letter; for which the writer has my cordial thanks, and assured word, that I will a vail myself of bis advice.

you my promise, that the next time I see you in a pool, I will lend a hand to pull you out myself. I heard my mother saying she was going to be a subscriber for your paper; and though I know she will be like to go mad when she sees this letter, I do not care although she should see it, for all that. It will let her and others see, that lasses often think more than they dare say, and that their thoughts are adders in the path, which they can neither easily avoid nor overcome. Your's, &c.

FANNY LIVELY,

I can scarcely believe that the gentlemen are in general so very bad, as my ingenious correspondent seems to suspect, even when left to themselves over a bottle. I am rather inclined to believe that the whole is a stratagem of her own, on purpose that she may be suffered to remain beside the young gentlemen, which she thinks they will all insist upon, that she may see how widely she is mistaken, with regard to the tenor of their conversation: and indeed Ican see no reason why custom should persist in shutting up the most lovely and graceful part of the company in a room by themselves, excluded from that mirth and hilarity, to their share of which they are so well entitled, and likewise so feelingly alive. But as I do not wish to enter deeply into this affair, I shall let Miss Lively's arguments answer for themselves, and conclude this day's paper with the following severe, but perhaps too just,

SIR,

TO THE SPY,

which I thought, if conducted with spirit and promptitude, had a chance to succeed, as a paper for the breakfast-table; suffer me to offer a few remarks on your numbers already published.

In my opinion, the first and leading feature of every work of the same nature, ought to be the most unexceptionable delicacy of sentiment; and of this most necessary qualification you scarcely seent scrupulously attentive. The two epitaphs on living characters, in your second number, are too coarse for a publication, which certainly ought to aim at giving a few minutes entertainment weekly to the literary part of the community, and improving the taste of the middling classes of both sexes. They are a specimen of poetry too rude to be approved; nor does the beautiful concluding lines of the last at all redeem them, as they only showyour correspondent to be a man of genius, but of an unformed taste. Moreover, though the characters may be purely ideal, yet the meddling or malicious will be very apt to trace them to individuals, which may prove hurtful and injurious to them, wound the feelings of those connected with them, and, however detrimental, can never prove advantageous to you. Spirit and independence, with regard to works of literature, are proper and commendable; private abuse is hateful.

But this is not all. Did you ever look over the list of your subscribers? If you have, I think the honourable names I

sent you myself, might have commanded more respect than you have shown to us by some pictures in your fourth number. Believe me, Sir, if I did not know you personally to be a well-meaning man, and possessed of more genius than foresight, I would not only have withdrawn my own subscription, but desired my friends to do the same. But this I suppose is not generally known to your readers, and the injury you must have done your character, as an editor, cannot be trivial. Perhaps you never read it over, or thought your correspondent as capable to judge of propriety as you were; or perhaps, you thought that a paper written so decidedly in the cause of virtue, might be allowed to paint the truth of that which was meant to be exposed as a detestable course of life. This is an error into which

nine tenths of our writers of plays and novels constantly fall, by painting imprudent characters, and vicious traits of a character, in a manner calculated to excite any thing but disgust.

To conclude at present, Sir, if you value my correspondence in support of the Spy, adhere to politeness and purity of sentiment; for on that condition alone, I renew my promise of it. Be as simple as you please-the simpler the better; but never let that appear in print, sanctioned by you, which may tend, in anywise, to injure the cause of morality, or add the slightest tint of the rose-leaf to the modest cheek. When I return, I will endeavour to further the work as far as my means extend; and my friendship for you shall ever remain unimpaired. I am, &c.

THE flush of the landscape is o'er!
The brown leaves are shed on the way!
The dye of the lone mountain flower,
Is grown wan, and betokens decay!
The spring in our valleys is borne

Like the bud that it foster'd to die;
Like the transient dews of the morn,
Or the vapour that melts in the sky.
Thus, youth, with its visions so gay,

Departs like a dream of the mind; To pleasure and passion a prey,

It often leaves sorrow behind. Its virtues too buoyant to grow, Its follies too latent to die; We shall reap of the seeds we then sow, When the stars have dissolv'd in the sky. Our summer now flits o'er the main,

And leaves but her mantle behind: Short time will that mantle remain, Expell'd by the chill winter wind! All silent the song of the thrush!

