Mackenzie engaged in the study of the law, and became an attorney in the Court of the Exchequer, in that city, in the latter end of the year 1766. In the year 1771 appeared, anonymously, the work for which he is chiefly celebrated, entitled "The Man of Feeling." It rose immediately to great popularity, and was followed, a few years after, by The Man of the World," which, though somewhat inferior to the former, breathes the same tone of exquisite sensibility. In the first-named work, the author paints his hero as constantly obedient to every emotion of his moral sense; in the "Man of the World," on the contrary, he exhibits a person rushing headlong into vice and ruin, and spreading misery all around him, by endeavoring to grasp at happiness in defiance of the moral sense. In 1778. having become a member of a new literary society in Edinburgh, he suggested the institution of a new periodical paper similar to the "Spectator." The scheme was speedily carried into effect, and the papers, under the title of "The Mirror," of which Mr. Mackenzie was the editor, were published in weekly numbers, and were subsequently republished with the names of the authors,' in three duodecimo volumes.

To the "Mirror" succeeded the "Lounger," a periodical of similar character, and equally successful. Mr. Mackenzie was the most valuable contributor to both these works. His papers are distinguished from all the rest by that sweetness and beauty of style, and tenderness of feeling, which form the peculiar character of his writings. Mr. Mackenzie, in the "Lounger," No. 97, was the first to appreciate the genius of Burns, in a review of his poems then recently published, by which the poet was brought into public notice and prevented from quitting his country, as he intended, for the West Indies. After this, Mr. Mackenzie published a number of dramas, but, though they possessed considerable merit as literary productions, they were not successful on the stage. His celebrity is derived principally from his "Essays," and his "Man of Feeling," which are distinguished by a beauty of style, depth of pathos, and delicacy of imagination, that will always render them popular. In private life, Mr. Mackenzie "was not more distinguished by the wit with which he enlivened a numerous circle of attached friends than the benevolence and wisdom with which he counselled and assisted them." This ornament of his native city died at Edinburgh, at the advanced age of eighty-six, rather from the decay of nature than from disease, on the 14th of January, 1831.2

Few modern writers have been more fortunate than Mr. Mackenzie in

The Mirror Club" consisted of Mr. Mackenzie, the chief contributor, Mr. Craig, Mr. Cullen, Mr. Bannatyne, Mr. Macleod, Mr. Abercrombie, Mr. George Home, and a few others.

A complete edition of his works was published at Edinburgh, in 8 vols. 8vo. in 1808. Sir Walter Scott held the talents of Mr. Mackenzie in great estimation, and in dedicating to him the novel of "Waverley," styled him the Scotch Addison. In summing up his merits as a novelist and essayist, the same high authority observes: "The historian of the Homespun Family' may place his narrative, without fear of shame, by the side of the Vicar of Wakefield;' and many passages in those papers, which he contributed to the Mirror' and 'Lounger,' attest with what truth, spirit, and ease he could describe, assume, and sustain a variety of characters.'

their appeals to the heart; and his fictions in the "Mirror" hold a conspicuous rank among the best efforts in pathetic composition. The story of "Le Roche," in Nos. 42, 43, and 44, has been frequently republished as a tract, but it is too long to insert here. Scarcely, if at all inferior to this, in true delicacy and pathos, is the touching narration in No. 49-the

STORY OF NANCY COLLINS.

As I walked one evening, about a fortnight ago, through St. Andrew's Square, I observed a girl meanly dressed, coming along the pavement at a slow pace. When I passed her, she turned a little towards me, and made a sort of halt, but said nothing. I am ill at looking anybody full in the face, so I went on a few steps before I turned my eye to observe her. She had, by this time, resumed her former pace. I remarked a certain elegance in her form which the poorness of her garb could not altogether overcome; her person was thin and genteel, and there was something not ungraceful in the stoop of her head and the seeming feebleness with which she walked. I could not resist the desire, which her appearance gave me, of knowing somewhat of her situation and circumstances; I therefore walked back, and repassed her with such a look (for I could bring myself to nothing more) as might induce her to speak what she seemed desirous to say at first. This had the effect I wished. "Pity a poor orphan!" said she, in a voice tremulous and weak. I stopped, and put my hand in my pocket. I had now a better opportunity of observing her. Her face was thin and pale; part of it was shaded by her hair, of a light brown color, which was parted in a disordered manner at her forehead, and hung loose upon her shoulders; round them was cast a piece of tattered cloak, which with one hand she held across her bosom, while the other was half outstretched to receive the bounty I intended for her. Her large blue eyes were cast on the ground; she was drawing back her hand as I put a trifle into it; on receiving which she turned them up to me, muttered something which I could not hear, and then letting go her cloak and pressing her hands together, burst into tears.

It was not the action of an ordinary beggar, and my curiosity was strongly excited by it. I desired her to follow me to the house of a friend hard by, whose beneficence I have often had occasion to know. When she arrived there, she was so fatigued and worn out that it was not till after some means used to restore her that she was able to give us an account of her misfortunes.

Her name, she told us, was Collins; the place of her birth one

of the northern counties of England. Her father, who had died several years ago, left her remaining parent with the charge of her, then a child, and one brother, a lad of seventeen. By his industry, however, joined to that of her mother, they were tolerably supported, their father having died possessed of a small farm, with the right of pasturage on an adjoining common, from which they obtained a decent livelihood; that last summer her brother, having become acquainted with a recruiting sergeant, who was quartered in a neighboring village, was by him enticed to enlist as a soldier, and soon after was marched off, along with some other recruits, to join his regiment; that this, she believed, broke her mother's heart; for that she had never afterwards had a day's health, and, at length, had died about three weeks ago; that, immediately after her death, the steward employed by the 'squire of whom their farm was held, took possession of everything for the arrears of their rent; that, as she had heard her brother's regiment was in Scotland when he enlisted, she had wandered hither in quest of him, as she had no other relation in the world to own her! But she found, on arriving here, that the regiment had been embarked several months before, and was gone a great way off, she could not tell whither.

me.

