paper bearing the signature of one of the Commissioners is handed to the Economist, but instead of appending his own name, he copies that of the person who has already signed it. He now rises and sallies forth to indulge in a quiet walk about the Meadows, a fashionable place of resort; and after dining, he repairs to the “Poker Club,” to spend the remainder of his waking hours in the company of Black, and Hutton, and John Home. Now and then Dr. Smith paid a visit to London. On the last occasion of his being in the metropolis he had been engaged to dine with tall Harry Dundas, afterward Lord Melville, then the real “Cock of the North.” He happened to arrive too late, and the guests, among whom were Pitt, Grenville, and Addington, had taken their places at table; but on his entrance, they, with one accord, rose to receive him. The Doctor offered an apology for being so late, and begged them to resume their seats; but they said, “No, we’ll stand till you are seated, for we are all your scholars.” In the year 1787 the veteran philosopher was elected Rector of Glasgow University. He was touched by the compliment, and in acknowledging it, stated that no preferment could have given him so much real satisfaction, because the term of years, during which he had been a member of the Society, had formed by far the most useful, and therefore the happiest and most honorable, period of the life whose closing scene was now gradually drawing nigh. His last illness was painful and lingering, but in the summer of 1790 the angel of death gave no uncertain signals of approach. In accordance with an old Scottish custom, certainly more honored in the breach than the observance, Dr. Smith had been in the habit of inviting his intimate associates to supper on Sundays. This, it should be mentioned, was, at that date, practiced by men whose character for Christian piety was beyond all reproach or question; and the Economist’s adherence to it can not, with any show of reason, be cited in support of the tendency to infidelity, which has been, rightly or wrongly, imputed to him. It was a July evening when they last assembled, and the gathering was, as usual, pretty numerous; but the host found himself incapable of taking that part which he had so often done; and feeling himself unable to entertain them, he requested their permission to withdraw. On taking his leave, he said, “Indeed, gentlemen, I believe we must adjourn this meeting to some other place.” A few days brought release from his sufferings. He had just given orders for the destruction of all his manuscripts, with the exception of some detached essays, which, being left to the care of his executors, were afterward published; when he breathed his last in a state of complete mental resignation. He was most tenderly sympathized with in his pangs by a circle of sorrowing friends, who had learned fully to appreciate the powers of his intellect, the comprehensiveness of his views, the extent of his