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funeral raised a great riot, almost tore the body out of the coffin, and cast dead dogs, &e, into the grave along with it.

He was said to have died worth seven thousand pounds a-year, estates in land, and about one hundred thousand pounds in money.





HERE continueth to rot
The memory of the of
Who, with unparalleled barbarity,
And inflexible hardness of heart,

In spite of all motives to lenity
That policy or humanity could suggest,

Endeavoured to ruin St,
By all the ways a t-t could invent

... Nor was he more infamous · For the monstrous inhumanity of his nature,

Than fortunate in accumulating
Titles and wealth;

Without merit,
Without experience,

Without military skill,
He was created a Field-M-, and CG-1,

Had the profits of two regiments,
And a settled revenue of L.40,000 a-year.

He was the only man of his time
Who acquired the name of a hero,
By the actions of a butchering provo't :

For having, with 10,000 regular troops, Defeated half that number of famish'd and fatigued

He murdered the wounded,

Hang'd or starved the prisoners,
Ravaged the country with fire and sword,

Having rioted in continued cruelty,

Posted off at last in triumph

With the supposed head
Of a brave, unfortunate P!

O loyal reader!
Let not this success tempt thee to despair.
Heaven that punisheth us for our sins,

Never overlooks such crimes as these. Having at length filled up the measure of his iniquity,

He flounder'd in the mud of contempt;
His glory vanished like the morning-dew;

They, who once adored him as a hero and a God,

Did at last curse him, As a madman and a devil !

* * * * *



If aught be found wrong in our frolics to-night,
A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE will set it to right:
Tis folly to sacrifice comforts to fame;
A hundred years hence it will all be the same,
And what though the cynic approves not our glee,
A hundred years hence he's not wiser than we.
Live long, or live short, we shall live while we can,
As the hundred years hence will make it all one,
The present is ours, we know nought of to-morrow;
A hundred years hence there's an end to all sorrow.
Dismiss'd by the doctor, or by the disease,
A hundred


hence we'll be all at our ease. And spend we now freely, or hoard up our pence, We're not poorer nor richer- a hundred years hence, Come, then, a bumper, a bumper o'erflowing, Where is the heart not with gratitude glowing, To honour the man who, by deep meditation, Has found out at last this grand consolation, This fact of all facts, this astonishing truth, Which ought to be known from the north to the

south, From the east to the west ? and 'specially why, as, Compard to the trash in our pharmacopeias,

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* Dr. Andrew Duncan, senior : and put into rhyme at his request, by Dr. John Barclay, Edinburgh.

'Tis diamond to dross : So let nations and tongues Proclaim it aloud, in the strength of their lungs, That a cure is found out for the worst of all evils, For heart-aches, for sulks, and all kinds of blue

devils, Of course for all ailments, whate'er they may be ; And, wonder of wonders, nought's said of a fee ! For that which in giving contentment and ease, 'Midst the troubles of life and the plagues of disease, Exceeds every thought that man has been able To gather from facts, or to read of in fable. With all kinds of drugs then henceforward dispense, The cure of all cures is THE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE,

TO THE EDITOR OF GALIGNANI'S MESSENGER. SIR-In various numbers of your Journal I have seen mentioned a work, entitled, “ The Vampire, with the addition of my name as that of the author. I am not the author, and never heard of the work in question until now. In a more recent

1 perceive a formal annunciation of “ The Vampire,” with the addition of an account of my “ Residence in the Island of Mitylene," an island which I have occasionally sailed by in the course of travelling some years ago through the Levant, and where I should have no objection to reside, but where I have never yet resided. Neither of these performances are mine; and I presume it is neither unjust nor ungracious to request that you will favour me by contradicting the advertisement to which I allude, If the book is clever, it would be base to deprive the real writer, whoever he may be, of his honours; and if stupid, I desire the responsibility of nobody's dullness but my own.


* A Tale, entitled “ The Vampire," appeared in London, accompanied with (a bookseller's trick) an insinuation in public of its being a production of Lord Byron. After the contradiction of his Lordship being the author, it was avowed by the late Dr. Polydori; and it is now forgotten.

You will excuse the trouble I give you: the imputation is of no great importance, and as long as it was confined to surmises and reports, I should have received it as I have received many others-in silence. But the formality of a public advertisement of a book I never wrote, and a residence where I never resided, is a little too much, particularly as I have no notion of the contents of the one, nor the incidents of the other. I have besides a personal dislike to vampires; and the little acquaintance I have with them, would by no means incline me to divulge their secrets.

You did me a much less injury by your paragraphs about “my character,” and “ abandonment of society for the sake of religion,” which appeared in your Messenger during last Lent; all of which are not founded on fact ; but you see I do not contra

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