all this chattering, in bounced a worthy, honest looking country gentleman, in a blue coat and scarlet neck, with a hunting cap, and his whip in his hand; and he came up in the frankest and pleasantest. manner imaginable, putting the whole company to profound silence, with, "What, what, Gentlemen?--"what are you about, now?---dissecting poor Herschel, and driving him out of your sys 66 tem, like a comet.

66

"I have a large family, and enough to do "in the world; but he shall have the use of my rooms, and my purse, too, Gentlemen, "to carry on his improvements!

66

"One can't make an astronomer every day, as one can make a Lord, or a Bishop, "or a Baronet: No, no, Gentlemen! no, no!" and away the worthy Nimrod went, and away went I.

Literary Olla. No. 4.

(FROM THE BEE.-FEBRUARY 27. 1793.)

Amicitia post mortem durans.

N the close of a serene and beautiful Win

IN

ter evening, I was musing near the root of an old, decayed, fantastic chesnut tree*, more

* At Dryburgh Abbey.

beautiful in its ruins than ever was feigned by the pencil of Rosa.

It was in the placid garden of Corycius. Around its noble, gigantic trunk, now dead and sapless, and all around its branches, the ivy, that had clung to it while living, continued to adhere, and to live, and to flourish. Beautiful, magnificent, and tender image," said I, "of that friendship which survives the grave!

"O, excellent Eugenius! thou art now the chesnut tree, and I am thy slender ivy, that measures thy former greatness, and mantles o'er thy memory!"

And now the sun, which had but lately descended behind a lofty mountain*, tinged the leafless trees with a bloody hue, and struck me with awe and with astonishment +:

Wonderful Nature! thou exhibitest to thy lovers what none but they are destined to behold and to enjoy! And this scenery which I now see, no painter durst commit to canvas with impunity!

*Eildon Hill.

This is a phenomenon very rarely to be observed, and which, in the course of thirty years constant attention, to all the colouring of landscape, and the atmosphere, I never observed but one.

It happens, when, after a mirky thaw, a frost immediately succeeds on the setting of the sun, whereby the red rays are separated, and concentrated upon the tangent of the prospect.

The shades of night now pressed upon the landscape. The young moon appeared in sober majesty, and, with the sweet glittering star of evening, conspired to adorn and animate the wintry heaven.

And now, ever and anon, I saw the moon flashing through the dark foliage of the solitary yew tree *: as it yielded to a briskening gale.

"Oft in the lone church-yard, at night, I've seen
By glimpse of moonshine chequ❜ring thro' the trees,
The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud, to bear his courage up;
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,
With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,
That tell in homely phrase who lie below:

Sudden he starts and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels.
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows,
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,

That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new opened grave; and, strange to tell!
Evanishes at crowing of the cock †.

See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work
Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot;

A great yew at Dryburgh Abbey, planted November 11. Anno Dom. 1206.,

+ From the Grave, a beautiful poem, by Robert Blair.

And buried, midst the wrecks of things that were,
There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead.

The wind is up.-Hark how it howls! methinks
Till now I never hard a sound so dreary!

Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird,
Rock'd in the tow'r, screams loud! the gloomy aisles,
Black plaister'd, and hung round with shreds of scutcheons
And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound,
Laden with heavier airs from the low vaults,
The mansions of the dead.-

Again the screech owl shrieks! ungracious sound!
I'll hear no more.-It makes my blood run chill.

O friendship! thou art stronger than the grave! To thee, with the divine aid of Christian philosophy, and the lessons of Eugenius, I owe that my soul is superior to the terrors of night, the disorders of the elements, and the gloom of superstition.---I will go fetch me a torch, and visit his monument.

I returned to our dwelling place, and I brought with me a torch.---I sped my way slowly to the place of his interment.---I descended by seven steps into the awful mansion of the dead *.---The reflected light, from his urn of Parian marble, gleamed upon me as I approached.

St Modan's chapel, at Dryburgh Abbey.

I laid me down upon his grave-stone, and I read its inscription:

THOUGH HE BE DEAD, HE YET SPEAKETH.

O virtue! thou hast not deceived me:

Thou, thou only art the never-failing friend of man.

Literary Olla. No. 5.

(FROM THE BEE.-MARCH 27. 1793.)

On the form and stile of modern epistolary correspondence.

IT

T is something to mark the very form and pressure of the age we live in; but it is more worthy of ambition to lay a foundation for promoting that which may give a better.

Every person of delicate and refined sentiment, must regret the slavish and ridiculous expletives with which modern letters are encumbered and concluded; and must perceive in them a preposterous custom continued, after the state of society to which they owed their origin has given place to another, connected with an improved condition of government and manners.

To speak or write insincerely, or treat annother with contemptuous fanfaronade, is even commonly denoted by the ordinary conclusion of our familiar epistles. "Au pied du lettre," is an expression tantamount to this foolery and insult; and yet we continue to be the most