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of gratitude and esteem whispered to me that I ought to send you something by way of return. When a poet owes anything, particularly when he is indebted for good offices, the payment that usually recurs to him-the only coin indeed in which he is probably conversant-is rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed, and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks: my return I intended should have been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world have not seen, or, perhaps, for obvious reasons, canThese I shall send you before I leave Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, which, on the whole, is no bad way of spending one's precious hours and still more precious breath: at any rate, they will be, though a small, yet a very sincere mark of my respectful esteem for a gentleman whose farther acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar obligation.

not see.

The duke's song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms me. There is I know not what of wild happiness of thought and expression peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style, of which his Grace, old venerable Skinner, the author of "Tullochgorum," &c., and the late Ross, of Lochlea, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the only modern instances that I recollect, since Ramsay with his contemporaries, and poor Bob Fergusson went to the world of deathless existence and truly immortal song. The mob of mankind, that many-headed beast, would laugh at so serious a speech about an old song; but, as Job says, "O that mine adversary had written a book!" Those who think that composing a Scotch song is a trifling business-let them try.

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper attention to the Christian admonition-"Hide not your candle under a bushel," but "Let your light shine before men." I could name half a dozen dukes that I guess are a devilish deal worse employed; nay, I question if there are half a dozen better: perhaps there are not half that scanty number whom Heaven has favoured with the tuneful, happy, and, I will say, glorious gift.

I am, dear Sir,

Your obliged humble servant,

R. 'B.

did it lessen in the least his stoical indifference to riches. His love of learning, and the example of simplicity and virtue which he exhibited, gained him respect far and wide:the Duke's library was to him a castle, nor did he love to leave his command, save when on Sunday he rode to Elgin, to attend the Seceder meeting-house, for he was a zealous dissenter from the established kirk. It was the business of Hoy, during the day, to store his mind with all such knowledge as the publications of the time supplied, and then over a bottle of claret, after dinner, impart to his Grace of Gordon

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Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Square,
New Town, Edinburgh.

HERE have I sat, my dear Madam, in the stony altitude of perplexed study for fifteen | vexatious minutes, my head askew, bending over the intended card; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured around; my pendulous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the future letter, all for the important purpose of writing a complimentary card to accompany your trinket.

Compliment is such a miserable Greenland expression, lies at such a chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have the twentieth part of the esteem every one must have for you who knows you.

As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the pleasure of calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about seven or after, I shall wait on you for your farewell commands.

The hinge of your box I put into the hands of the proper connoisseur; but it is, like Willy Gaw's Skate, past redemption. The broken. glass, likewise, went under review; but deliberative wisdom thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric.

I am, dear Madam,

With all the sincerity of enthusiasm,
Your very obedient servant,

R. B.

[Concerning the name of this lady inquiries have been made in vain. The communication appeared, for the first time, in "Burns' Letters to Clarinda." The import of those celebrated letters has been much misrepresented; they are sentimental flirtations chiefly-a sort of Corydon-and-Phillis affair, with here and there passages over-warm, and expressions too graphic, such as all had to endure who were honoured with the correspondence of Burns.CUNNINGHAM.]

all that he reckoned valuable or important. He studied astronomy, entomology, and botany, and made valuable observations on each: if he despised wealth, he was equally indifferent about fame; his self-denial regarding all things that worldly men valued was wonderful. Burns was delighted with his blunt straight-forward manner; and the librarian strove, it is said, to re-pay it by giving the postboy a crown to contrive, no matter how, to stop the Bard's departure from Fochabers. The fierce impetuosity of Nicol prevented this."-ROBERT CARRUTHERS.]

No. LXXVII.

TO MISS CHALMERS.

Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787.

I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindlywelcome, well-filled sheet which I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness-it contains too much sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is impossible that even you two, whom I declare to my God I will give credit for any degree of excellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can go on to correspond at that rate; so, like those who, Shenstone says, retire because they have made a good speech, I shall, after a few letters, hear no more of you. I insist that you shall write whatever comes first: what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense; or to fill up a corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite hints about flattery: I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have any; though, thank heaven, I have found at last two girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another, without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss-A Lover.

world.

You will think it romantic when I tell you that I find the idea of your friendship almost necessary to my existence.-You assume a proper length of face in my bitter hours of bluedevilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest wishes at my good things.-I don't know, upon the whole, if you are one of the first fellows in you God's world, but you are so to me. this just now in the conviction that some inequalities in my temper and manner may perhaps sometimes make you suspect that I am not so your friend. warmly as I ought to be

No. LXXIX.

