situation!" The ladies insisted upon it he should go, as his visitor was a man of rank, his patron, and his friend; and, as persuasion had no effect, one took him by the right arm, the other by the left, and led him to the garden gate; when, finding resistance vain, he bowed, laid his hand upon his heart, and, in an expressive manner spoke (impromptu) the following lines:

"Thus Adam look'd, when from the garden driv'n,

And thus disputed orders sent from heav'n :
Like him I go, but yet to go am loth,

Like him I go, for Angels drove us both:

Hard was his fate, but mine's still more unkind ;—
His Eve went with him, but mine stays behind."

BISHOP HOADLY.

In the year 1718, Dryden's " All for Love" was performed for the amusement of the old Duke of Marlborough, by persons of fashion. Among the learned who were present, were Bishop Hoadly, Dr. Samuel Clarke, and Sir Richard Steele.

Lady Bateman, who was the Duke's favourite grandchild, and very beautiful, played the part of Cleopatra: her Ladyship applied in vain to Sir Richard Steele, for a prologue on that extraordinary occasion. Bishop Hoadly, perceiving her anxiety, on retiring at bed-time, called for pen, ink, and paper, and, in the morning, delivered to Lady Bateman a prologue, which is preserved in Mr. Duncombe's collection o "Letters, by several Eminent Persons." Her Ladyship accordingly spoke it in the evening; and the compliments in the following lines, with

his grand-daughter's attention, being as acceptable as it was sudden-his Grace burst into

tears.

EXTRACT.

"This heap of stones, which Blenheim's palace frame, Rose in this form a trophy to thy name :

This heap of stones must crumble into sand,
But thy great name shall through all ages stand.
In fate's dark book I saw thy long-liv’d name,
And thus the certain prophecy proclaim :-
'One shall arise,* who will thy deeds rehearse;
Not in arch'd roof, or in suspended verse,
But in plain annals of each glorious year,
With pomp of truths the story shall appear.
Long after Blenheim's walls shall moulder'd lie,
Or, blown by winds, to distant regions fly,
By him shall thy great actions all survive,
And by thy name, shall his be taught to live.' "

VOLTAIRE.

EVERY one who visited Ferney during the life-time of that great genius, knows that he had a curious hanging writing-desk within the curtains of his bed, with two candles constantly

* This, probably, alludes to Sir Richard Steele's intention of writing a History of the Duke's campaigns.

burning, and all the apparatus for writing, and containing such papers as he had occasion to refer to. This desk was constructed in such a manner, that he could let it down as he pleased, so that, when he did not want to use it, by drawing it up, no light appeared upon his pillow to interrupt his repose. One night, by some accident, as it is supposed, one of the candles fell out of its socket, and set fire to the papers upon the desk; the curtains were presently in a blaze, and Voltaire narrowly escaped with his life. He was, as naturally may be supposed, greatly terrified; but the shock of this conflagration was nothing, compared to the anxiety he felt, when he found some of his most valuable manuscripts were destroyed. It is said, that, amongst others, there was an Epic Poem, which he had been polishing for some years, and which he had nearly finished.

Whether his death might not be hastened by this accident, it is not possible to determine; but he took this loss so greatly to heart, that it was the last thing he mentioned to a friend, upon taking leave of him. "Ah! mon chère Monsieur," said he, with a deep sigh, and tears in his eyes, "quelle perte! quelle perte! jamais à retablir!"

CAMOENS.

THIS very distinguished Poet, whose genius conferred so high an honour, and whose treatment reflects so deep a disgraceon his country, was a Portuguese, and a native of the city of Lisbon, where he was born, in 1527. The place at which he received that education, which afterwards enabled him to display abilities, the magnitude and lustre of which procured him the appellation of " The Virgil of his Country," was Coimbra; then and still the seat of a celebrated university. His father, Simon Vas de Camoens, was commander of a vessel, and, during the infancy of his son Luis, the object of the present memoir, was shipwrecked at Goa, where, with his life, he lost the greater part of his fortune.

Addicted to arms, Camoens, after completing his academical studies, entered into the army; and, in a campaign against the Moors at Ceuta, had the misfortune to lose an eye. No way enriched by the pursuit of his military profession, he resolved to embark for the East Indies, urged by the hope of mending his fortunes, by better success in trade. But either Commerce was