the truest idea of his character. Charles the Second, said of him one day" Shaftesbury, I believe thou art the wickedest fellow in my dominions"-He bowed, and replied, " of a subject, Sir, I believe I am." BRUSH COLLINS. The following curious and laconic letter was sent, some years since, to Mr. Herbert, manager of an itinerant company of players, by Mr. Collins, better known by the name of Brush Collins, lately deceased: "Sir-Fortunately for your company, I am disengaged. I am up to Melpomene, down upon Thalia, twig Farce, and smoke、 Pantomime. They say I am a very good figure, and I never saw a looking glass that contradicted that report. To have me now is your time or never. Your's, &c. SCOTT'S MARMION. There is in the University of Glasgow, a book entitled, "A circumstantial Account of the Battle of Flodden Field," written in a kind of poetry, and extending to upwards of 400 verses. A gentleman who gave it a cursory perusal, thinks that Mr. Scott has been much indebted to it for the historical materials of his Marmion. This book was written about the time of Queen Elizabeth, but no author's name is given. It was reprinted in London, about the year 1774. Some of the pieces in Mr. Scott's appendix, are copied from it verbatim. The ignorance of Villoison's Masters withheld from him a merited prize for the best version of a passage from a Greek author. Villoison consulted the Greek text, and the Masters were guided by an erroneous Latin interpretation! Madame Catalini outsings every one on the London stage. Her voice not only enchants the cavaliers in the boxes, but reaches the hearts of the gods and goddesses. It is, however, ludicrous that a smile always plays around her mouth, whether she sing of love or murder. How nobly Owenson figures in the life of Dermody. He is worthy of his daughters. ORIGINAL POETRY.-FOR THE PORT FOLIO. MR. OLDSCHOOL, I ardently wish you would do me the favour to publish the enclosed corrected copy of my "Natural Bridge" in the first number of your Monthly Miscellany: I have retrenched three quatrains of it, to which the sed nunc non erat his locus applied. As these are the only verses of mine that aspire to much poetical merit, I am desirous to preserve them, in a work, which will descend to future generations; and meanwhile, acquaint my cotemporaries and countrymen in England, that I am yet between heaven and earth. I am, Sir, your most obedient, humble servant, THE NATURAL BRIDGE. BY JOHN DAVIS. When Fancy from the azure skies, And haply chose this sylvan scene. • The bridges in America, whether they be natural or unnatural, have been so imperfectly, if not injuriously, described, by European travellers and tourists, that no foreign reader has an adequate idea of these structures, which, from Solomon's bridge over the brook Cedron, to Roman magnificence, displayed on the Tiber, have contributed so much to the convenience and the character of nations. The bridge, which has excited the powers of our poet's fancy, is thus described, and, we believe, with perfect accuracy, by an American gentleman, an eye-witness of this miracle of nature. Ed. The Natural Bridge over Cedar Creek, though far from being the sublimest work of God, is a stupendous natural curiosity. It unites two hills. The height of the bridge from the water is about 210 feet. The bases of the abutments are in different places from 48 to 70 feet apart, the mean distance being about 60 feet. One of these walls or abutments is nearly perpendicular; the other falls back, so that the top of the arch is from 80 to 90 feet wide, The covering of the arch is from 40 to 50 feet thick. It is of limestone, forming an entire mass, with the two abutments. This is thought by some to contradict the idea that this fissure was produced by some 16 great convul sion." Its surface, over which is a considerable road, is a gentle slope and stony; but generally covered with earth, which supports many large trees. The under side is lower at one end than at the other. Both ends rise like an arch; but in the middle extend horizontally, nearly in a straight line. The walls, which support the arch, and those which form the sides of the bridge, The Graces too, with spritely air, Assisted in the work divine; The Arch they formed with nicest care, Then Fancy, from the pile above, Would gaze with rapture, bending o'er; And here, perhaps, the Indian stood, See Tadmor's domes and halls of state, But while relentless time impairs The monuments of crumbling art, are very irregular. In some parts, they are smooth and perpendicular, in others there are cavities, while other parts exhibit a protuberant and craggy surface. The bridge crosses the vale obliquely. In the middle, it is 65 feet in breadth, but much wider at the ends. The banks, which support the bridge, extend, with the same height, several hundred yards on each side of the stream, but they do not correspond with each other, as if rent asunder. Neither does "the fissure continue straight for a considerable distance above and below the bridge." Its course resembles an ill formed S, spreading wider as it extends either above or below. Few persons have the courage to approach the side of this bridge. Those who do are instantly seized with horror. They involuntarily fall to the ground, cling to a stone, or tree, look down on the frightful abyss below, and gaze with astonishment at the massy walls, the deep winding valley, the rushing stream, and the distant hills. To persons below, a prospect not less awful and grand is presented. Men view the towering arch, its strong foundations, and the distant sky; and adore that God who spake, and it was done; who commanded, and it stands fast. FOR THE PORT FOLIO. MR. OLDSCHOOL, I take the liberty to send you the subjoined copy of an epistle to the bard of Caledonia. Should you think it deserving a place in your elegant Miscellany I shall consider your approbation as a sure pledge of its favourable reception by the celebrated author to whom it was addressed. As it is the production of one whose reading has been much confined, should any resemblance to the lines of others be discovered, the author trusts that candour will attribute them to a casual coincidence of sentiment; not to an intention of passing on the public as his own, what is in fact the property of another. Though highly sensible to the mediocrity of his talents, he would disdain to pilfer from any, and there are few from whom he would condescend to borrow. TO WALTER SCOTT, ESQ. Nemo te lachrymis decoret, neque funera fletu In these uncultur'd, wild dominions, Swells her long train with Fortune's minions; Which damps each fine romantic feeling; The tuneful voice now hushed and mute; His inward high disdain revealing, Oppressed he leaves the muses' court, His piercing eye and lofty port Yes, Scott, such cruel fate attends, In this rude clime, the Muses' friends: Here all must bow to law and trade, And humble homage must be paid To Folly, if in wealth array'd. Even Vice can purchase fair renown, If Wealth her base exertions crown: But talents languish in the shade: While Poësy, enchanting maid, And towering Genius here are born To brook the world's malignant scorn: Or sad retire to some wild mountain And sigh beside the murmuring fountain. Yet even in this unbless'd retreat, The pensive poet still shall meet, One guerdon to his soul most dear, In woman's angel smile and tear. Yes, lovely woman, thou shalt cheer, With sweetest smile, his prospect drear; And when his spirits sink beneath A broken heart, and close in death, Benignant thou shalt spread his pall, Shalt kindly weep his early fall; And Spring's first violets shall bloom, Reared by thee around his tomb. Sweet Minstrel, here, though care-infected Too sure the poet's laurels die, Though oft by such sad scenes dejected Columbia's Genius heaves the sigh; Think not thy border Muse, neglected, Even here shall pass unhonoured by. No, in thy praise one son of song, Ere yet he leaves the vocal throng, Though low his voice, unknown his name, Among the favoured sons of fame, Shall, trembling, strive to tune the lyre, And catch one spark of heavenly fire. Oh! could he sweep like thee the wire, And notes of softest tune inspire, |