No. C.

From DR. BLACKLOCK.

Edinburgh, 1st September, 1790.

How does my dear friend, much I languish to

hear,

His fortune, relations, and all that are dear?
With love of the Muses so strongly still smitten,
I meant this epistle in verse to have written;
But from age and infirmity indolence flows,
And this, much I fear, will restore me to prose.
Anon to my business I wish to proceed,
Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed,
A man of integrity, genius, and worth,
Who soon a performance intends to set forth;
A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free,
Which will weekly appear, by the name of the Bee.
Of this from himself I inclose you a plan,
And hope you will give what assistance you can.
Entangled with business, and haunted with care,
In which more or less human nature must share,
Some

Some moments of leisure the Muses will claim, A sacrifice due to amusement and fame.

The Bee, which sucks honey from ev'ry gay bloom,

With some rays of your genius her work may illume,

Whilst the flow'r whence her honey spontaneously flows,

As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows.

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to conclude,

And add, your promotion is here understood;
Thus free from the servile employ of excise, Sir,
We hope soon to hear you commence Supervisor;
You then more at leisure, and free from control.
May indulge the strong passion that reigns in
your soul,

But I, feeble I, must to nature give way;
Devoted cold death's, and longevity's prey.

From verses tho' languid my thoughts must un

No. CI.

EXTRACT OF A LETTER

From MR. CUNNINGHAM,

Edinburgh, 14th October, 1790.

I LATELY received a letter from our friend B ******* ***,—what a charming fellow lost to society-born to great expectationswith superior abilities, a pure heart, and untainted morals, his fate in life has been hard indeed-still I am persuaded he is happy; not like the gallant, the gay Lothario, but in the simplicity of rural enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the remembrance of "the days of other years."*

I saw

The person here alluded to is Mr. S. who engaged the Editor in this undertaking. See the De

dication.

E.

I saw Mr. Dunbar put under the cover of your newspaper Mr. Wood's Poem on Thomson. This poem has suggested an idea to me which you alone are capable to execute-a song adapted to each season of the year. The task is difficult, but the theme is charming: should you succeed, I will undertake to get new music worthy of the subject. What a fine field for your imagination! and who is there alive can draw so many beauties from Nature and pastoral imagery as yourself? It is, by the way, surprising that there does not exist, so far as I know, a proper song for each season. We have songs on hunting, fishing, skaiting, and one autumnal song, Harvest Home. As your muse is neither spavined nor rusty, you may mount the hill of Parnassus, and return with a sonnet in your pocket for every season. For my suggestions, if I be rude, correct me; if impertinent, chastise me; if presuming, despise me. But if you blend all my weaknesses, and pound out one grain of insincerity, then am I not thy

Faithful Friend, &c.

No.

No. CII.

To MRS. DUNLOP.

November, 1790.

As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is

good news from a far country."

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I most cordially obey the apostle-" Rejoice with them that do rejoice,"—for me, to sing for joy, is no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before.

I read your letter-I literally jumped for joy -How could such a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the best news from his best friend? I seized

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my