did not bestow on his memory one elegiac
song, nor any of the rites of verse. We find no encomiums upon him, but
what appeared in a Grubstreet Journal, which, however, are much superior
to what was usually to be found there.

----A mournful muse from Albion swains produce,
Sad as the song a gloomy genius chuse,
In artful numbers let his wit be shewn,
And as he sings of Doron's speak his own;
Such be the bard, for only such is fit,
To trace pale Doron thro' the fields of wit.

Towards the latter end of our author's life, we are informed by Mr.
Jacob, that he was in favour with the earl of Dorset, who invited him to
dinner on a Christmas-day, with Mr. Dryden, and some other gentlemen,
celebrated for ingenuity, (according to his lordship's usual custom)
when Mr. Brown, to his agreeable surprize, found a Bank Note of 50 l.
under his plate, and Mr. Dryden at the same time was presented with
another of 100 l. Acts of munificence of this kind were very common with
that generous spirited nobleman.

Mr. Brown died in the year 1704, and was interred in the Cloyster of
Westminster-abbey, near the remains of Mrs. Behn, with whom he was
intimate in his life-time. His whole works consisting of Dialogues,
Essays, Declamations, Satires, Letters from the Dead to the Living,
Translations, Amusements, &c. were printed in 4 vol. 12mo, 1707. In
order that the reader may conceive a true idea of the spirit and humour,
as well as of the character of Tom Brown, we shall here insert an
Imaginary Epistle, written from the Shades to his Friends among the
Living; with a copy of Verses representing the Employment of his
poetical Brethren in that fancied Region.

TOM. BROWN to his Friends among the Living.

GENTLEMEN,

I bear it with no little concern to find myself so soon forgot among ye;
I have paid as constant attendance to post-hours, in expectation to hear
from ye, as a hungry Irish Man (at twelve) to a three-penny ordinary, or
a decayed beau for nice eating to a roasting-cock's. No amorous-keeping
fool, banished from his Chloris in town, to his country solitude, has
waited with greater impatience for a kind epistle from her, than I for
one from you. I have searched all private packets, and examined every
straggling ghost that came from your parts, without being able to get
the least intelligence of your affairs. This is the third since my
arrival in these gloomy regions, and I can give myself no reason why I
have received