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 scurity; and sometimes alluded to it with acrimony. In a letter to his son George, attending the University of Glasgow, dated January 21. 1779, he says, "I once thought to live by the breath of fame: But how miserably was I disappointed, when, instead of having my performance applauded in crowded theatres, and being caressed by the great—for what will not a poetaster, in the intoxicating delirium of possession, dream!—I was condemned to bawl myself to hoarseness among wayward brats, to cultivate sand, and wash Ethiopians, for all the dreary days of an obscure life, the contempt of shopkeepers and brutish skippers."

The feelings of a mind glowing with poetical enthusiasm on such an occasion, are so beautifully expressed by a poet who unites with singular felicity picturesque imagery and pathetic sentiment, that I cannot resist the desire of transcribing the passage: