kirk, for he had nae the principles o' saving grace; he did na believe in original sin." The observation attracting, by its novelty, the curiosity of the company, and the authority of the worthy divine for this part of the poet's creed, being questioned, he brought from his library a copy of the Seasons, from which he read these lines:

Welcome, kindred glooms!
Congenial horrors, hail! with frequent foot,
Pleas'd have I in my cheerful morn of life,
When nurs'd by careless solitude I liv'd
And sung of nature with unceasing joy,
Pleas'd have I wander'd thro' your rough domain,
Trod the pure virgin snows; myself as pure.

The sentiment is doubtless faulty; and forms, at least, one half line, which it would have been pleasing to have seen blotted out, were it only that there might be nothing common in morals between the pious Thomson and the profane Rousseau, who is said, when dying, to have thus addressed the Divinity, "Eternal Being! the soul that I am now going to give thee back is as pure at this moment as it was when it proceeded from thee"!!

The spot in Richmond-church, where Thomson's remains are interred, remained, for a long time, distinguished only by a plain stone, till a brass tablet, with the following inscription, was erected by the Earl of Buchan :

"In the earth, below this tablet, are the remains of JAMES THOMSON, author of the beautiful poems, entitled The Seasons, the Castle of Indolence,' &c., who died at Richmond, on the 22d of August, and was buried here on the 29th, o. s. 1748.

"The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man and sweet a poet should be without a memorial, has denoted the place of his interment, for the satisfaction of his admirers, in the year of our Lord, 1792. "Father of Light and Life, Thou Good Supreme, Oh, teach me what is good! Teach me Thyself! Save me from folly, vanity, and vice,

From every low pursuit! And feed my soul With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure : Sacred, substantial, never-fading, bliss."

Thomson's residence was at Rossdale House, in Kew-foot Lane, latterly in the possession of the Honorable Mrs. Boscawen. This house was purchased, after the decease of Thomson, by George Ross, Esq. who forbore to pull it down, from yeneration to his memory, but enlarged and improved it at a great expense. Mrs. Boscawen repaired the poet's favourite seat in the garden, and placed in it the table on which he used to write. Over the entrance, she in

scribed,

"Here Thomson sung the Seasons and their change." And, in the centre,

"Within this pleasing retirement, allured by the music of the nightingale, which warbled, in soft unison to the melody of his soul, in unaffected cheerfulness, and genial, though simple, elegance, lived JAMES THOMSON. Sensibly alive to all the beauties of Nature, he painted their images as they rose in review, and poured the whole profusion of them into his inimitable SEASONS.-Warmed with intense devotion to the Sovereign of the Universe, its flame glowing

through all his compositions, animated with unbounded benevolence, with the tenderest social sensibility, he never gave one moment's pain to any of his fellow-creatures, save only by his death, which happened at this place on the 22nd of August, 1748."

The present notice cannot be better concluded, than in the words of an Address to the Shade of Thomson, written by Burns; the prophetic truth of which, every revolving season only tends to confirm. While virgin SPRING, by Eden's flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod, in frolic mood, Or tunes Eolian strains between : While SUMMER, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade; Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade: While AUTUMN, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head; And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed: While maniac WINTER rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows.

So long, sweet poet of the year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;

While SCOTIA, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that THOMSON was her son.

C. C.

JOHN OSWALD :-SYLVESTER OTWAY.

AMONG the literary idlers who, about the years 1788 and 1789, occasionally illuminated the columns of the London newspapers with their poetical effusions, the name of Sylvester Otway holds a conspicuous place. He evinced merit enough to be admired by Burns; and of one whom so great a poet esteemed as of a kindred spirit, it cannot be uninteresting to know some particulars.

SYLVESTER OTWAY was the assumed name of a Mr. Oswald, who had been an officer in the army, but was then living loosely about town. Report has said, with little appearance of truth, that he was cashiered for cowardice. With the regiment in which he was an officer, he served some time in India; and there he left it, but certainly not from any cause injurious to his honor. In some lines, called his Farewell to Bombay, a couplet occurs, which intimates something directly the reverse.

Cruel destiny demands me,

HONOUR drags me from thine arms.

And the writer has been told by a gentleman who knew Oswald well, that he once saw him saluted in London as an old acquaintance, by a Highland colo

*See Life of Burns.

nel of distinguished gallantry, with a degree of hearty warmth which forbids the suspicion of any thing disgraceful attaching to his character. It was at the theatre they met, and the two friends were so rejoiced at recognizing each other, that they leapt across several intervening boxes to shake hands.

Mr. Oswald was a native of Edinburgh, and either his father or mother kept a coffee-house, well known of old as a place for public business, by the name of John's Coffee House. He served an apprenticeship to be a jeweller, and followed that occupation for some years, till, by the death of a relation, he succeeded to a considerable legacy, which he employed in purchasing a commission in a Highland regiment, which went shortly after to the East Indies. To the price of this commission he would, of course, be entitled when he quitted the army, and it was probably on the reversion of this fund that he subsisted after his return from India.

Soon after his appearance in London, Mr. Oswald took an active part in the proceedings of that party of Reformers, who, in those days, arrogated to themselves the title of "Friends of the people ;" and in a pamphlet which he wrote, entitled "Remarks on the Constitution of Great Britain," endeavoured to assist their cause, by shewing, that we had, in fact, no constitution at all, but were a prey to a venal and corrupt oligarchy, who despised our rights, and did with our resources what they pleased. The work shewed some ability in writing, but was full of crude notions, absurd principles, and dangerous speculation.

Mr. Oswald went farther than most of his sect in his ideas of the wrong which had crept into the sys