respectable old man of the name of John Steel, who was well acquainted with Allan Ramsay; and he told John Steel himself, that when Mr. Thomson, the author of 'The Seasons,' was in his shop at Edinburgh, getting himself shaven, Ramsay was repeating some of his poems. Mr. Thomson says to him, 'I have something to emit to the world, but I do not wish to father it.' Ramsay asked what he would give him, and he would father it. Mr. Thomson replied, all the profit that arose from the publication. A bargain be it,' said Ramsay. Mr. Thomson delivered him the manuscript. So, from what is said above, Mr. Thomson, the author of 'The Seasons,' is the author of 'The Gentle Shepherd,' and Allan Ramsay is the father of it. This, I believe, is the truth."

There is not a trace of resemblance to Thomson's style in the "Gentle Shepherd." It is far more natural and off-hand; though none of its flights are so high, nor would you say that the poet (however charming-and he is so) is capable of such fine things as Thomson. And then the politics are Tory! These tales originate in mere foolish envy.

The biographer gives an opinion opinion respecting Thomson's letters, which appears to us the reverse of being well founded: and he adds a reason for it, very little characteristic surely of so modest and singlehearted a man as the poet, who would never have been hindered from writing to a friend, merely because he thought he did not excel in letter-writing. "It must be evident," says he, " from the letters in this memoir, that Thomson did not excel in correspondence; and his dislike to writing letters, which was very great, may have been either the cause or

effect of his being inferior in this respect to other poets of the last century."

His dislike to writing was pure indolence. He reposed upon the confidence which his friends had in his affection, secure of their pardon for his not writing. When any particular good was to be done, he could write fast enough; and he always wrote well enough. We have just given a specimen; and here follow a few more bits out of the very same collection existing, which are at once natural and new enough to show how rich, in fact, the letters are, and what a pity it is he did not write

more.

Speaking of a little sum (127.) which he wished to borrow of a friend to help a sister in business, he says

"I will not draw upon you, in case you be not prepared to defend yourself; but if your purse be valiant, please to inquire for Jean or Elizabeth Thomson, at the Rev. Mr. Gusthart's ; and if this letter be not a sufficient testimony of the debt, I will send you whatever you desire.

"It is late, and I would not lose this post; like a laconic man of business, therefore, I must here stop short; though I have several things to impart to you, through your canal,* to the dearest, truest-hearted youth that treads on Scottish ground. The next letter I write you shall be washed clean from business in the Castalian fountain.

"I am whipping and spurring to finish a tragedy for you this winter, but am still at some distance from the goal, which makes me fear being distanced. Remember me to all friends; and,

* Channel. "Canal," I presume, was a Scotticism.

above them all, to Mr. Forbes. Though my affection to him is not fanned by letters, yet is it as high as when I was his brother in the vertù, and played at chess with him in a postchaise."

To the same.- Petty (that is, Dr. Patrick Murdoch, the "little round, fat, oily man of God" in the Castle of Indolence) "came here two or three days ago; I have not yet seen the round man of God to be. He is to be parsonified a few days hence how a gown and cassock will become him! and with what a holy leer he will edify the devout females! There is no doubt of his having a call, for he is immediately to enter upon a tolerable living. God grant him more, and as fat as himself. It rejoices me to see one worthy, honest, excellent man, raised, at least, to independence."

To Doctor Cranston. "My spirits have gotten such a serious turn by these reflections, that, although I be thinking on Misjohn, I declare I shall hardly force a laugh before we part; for this, I think, will be my last letter from Edinburgh, for I expect to sail every day. Well, since I was speaking of that merry soul, I hope he is as bright, as easy, as dégagé, as susceptible of an intense laugh as he used to be; tell him, when you see him, that I laugh, in imagination, with him ;-ha, ha, ha!"

To Mr. Patteson (his deputy in the Inspector-Generalship of the Leeward Island, and one of the friends whom he describes in the Castle of Indolence).-"I must recommend to your favour and protection Mr. James Smith, searcher in St. Christopher's; and I beg of you, as occasion shall serve, and as you find he merits it, to advance him in the business of the customs. He is warmly recommended to me by Sargent, who, in verity, turns out one of the best men of our youthful acquaintance— honest, honourable, friendly, and generous. If we are not to oblige one another, life becomes a paltry, selfish affair, a pitiful morsel in a corner."

We hope that "here be proofs" of Thomson's having been as sincerely cordial, and even eloquent in his letters, as in his other writings. They have, it is true, in other passages, a little of the higher and more elaborate tone of his poetry, but only just enough to show how customary the tone was to him in his most serious moments, and therefore an interesting evidence of the sort of complexional nature there was in his very art—something analogous to his big, honest, unwieldy body; more fat," to use his own words," than bard beseem'd," but with a heart inside it for everything good and graceful.

66

BOOKSTALLS AND "GALATEO."

Beneficence of Bookstalls.—“ Galateo, or a Treatise on Politeness.”—Swift.—Ill-breeding of Fashion.—Curious instance of Italian delicacy of reproof.

GREAT and liberal is the magic of the bookstalls; truly deserved is the title of cheap shops. Your second-hand bookseller is second to none in the worth of the treasure which he dispenses; far superior to most; and infinitely superior in the modest profits he is content with. So much so, that one really feels ashamed sometimes to pay him such nothings for his goods. In some instances (for it is not the case with every one) he condescends even to expect to be "beaten down" in the price he charges, petty as it is; and accordingly, he is good enough to ask more than he will take, as though he did nothing but refine upon the pleasures of the purchaser. Not content with valuing knowledge and delight at a comparative nothing, he takes ingenious steps to make even that nothing less; and under the guise of a petty struggle to the contrary (as if to give you an agreeable sense of your energies) seems

VOL. II.