chiefly in studying the classics, and in composing various small poetical pieces, which appeared from time to time in the "Scot's Magazine," and drew him more and more into notice, until, in 1758, he was appointed usher in the grammar-school at Aberdeen; and in two years after, he was elected Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic in the Marischal College. He immediately prepared a course of lectures for the students, and in 1761 published a small volume of poems, consisting chiefly of those which had already appeared anonymously in the "Scot's Magazine." In 1765, he published his poem "The Judgment of Paris," which has but little merit. The same year he became acquainted with the poet Gray, then on a visit to Scotland, whom he reverently admired; and a friendship was formed between the two poets which terminated only with the death of Gray.

In June, 1767, he married Miss Mary Dun, daughter of the rector of the grammar-school at Aberdeen. In the same year he began to prepare his celebrated" Essay on Truth," which appeared in 1770; and so much interest did it excite that, in less than four years, it went through five editions, and was translated into several foreign languages. Its chief aim was to refute the skeptical writings of Hume, or, in Dr. Beattie's own words, " to overthrow scepticism, and establish conviction in its place." In 1771, he gave to the world the first book of his celebrated poem, "The Minstrel." It was received with universal approbation. Honors flowed in upon him from every quarter. He visited London, and was admitted to all its brilliant and distinguished circles; and Goldsmith, Johnson, Garrick, and Reynolds were soon numbered among his friends. On a second visit in 1773, he had an interview with the king and queen, which resulted in his receiving a pension of two hundred pounds per annum.

In 1774, Beattie published the second book of "The Minstrel," the success of which quite equalled that of the former. A new edition of his "Essay on Truth" appeared in 1776, together with three other essays-on Poetry and Music; on Laughter and Ludicrous Composition; and on the Utility of Classical Learning. In 1786, he published his "Evidences of Christianity;" and in the year following, appeared his "Elements of Moral Science." In 1790 he lost his eldest son ; and, in 1796, his only remaining

A very severe article on this essay may be found in the Edinburgh Review, vol. x. p. 171.

In the early training of his eldest and beloved son, Dr. Beattie adopted an expedient of a romantic and interesting description. His object was to give him the first idea of a Supreme Being; and his method, as Dr. Porteus, Bishop of London, remarked, "had all the imagination of Rousseau, without his folly and extravagance."

"He had," says Beattie, "reached his fifth (or sixth) year, knew the alphabet, and could read a little; but had received no particular information with respect to the Author of his being, because I thought he could not yet understand such information, and because I had learned, from my own experience, that to be made to repeat words not understood is extremely detrimental to the faculties of a young mind. In the corner of a little garden, without informing any person of the circumstance, I wrote in the mould, with my finger, the three initial letters of his name, and sowing garden cresses in the furrows, covered up the seed, and smoothed the ground. Ten days after he came running to me, and with astonishment in his countenance, told me that his name was growing in

one.

These afflictions, together with the insanity of his wife, of which there were some indications even a few years after they were married, seriously affected his health. In April, 1799, he suffered a stroke of the palsy, a repetition of which, in 1802, deprived him of the use of his limbs; and death finally ended his sufferings, in the sixty-eighth year of his age, on the 18th of August, 1803. He was buried beside his two sons in the churchyard of St. Nicholas, Aberdeen.

The fame of Dr. Beattie rests chiefly upon "The Minstrel." It is a didactic poem, in the Spenserian stanza, designed "to trace the progress of a poetical genius, born in a rude age, from the first dawning of fancy and reason till that period at which he may be supposed capable of appearing in the world as a minstrel." The character of Edwin, the Minstrel (in which Beattie embodied his own early feelings and poetical aspirations), is very finely drawn, and a vein of pathetic moral reflection runs through the whole of the poem, which is of the purest kind, and highly elevating in its influence.