TO ROBERT AINSLIE.

Mauchline,

MY DEAR AINSLIE:

1 tell

R. B.

1787.

THERE is one thing for which I set great store by you as a friend, and it is this: "I have not a friend upon earth, besides yourself, to whom I can talk nonsense without forfeiting some degree of esteem. Now, to one like me, who never weighs what he says, such a friend is a valuable treasure. I was never a knave, but I Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting-places for my soul in her wanderings have been a fool all my life, and, in spite of all my endeavours, I see now plainly that I shall through the weary, thorny wilderness of this God knows I am ill-fitted for the never be wise. Now it rejoices my heart to struggle: I glory in being a Poet, and I want have met with such a fellow as you, who, to be thought a wise man-I would fondly be though you are not just such a hopeless fool as generous, and I wish to be rich. After all, II, yet I trust you will never listen so much to am afraid I am a lost subject. "Some folk hae a hantle o' fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." Afternoon-To close the melancholy reflections at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Carrick by the title of the "Wabster's grace :""Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we, Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we! Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he! -Up and to your looms, lads.”

No. LXXVIII.

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE,

EDINBURGH.

R. B.

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the temptation of the devil, as to grow so very
wise that you will in the least disrespect an
honest fellow, because he is a fool. In short, I
have set you down as the staff of my old age,
when the whole host of my friends will, after a
decent show of pity, have forgot me.

"Though in the morn comes sturt and strife,
Yet joy may come ere noon;
And I hope to live a merry, merry life,
When a' their days are done.'

Write me soon, were it but a few lines, just to tell me how that good sagacious man your father is that kind dainty body your motherthat strapping child your brother Douglasand my friend Rachael, who is as far before Rachael of old as she was before her bleareyed sister Leah.

No. LXXX.

R. B.

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coup de main to complete his purposes on you all at once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me; hummed over the rhynies; and, as I saw they were extempore, said to myself, they were very well; but when I saw at the bottom a name that I shall ever value with grateful respect, "I gapit wide, but naething spak." I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days and seven nights, and spake not a word.

I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed its functions, I cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility; and several events, great in their magnitude, and important in their consequences, occurred to my fancy. The downfal of the conclave, or the crushing of the Cork rumps; a ducal coronet to Lord George Gordon, and the protestant interest; or St. Peter's keys, to

You want to know how I come on. I am just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with my Latin, in "auld use and wont." The noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself in my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent being, whose image he so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality of the soul than any that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can never die. Let the worshipful squire H. L., or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their primitive nothing. At best, they are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of them strongly tinged with bituminous particles and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at "the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds."*

R. B.

sioners; and your lordship's patronage and goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of home that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest gratitude.

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, but I think he will probably weather out the remaining seven years of it; and, after the assistance which I have given and will give him, to keep the family together, I think, by my guess, I shall have rather better than two hundred pounds, and instead of seeking, what is almost impossible at present to find, a farm that I can certainly live by, with so small a stock, I shall lodge this sum in a bankinghouse, a sacred deposit, excepting only the calls of uncommon distress or necessitous old age.

These, my lord, are my views: I have resolved from the maturest deliberation; and now I am fixed, I shall leave no stone unturned to carry my resolve into execution. Your lordship's patronage is the strength of my hopes: nor have I yet applied to any body else. Indeed my heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any other of the great who have honoured me with their countenance. I am ill-qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, and tremble! nearly as much at the thought of the cold | promise as the cold denial; but to your lordship I have not only the honour, the comfort, but the pleasure of being

Your lordship's much obliged

And deeply indebted humble servant,

R. B. [For some notice of this nobleman, see "The Poet's Lament," page 309.]

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I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly better.

I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I sent for my book-binder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town; and bind it with all the elegance of his craft.

I would give my best song to my worst enemy, I mean the merit of making it, to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit.

I enclose you a proof copy of the "Banks of the Devon," which present with my best wishes to Charlotte. The "Ochil-hills"* shall probably have next week for yourself.None of your fine speeches !

No. LXXXIII.

TO THE SAME.

you

R. B.

Edinburgh, Dec. 19, 1787.

I BEGIN this letter in answer to your's of the 17th current, which is not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my bardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken, stilts; throwing my best leg with an air! and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed earth, after the long-expected shower!

