An old January journal contains a remarkable anecdote relative to the decease of a M. Foscue, one of the farmers-general of the province of Languedoc. He had amassed considerable wealth by means which rendered him an object of universal detestation. One day he was ordered by the government to raise a considerable sum: as an excuse for not complying with the demand, he pleaded extreme poverty; and resolved on hiding his treasure in such a manner as to escape detection. He dug a kind of a cave in his wine-cellar, which he made so large and deep, that he used to go down to it with a ladder; at the entrance of it was a door with a spring lock on it, which on shutting would fasten of itself. He was suddenly missed, and diligent search made after him; ponds were drawn, and every suggestion adopted that could reasonably lead to his discovery, dead or alive. In a short time after, his house was sold; and the purchaser beginning to make some alterations, the workmen discovered a door in the wine-cellar with a key in the lock. On going down they found Foscue lying dead on the ground, with a candlestick near him, but no candle in it. On searching farther, they found the vast wealth that he had amassed. It is supposed, that, when he had entered his cave, the door had by some accident shut after him; and thus being out of the call of any person, he perished for want of food, in the midst of his treasure. SIGNS OF FOUL WEATHER. The _hollow winds_ begin to blow; The _clouds look black_, the _glass is low_; The _soot falls down_, the _spaniels sleep_; And _spiders_ from their _cobwebs peep_. Last night the _sun_ went _pale to bed_; The _moon_ in _halos_ hid her head. The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, For, see, a _rainbow_ spans the sky. The _walls are damp_, the _ditches smell_, _Clos’d_ is the pink-ey’d _pimpernel_. Hark! how the _chairs_ and _tables_ crack, _Old Betty’s joints_ are on the rack: Her _corns_ with _shooting pains_ torment her, And to her bed untimely send her. Loud _quack the ducks_, the _sea fowl cry_, The _distant hills_ are _looking nigh_. How restless are the _snorting swine_! The _busy flies_ disturb the _kine_. _Low_ o’er the _grass_ the _swallow wings_ The _cricket_ too, how _sharp he sings_! _Puss_ on the hearth, with _velvet paws_, Sits _wiping_ o’er her _whisker’d jaws_. The _smoke_ from _chimneys right ascends_ Then spreading, _back to earth it bends_. The _wind_ unsteady _veers around_, Or settling in the _South is found_. Through the clear stream the _fishes rise_, And _nimbly catch_ the incautious _flies_. The _glow-worms_ num’rous, clear and bright, _Illum’d_ the _dewy hill_ last night. At dusk the squalid _toad_ was seen, Like _quadruped_, stalk o’er the green. The _whirling wind_ the dust obeys, And in the _rapid eddy_ plays. The _frog_ has chang’d his _yellow vest_,