The character of Dr. Beattie is delineated in his writings, of which the most prominent features are purity of sentiment, and warm attachment to the principles of religion and morality. His style is classical, and always perspicuous. All his different critical, philological, and moral treatises are compositions of a very pleasing character; and it may with truth be said, that no one can read his works with a candid mind, and rise from the perusal of them unimproved-which is the greatest praise of an author.

the garden. I smiled at the report, and seemed inclined to disregard it; but he insisted on my going to see what had happened. "Yes," said I, carelessly, on coming to the place, "I see it is so; but there is nothing in this worth notice; it is mere chance," and I went away. He followed me, and taking hold of my coat, said, with some earnestness, "It could not be mere chance, for that somebody must have contrived matters so as to produce it." I pretend not to give his words or my own, for I have forgotten both; but I give the substance of what passed between us in such language as we both understood. "So you think," I said, "that what appears so regular as the letters of your name cannot be by chance?" "Yes," said he with firmness, "I think so!" "Look at yourself," I replied, "and consider your hands and fingers, your legs and feet, and other limbs; are they not regular in their appearance, and useful to you?" He said they were. "Came you then hither," said I, "by chance?" "No," he answered, "that cannot be; something must have made me." "And who is that something?" I asked. He said he did not know. (I took particular notice that he did not say, as Rousseau fancies a child in like circumstances would say, that his parents made him.) I had now gained the point I aimed at; and saw that his reason taught him (though he could not so express it) that what begins to be must have a cause, and that what is formed with regularity must have an intelligent cause. I therefore told him the name of the Great Being who made him and all the world, concerning whose adorable nature I gave him such information as I thought he could in some measure comprehend. The lesson affected him deeply, and he never forgot either it or the circumstance that introduced it."

5*

PUBLIC AND PRIVATE EDUCATION COMPARED.

Could mankind lead their lives in that solitude which is so favorable to many of our most virtuous affections, I should be clearly on the side of a private education. But most of us, when we go out into the world, find difficulties in our way, which good principles and innocence alone will not qualify us to encounter; we must have some address and knowledge of the world different from what is to be learned in books, or we shall soon be puzzled, disheartened, or disgusted. The foundation of this knowledge is laid in the intercourse of schoolboys, or at least of young men of the same age. When a boy is always under the direction of a parent or tutor, he acquires such a habit of looking up to them for advice, that he never learns to think or act for himself; his memory is exercised, indeed, in retaining their advice, but his invention is suffered to languish, till at last it becomes totally inactive. He knows, perhaps, a great deal of history or science; but he knows not how to conduct himself on those ever-changing emergencies which are too minute and too numerous to be comprehended in any system of advice. He is astonished at the most common appearances, and discouraged with the most trifling (because unexpected) obstacles; and he is often at his wits' end, where a boy of much less knowledge, but more experience, would instantly devise a thousand expedients.

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Another inconvenience attending private education is the suppressing of the principle of emulation, without which it rarely happens that a boy prosecutes his studies with alacrity or success. I have heard private tutors complain that they were obliged to have recourse to flattery or bribery to engage the attention of their pupil; and I need not observe how improper it is to set the example of such practices before children. True emulation, especially in young and ingenious minds, is a noble principle; I have known the happiest effects produced by it; I never knew it to be productive of any vice. In all public schools it is, or ought to be, carefully cherished. ** I shall only observe further, that when boys pursue their studies at home, they are apt to contract either a habit of idleness, or too close an attachment to reading: the former breeds innumerable diseases, both in the body and soul; the latter, by filling young and tender minds with more knowledge than they can either retain or arrange properly, is apt to make them superficial and inattentive, or, what is worse, to strain, and consequently impair the facultics, by overstretching them. I have known several instances of both.