"This news," said she, "laid hold of my heart, and I have had something wrong here," putting her hand to her bosom, "ever since. I got a bed and some victuals in the house of a woman here in town, to whom I told my story, and who seemed to pity I had then a little bundle of things which I had been allowed to take with me after my mother's death; but the night before last somebody stole it from me while I slept, and so the woman said she would keep me no longer, and turned me out into the street, where I have since remained, and am almost famished for want."

She was now in better hands; but our assistance had come too late. A frame, naturally delicate, had yielded to the fatigues of her journey and the hardships of her situation. She declined by slow but uninterrupted degrees, and yesterday breathed her last. A short while before she expired, she asked to see me, and taking from her bosom a silver locket, which she told me had been her mother's, and which all her distresses could not make her part with, begged I would keep it for her dear brother, and give it him, if ever he should return home, as a token of her remembrance.

I felt this poor girl's fate strongly; but I tell not her story merely to indulge my feelings; I would make the reflections it may excite in my readers useful to others who may suffer from similar causes. There are many, I fear, from whom their

country has called brothers, sons, or fathers, to bleed in her service, forlorn, like poor Nancy Collins, with "no relation in the world to own them." Their sufferings are often unknown when they are such as most demand compassion. The mind that cannot obtrude its distresses on the ear of pity is formed to feel their poignancy the deepest.

In our idea of military operations, we are too apt to forget the misfortunes of the people. In defeat, we think of the fall, and in victory, of the glory of commanders; we seldom allow ourselves to consider how many in a lower rank both events make wretched; how many, amidst the acclamations of national triumph, are left to the helpless misery of the widowed and the orphan, and, while victory celebrates her festival, feel, in their distant hovels, the extremities of want and wretchedness!

In humorous delineation, also, Mr. Mackenzie has presented us with various specimens. The descriptions of the "Homespun Family" in the "Mirror," and of the "Mushroom Family" in the "Lounger," are told in such a delicate vein of irony, satire, and humor, as to rival the best papers of that character in the "Spectator" of Addison.

THE HOMESPUN FAMILY.

To the Author of the "Mirror."

SIR: Some time ago I troubled you with a letter giving an account of a particular sort of grievance felt by the families of men of small fortunes, from their acquaintance with those of great ones. I am emboldened by the favorable reception of my first letter to write you a second upon the same subject.

You will remember, sir, my account of a visit which my daughters paid to a great lady in our neighborhood, and of the effects which that visit had upon them. I was beginning to hope that time and the sobriety of manners which home exhibited would restore them to their former situation, when, unfortunately, a circumstance happened still more fatal to me than their expedition This, sir, was the honor of a visit from the great lady

to

in return.

I was just returning from the superintendence of my ploughs in a field I have lately enclosed, when I was met on the green before my door by a gentleman (for such I took him to be), mounted upon a very handsome gelding, who asked me, by the appellation of honest friend, if this was not Mr. Homespun's; and, in the same breath, whether the ladies were at home.

I told

him my name was Homespun, the house was mine, and my wife and daughters were, I believed, within. Upon this, the young man, pulling off his hat, and begging my pardon for calling me honest, said he was dispatched by Lady with her compliments to Mrs. and Misses Homespun, and that, if convenient, she intended herself the honor of dining with them on her return from BPark (the seat of another great and rich lady in our neighborhood).

I confess, Mr. Mirror, I was struck somewhat of an heap with the message, and it would not, in all probability, have received an immediate answer had it not been overheard by my eldest daughter, who had come to the window on the appearance of a stranger. "Mr. Papillot," said she immediately, "I rejoice to see you; I hope your lady and all the family are well." "Very much at your service, ma'am," he replied, with a low bow; "my lady sent me before with the offer of her best compliments, and that, if convenient"-and so forth, repeating his words to me. "She does us infinite honor," said my young madam; "let her ladyship know how happy her visit will make us; but, in the mean time, Mr. Papillot, give your horse to one of the servants, and come in and have a glass of something after your ride." "I am afraid," answered he (pulling out his right-hand watch, for, would you believe it, sir? the fellow had one in each fob), “I shall hardly have time to meet my lady at the place she appointed me." On a second invitation, however, he dismounted and went into the house, leaving his horse to the care of the servants; but the servants, as my daughter very well knew, were all in the fields at work; so I, who have a liking for a good horse, and cannot bear to see him neglected, had the honor of putting Mr. Papillot's in the stable myself.

After about an hour's stay, for the gentleman seemed to forget his hurry within doors, Mr. Papillot departed. My daughters, I mean the two polite ones, observed how handsome he was, and added another observation, that it was only to particular friends my lady sent messages by him, who was her own body servant, and not accustomed to such offices. My wife seemed highly pleased with this last remark; I was about to be angry, but on such occasions it is not my way to say much; I generally shrug up my shoulders in silence, yet, as I said before, Mr. Mirror, I would not have you think me hen-pecked.

By this time, every domestic about my house, male and female, were called from their several employments to assist in the preparations for her ladyship's reception. It would tire you to enumerate the various shifts that were made by purchasing, borrowing, &c., to furnish out a dinner suitable to the occasion. My