the founder of our religion to be of no ac

count.

Now, as ever since the days of the emperor Constantine, the church has been intimately united to the state, and supported by its authority, it is the part of a prudent man to enjoy his religious thoughts in private, and sacrifice his cock unto Esculapius.

Death may be compared unto a mathematical point, which is in itself nothing but a termination; and therefore it becomes a wise and a good man, rather to reflect in old age upon what is past, than what is to come, seeing that no material change can be wrought either upon his affections or upon his understanding.

He will do well to make himself acceptable to his relations and domestics, if he has any; and if not, to those who are near unto him, and minister unto his necessities in the feebleness of his condition.

He will do well to meditate upon the manifold comforts and mercies of his past life, and to solace himself with the company of contemplative and worthy persons, who may, without gloom or superstition, converse with him upon the satisfaction that arises from the satiety of human pursuits, as relating to the objects of sensual desire, and of the happy state that is created by intellectual curiosity, and meditation; and resignation to the ordination of nature to which he is soon about to be subjected in death.

Having long accustomed himself to the habitudes that make old age amiable and respectable, and now finding the infirmities and weakness of his body to increase, addicting himself to frequent prayer to the Father of spirits, he will be ready, meekly, to surrender his life unto him who gave it.

Non jam se moriens dissolvi conqueretur,

Sed magis ire foras, vestemque relinquere ut anguis, Gauderet, prælonga Senex aut Cornua Cervus.

[End of the Fragments of Lord Bacon, on the Art of Life.]

Literary Olla. No. 1.

BY ASCANIUS TRIMONTANUS.

(FROM THE BEE,—JANUARY 9. 1793.)

Extract of a Letter from Sir James Foulis.

1787.

TO-day, when I went to look for the papers you desired, I could not find them, tho' I looked not only in every place where they should have been, but also in every place where they should not have been, and I now almost totally despair of ever finding them.

"As for personal exertions, they are not

now to be expected from me; for, on a due consideration of my real case, I find that I am really dead, partly by the effects of old age, which have been aggravated by too much sensibility. But as it is no unusual thing to publish a man's writings after he is dead; and that you express a desire to see poems formerly composed by me, I will here give you one that was made when I was really alive and as I believe I remember it yet, and that we dead folks have little to do, I will here transcribe it, as I can retrace it from the impression it has left on the fibres of my brain. It needs no comment, but it is necessary to mention, that the subject was a young lady, my fellow passenger, who slept in a hammock.

I burn for no terrestrial dame,
Mean object of ignoble flame;
My bold ambition dares aspire
To charms more worthy of desire.
Th' exalted beauties of a Fair,

Who scorns vile earth, and lives in air;
And o'er our heads exalted flies,

Like some bright native of the skies.

From Britain's isle to Tagus' shore,
Haste, haste, ye winds! to waft her o'er;
Come from yon mountain's steepy side,
Come leave the garden's painted pride;
Where'er ye sport, on earth or air,
This beauteous maid claims all your care:
A nobler charge, than to convey
A royal navy on its way!

Thou, gentle Tagus, mourn no more,
That av'rice drain'd the precious ore;
A richer prize thy waves behold,
Than all thy sands if chang'd to gold!
What star, O Lusitania! shed
Its baleful influence on thy head?
Hardly escap'd th' Iberian chain,
Instant destruction threats again :
Nor can Britannia's faithful aid
Protect thee from this dang'rous maid;
For where her conqu❜ring charms assail,
Nor arms nor counsel can avail :
Struck by the artillery of her eye,
'Tis vain to fight,-too late to fly:
In one promiscuous ruin all,
Protectors, and protected, fall.

"The late Sir James Foulis is heartily tired of writing so long; if the reader be half so tired, it will be wished he had rested quietly in his grave. But he will not think his posthumous labour lost, if it serve to divert his friends; and the letter is written with mysterious intention, that, whichever of the spouses, his said friends are pleased with it, may accept the compliment from the deceased, who, from his regard for them, still feels the truth of what Virgil delivered long ago, that, what. ever strong prepossessions a person had while alive,

"Eadem sequitur tellure repostos."

FROM THE ENVIRONS OF THE AISLE AT COLINTON.

*The sprightly and elegant letter, from which this is extracted, was one of the last written, by a man, who, though little known in the great world, was an honour to his profession as a soldier, and to literature.

Literary Olla. No. 2.

(FROM THE BEE.—JANUARY 30. 1793.)

Extract of a Letter from Sir James Foulis, Nov. 10. 1781.

I FIND myself to be a very blundering fellow, who, for want of memory, often leave undone the things that I ought to do. I shall not, just now, mention my blunders in the opposite way; but, to prevent an error of the first sort, I will, while it is fresh in my head, mention an important disquisition, that would probably be totally neglected, if I did not take the critical minute.

"I am reading the Memoirs of Russia by General Manstein.

The brave Earl of Crawford made the campaign of 1738 along with the Russians. "It had been concerted, that the Earl should correspond with his Britannic Majesty, but address his letters to the Duke of Newcastle.