His poems are replete with fine moral sentiments, and bespeak a great dignity of mind; yet he had no sense of the shame, nor dread of the evils of poverty. He was buried in the Poet’s Corner, in Westminster Abbey, and the inscription on his monument was written by Johnson. The Doctor used to say he could play on the German flute as well as most men; at other times, as well as any man living: but, in truth, he understood not the character in which music is written, and played on that instrument, as many of the vulgar do, merely by air. Roubiliac, the sculptor, a merry fellow, once heard him play; and minding to put a trick on him, pretended to be charmed with his performance; as, also, that himself was skilled in the art, and entreated him to repeat the air, that he might write it down. Goldsmith readily consenting, Roubiliac called for paper, and scored thereon a few five-lined staves, which having done, Goldsmith proceeded to play, and Roubiliac to write; but his writing was only such random notes on the lines and spaces, as any one might set down who had ever inspected a page of music. When they had both done, Roubiliac shewed the paper to Goldsmith, who looking it over with great seeming attention, said it was very correct, and that if he had not seen him do it, he never could have believed his friend capable of writing music after him. * * * * * * * * * _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._ * * * CONSCIENCE. “Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it, “The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder, “That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d “The name of prosper.” TEMPEST. The loss of fortune, dignity, glory, and all the pageantry of earthly grandeur, is comparatively trifling when put in competition to that of virtue: when the human mind first stoops to debasement, and wanders in the paths of impiety, its progress to misery, although gradual, is too fatally inevitable, the smallest crimes by becoming habitual increase in time to the crimson tints of attrocity; then O conscience! thou most incessant and excruciating torturer, thou never failing monitor, ’tis then thine admonitions wound with remorse the breast of conscious vice; thou establishest thine awful tribunal on the ruins of neglected virtue, there to inflict a punishment far more severe than aught invented by the ingenuity of man.