And epitaphs that moved no pity,
And epigrams that were not witty,
With panegyrics wrote in fear

To o'ershoot the mark-but came not near,
Were crowded here in imitation
Of Knickerbocker celebration.
Now as he turn'd the pages o'er,
In hope, amidst the musty lore,
Some wit to glean, or manly sense
To bear away in triumph thence,
He spied a hole, through which had crept
A worm, as on the shelf they slept,
Which, many a misanthropic year,
Had here indulged his ghostly cheer,
Till every leaf was more or less

The

prey of his insatiateness.
The reptile seem'd a brute of sense,
And waged his war with some pretence.
Where Love displayed his rosy bowers
He trod with caution o'er the flowers;
As loth to mar a scene so fair,

Or else he deem'd the banquet spare:
Perhaps 'twas prudence bade him shun
An ambush worse than pike or gun;
Perhaps he now had lost the zest,
And spurn'd what once he fancied best;
So on he journey'd, till he came
To open fields and fairer game.
Where PANEGYRICS round him lay,
The hero urged his desperate way;
And, heedless or of lie or truth,
He plied his sharp remorseless tooth,
To prove the adage, since forgotten-
"In fancy ripe, in reason rotten."

These past, a strange amorphous group Beneath him lay-an armed troop,

That naughty dames and lords assailed,
Astrologers and knaves impaled:

Not such as those old Martial writ,
That show'd their teeth, and barked, and bit;
But such as you and I might write,
To ease ourselves of present spite.
Besides, there are some arrant fools
Who scorn to live by sober rules;
Self-loved alone, who, soon as spoke,
Discharge a friend with every joke;
And who amidst their missile dirt
Cry out forsooth, 'tis all in sport:
I do not say Sir Tom's are such,
But put this in by way of crutch.
Here to these EPIGRAMS he clings,
And robs them of their guiltless stings.
Tired of his critic task (the elf
Had passed his life upon this shelf,
A hundred years and more had sped
Over his labours and his head)
Poor Dennis lays him down to die
Midst EPITAPH and Elegy.

But e'en in death (so true is Pope)
His ruling passion still had scope,
For ere the gloomy leaves he quitted,
Was every dirge with malice twitted.
Nestor of worms! thy race is run!
Dennis of worms! thy task is done!
'Tis mine to toll thy funeral knell—
Thou Prince of Critics! fare thee well!

THE PESTILENCE OF 1793.

BY C. B. BROWN.

In proportion as I drew near the city, the tokens of its calamitous condition became more apparent. Every farm-house was filled with supernumerary tenants; fugitives from home; and haunting the skirts of the road, eager to detain every passenger with inquiries after news. The passengers were numerous; for the tide of emigration was by no means exhausted. Some were on foot, bearing in their countenances the tokens of their recent terror, and filled with mournful reflections on the forlornness of their state. Few had secured to themeslves an asylum; some were without the means of paying for victuals or lodging for the coming night; others, who were not thus destitute, yet knew not whither to apply for entertainment, every house being already overstocked with inhabitants, or barring its inhospitable doors at their approach.

Families of weeping mothers, and dismayed children, attended with a few pieces of indispensable furniture were carried in vehicles of every form. The parent or husband had perished; and the price of some moveable, or the pittance handed forth by public charity, had been expended to purchase the means of retiring from this theatre of disasters; though uncertain and hopeless of accommodation in the neighboring districts.

Between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had

led to the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which I was suffered to listen. From every mouth the tale of sorrow was repeated with new aggravations. Pictures of their own distress, or of that of their neighbors, were exhibited in all the hues which imagination can annex to pestilence and poverty.

My preconceptions of the evil now appeared to have fallen short of the truth. The dangers into which I was rushing, seemed more numerous and imminent than I had previously imagined. I wavered not in my purpose. A panic crept to my heart, which more vehement exertions were necessary to subdue or control; but I harbored not a momentary doubt that the course which I had taken was prescribed by duty. There was no difficulty or reluctance in proceeding. All for which my efforts were demånded, was to walk in this path without tumult or alarm.

Various circumstances had hindered me from setting out upon this journey as early as was proper. My frequent pauses to listen to the narratives of travellers, contributed likewise to procrastination. The sun had nearly set before I reached the precincts of the city. I pursued the track which I had formerly taken, and entered High street after nightfall. Instead of equipages and a throng of passengers, the voice of levity and glee, which I had formerly observed, and which the mildness of the season would, at other times, have produced, I found nothing but a dreary solitude.

The market-place, and each side of this magnificent avenue were illuminated, as before, by lamps; but between the verge of Schuylkill and the heart of the city, I met not more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost-like, wrapt in cloaks, from behind which they cast upon me glances of wonder and suspicion; and as I ap

proached, changed their course, to avoid touching me. Their clothes were sprinkled with vinegar; and their nostrils defended from contagion by some powerful perfume.

I cast a look upon the houses, which I recollected to have formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, resounding with lively voices, and thronged with busy faces. Now they were closed, above and below; dark, and without tokens of being inhabited. From the upper windows of some, a gleam sometimes fell upon the pavement I was traversing, and showed that their tenants had not fled, but were secluded or disabled.

These tokens were new, and awakened all my panics. Death seemed to hover over this scene, and I dreaded that the floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame. I had scarcely overcome these tremors, when I approached a house, the door of which was opened, and before which stood a vehicle, which I presently recognised to be a hearse.

The driver was seated on it. I stood still to mark his visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to take. Presently a coffin, borne by two men, issued from the house. The driver was a negro, but his companions were white. Their features were marked by ferocious indifference to danger or pity. One of them as he assisted in thrusting the coffin into the cavity provided for it, said, I'll be damned if I think the poor dog was quite dead. It wasn't the fever that ailed him, but the sight of the girl and her mother on the floor. I wonder how they all got into that room. What carried them there? The other surlily muttered, their legs to be sure.

But what should they hug together in one room for? To save us trouble to be sure.

And I thank them with all my heart; but damn it, it