r leads us
to the society of our fellows as our proper sphere of enjoyment. My
early habits, by heightening my tone of thought and feeling, had tended
considerably to narrow my circle of companionship. My profession, too,
had led me to be much alone; and now that I had been several years the
master of an Indiaman, I was quite as fond of reading, and felt as deep
an interest in whatever took place in the literary world, as when a
student at St. Andrew's. There was much in the literature of the period
to gratify my pride as a Scotchman. The despotism, both political and
religious, which had overlaid the energies of our country for more than
a century, had long been removed, and the national mind had swelled and
expanded under a better system of things, till its influence had become
co-extensive with civilized man. Hume had produced his inimitable
history, and Adam Smith his wonderful work, which was to revolutionise
and new-model the economy of all the governments of the earth. And
there, in my little library, were the histories of Henry and Robertson,
the philosophy of Kaimes and Reid, the novels of Smollett and Mackenzie,
and the poetry of Beattie and Home. But, if there was no lack of
Scottish intellect in the literature of the time, there was a decided
lack of Scottish manners; and I knew too much of my humble countrymen
not to regret it. True, I had before me the writings of Ramsay and my
unfortunate friend Ferguson; but there was a radical meanness in the
first that lowered the tone of his colouring far beneath the freshness
of truth, and the second, whom I had seen perish--too soon, alas! for
literature and his country--had given us but a few specimens of his
power when his hand was arrested for ever.

My vessel, after a profitable, though somewhat tedious voyage, had again
arrived in Liverpool. It was late in December, 1786, and I was passing
the long evening in my cabin, engaged with a whole sheaf of pamphlets
and magazines which had been sent me from the shore. _The Lounger_ was,
at this time, in course of publication. I had ever been an admirer of
the quiet elegance and exquisite tenderness of Mackenzie; and, though I
might not be quite disposed to think, with Johnson, that "the chief
glory of every people arises from its authors," I certainly felt all
the prouder of my country, from the circumstance that so accomplished
a writer was one of my countrymen. I had read this evening some of the
more recent numbers,