from the chace, which has been unsuccessful, more ways than one.
THOUGH Pompey may be justly called a dog of a liberal education, and some genius, which is evident from his peculiar address at fetching, carrying, and other operations of that nature; yet it must be confessed, that his talents are by no means universal. For this reason it was, I suppose, that he did not succeed, capitally, in exhibiting the

ignis fatuus. I am even inclined to suspect that Sam was the superior agent of the two; or, to express myself more scholastically, he was the soul of the machine, and Pompey the body, or visible substance. The learned tell us, souls and bodies are sometimes apt to fall out, and this remark was exemplified in the present instance. In spite of Sam's attention and care, his animal part, to wit, the dog, was actuated with a strong desire to emancipate itself from controul, which it has accordingly effected.
I AM apprehensive that he will come home with all his meteorological apparatus about him, and, by that means, discover our plot; but have ordered Sam to wait an hour for his arrival. Adieu. Supper waits. I'll finish the rest in the morning.

Friday Night.
I AM distracted—lost—undone, and have involved my father in my misery! That infernal dog came home and set fire to the house. Maitland-hall is now a heap of rubbish, and my father's strong box is lost. Good God! The torture of reflection is intolerable! I am torn by a thousand passions at once! My poor father is quite calm and resigned—He does not blame me—But his lenity cuts my heart more than the keenest reproaches. I am astonished at the folly of my past life.
CAN it be possible that a being, possessed of reason, should pass whole years in worse than indolence? Yes, 'tis too true; for I am that being! The conflict of passion is too violent for nature to support. It must end in the loss of

reason, or of life. Be it so; for existence is burthensome.
THE only good act of my life was the cultivation of your friendship. Your virtues engaged me; and even now, despairing, sick of the world, and quitting it, the last effort of my mind is employed in bidding you an eternal farewel.
Your lost friend, T. MAITLAND.

LETTER XXXVI. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. SELDON.
Dear SIR,
A TERRIBLE accident has prevented my coming to town this week