of fencibles during the American war. On the return of peace, he retired with his family to Aberdeen, where he continued chiefly to reside during the rest of his life.

"An acquaintance had first taken place between him and Dr. Beattie, on his return to Aberdeen after the seven years war; and as their taste in books, and their favourite studies, were in some respects entirely similar, a lasting friendship ensued, which proved to both a source of the highest enjoyment.

"Major Mercer's acquaintance with books, especially of poetry and Belles Lettres, both ancient and modern, was not only uncommonly extensive, but he himself possessed a rich and genuine poetical vein, that led him, for his own amusement solely, to the composition of some highly-finished lyric pieces. These he carefully concealed, however, from the knowledge of even almost all his most intimate friends; and it was with much difficulty that his brother-in-law, Lord Glenbervie, at length could prevail on him to permit a small collection to be printed, first anonymously, afterwards with his name. In perusing these beautiful poems, the reader, I think, will find they possess much original genius, and display a taste formed on the best classic models of Greece and Rome, whose spirit their author had completely imbibed, especially of Horace, who seems to have been the model whom he had proposed to himself for his imitation.

"A few years ago Major Mercer had the misfortune to lose his wife, after a long course of severe indisposition, during which he had attended her with the most anxious assiduity. Of that misfortune, indeed, he may be said never to have got the better, and he survived her little more than two years. This circum

stance gave occasion to the following elegant lines, which Mr. Hayley addressed to Lord Glenbervie, soon after Major Mercer's death

"Epitaph for Major Mercer.

"Around this grave, ye types of merit spread!
Here Mercer shares the sabbath of the dead:
Ye laurels, here, with double lustre, bloom,
To deck a soldier's and a poet's tomb!
Gracefully pleasing in each manly part!
His verses, like his virtues, win the heart.
Grateful for wedded bliss, (for years his pride)
He lost it, and by fond affliction, died.
Here, Sculpture! fix thy emblematic dove,
To grace the martyr of connubial love.
Hail, ye just pair! in blest reunion rise!
Rever'd on earth! rewarded in the skies!

"Major Mercer had long been in a very valetudinary, nervous state, till at last his constitution entirely failed; and he expired without a struggle or a pang, in the 71st year of his age."

"Besides possessing no ordinary share of knowledge both of books and men, (for in the course of his military life, especially as he had lived much in society of various sorts,) and being one of the pleasantest companions I ever knew, Major Mercer was a man of much piety, strict in the observance of all the ordinances of religion, and of high honour in every transaction of life.

Major Mercer was born Feb. 27, 1734, and died Nov. 18, 1804."

To this account by Sir William Forbes, I shall only add, by way of reminding the reader of Major Mer

cer's

éer's style of poetry, three stanzas from his simple and

very interesting

"Ode to Novelty.

"For thee in infancy we sigh,

And hourly cast an anxious eye
Beyond the prison-house of home;
Till, from domestic tyrants free,
O'er the wide world, in search of thee,
Fair Novelty! we roam.

Full on thy track by dawn of day,
The stripling starts, and scours away,
While Hope her active wing supplies,

And softly whispers in the gale,
At every turning of the vale,
'Enjoyment onward lies.'

Nor far remote-athwart the trees,
The landscape opens by degrees,

And yields sweet glimpses of delight:
Beyond the trees the views expand,
And all the scenes of fairy-land

Come swelling on the sight." &c.

ART. XX. The Ruminator. Containing a series of moral and sentimental Essays.

N. XI.

Hints for the Ruminator, and remarks on his style, and gravity and candour of manner and sentiment.

I have had some doubt whether it would be prudent to print the following paper of my new correspondent, Mr. Random, who seems to have some knowledge of

v.personal history. But as my impartiality is to deperd on the test of its insertion, I have at last determined to publish it; since allusions seem harmless; but if there should be any thing in it at all pointed, no one has so much reason to complain as myself. The post mark is Bath; but this eircumstance gives no clue to guess at the author from that place of migratory inhabitants. One reason which has accelerated my decision to give it insertion, I must not conceal. It saves me from writing a paper myself at a moment of much hurry, and many other engagements. June 12, 1807.

TO THE RUMINATOR.

Here, Sir, have I been ruminating for these three mornings to produce a paper for you, and not one sentence up to this very moment have I advanced. As thinking, I find, does no good, I will see how I can get on without thinking; and thus, Sir, will I have at you. A random shot, perhaps, may kill the most game. And game enough, no doubt, there is in the field of literature. I am sure the Edinburgh Reviewers find enough; and kill enough too! But they are excellent shot, and nobody will accuse them of not taking aim. Why, Sir, they never miss; and when they do not kill, they are sure to mangle! There is another Review too, which they say, has tried to catch their knack; yet, at present, it is reported, it is but a bungler; but there is little doubt it will soon earn it; for the art is not half so difficult as some folks think it.

Let

Let us see! What must come next? Why, as I do not possess All The Talents, (though I hope I am a little better off than the man who celebrates them,) I am in a little bit of a quandary; but as stopping to think does harm, I must rush on again, and I dare say I shall drop upon something. Ah! it just comes into my head to ask you, why you suppose a book, that was good for nothing two hundred years ago, becomes good for a great deal now; for what every body will allow a great deal-a great deal of money! You seem, Sir, not a little infected with this mania yourself. I do not know whether you give great prices, but I am certain you give a great many pages to extracts, which were very base ore at the time they were written; and I defy the power of time to transmute them into genuine metal. Somebody, however, whispers me, that they shew the progress of language, and the state of manners; and I do not know how to answer that: indeed, I am not bound to stay to answer any body. If I stop for one moment, I shall be fixed, and never move again.

To come then, Sir, to your lives, and essays-I confess, I wish they had a little more fun in them! Cannot you write currente calamo, as I do; and then I think you would now and then catch a jest by the bye. It would even fix itself in spite of you; and you would not have time to strike it off with your pen. For my own part, I always thought the world was a jest, and that jesting therefore was the best mode of treating every thing that belongs to it. But you have told us, that you hate jests; and, therefore, I am determined to try your impartiality by sending you this. I know that your enemies (and you have many) will triumph,

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