The great inconvenience of public education arises from its being dangerous to morals. And, indeed, every condition and period of human life is liable to temptation. Nor will I deny that our innocence, during the first part of life, is much more secure at home than anywhere else; yet even at home, when we reach a certain age, it is not perfectly secure. Let young men be kept at the greatest distance from bad company; it will not be easy to keep them from bad books, to which, in these days, all persons may have easy access at all times. Let us, however, suppose the best; that both bad books and bad company keep away, and that the young man never leaves his parents' or tutor's side till his mind be well furnished with good principles, and himself arrived at the age of reflection and caution: yet temptations must come at last; and when they come, will they have the less strength because they are new, unexpected, and surprising? I fear not. The more the young man is surprised, the more apt will he be to lose his presence of mind, and consequently the less capable of self-government. Besides, if his passions are strong, he will be disposed to form comparisons between his past state of restraint and his present of liberty, very much to the disadvantage of the former. His new associates will laugh at him for his reserve and preciseness; and his unacquaintance with their manners, and with the world, as it will render him the more obnoxious to their ridicule, will also disqualify him the more both for supporting it with dignity, and also for defending himself against it. A young man, kept by himself at home, is never well known, even by his parents; because he is never placed in those circumstances which alone are able effectually to rouse and interest his passions, and consequently to make his character appear. His parents, therefore, or tutors, never know his weak side, nor what particular advices or cautions he stands most in need of; whereas, if he had attended a public school, and mingled in the amusements and pursuits of his equals, his virtues and his vices would have been disclosing themselves every day; and his teachers would have known what particular precepts and examples it was most expedient to inculcate upon him. Compare those who have had a public education with those who have been educated at home; and it will not be found, in fact, that the latter are, either in virtue or in talents, superior to the former.

THE SUPERSTITIONS AND MUSIC OF THE HIGHLANDERS.

The Highlands of Scotland are a picturesque, but in general a melancholy country. Long tracts of mountainous desert, covered

with dark heath, and often obscured by misty weather; narrow valleys, thinly inhabited, and bounded by precipices resounding with the fall of torrents; a soil so rugged, and a climate so dreary, as in many parts to admit neither the amusements of pasturage nor the labors of agriculture; the mournful dashing of waves along the friths and lakes that intersect the country; the portentous noises which every change of the wind and every increase and diminution of the waters is apt to raise in a lonely region, full of echoes, and rocks, and caverns; the grotesque and ghastly appearance of such a landscape by the light of the moon ;-objects like these diffuse a gloom over the fancy, which may be compatible enough with occasional and social merriment, but cannot fail to tincture the thoughts of a native in the hour of silence and solitude. If these people, notwithstanding their reformation in religion, and more frequent intercourse with strangers, do still retain many of their old superstitions, we need not doubt but in former times they must have been more enslaved to the horrors of imagination, when beset with the bugbears of popery and the darkness of paganism. Most of their superstitions are of a melancholy cast. That second sight wherewith some of them are still supposed to be haunted, is considered by themselves as a misfortune, on account of the many dreadful images it is said to obtrude upon the fancy. I have been told that the inhabitants of some of the Alpine regions do likewise lay claim to a sort of second sight. Nor is it wonderful that persons of lively imagination, immured in deep solitude, and surrounded with the stupendous scenery of clouds, precipices, and torrents, should dream, even when they think themselves awake, of those few striking ideas with which their lonely lives are diversified; of corpses, funeral processions, and other objects of terror; or of marriages and the arrival of strangers, and such like matters of more agreeable curiosity. Let it be observed, also, that the ancient Highlanders of Scotland had hardly any other way of supporting themselves than by hunting, fishing, or war, professions that are continually exposed to fatal accidents. And hence, no doubt, additional horrors would often haunt their solitude, and a deeper gloom overshadow the imagination even of the hardiest native.

What then would it be reasonable to expect from the fanciful tribe, from the musicians and poets, of such a region? Strains expressive of joy, tranquillity, or the softer passions? No: their style must have been better suited to their circumstances. And so we find in fact that their music is. The wildest irregularity appears in its composition: the expression is warlike and melancholy, and approaches even to the terrible. And that their poetry