e, he felt so ill, that the idea of his
attending at the representation of "Der Freyschuetz" was abandoned, and
he was obliged to keep his room. On Sunday evening, the 5th, he was left
at eleven o'clock in good spirits, and at seven next morning was found
dead upon his pillow, his head resting upon his hand, as though he
had passed from life without a struggle. The peaceful slumber of the
preceding evening seemed to have gradually deepened into the sleep
of death.

He was interred on the 21st, with the accustomed solemnities of the
Catholic Church, in the chapel at Moorfields, the Requiem of Mozart
being introduced into the service. In person, Weber is described
as having been of the middle height, extremely thin, and of dark
complexion. His countenance was strikingly intelligent, his face long
and pale, his forehead remarkably high, his features prominent, his
eyes dark and full. His usual look was one of calm placid thought, an
expression which was increased in some degree by spectacles, which he
wore on account of his shortness of sight. The force and acuteness of
his mind were indicated in the occasional brilliancy of the expression
of his countenance; the habitual patience and mildness of his
disposition, in its permanent look of placidity and repose.--_From an
interesting paper in No. XIII. of the Foreign Quarterly Review._

* * * * *

DIRGE.

The moon was a-waning,
The tempest was over;
Fair was the maiden,
And fond was the lover;
But the snow was so deep,
That his heart it grew weary,
And he sunk down to sleep,
In the moorland so dreary.

Soft was the bed
She had made for her lover,
White were the sheets
And embroider'd the cover;
But his sheets are more white,
And his canopy grander,
And sounder he sleeps
Where the hill foxes wander.

Alas, pretty maiden,
What sorrows attend you!
I see you sit shivering,
With lights at your window;
But long may you wait
Ere your arms shall enclose him,
For still, still he lies,
With a wreath on his bosom.

How painful the task
The sad tidings to tell you!--
An orphan you were,
Ere this misery befell you;
And far in yon wild,
Where the dead-tapers hover,
So cold, cold and wan,
Lies the corpse of your lover.

_The Ettrick Shepherd._

* * * * *

MANNERS & CUSTOMS OF ALL NATIONS.