orse in the hottest day in summer, between Fort George and Aberdeen;
rather, much rather would I hold the office of him who every returning
noon plays upon the music-bells of the good town of Edinburgh;[38] and
rather, much rather would I be condemned to pass the next seven years of
my life, as a spiritless student at the college of Glasgow.

[Footnote 38: "All the people of business at Edinburgh, and even the
genteel company may be seen standing in crowds every day, from one to
two in the afternoon, in the open street.... The company are entertained
with a variety of tunes, played upon a set of bells, fixed in a steeple
hard by. As these bells are well toned, and the musician, who has a
salary from the city for playing upon them with keys, is no bad
performer, the entertainment is really agreeable, and very striking to
the ears of a stranger."--"Humphry Clinker," vol. ii., p. 223.--ED.]

Let our wit, my friend, continue to shine in a succession of brilliant
sparkles. Let there be no more distance between each flash of vivacity,
but what is necessary for giving time to observe its splendid radiance.
I hope I shall never again approach so near the clod of clay. I hope the
fire of my genius shall never again be so long in kindling, or so much
covered up with the dross of stupidity.

I have desired Donaldson to cause his correspondent at London, to send
a copy of the first volume of his collection to each of the Reviews,
that is to say, to Hamilton[39] and Griffiths, with whose names the
slate-blue covers of these awful oracles of criticism are inscribed.

[Footnote 39: Hamilton was the proprietor of "The Critical Review." Its
first editor was Smollett. Griffiths was the proprietor of "The Monthly
Review." Goldsmith worked for him for some time. Griffiths was fool
enough to venture, with the aid of his wife, to correct Goldsmith's
compositions.--See Forster's "Life of Goldsmith."--ED.]

Donaldson has yet about thirty-six pages of the second Volume to print.
I have given him two hundred lines more. He is a loadstone of prodigious
power, and attracts all my poetic needles. The Volume will be out next
week; the different pieces of which it is composed are, to be sure, not
all of equal merit. But is not that the case in every miscellaneous
collection, even in that excellent one published by Mr. Dodsley? The
truth is, that a volume printed in a small type exhausts an infinite
quantity of _copy_ (to talk technically) so that