"I have not many friends, but I love them well. Death has been among the few I have. Poor Dryburgh!--but he is happy. I expected to have been his companion through life, and that we should have stepped into the grave together; but Heaven has seen meet to dispose of him otherwise. What think you of this world? I think it very little worth. You and I have not a great deal to make us fond of it; and yet I would not exchange my condition with any unfeeling fool in the universe, if I were to have his dull hard heart into the bargain. Farewell, my rival in immortal hope! My companion, I trust, for eternity! Though far distant, I take thee to my heart; souls suffer no separation from the obstruction of matter, or distance of place. Oceans may roll between us, and climates interpose in vain--the whole material creation is no bar to the winged mind. Farewell! through boundless ages, fare thee well! May'st thou shine when the sun is darkened. May'st thou live and triumph when time expires! It is at least possible that we meet no more in this foreign land, in this gloomy apartment of the universe of God. But there is a better world in which we may meet to part no more. Adieu." But the grief of a true poet embodies itself in verse. The following lines, on the death of Dryburgh, were found among Bruce's papers. Alas! we fondly thought that heaven designed His bright example mankind to improve; All they should be was pictured in his mind, His thoughts were virtue, and his heart was love. Calm as the summer sun's unruffled face, He looked unmoved on life's precarious game, And smiled at mortals toiling in the chase Of empty phantoms, opulence and fame. Steady he followed virtue's onward path, Inflexible to error's devious way, And firm at last, in hope and fixed faith Through death's dark vale he trod without dismay. Whence then these sighs? And whence this falling tear In sad remembrance of his merit just? Still must I mourn! for he to me was dear And still is dear, though buried in the dust. Bruce's father made great efforts, by means of saving and borrowing, to assist his son during his college course, and Mr. Arnot continued to send him occasional supplies from his farm and dairy. But he was sadly straitened in the matter of books. The following letter upon this subject is characteristic and striking. "Edinburgh, Nov. 27, 1764.--I daily meet with proofs that money is a necessary evil. When in an auction, I often say to myself, how happy should I be if I had money to purchase such a book! How well should my library be furnished, 'nisi obstat res angusta domi,' 'My lot forbids, nor circumscribes alone My growing virtues, but my crimes confines.'