Bewilder'd she cowrs in the dale; The black-bird sits sad on the bush ; The fall of the leaf they bewail. Thus I may sit silent and sigh, Before me the cold lonely urn!

My youth and my prime are gone by,
And alas! they can never return.
All nature thus tends to decay,

And to drop as the leaves from the tree;
And man, just the flower of a day,
How long, long, his winter will be!
But the grain, late adorning the field,
With its soft heaving billows so pale,
More gain to its owner will yield,

Than if still waving sweet in the vale. So the breast where firm virtue and reason, Could every wild passion subdue,

The fall of his leaf is a season,

That man may with pleasure review.

At suffering he will not despond,

Nor at death when his sorrows shall cease, While hope points his eye far beyond To a mansion of virtue and peace.

Eternity's streamers unfurled,

Time's tear o'er his tottering throne," The last rending crash of the world,

The sky with its orbs overthrown; He will view with a soul all serene,

And will welcome the dawn of the day, Which in glory shall open a scene

Of perfection that cannot decay.

1810.

THOUGH I do not remember that I was guilty of any violent act of disobedience; for several years after the period at which I was treating, when I concluded my last letter, yet it was not without great address that my father kept my temper within the bounds of moderation. He had studied my character thoroughly and often gained, by the most delicate management, what no force could have extorted. He foresaw and deeply deplored the dangers to which the violence and obstinacy of my temper and impatience of all salutary restraint would inevitably expose me. To this moment I remember every word of a conversation that passed betwixt him and my mother on this subject when they thought me asleep. It affected me so strongly at the 'time, that I did not close my eyes for the whole night; and even now, when I think of it, I am astonished that it did not produce a reformation upon my conduct. I believe I forgot to inform you, Sir, that I am an only son, nay, an only child, and never was child an object of more tender solicitude. My mother whose very existence seemed to depend on my happiness, looked forward with fond anticipation to that period in which

NUMB. VIII.

I should be the pride and support of her declining years; yet, by my misconduct, I broke the heart of that admirable woman before she had passed middle age. "I tremble to think, my dear," said my father," of the dangers and misfortunes to which our son will be exposed in life by the obstinacy and impetuosity of his character. Though I have laboured much to cure these defects, I fear my success has been inadequate to my zeal-He sometimes, it is true, displays himself a noble being, and by his generosity, ardour, and enthusiastic ambition of excelling in all his pursuits, frequently delights me; but I have so often known a single vice ruin a whole character, that I confess I tremble for his fate." "Fear not," said my mother," the silent operation of matured reason will provide a remedy for these unfortunate propensities and his virtues will at last predominate." "I hope so, my dear," rejoined my father, "but his resemblance to an old school companion of mine who was very unfortunate, and whose misfortunes were too often brought on by his own vices, is so very striking as to alarm me." He then proceeded to relate the young man's history, of which the catastrophe shocked my mother to such a degree that she left the room in

tears.

I was so much agitated by the narrative, that I was more than once on the point of starting from the couch on which

I lay, casting myself on my knees, and imploring pardon for my past offences, and making solemn promises of future amendment. At this age, though all our impressions are strong and forcible, yet they are transient and in a short time leave scarce a trace of their existence. I very soon forgot the pains of this sleep-| less night, and all my resolutions of reformation, and had not fortitude to resist the first temptation which presented itself.

Not many days after, I became acquainted with a young man of the name of Sinclair, the son of a neighbouring laird. He was some years older than myolder than my self-It was the season of grouse shooting and he invited me to accompany him for a few days to the muirs. The description which he gave me of this kind of amusement had inflamed my imagination so much, that I was determined nothing should prevent me from enjoying it. I thought it necessary to ask my father's leave which he positively denied me. I made no reply; but walked away sullenly resolving to rise early next morning and repair to the place of rendezvous. I awoke at a very early hour, and lay long in anxious expectation of the dawn which to my great delight at last began to beam in the east. I arose, equipped myself with all possible expedition, and had arrived at the place appointed an hour before my friend.

