are a proof of the esteem in which men of talents are held in Germany; especially when, like Eckhof, they are men of virtue.

There was no theatrical performance till the 18th, when the whole company appeared in mourning on the stage of Gotha, which was hung with black. Mr. Bock, who was appointed director after the death of Eckhof, appeared at their head, and pronounced the following short oration, written by Mr. Reichard, author of the Theatrical Journal and Almanack :

"Patrons and Friends,

"A melancholy but sacred duty brings us, thus in a body, before you; it bids us weep for our comrade, our master and our father! Eck

hof is no more. He is gone! He, who, in the the infancy of the German stage, when it but resembled a wandering tribe among the first races of men, beginning but in barbarity, subjected to the yoke of ancient prejudices; he, who taught order to rise out of this confusion, and led us into the path of glory! He it was who improved the talents of the old, formed those of the young, and gave encouragement to all, by offering in himself a model of such perfection! Eckhof is no more. He is gone, where probity and virtue receive their best reward! Of this probity, this virtue, here, on these boards, what energetick lessons did he nightly give! How did his private conduct still more divinely instruct !

"He is now before the tribunal of posteri ty, by which severe and incorruptible judge his talents will be appreciated, and will be found as pure and unmixed as man may hope! To futurity his memory will be sacred. We come not here to repeat his eulogium: he wants it not. It is the prerogative of fine talents, and of estimable men, but to be named in order to make their loss felt. We come to render a a publick and solemn testimony, the truth of which we have so lively a cause to feel, of the loss which the dramatick art, and the German stage, have suffered. The curtain will one day drop for each of us the part of every man must end. May we all, not only as actors, but as citizens, men, and Christians, finish our career like the man we mourn."

After this discourse, mournful musick, composed by Mr. Schweitzer, was heard; and on the 19th he was interred, at the expence of the Free-masons' lodge (Zum Rautenkranz) of Go tha, the members of which had asked permission to bestow this honour on their deceased speaker and brother. The members of the lodge followed the coffin in procession.

DRAMATICK ANECDOTES.

A FEW years since, Mr. Waldron, manager of a theatre at Uxbridge, England, was standing at the door of his theatre in company with

Benson of Drury-lane, and some others, when the Birmingham coach passed by. One of the passengers on the roof called out, How are you, O P and PS? Who the devil would have supposed (said Waldron) that fellow should know any thing of O P and PS? I wonder you are surprised at it, (replied Benson) is not he on the stage?

SOME strollers being lately taken before a magistrate in the country, one of the company named Kearns was first examined, and being asked his name, replied It was Bajazet last night.' And what is your profession?" interrogated the justice. I plays all the tyrants in tragedy.' And what do you get by that, friend?Seven shillings a week, your honour, and finds my own jewels.'

AN itinerant player, well known in the west of England, performed in one evening for his benefit, Boniface and Sir Charles Freeman in the Beaux Stratagem, between the acts of which he sung Dibdin's Jack the Guinea Pig, and danced a hornpipe; at the end of the play he recited Collins's Ode on the Passions, played Shift, Smirk and Mother Cole, in the Minor, and concluded with a poetical address to the audience!

POETRY.

FOR THE POLTANTHOS.

THE WOUNDED SNOW BIRD.
AH cruel man! how could'st thou wrang
This wee poor bird, whose artless sang,
Was pour'd the leafless trees amang,
With unco glee,

When Winter o'er our plains did gang,
Wi' ruthless ee.

Poor bird! 'twas ance you did na care
For nature's elemental war,

But when the cold snows fill'd the air,

Would fearless fly,

Whilst the chill northern blast, would bear
Thee thro' the sky.

Thou'rt a' that's left of simmer gay;
For they, which sported in her ray,
Scar'd at dread Winter's frown, away
Alas did flee;

All; like false friends in poortiths day,
Sweet bird, but thee.

Auld winter ca'd thee his dear child;
Wi' him thou rod'st the tempests wild,

And he did ever treat thee mild,

And would na' wrang,

For you his weary hours beguil'd,

Wi' thy sweet sang.

But man's mare merciless than he,
There is no pity in his ee;

His heart is made of cruelty;

Which be maun shaw,

By giving death, poor bird, to thee,

Mang the cald snaw.

But oh! at ance he did na kill,
And life to thee remaineth still,
But life fast flows in purple rill,

And draps so sma

Which from thy body doth distill,

And stain the snaw.

Where's now thy comfort to be found? Poor birdie, grievous is the wound; Thou canst na search for berries round, But thou dost lie,

Cald, poor, and hungry on the ground,
And needs maun die.

I saw him writh'd by pains keen dart,
I strove my fostering aid t' impart,
I wish'd to cheer his fainting heart,

But 'twould na do;

For his poor soul would na my art,
And anguish'd flew.