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In another passage we have a fine picture of the gentler and livelier graces:

In everlasting blushes seen,

Such Pringle shines, of sprightly mien :
To her the power of love imparts,
Right gift! the soft successful arts,
That best the lover's fires provoke,
The lively step, the mirthful joke;
The speaking glance, the am'rous wile,
The sportful laugh, the winning smile;
Her soul awak'ning every grace,
Is all abroad upon her face;
In bloom of youth still to survive,

All charms are there, and all alive.

Elsewhere we have a melodious beauty:

Artist divine! to her belong

The heavenly lay, and magic song, &c.-
Whene'er she speaks, the joy of all,

Soft the silver accents fall, &c.

The transitions in this poem are peculiarly happy. Such are the following:

Strike again the golden lyre,

Let Hume the notes of joy inspire, &c.—

But who is she, the general gaze

Of sighing crowds, the world's amaze,

Who looks forth as the blushing morn,

On mountains of the east new born, &c.

Fair is the lily, sweet the rose,

That in thy cheek, O Drummond, glows, &c.

I have dwelt so long, and I could not avoid it, on the preceding particulars, that I have not left myself room for illustrations of our poet's language and versification. I observed, in general, that these were elegant and melodious; and so every reader of genuine taste will feel them. They are not, however, unexceptionable and if in another letter I should give farther illustration of our author's poetical character,

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I shall hold myself bound, not only to mention some excellencies, but also some blemishes in his verse and diction.

I am, &c.

PHILOMUSOs.

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I have given the above letter, which I received some time ago from an unknown correspondent, to my readers, from a belief that they will feel themselves interested in the works of a poet, who not only was born and resided in Scotland, but whose pencil was particularly employed in delineating the eminent characters of both sexes in our native country at the time in which he lived. It will not, methinks, require the enthusiasm of a laudator temporis acti,' like Colonel Caustic, to receive a peculiar satisfaction in tracing the virtues and the beauty of a former age, in the verses of one who appears to have so warmly caught the spirit of the first, to have so warmly felt the power of the latter. Nor may it be altogether without a moral use, to see in the poetical record of a former period the manners of our own country in times of less luxury, but not perhaps of less refinement; when fashion seems to have conferred superiorities fully as intrinsic as any she can boast at present: to have added dignity of sentiment to pride of birth, and to have invested superior beauty with superior grace and high accomplishments.

Z.

No. 43. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1785.

SIR,

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE LOUNGER.

-shire, Oct. 1785. AT the age of thirty-five I succeeded, by the death of a near relation, to a considerable land estate. Upon this event I resolved to fix my residence at the family mansion-house. I was very little acquainted with that part of the country where it was situated; but I was told it was an uncommonly good neighbourhood; and that I should be particularly fortunate in having it in my power to enjoy an excellent society. I found a tolerable library of old books, to which I added a pretty extensive collection of modern ones: from the perusal of them, from the attention which I proposed to give to the culture of a part of my estate, which I meant to farm myself, and from the enjoyment which I expected to reap from the company and conversation of my good neighbours, I was in hopes that my life would slide on in a very agreeable manner.

Being naturally of an easy temper, and desirous of being on good terms with every one around me, as soon as I came to fix my abode, I made it a principal object to get acquainted with my neighbours, and to establish a familiar intercourse between us. Our first visits were rather formal and distant; but this gradually wore off, and our correspondence became frequent and repeated. Their invitations to me were numerous; and I did not fail to ask them in return. I endeavoured to make my welcome as

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warm as theirs, and to treat them with the same marks of hospitality which I received.

But, sir, I now find that what I expected would have been one of the blessings of my situation has become one of its greatest misfortunes. My neighbours, having once found the way to my house, are now scarce ever out of it. When they are idle in the mornings, which is almost always the case, they direct their ride or their walk my way, and pay a friendly visit to their neighbour Dalton. I am by this means interrupted in my attention to my farm, and have not time left to give the necessary orders. It is vain to think of making use of my library: when I sit down to read, I am disturbed before I get the length of a few pages, and am obliged to break off in the midst of an interesting story, or an instructive piece of reasoning. I cannot deny myself, or order my servants to tell I am not at home. This is one of your privileges in town: but in the country, if one's horses are in the stable, or one's chaise in the coach-house, one is of necessity bound to receive all intruders. In this manner are my mornings constantly lost, and I am not allowed to have a single half hour to myself.

This, however, is one of the slightest of my distresses; the morning intrusions are nothing to the more formal visitations of the afternoons. Hardly a day passes without my being obliged to have a great dinner for the reception of my neighbours; and when they are not with me, good neighbourhood, I am told, requires I should be with them, and give them my visitations in return. Even of the very best company, where the very best conversation takes place, a man is apt, at least I have felt this in myself, sometimes to tire, and to wish for the indulgence of that listlessness, that sort of dreaming indolence, which you, sir, are so well acquainted with, and which can

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only be had alone. But to be constantly exposed to be in a crowd, a crowd selected from no other circumstance than from their residing within ten miles of you;—the keeper of an inn is not, in point of company, in a worse situation.

But the merely being obliged to spend my mornings in the way I have described, and my afternoons in a constant crowd of promiscuous company, is not the only evil I have to complain of. The manner in which I am obliged to spend it in that company is still more disagreeable. Hospitality in this part of the country does not consist solely in keeping an open house, and receiving all your neighbours for many miles round; but one must fill them drunk, and get drunk with them one's self. Having no fund of conversation with which they can entertain their landlord or each other, they are obliged to have recourse to their glass to make up for every other want, and deficiency of matter is supplied by repeated bumpers. It is a favourite maxim here, that conversation spoils good company: and this maxim is most invariably followed in practice, unless noise and vociferation, after the swallowing of more than one bottle, can be called conversation. Without injustice it may be said of most of my neighbours, that when sober they are silent, and when not sober, it were better they remained silent. I have frequently made efforts to check the riot and intemperance of my guests, and to withhold the bottle from them, when I have thought they have drank fully as much as was good for them; but I have always found myself unable to do it. I should hate to be called a stingy fellow; and I know, if I were to establish sobriety, I should be called stingy. When I cannot keep my guest sober, I sometimes try to escape the glass, and to be sober myself: but, when I do this, I find some of them look upon me with an evil eye,

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