He at last came carrying a couple of fowling-pieces, and accompanied by two pointers; he told me such wonderful stories of the sagacity of these animals as quite astonished me, and concluded the eulogium, by saying that his father would not accept of fifty guineas for them.

We had not proceeded half a mile

when our dogs started a very fine covey of muirfowl. I presented my piece, took a random aim, and by accident wounded one of the birds, which fell at no great distance from me. Buonaparte was not more elated on the evening of the battle of Marengo, which made him master of Europe, than I was by this piece of good fortune. I did not reflect that I had deprived an animal of life, over which I had no right whatever to exercise this species of tyranny. If the sheep and ox must fall to supply man's necessities, let us yield in silence to the stern decree of nature; but that man endowed as he is by a superior intelligence, should shed the blood of the inferior animals for his amusement is monstrous. What shall we say then, Sir, of the horrid trade of war? Since I could think at all, I have never been able to reflect without horror on what is called a rejoicing for a victory. In the fairest light in which it can be viewed, the destruction of fifty or sixty thousand men, cut offin the very bloom of existence, is a cause of mourning rather than of rejoicing. And even if we are indifferent as to the fate of our enemies, we may at least suffer the tears of our own widows and orphans to flow in silence. But these reflections lead me from my narrative. I ran immediately to the place where the bird fell, took it up, and strange to tell, I gazed with pleasure on the dying agonies of this innocent victim, and on its beautiful plumage stained with blood.

I loaded my piece again, and in my. keenness put in powder and shot sufficient for three charges, arguing, that if the common quantity killed one bird, a double or a triple quantity must kill birds in the same proportion. It was not

long before I had an opportunity of making the trial, and the event was exactly such as might have been predicted; the gun burst and mangled the little finger of my left hand. I was terribly alarmed by the explosion, and when I beheld the blood streaming from my mangled finger, I had nearly fainted, my companion bound up the wound with a handkerchief, and we hastened home; but my haste was the effect of necessity, not of choice, for I never in my life undertook any journey with so much reluctance. In any other circumstances I should never have submitted to the humiliation of appearing in my father's presence, convicted thus of disobedience and folly..

It was not long before we returned, but as the loss of blood was very considerable, and the pain of the wound now became violent, I looked very pale. My mother, who was just newly risen, and stood at a window which overlooked the court, on seeing me all stained with blood, uttered a loud scream and fell into a swoon, from which she did not recover for a considerable space of time; so long indeed, that her life was thought in some danger. It was not till then that I was fully sensible of the terrible consequences of my stubbornness, and I would have given the whole world, had I been possessed of it, to have restored her suspended animation, and to have calmed my father's fears. He hung over her in despair, while his bosom was wrung with the agonizing reflection that I was the cause of her danger. It was full twenty minutes before she recovered; her gentle spirit had received such a shock that it seemed to have fled for ever. Were I to live three ages, Mr Spy, I should never forget the beam of hope that dawned

My father, amid the terror and alarm arising from my mother's situation, had possessed presence of mind enough to send express to the nearest village for a surgeon, as he neither had the proper instruments, nor did he dare to perform the operation himself. After a considerable delay, the surgeon at last arived, and as the pain of the operation was very acute, and the sufferings I had brought upon myself were a sufficient punishment for my disobedience, my father made not a single remark on what had happened. During my illness I made many resolutions of unlimited compliance with the wishes of my parents, and adhered to these resolutions so long that they thought the glad æra of my reformation was arrived.

While my father had the charge of my education, it succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations. For my years I had made very great proficiency in all the branches of literature and science usually taught to boys-I had now nearly attained sixteen years of age, and it was resolved that I should attend the university of Edinburgh the following winter. On the evening before the day of my departure, my father carried me into his study, and representedto me, in strong