Macculloch was, as I have stated, a native of the parish of Cromarty, and passed the greater part of a long life as a Society schoolmaster, on a salary of twelve pounds per annum. Out of this pittance he contrived to furnish himself with a library, which, among other works of value, contained the whole of the Encyclopædia Britannica in its second edition. Though full of compliment and gallantry in his younger days, he was for the last forty years of his life, so thoroughly a woman-hater, that he would not suffer one of the sex to enter his cottage, cook his victuals, or wash his linen. His wardrobe consisted of four suits--one of black, one of brown, one of raven grey, and one of tartan; and he wore them week about, without suffering the separate pieces of any one suit to encroach on the week of another. It has been told me that, in his eightieth year, he attended the dispensation of the sacrament in the Highland parish of Lairg, dressed in his tartans--kilt, hose, and bonnet. I do not well know whether to consider his singularities as those of the rhymer, the most eccentric of all men, or his predilection for rhyming as merely one of his singularities. His compositions were mostly satirical; but his only art of satire was the art of calling names in rhyme; and he seems to have had no positive pleasure in bestowing these, but to have flung them, just as he used to do his taws when in school, at the heads of all who offended him. His death took place about twenty years ago. I subjoin two of the “pasquils” pointed against him in his war with his brother rhymers, and the pieces in which he replied to them. They may show, should they serve no other purpose, what marvellous bad verse could be written in the classical age of Johnson and Goldsmith, and with what justice Dun-Loth piqued himself on having vanquished his opponents. TO DUN-LOTH. Dunloth, be wise, take my advice, Silence thy muse in time; For thy thick skull it is too dull To furnish prose or rhyme. But if thy pride will still thee guide To sing thy horrid lays; For any sake, my counsel take, And ne’er attempt to praise. Thy wit’s too low, thyself says so, In this we both agree; The Kilmote flower is, I am sure, A theme too high for thee. ANSWER. To notice much, base trash as such, I think it were a crime; Or yet to stoop, thou nincompoop, For thy poor paltry rhyme. Thy saucy gee shows thee to be Like a blind muzzled mole: Or like a rat chased by the cat To a dark muddy hole. The first time I thy place pass by, For thy poetic lesson, Thou’lt crouch, be sure, behind the door, Like a poor yelping messan. TO ---- How hard is thy lot, fair flower of Kilmote, To be sung by a poet so dull; Thy symmetry fine, is a theme too divine For a blockhead with such a thick skull. ANSWER.