Charming dogs! I have little more to fay; but only, confidering the great mart of scandal you are at, to warn you against flattering those you converse with, and, the moment they turn to go away, backbiting them-a vice with which the dogs of old ladies are much infected : and you must have been moft furiously affected with it here at Richmond, had you not happened into a good family; therefore I might have fpared this caution.One thing I had almost forgot. You have a base custom, when you chance upon a certain fragrant exuvium, of perfuming your carcafe with it. Fye! fye! leave that nafty custom to your little, foppish, crop-eared dogs, who do it to conceal their own ftink.

My letter, I fear, grows tedious. I will detain you from your flumbers no longer, but conclude by wifhing that the waters and exercise may bring down your fat fides, and that you may return a genteel, accomplished dog. Pray lick for me, you happy dog you, the hands of the fair ladies you have the honour to attend. I remember to have had that happiness once, when one, who fhall be nameless, looked with an envious eye upon

me.

Farewell, my dear Marquis. Return, I beg it of you, foon to Richmond; when I will treat you with fome choice fragments, a marrow-bone, which I will.

crack

crack for you myself, and a defert of high-toafted cheese. I am, without farther ceremony,

Your's fincerely,

BUFF.

Mi Dewti too Marki. X Scrubb's mark.

THE HERMITAGE.

INSCRIBED TO A LADY.

[The spot which is the fubject of the following Stanzas, tradition records to have been formerly the retreat of a Hermit. Though in its present state it no longer retains the charms of folitude, it boafts, what may feem not lefs fitted to infpire poetical devotion, the attractions of beauty.]

"TWAS near this fpot, Devotion's feat,
The Hermit found a lone retreat,

And spent in peace his days;
And here, remote from worldly care,
Preferr'd his fuit of morning pray'r,
His hymn of evening praise.

At length the joyful call was given,
To fummon him from earth to Heaven-

He died in good old age :

Far

Far round was known his godly fame,
And still the spot retains its name,
Unchang'd, the Hermitage.

No more appears his moss-clad cell,
No more is heard his tinkling bell,
That warn'd the hour of prayer;

More artful structures now arise,
Far different founds affail the skies,-
The bufy hum of care.

Yet beauteous fpirits still are found
To love the confecrated ground,
And haunt delighted there;
Spirits they are, as poets deem,
To others eyes they only feem,
The fairest of the fair.

There, as the evening fhades prevail,
Sweet mufic floating in the gale

Has caught my lift'ning ears ;-
Sounds fuch as steal the sense away,
And to the raptur'd foul convey
The music of the spheres.

Or, haply chanc'd I to repair,
Awhile escap'd from worldly care,

To cheer my penfive breast,

Con

Converfe I've heard fo fweet and fage,
As might become a Hermitage,
And chear a Hermit's gueft.

Nor breafts more pious deign'd to dwell,-
Here could I ftill remain;

Here, 'midft thefe beauteous fpirits find
A kindred form, congenial mind,
But, ah! the wifh is vain.

Fortune denies, and duty too,
To me ftill facred, bids purfue
The world's tumultuous ftage,
Yet oft, while memory heaves a figh,
Shall my fond prayer afcend the sky,
To blefs the Hermitage.

CHATTERTON.

It is recorded of the infancy of Chatterton by his mother, that upon being afked, what toy would afford him most pleasure, he replied with an earneftnefs that bespoke the emotion of his mind, "A trumpet "to blow aloud!" Upon this circumftance the fol. lowing verfes are founded.

AVERSE to every childish toy,
Why feize the trumpet, daring boy,
And blow in ftrains fo loud and clear,
As all th' admiring world might hear;
While the charm'd echo fhould rebound,
And give to future times the found?
Ah! what could prompt thy wish to claim,
In infancy, the Trump of Fame!
By what intemperate thirst of praise,
Too fure prefage of fhorten'd days,
By what ambitious phrenzy led-
That trumpet founds but for the dead!
Nor knew'st thou then, in hope elate,
What future evils fhould await
That Pride fhould teach repulfe to feel,
And Avarice grudge the fcanty meal.
Nor yet, to quench thy ardent foul,
Appear'd the horrors of the bowl!

Oh!