mistry next winter; 'tis a curious science, and will unfold many of the mysteries of creation, and enable you to read books of all sizes and complexions.

I AM no retailer of news. I sup with Dr BUCHAN this evening; he came to town last night all bedawbed with lace.-Leith, 2d July. A poor woman had her son killed dead by the kick of a horse.-Ditto, 17th July. This same poor woman had two daughters drowned in the sea.-SANDY DRUMMOND, student of physic, is very bad of a fever, occasioned by the accidental stroke of a club given by GOLD, his friend and constant companion. Is this the kind of news you itch for? Perge domine. Some months ago, as Dr BUCHAN was squeezing a little small-pox matter into a phial, in order to innoculate some children, happening at the same time to have a slight scratch on one of his fingers, he was unluckily caught in the snare which he had set for the innocent babies.

Now, to gratify you with a few stanzas from Dr YOUNG'S Resignation*. The inten* This poem was then printing by MURRAY & COCHRANE, when Mr SMELLIE was their corrector; so that he had the opportunity

tion of this poem is to excite a spirit of resignation in the breast of LADY ANSON, whose husband was lately swallowed by the all-devouring œsophagus of the Grave. Speaking of old age, he says—

"And am I not," &c.

And, to the same purpose, in another place,

Again,

"Cruel to spare, &c,

"Thus have I written," &c.

You are a very hard man! I am obliged to brood ten or twelve hours a day over dry musty law papers. How, then, can you expect more from me than you commonly receive? Like the horse-leech, your only cry is, Give! Give! I return the compliment in the same words, Give! Give! Write me as often as you can; and I shall answer as fully as my time and circumstances will admit of.

of transmitting the specimens to his friend before the work was published. It has been thought sufficient to indicate the passages sent of this well known performance, without transcribing the entire quotations.

I LEAVE the subject of your next to your own imagination; but remember I will have nothing to do with 4to pages. Yours, &c.

WILLIAM SMELLIE.

No. XXIV.

To WILLIAM SMELLIE from ******

DEAR SMELLIE,

No date.

YOUR first page made me serious, and well nigh cured me of lunacy at least for this year and half. My humour is far from being so good as expectation. Nothing pleases me in the way of composition which is not stretched to the highest tone of metaphysics, and squeezed into the periphery of a nut-shell :The more I polish, the more metaphysical, and the more concise, the more I approve; characters which do not suit the vulgar noddle. In a year and a half more, however, I shall be ready to try any way of it. The number will do very well:-some hints at the return of peace, and a return of speculation. If some extraordinary piece could be thought of, different from that of the authors history, it

would be more out of the common road; and his history and intentions could come in at some second or third number, at the request of some pretended letter, asking "Who the devil are you?”

SERIOUSLY I think you should point either to physic or divinity. To enlist yourself, at least, is an easy matter. A charge is not indeed a great prospect; but it is the most easily obtained, and affords the most leisure. In medicine, too, every one has his chance, and merit goes a great way. The best of trusting to Providence is to point at something. Do you ever hear of Dr BUCHAN, or any other of our acquaintance? Did you inquire after poor STRACHAN? I am more than apprehensive he has paid the debt of na

ture.

way

I WISH much to see your discourse. I hope to make one, by way of supplement, which yours will suggest. I shall write more fully soon.

No. XXV.

Mr WILLIAM SMELLIE to ******

DEAR SIR,

Dur

I send you this with no other intention but to keep up the weekly correspondence. SoMERVILLE and COCKBURN threaten to visit you on Saturday next. If you do not feed them high, and bung them with strong ale and whiskey, they will not care a fig for your conversation. O tempora! O mores! ing their stay, keep a strict eye on Somebody. My advice to you, however, is, to starve them miserably; i. e. give them nothing but pease-scones* to their guts, and let them drink of the brook that runneth in the way.

Query.-May not a man who never sins but from an unavoidable necessity, either of na

* A species of homely fare, common in some of the country districts of Scotland, made of pease-meal, kneaded up with water and salt, and baked in thin cakes on a heated iron plate called a girdle.