friends, who left her to his bene volent care. The expense and the danger of burying the dead has become so great, and the boards to make the collins so very scarce, that the body is brought out of the house by friends to the door, and the first man they can prevailon, carries it over his shoulder, or in h's arms to the grave, endeavouring to keep pace with the long range of coffins that go to the buryingground at noon, to take the advantage of the great mass. Today the dead amounted to two hundred and ninety. Ja'y 1, 1785. The cries of the people for the less of their friends are still as frequent as ever; not a quarter of an hour passing without the lamentations of some new aillicted mourner. No more masses are std in town at present for the dead; but the collins are collected tog ther and piss through the town-ente exactly at noon, when the great mass is performed over all at once, at a mosque cut of the town, in the way to the bu:ving ground. The horrors of the melancholy procession increase daily. A Moor of consequence passed to-ilav, who hɩ not missed thes me la scholy walk for the lat tais, n day », în accompanying regularly some re'ie of his family: he is himself considered in the Last stage of the plague, yet supported by his blacks he lipol before his wife and elde t son, himself the last of his rare. Women, whose persons have hithertɔ been ve led, are wangers ing about complete images of despar, with their hair lime and their baratans open, crying aud wringing their hands an! following their families. Though a great deal of their grief here by custom is expressed by action, yet it is dreadful when it proceeds so truly from the heart as it does now, while all those we sce are friends of the departe l. No strangers are called in to add force to the funeral cries: the father who Lears his son to day, carried his daughter yesterday, and his wife the day before: the rest of his family are at home languishing with the plague, while his own mother, spared for the cruel satisfaction of following her offspring, still continues with her son her wretched daily walk. July 20, 1785. In the beginning of this month, owing to the increased ravages of the plague, the events connected with it assumed a more Forrid character, and instead of shining coffins, Imans and friends, to make up the sad precession, five or six corpses were bound togeber, all of them fastened on ose animal, and hyrd away to the grave! Collare • (soldiers) were appointed to go through the town, and dear it of obj ers who 14 died in the streets and were hing alt. A female in the azon's of death they would have sized upon, whil- the spik of 1.6% was still lag, hul not the frig i viem with grat exert in extentel a fsole arm, andrited the di turk asof hr hst moments, imilai,g the ptim.ce of the collares til Jy came their next round. Se 1. 10. 1756. Ence our long quarantine, (having been cicse prisoners for children were wandering about deserted, without a friend be thirteen months, from the beginning of June 1785 to the end of July 1786), we have availed our-longing to them. The town was selves of every opportunity to en- almost entirely depopulated, and joy our liberty; though it was at rarely two people walked togefirst, with great caution, that we ther. One solitary he ng paced ventured to alight at any of the slowly through the streets, his Moorish gardens, or to enter a mind unoccupied by business, and Moorish house, particularly out lost in painful reflections: if he of town. lifte 1 his eyes it was with mourne ful surprize to gaze on the empty habitations around him: whole stree's he passed witsout a living creature in them; for beside the desolation of the plagus, before it broke out in this city, many of the inhab tant, with the greatest inconvenience, 1ft their houses and fled to Tunis (where the plague then regel), to avoid starving in the dreadful famine that preceded it here In the country, the vi lages are empty, and those houses shut that have not been opened since the plague, and where whole families lay interred. The Moors carried a great number of their dead to the sea-shore and laid them in one heap, which seriously affected the town, till the Chrestians suggest ed the idea of covering them with line, which fortunately the Moors have adopted, but only from find ing themselves dangerously annoyed, as they consider this expedient a sort of impiety, for which they express great sorrow. The habitations in the mountains of Guerriana, inaccessible except to the inhibitints, remain entirely deserted. The entrances to the dwellings are so completely covered up with sand as not to be discovered by strangers; but they are now repe pling, and the remnant of those who flee thence are haste ing back from Tunis, and the deserts aroun!, to recover possession of these strange re trets. The city of Tripoli, after the 1igue, exhibited an appear ince awfully striki. g. In some of the houses were found the list victims that had perished in them, who hwing ciel alone, unpitied and u isisted, lay in a state too bid to be removed from the spot, and were obliged to be buried where they were; while in others, Amongst those left in this town some have been spared to acknowlege the compassion and attention shewn them by the English consul. In the distresses of the funine, and in the Lorrors of the plague, many a suffering wretch, whose days have been spun out by his timely assistance, bas left his name on record at this place. Persons sived from pershing in the famine who have remair ed sole possessors of property bf re divided among teir frien's (dl now swept off by the plague), come for war to thank him with wild expressions of joy, edding hom bin of cher), and proving to Mahomet to bless him. They say that besides giving them life he has preserved them to becoi në litle kin_s, and swear a faith ful attachment to him, which there is no doubt they will shew, in their way, as long a he is in their country. POETRY. POETRY. WATERLOO, From the Third Canto of Childe Harold. HERE was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it ?—No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No slep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chise the glowing hours with flying feet But hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more, And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar! Within a windowed niche of that high hall And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear; Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And And there were sudden partings, such as press Since upon nights so sweet such awful norn could rise? And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, Or whispering with white lips-" The foe! they come! they come!" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering rose !" Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes :- Savage and shrill! but with the breath which filis With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clans-man's ear! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,-alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brou ht the signal-sound of strife, The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent LINES Written in a Choultry, situate in a very desert Tract, by Captain T. A. Anderson, II. M. 19th Fool. WITHIN this Choultry's ample space, Whose endless porticos and halls, The child of poverty may rest!-- The vericst wretch, while shelter'd here, War from his soul how many a pray'r As passing faint and wearily Along this drear and barren scene, Where noontide rays smite fierce and keen, The billows of this sandy deep, No stunted palm, nor date-tice seen, No hut his languid limbs to rest, |