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and all her attention, and forgets that there is another object in the world.

I have therefore read Burns's poems, and have read them twice; and, though they be written in a language that is new to me, and many of them on subjects much inferior to the author's ability, I think them on the whole a very extraordinary production. He is, I believe, the only poet these kingdoms have produced in the lower rank of life since Shakspeare (I should rather say since Prior) who need not be indebted for any part of his praise to a charitable consideration of his origin and the disadvantages under which he has labored. It will be a pity if he should not hereafter divest himself of barbarism, and content himself with writing pure English, in which he appears perfectly qualified to excel. He who can command admiration dishonors himself if he aims no higher than to raise a laugh.

the constraint of obligation could induce me to write now. I cannot be so wanting to Mrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams myself as not to endeavor, at least, to thank as everybody else does, that is to say, accord- you both for the visits with which you have ing to her own experience. She has had no favored me, and the poems that you sent me; extraordinary ones, and therefore accounts in my present state of mind I taste nothing, them only the ordinary operations of the nevertheless I read, partly from habit, and fancy. Mine are of a texture that will not partly because it is the only thing I am capasuffer me to ascribe them to so inadequate a ble of. cause, or to any cause but the operation of an exterior agency. I have a mind, my dear, (and to you I will venture to boast of it) as free from superstition as any man living, neither do I give heed to dreams in general as predictive, though particular dreams I believe to be so. Some very sensible persons, and, I suppose, Mrs. Carter among them, will acknowledge that in old times God spoke by dreams, but affirm with much boldness that he has since ceased to do so. If you ask them why, they answer, because he has now revealed his will in the Scripture, and there is no longer any need that he should instruct or admonish us by dreams. I grant that with respect to doctrines and precepts he has left us in want of nothing, but has he thereby precluded himself in any of the operations of his Providence? Surely not. It is perfectly a different consideration; and the same need that there ever was of his interference in this way there is still, and ever must be, while man continues blind and fallible, and a creature beset with dangers, which he can neither foresee nor obviate. His operations however of this kind are, I allow, very rare; and, as to the generality of dreams, they are made of such stuff, and are in themselves so insignificant, that, though I believe them all to be the manufacture of others, not our own, I account it not a farthing-matter who manufactures them. So much for dreams!

My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes seems to leave me. It is altogether of the nervous kind, and attended now and then with much dejection.

A young gentleman called here yesterday who came six miles out of his way to see me. He was on a journey to London from Glasgow, having just left the University there. He came, I suppose, partly to satisfy his own curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring me the thanks of some of the Scotch professors for my two volumes. His name is Rose, an Englishman. Your spirits being good, you will derive more pleasure from this incident than I can at present, therefore I send it.* Adieu, very affectionately,

W. C.

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ.
Weston, July 24, 1787.
Dear Sir,-This is the first time I have
written these six months, and nothing but

* Mr. Rose was the son of Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, who

I am, dear sir, with my best wishes for your prosperity, and with Mrs. Unwin's respects,

Your obliged and affectionate humble servant, W. C.

Burns is one of those instances which the annals of literature occasionally furnish of genius surmounting every obstacle by its own natural powers, and rising to commanding eminence. He was a Scottish peasant, born in Ayrshire, a native of that land where Fingal lived and Ossian sung.* He rose from the plough, to take his part in the polished and intellectual society of Edinburgh, where he was admitted to the intercourse of Robertson, Blair, Lord Monboddo, Stewart, Alison, and Mackenzie, and found a patron in the Earl of Glencairn.

formerly kept a seminary there. He was at this time a young man, distinguished by talent and great amiableness of character, and won the regard and esteem of Cowper. He soon became one of his favorite correspon

dents.

* The peasantry of Scotland do not resemble the same class of men in England, owing to a legal provision made by the Parliament of Scotland, in 1646, whereby a school is established in every parish, for the express purpose of educating the poor. This statute was ropealed on the accession of Charles the Second, in 1660, but was finally re-established by the Scottish Parliainetik, after the Revolution, in 1696. The consequence of this enactment is, that every one, even in the humblest cote dition of life, is able to read; and most persons are more or less skilled in writing and arithmetic. The moral effects are such, that it has been said, one quarter se sions for the town of Manchester has sent more feluns during a whole year. Why is not a similar enactment for transportation than all the judges of Scotland consign made for Ireland, where there is more ignorance and consequently more demoralization, than in any country of equal extent in Europe?

His poetry is distinguished by the powers of a vivid imagination, a deep acquaintance with the recesses of the human heart, and an ardent and generous sensibility of feeling. It contains beautiful delineations of the scenery and manners of his country. "Many of her rivers and mountains," observes his biographer, formerly unknown to the muse, are now consecrated by his immortal verse; the Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their borders will be trod with new and superior emotions."

It is to be lamented that, owing to the diaJect in which his poems are for the most part written, they are not sufficiently intelligible to English readers. His popular songs have given him much celebrity in his own country.f

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TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ.

Unhappily the fame of his genius attracted around him the gay and social, and his fine Weston, Aug. 27, 1787. powers were wasted in midnight orgies; till Dear Sir, I have not yet taken up the pen he ultimately fell a victim to intemperance, in again, except to write to you. The little the thirty-eighth year of his age; furnishing taste that I have had of your company, and one more melancholy instance of genius not your kindness in finding me out, make me advancing the moral welfare and dignity of wish that we were nearer neighbors, and that its possessor, because he rejected the guid- there were not so great a disparity in our ance of prudence, and forgot that it is religion years-that is to say, not that you were oldalone that can make men truly great or hap-er, but that I were younger. Could we have py. How often is genius like a comet, eccentric in its course, which, after astonishing the world by its splendor, suddenly expires

and vanishes!

