you know-well, his dairy-maid went into the byre and put out all the cows but one, who lay down and would not move. 'Get up,' says the dairy-maid; ‘I will not get up,' says the cow; 'But you shall,' replied the damsel, a little startled. Go to your master, So the girl • Get up,' and bid him come here,' says the cow. went, and her master came to the byre. said he to the cow; 'No, I will not,' said she,' I want 6 since to speak to you.' Say on,' said her master, you are permitted.' The cow began-Expect a summer of famine, a harvest of blood, and a winter of tears.' So, then the cow went about her business." Now, this fine story gains ample credit, and it would be thought impiety to doubt it. Could you have believed that there existed manners and opinions so primitive as those which are still preserved in the parish of Laggan? Will you condemn or laugh at my singularity, when I tell you that I am so wearied and disgusted with seeing ignorant, conceited, and irreligious coxcombs form absurd pretensions to reason and philosophy (by affecting to despise all that Newton, Boyle, Locke, and other lights and ornaments of their species believed, and all that inspiration and piety have taught), that I begin to think my poor Anne's credulity more tolerable than such cold-hearted scepticism? I would, at any rate, sooner listen to the sad predictions either of Achilles' horse, or the minister of Moulin's cow, than to many "dreamers of gay dreams," who imagine themselves "wit's oracles." No doubt, the true line lies between credulity and scepticism; but if I quit H 2 that line, let me go where I am led by the imagination and the heart. Did you but know how very, very busy I have been all day, having twenty people at work, cutting our winter fuel in the moss, and only one servant at home to provide food for all these, with little aid, you would think my writing all this stuff, now that everybody is asleep, as great an exertion as that of the minister of Moulin's cow. I bid you drowsily adieu, for the first lark is warning me to bed like an owl, as I am. A. G. LETTER XXVIII. TO MRS. FURZER, PLYMOUTH. My dear Friend, Laggan, Aug. 15, 1795. Do you know that, by Mrs. Macintosh's friendly interference, John Lauchlan* is an Ensign; not that we, by any means, intend him for the army. He will have leave to recruit, friends will recruit for him, and his education will proceed in the meantime. This is a Fencible Regiment, and will, I trust, be sent to graze before he is fit to kill or be killed. About ten days since we made a great hay-stack, which brought you very fresh to memory, as treading on it last year in the fulness of rural glee. But before I tell my sad story, I must inform you that, while the rest of *The Author's eldest son. Scotland, and England's own self were pinched with scarcity, we had last year, in this corner, the best crop ever remembered, and this year's is at least equal. Judge of our distress when, after driving a cart all day, John was brought in bleeding and torn, in consequence of Paddy's being startled, and going off with the cart. You never beheld such a scene, all the maids were in tears, the young children crying, and Mary fainting; but John behaved like a hero, comforting his sisters, and assuring them he would soon be better. The muscles and sinews, I trust, are not materially injured, and he will not, I hope, be lame. The spirit and manliness he has shown in this exigence have greatly endeared him to us. Give a little of your leisure to writing to me a few lines soon. Yet, why a few lines? If you habituate yourself in your solitude (for I do not hope for it when your spouse returns), to pour out your thoughts to me without restraint or arrangement, this employment of time will answer many good purposes. While it steals us a while from wearing cares and trivial occupations, it will perform half a miracle; it will recal the fleeting phantom, youth, and arrest the worst effects of time's silent progress. Yes, it will preserve the kindly propensities and tender confidence that are scattered fresh and sweet, like early dew in the delightful morning of life. Yet a while we may thus preserve the sunshine of the breast, and repel the unkindly frosts of cold suspicion and distrust, and the bleak sharp blasts of caprice and peevishness, “that make loved life unlovely," and force the callous and the crafty to say, at last, "The yellow leaf, And that which should accompany old age, I grasp with avidity the wish, the hope you express of our meeting once more. It were, indeed, a consummation devoutly to be wished, and I have seen too many strange things to despair of this. I think with you, that I should love your husband; so much probity and tranquillity of temper would suit me who detest art and finesse in all its shapes, and sicken at restless turbulent people, who are for ever in a bustle about they know not what. I do love a little constitutional philosophy. Farewell, dear friend, affectionately yours, A. G. LETTER XXIX. TO MRS. MACINTOSH, GLASGOW. Laggan, Feb. 20, 1796. "Why dost thou build the tower, son of the winged days?* Soon wilt thou depart with thy fathers. The blast from the desert shall rush through thy hall, and sound upon thy bossy shield." Do you recollect, dear Madam, when I stopped with you at the gate of Belleville, I repeated those lines, and observed what a suitable inscription they might prove for the front *The subject of this letter was a celebrated and well-known translator of ancient Scottish poetry.-(1807.) The late James Macpherson, Esq. of Belleville, and M.P., the Translator of Ossian.—(1845.) It would of poor James Macpherson's new house. appear I was moved by a prophetic impulse when I predicted that he never would see it finished. Friday last, R. dined there; James had been indisposed since the great storm, yet received his guests with much kindness, seeming, however, languid and dispirited ; and towards evening he sunk much, and retired early. Next morning he appeared, but did not eat, and looked ill; R. begged he would frank a letter for Charlotte; he did so, and never more held a pen. When they left the house, he was taken extremely ill, unable to move or receive nourishment, though perfectly sensible. Before this attack, finding some inward symptoms of his approaching dissolution, he sent for a consultation, the result of which arrived the day after his confinement. He was perfectly sensible and collected, yet refused to take anything prescribed to him to the last, and that on the principle that his time was come, and it did not avail. He felt the approaches of death, and hoped no relief from medicine, though his life was not such as one should like to look back on at that awful period: indeed whose is? It pleased the Almighty to render his last scene most affecting and exemplary. He died last Tuesday evening; and, from the minute he was confined, till a very little before he expired, never ceased imploring the Divine mercy in the most earnest and pathetic manner. People about him were overawed and melted by the fervour and bitterness of his penitence; he frequently and earnestly entreated the prayers of good serious people of the lower class who were admitted. He was a very good-natured man; and now, that he had |