I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see any where in my path that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, poverty; attended, as he always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering contempt; but I have sturdily withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day already, and still my motto is-I DARE! My worst enemy is moi-meme. I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, light-armed, well-mounted banditti, under the banners of imagination, whim, caprice, and passion: and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wisdom, prudence, and forethought move so very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and, alas! frequent defeat. There are just two creatures I would envy, a horse in his wild state, traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster

* [The song in honour of Miss Chalmers, beginning "Where braving angry winter's storms. See p. 374.] [Ultimately a judge, under the designation of Lord

on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor fear. R. B.

No. LXXXIV.

TO CHARLES HAY, Esq.,

ADVOCATE,†

ENCLOSING VERSES ON THE DEATH OF THE LORD PRESIDENT.

SIR:

December, 1787.

THE enclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion, last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of next morning's sleep, but did not please me; so it lay by, an ill-digested effort, till the other day that I gave it a critic brush.

These kind of subjects are much hackneyed; and, besides, the wailings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of all character for sincerity.These ideas damped my muse's fire; however, I have done the best I could, and, at all events, it gives me an opportunity of declaring that I have the honour to be, Sir,

Your obliged humble Servant,

LXXXV.

R. B.

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MR. MACKENZIE, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a poet. I have, Sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those of your character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by ***** friends to them, and honoured acquaintances to me; but you are the first gentleman in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart has interested himself for me, unsolicited and unknown.

I am not master enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am convinced, from the light in which you kindly view me, that you will do me the justice

Newton. He died October 19th, 1811, leaving a strong repu tation for his bacchanalianism, of which many whimsical anecdotes are told.]

all I can pretend to in that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression seems to be perplexed or faulty.

The poem opens finely. There are none of these idle prefatory lines which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th and 10th in particular,

"Where ocean's unseen bound Leaves a drear world of waters round,"

to believe this letter is not the manœuvre of the needy, sharping author, fastening on those in upper life who honour him with a little notice of him or his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and talents they have at times been guilty of. I do not think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless, indolent attention to economy is almost inseparable from it; then there must be, in the heart of every bard of Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility, are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurricane mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep is likewise fine; and, indeed, beautiful as the him out of the way of those windfalls of for- poem is, almost all the similes rise decidedly tune which frequently light on hardy impu- above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th is a dence and foot-licking servility. It is not easy pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 36th, "That to imagine a more helpless state than his whose foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly exprespoetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose sive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather uncharacter as a scholar gives him some preten-worthy of the rest; "to dare to feel" is an sions to the politesse of life-yet is as poor as

I am.

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kinder; learning never elevated my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an independent fortune at the plough-tail.

I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended in the least to the manners of the gentleman should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth with which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but reverence to God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. I have no return, Sir, to make you for your goodness but one-a return which, I am persuaded, will not be unacceptable-the honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for your happiness, and every one of that lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward the blow!

No. LXXXVI.

TO MISS WILLIAMS,*

R. B.

ON READING THE POEM OF THE SLAVE TRADE.

Edinburgh, Dec. 1787.

idea that I do not altogether like. The contrast of valour and mercy, from the 46th verse to the 50th, is admirable.

Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little confused in the apostrophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent to verses 57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connection seems ungrammatical:—

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The deeds of mercy that embrace
A distant sphere, an alien race,
Shall virtue's lips record, and claim
The fairest honours of thy name."

I beg pardon if I misapprehend the matter, but this appears to me the only imperfect passage in the poem. The comparison of the sunbeam is fine.

The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, I hope, as just as it is certainly elegant.

I KNOW very little of scientific criticism, so The thought,

* [Miss Williams had in the previous June addressed a complimentary epistle to Burns, which appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine for Sept. 1817, when the above letter also appeared for the first time, along with the following note by the Editor-the late Thomas Pringle.

"The Critique, though not without some traits of the poet's usual sound judgment and discrimination, appears on the whole to be much in the strain of those gallant and flattering responses which men of genius sometimes find it incumbent to issue when consulted upon the productions of their female admirers." In one of her letters to Burns,

the poetess, after expressing her admiration of "The Vision," "The Cotter's Saturday Night," and "The Monse," says "My mother's family is Scotch, and the dialect has been familiar to me from my infancy; I am, therefore, qualified to taste the charms of your native poetry, and, as I feel the strongest attachment for Scotland, Í share the triumph of your country in producing your laurels." The merits of Miss Williams are widely known; nor is it little honour to her muse that her fine song of "Evan Banks" has been imputed to Burns by Cromek and other good judges.-]

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