At Sakiwedel.

Traveller, hurry not, as if you were going _post_-haste; in the most rapid journey you must stop at the _post_ house. Here repose the bones of MATTHIAS SCHULZEN, the most humble and most faithful _Postmaster_, for upwards of Twenty-five years, of His Majesty, Frederick, King of Prussia. He arrived 1655; and afterwards travelled with distinction in life's pilgrimage, by walking courses in the Schools and Universities. He carefully performed his duties as a Christian, and when the _post_ of misfortune came, he behaved according to the _letter_ of divine consolation. His body, however, ultimately being enfeebled, he was prepared to attend the signal given by the _post_ of death; when his soul set off on her pleasing journey for Paradise, the 2nd of June, 1711; and his body afterwards was committed to this silent tomb. Reader, in thy pilgrimage through life, be mindful of the prophetic _post_ of Death!

Dear Husband, now my life is past, And I am stuck in Earth so fast, I pray no sorrow for me take, But love my Children, for my sake;-

Hamburgh.

"O Mors Cur Deus Negat Vitam be te bis nos bis nam."

Solution.

O! Superbe! Mors Super--te!

Cur Superbis?

Deus Supernos! negat Superbis Vitam Supernam.

On the Duke of Burgundy's tomb in St. George's Church, near Conde:-

"Carolus hoc bus...o...b..rgundae gloria gentis, Conditur, Europae qui fuit ante timor."

Near the left wall in the Protestant-ground at Rome is a monument to Lord Barrington, and a tombstone to the infant child of Mr. William Lambton:-

Go thou, white in thy soul, and fill a throne Of innocence and purity in heaven!

Silo Princeps Fecit.

T I C E F S P E C N C E P S F E C I T I C E F S P E C N I N C E P S F E C I C E F S P E C N I R I N C E P S F E C E F S P E C N I R P R I N C E P S F E F S P E C N I R P O P R I N C E P S F S P E C N I R P O L O P R I N C E P S P E C N I R P O L I L O P R I N C E P E C N I R P O L I S I L O P R I N C E P E C N I R P O L I L O P R I N C E P S P E C N I R P O L O P R I N C E P S F S P E C N I R P O P R I N C E P S F E F S P E C N I R P R I N C E P S F E C E F S P E C N I R I N C E P S F E C I C E F S P E C N I N C E P S F E C I T I C E F S P E C N C E P S F E C I T

At the entrance of the Church of St. Salvador in the city of Oviedo, in Spain, is a most remarkable tomb, erected by a prince named Silo, with this very curious Latin inscription which may be read 270 ways by beginning with the capital letter S in the centre.

On a tombstone in the churchyard at Hochheim, a village where one of the best species of Rhenish is produced, and from the name of which our generic Hock is derived:-

This grave holds Caspar Sc.h.i.n.k, who came to dine, And taste the n.o.blest vintage of the Rhine; Three nights he sat, and thirty bottles drank, Then lifeless by the board of Bacchus sank.

One only comfort have we in the case,- The trump will raise him in the proper place.

Here lies Peg, that drunken sot, Who dearly loved her jug and pot; There she lies, as sure as can be, She killed herself by drinking brandy.

Calcutta.

Bene: AT. HT, Hi S: ST-- Oneli: E: Skat. .

He, Ri, N. eg. Rayc-- (Hang'd) . F . R.

O! mab. V, Syli, Fetol-- IF . . Ele: (SSCL) Ayb... Year.

. Than.

Dcl--Ays : Hego.

Therpel: . Fand.

No, WS. He: stur N'D to Ear, TH, h, Ersel Fy! EWE: EP....

In: G. F. R: IE: N D. S. L.

Et, mea D V: I Sea: ...... Batey.

O! V: rg.....

RiE .... Fan.

. D. D.

RYY. O! V.R.E Yes. F.O.R W: H . ATa.

Vai .... LS. a. flo.

O! do. F. Tea. R.

SW: Hok: No: WS: Buti. nar. U.

No! Fy: Ear, SI: N.

SO: Metal: L. Pit. c.

HERO: . . r. Bro, a: D. P.

ANS, Hei N. H.

Ers. Hop. ma: Y. B.

Ea: Gai .... N. .

The following was written by Capt. Morris on Edward Heardson, thirty years Cook to the Beef Steak Society.

His last _steak_ done; his fire rak'd out and dead, _Dished_ for the worms himself, lies _honest Ned_: _We_, then, whose b.r.e.a.s.t.s bore all his _fleshly toils_, Took all his _bastings_, and shared all his _broils_; Now, in our turn, a _mouthful carve_ and _trim_, And _dress_ at Phbus' _fire_, one _sc.r.a.p_ for him:- His heart which well might grace the n.o.blest grave, Was grateful, patient, modest, just, and brave; And ne'er did earth's wide maw _a morsel_ gain Of _kindlier juices_ or more tender _grain_; His tongue, where duteous friendship humbly dwelt, Charmed all who heard the faithful zeal he felt; Still to whatever end his _chops_ he mov'd, 'Twas all _well seasoned_, _relished_, and approv'd: This room his heaven!-When threatening Fate drew nigh The closing shade that dimm'd his ling'ring eye, His last fond hopes, betray'd by many a tear, Were-That his life's last _spark_ might glimmer here; And the last words that choak'd his parting sigh- "Oh! at your feet, dear masters, let me die!"

Ann Short.

Ann _Short_, O Lord, of praising thee, Nothing I can do is right; Needy and naked, poor I be, _Short_, Lord, I am of sight: How _short_ I am of love and grace!

Of everything I'm _short_, Renew me, then I'll follow peace Through good and bad report.

Under this stone lies Meredith Morgan, Who blew the bellows of our Church organ; Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling, Yet never so pleased as when pipes he was filling; No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast, Tho' he gave our old organist many a blast.

No puffer was he, Tho' a capital blower; He could fill double G, And now lies a note lower.