from the public, was soon disturbed by a melancholy event. Bernardo Tasso, his father, who had passed his old age in tranquillity at Ostia upon the Po, the government of which had been given him by the Duke of Mantua, fell sick. Tasso hastened to attend him, and scarce ever quitted the bed-side during the whole illness of his father; but, spite of all his attention, overcome with age, and the violence of his distemper, Bernardo, to the great affliction of his son, paid the debt of nature. The Duke of Mantua, who had a sincere regard for Bernardo, caused him to be interred, with great pomp, in the Church of St. Egidius, at Mantua, and had this simple inscription placed over his tomb::"Ossa Bernardi Tassi."—" The bones of Bernardo Tasso."

PETER PINDAR.

DR. WOLCOT, better known by the name of Peter Pindar, from the prodigious sale of his early pieces, became a desirable object of bookselling speculation; and about the year 1795, Robinson and Walker entered into a

treaty to grant him an annuity for his published works, and, on certain conditions, for his unpublished ones. While this was pending, Peter had an attack of asthma, which he did not conceal or palliate, but, at meetings of the parties, his asthma always interrupted the business. A fatal result was of course anticipated, and, instead of a sum of money, an annuity of £250 per annum was preferred. Soon after the bond was signed, Peter called on Walker, the manager for the parties, who, surveying him with a scrutinizing eye, asked him how he did. "Much better, thank you," said Peter; "I have taken measure of my asthma; the fellow is troublesome, but I know his strength, and am his master."—"Oh !" said Walker, gravely, and turned into an adjoining room, where Mrs. Walker, a prudent woman, had been listening to the conversation. Peter, aware of the feeling, paid a keen attention to the husband and wife, and heard the latter exclaim,-" There now, didn't I tell you he wouldn't die? fool that you've been! I knew he wouldn't die." Peter enjoyed the joke, and outlived both the parties, receiving the annuities for twenty-four years, during which, various efforts were used to frustrate his claims.

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

AMONG the great number of persons of an inferior station of life and confined education, who have, during the last half-century, distinguished themselves as poets, none, if we except his countryman Burns, has, in our opinion, inherited from Nature a more ample portion of genius than James Hogg.

With a mind so susceptible to the impressions of external objects, and surrounded by scenery calculated to awaken his feelings by the combination of the picturesque, the romantic, and the sublime, it is hardly to be wondered at that he should have expressed those feelings in poetry of no common energy and originality.

Unlike those puny productions of pastoral bards, which the injudicious flattery of admirers, incompetent to form a judgment, has so often obtruded on the public, his compositions may bear comparison with many of the happiest flights of the more cultivated geniuses of this truly poetic age.

In almost every style of verse which he has attempted, and there are few which he has left untried, he has succeeded. His Poetical Works, which are comprised in four 12mo. volumes

are replete with beauties, from which we select

the following.

66 THE MOON WAS A-WANING.

"The moon was a-waning,

The tempest was over,

Fair was the maiden,

And fond was the lover:

But the snow was so deep,

That his heart it grew weary,

And he sunk down to sleep

In the moorland so dreary.

Soft was the bed

She had made for her lover,
White were the sheets,

And embroider'd the cover;
But his sheets were more white,
And his canopy grander,

And sounder he sleeps

Where the hill-foxes wander.

Alas! pretty maiden,

What sorrows attend you,

I see you sit shiv'ring,

With lights at your window;

But long may you wait

Ere your arms shall enclose him,

For still, still he lies

With a wreath on his bosom.

How painful the task

The sad tidings to tell you;
An orphan you were

Ere this misery befell you;
And far in yon wild,

Where the dead-tapers hover,

So cold, cold and wan,

Lies the corse of your lover."

Hogg is a name of which Scotland may justly be proud his fame will survive when the memory of many who are now more highly extolled, shall be swept away by the ruthless hand of time, and succeeding generations of Scotia's children will peruse with delight the effusions of "THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD."