trees, or beholding the gleams of the sun dancing on the lake, while its waters were agitated by the western breeze of May. I must own that he is almost the only one of our fraternity whose attempts at original composition are worthy of much attention. Hitherto but little poetry has appeared in your publication. Perhaps you will find room for some of his "desultoria," if I can procure any of them to transmit to you.

I never knew any one more desirous than my friend, the president, to impart, for the benefit of others, whatever he himself has discovered. He wishes all men who cherish aspirations after literary fame or preeminence to start fair on the same ground; and believes that every one who is animated with the proper spirit, will sooner or later be sure of his reward. He is, I am afraid, occasionally irritable in his temper; but in this respect it may truly be said, that his "failings lean to virtue's side;" for he cannot bear that talents should be misapplied; and that productions, which he considers really contemptible, should be held up as objects of admiration and imitation. There is one individual who is an occasional visitor in our society, whose talents are unquestionably of a high order, and who has acquired in consequence a wreath of fame of which our president is willing to allow him the undisturbed possession. But when he sees this man wasting the talents with which Nature and supernal power have endowed him ;-throwing away his time, his attention, and self-possession, in intercourse with mere ordinary commonplace characters, who fill up the muster-roll of society, who (like that elegant captain

of horse apostrophized by Pope) have the "body without the mind," he sets no bounds to his expressions of anger and regret. He wishes, as I before mentioned, that every author should have the benefit of the same primary ideas, the same foundations of tranquil lity, consolation, and pleasurable inspiration, with himself. He wishes that all those who cherish a love of literature, should move in the pure and enlivening atmosphere of his native Highlands, and partake in all those elevated emotions which are the support of his own mind. Mr Moore, and his compeer, Lord Byron, he really cannot endure. For the latter, perhaps, he has at intervals betrayed a latent respect and kindness, counterbalanced, however, by a fearful weight of disapprobation. For " Mr Thomas Little," he has for the most part hitherto evinced no feelings but those of contempt and dislike. You will naturally, sir, enquire what is the purpose of this long letter, since it contains in itself so little that is worthy the attention of your readers? My chief object in writing it is this.

know that our president will read my production in your pages. He will say that I have done injustice to his principles, inasmuch as I have expressed them in a most imperfect and inadequate manner. I think it is extremely probable this will induce him to send some communications from his own MSS. to the " Sale Room.” If so, they will prove much more worthy of notice, than those of,

Edinburgh, printed by James Ballantyne and Co. For John Ballantyne, Hanover-Street,

sun sprinkles it with joy, but it creates in me war, and sheds over me gloom; the complaint of calm and holy melancholy is still heard through the woods by twilight, but to me it is discordant; and the lofty composure of the mountains awake in me only a sense of lost dignity; while the stern and unyielding resistance of the rocks convey to me the loss of all energy. But these feelings will be best explained by the narrative of my short but eventful life, which some friendly hand will conclude.

I was the youngest of eleven children, and lost both my parents, who belonged to the middle rank of society, when I was eight years of age. All that I recollect of my father is, that he was reserved and tyrannical, although this recollection, or rather idea, must have arisen from the fear and awe, which I observed, he created in the other members of the family, and not from experience. My remembrance of my mother is stronger, and more distinct. She was all gentleness and affection, rendered still more touching by religious melancholy, and almost unremitting bad health; and I can still recal the delight which I have often experienced when repeating psalms and hymns by her bed-side in the morning.

"She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene,
The memory of what has been,

And never more shall be."

I was then too young to feel my loss deeply or long, but I still recollect the very different feelings which the deaths of my parents called forth. I rather imagine joy was predominant on that of my father, when his coffin was not before my eyes, and then awe suppressed every other

emotion. Hardly six months after this event, I was called to the bedside of my mother about the close of the day, and obeyed the summons with alacrity, for I thought it was to repeat my evening prayers as usual; but a more impressive scene awaited me. Six weeping sisters, and four brothers, were standing round the bed of their dying mother, prepared to receive her last blessing, and I mingled among them with an indescribable feeling of reluctance. I had no distinct idea of what was to ensue, nor why all my brothers and sisters were weeping, till the powerlessness of the kiss which my mother impressed upon my lips made me burst into tears. Her approaching dissolution in a moment flashed upon my mind. I was taken out of the room in an agony of grief, and for about an hour, the idea of her death absorbed every other; but at length it gave way, and other thoughts arose, which soon engrossed all my mind. I foresaw how much I would be caressed should she die, and how many indulgences would be allowed me for awhile; that I would not be controuled, nor obliged to go to school. In this state I fell asleep, and I believe it was a state of happiness. At three in the morning I was awakened by my favourite sister, with the intelligence of the death of our mother. Her grief was violent, and called forth mine, which none of the prospects that had before soothed me diminished, and the picture which she placed before me of my orphan state, combining with the recollection of all the fondnesses of the mother I had lost, made an impression upon me which time has impaired, but never eradicated. I have often endeavoured to convince myself that the deep gloom which for some years has overhung my mind might have originated then;

victim of sensibility! the blow she had received was too heavy, and a rapid consumption terminated her miseries. Previous to this event, however, my now eldest brother was persuaded to take a lease of a small farm, that what little money we still possessed might not be dissipated, and on the produce of this farm subsisted four brothers and two sisters, for my other sisters were married. I was sent with one of my brothers, who was four years older, to a neighbouring school, and commenced the study of the Latin language, but although formerly accounted a clever boy, I was now found incorrigibly stupid. Every attempt to initiate me into the knowledge of the language failed, until I reached my twelfth year, when I began to show some talents, and ever afterwards maintained myself at the head of my class. Of all plans of edu cation, the most absurd and ineffectual is, that of compelling a boy of nine, or even ten years of age, to acquire a foreign language, which he never hears spoken, and before he can have gained any correct notion of his mother-tongue. He may by force of memory store up the rudiments of it, but this is all, unless, indeed, he be a boy of intuitive parts, which very seldom, if ever happens. Until he understands in some de gree his native language, and the different meanings, and modes of application of its words, he can make no progress in any other, which a youth of common talents, at the age of fourteen, would not make in ten days, under a skilful teacher, and with common application. I am convinced no greater injury is done to the human intellect, than by condemning it, in its spring, to the depressing, and deadening pain of attending to that in which it can neither perceive beauty nor meaning, which must be the

case with every unfledged youth when he commences the study of a foreign and unspoken language. We are in some degree compelled to do every thing which is to be of use to us while we are young; but this compulsion immediately wears a very different aspect, when we understand that in which we are engaged. When we do not, the mind naturally revolts, and spreads its wings into other regions, where, if it does not acquire knowledge, it is at least amused, and at length, this wandering becoming habitual, we dream when we should think, fancy when we should reason, and slumber when we should act. That this is truth, I am assured by my own experience, and I am afraid it is not singular. Obliged, prematurely, to encounter the difficulties of the Latin language, whenever I could, by any possible means, and that was almost constantly, I allowed my mind to expatiate to other subjects that were more attractive, simply because they were comprehensible, and at length habituated myself to regard. every difficulty as insurmountable, and to escape from it, both best and wisest. Time and reason, in some measure, lessened this habit, but it has never been wholly conquered.

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As early as my ninth year I was fond of reading, and indulged this fondness as far as lay in my power. My favourite books, for several years, were " Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress," and "The Holy War;" books, especially the former, which I have since often read, with as great, and more discriminating delight. If ever any man had a poet's imagination, and a poet's heart, it was honest John, notwithstanding all his faults. I had many playfellows at school, but I had no intimate companion, which circumstance had some influence on my