We think that if a selection could be made from his works, excluding what is of fensive, and retaining beauties which all must appreciate, an acceptable service might be rendered to the British public. Who can withhold their admiration from passages like

these?

"Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear."
Speaking of religion, he observes:—
"Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning

bright,

"Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. [few; When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are

When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue;
'Tis thus that wards the blow, or stills the smart,

Disarms affliction, or repels his dart;
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise,
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless
skies."

We would also quote the following beautiful lines from his Cotter's (or Cottager's) Saturday Night, which represents the habits of domestic piety in humble life.

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met in early life, I flatter myself that we might have been more intimate than now we are likely to be. But you shall not find me slow to cultivate such a measure of your regard as your friends of your own age can spare me. When your route shall lie through this country, I shall hope that the same kindness which has prompted you twice to call on me, will prompt you again, and I shall be happy if, on a future occasion, I may be able to give you a more cheerful reception than can be expected from an invalid. My health and spirits are considerably improved, and I once more associate with my neighbors. My head, however, has been the worst part of me, and still continues so; is subject to giddiness and pain, maladies very unfavorable to poetical employment; but a preparation of the bark, which I take regularly, has so far been of service to me in those respects, as to encourage in me a hope that, by persevermyself qualified to resume the translation of ance in the use of it, I may possibly find

Homer.

When I cannot walk, I read, and perhaps more than is good for me. But I cannot be idle. The only mercy that I show myself in this respect, is, that I read nothing that requires much closeness of application. I lately finished the perusal of a book, which in former years I have more than once attacked, but never till now conquered; some other

*This is said to be a portrait of his own father's domestic piety.

book always interfered before I could finish it. The work I mean is Barclay's "Argenis;"* and, if ever you allow yourself to read for mere amusement, I can recommend it to you (provided you have not already perused it) as the most amusing romance that ever was written. It is the only one, indeed, of an old date, that I ever had the patience to go through with. It is interesting in a high degree; richer in incident than can be imagined; full of surprises, which the reader never forestalls; and yet free from all entanglement and confusion. The style, too, appears to be such as would not dishonor Tacitus himself.

Poor Burns loses much of his deserved praise in this country, through our ignorance of his language. I despair of meeting with any Englishman who will take the pains that I have taken to understand him. His candle is bright, but shut up in a dark lantern. I lent him to a very sensible neighbor of mine. But his uncouth dialect spoiled all, and, before he had half read him through he was quite bamboozled.

TO LADY HESKETU.

W. C.

The Lodge, Aug. 30, 1787.

My dearest Cousin,-Though it costs me something to write, it would cost me more to be silent. My intercourse with my neighbors being renewed, I can no longer seem to forget how many reasons there are why you, especially, should not be neglected; no neighbor, indeed, but the kindest of my friends, and ere long, I hope, an inmate.

My health and spirits seem to be mending daily. To what end I know not, neither will conjecture, but endeavor, as far as I can, to be content that they do so. I use exercise, and take the air in the park and wilderness. I read much, but as yet write not. Our friends at the Hall make themselves more and more amiable in our account, by treating us rather as old friends than as friends newly acquired. There are few days in which we do not meet, and I am now almost as much at home in their house as in our own. Mr. Throckmorton, having long since put me in possession of all his ground, has now given ine possession of his library. An acquisition of great value to me, who never have been able to live without books, since I first knew my letters, and who have no books of my own. By his means I have been so well supplied, that I have not even yet looked at the

* A Latin romance, once celebrated. Barclay was the author of two celebrated Latin romances; the first entitled Euphormio, a political, satirical work, chiefly levelled against the Jesuits, and dedicated to James I. His Argenis is a political allegory, descriptive of the state of Europe, and especially of France, during the League. Sir Walter Scott alludes to the Euphormio in his notes on Marmion, canto 3rd.

“Lounger," for which, however, I do not forget that I am obliged to you. His turn comes next, and I shall probably begin him to-morrow.

Mr. George Throckmorton is at the Hall. I thought I had known these brothers long enough to have found out all their talents and accomplishments. But I was mistaken. The day before yesterday, after having walked with us, they carried us up to the library (a more accurate writer would have said conducted us), and then they showed me the contents of an immense portfolio, the work of their own hands. It was furnished with drawings of the architectural kind, executed in a most masterly manner, and, among others, contained outside and inside views of the Pantheon, I mean the Roman one. They were all, I believe, made at Rome. Some men may be estimated at a first interview, but the Throckmortons must be seen often and known long before one can understand all their value.*

They often inquire after you, and ask me whether you visit Weston this autumn. I answer, yes; and I charge you, my dearest cousin, to authenticate my information. Write to me, and tell us when we may expect to see you. We were disappointed that we had no letter from you this morning. You will find me coated and buttoned according to your recommendation.

I write but little, because writing has become new to me; but I shall come on by degrees. Mrs. Unwin begs to be affectionately remembered to you. She is in tolerable health, which is the chief comfort here that I

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The Lodge, Sept. 4, 1787. My dearest Coz.,-Come, when thou canst come, secure of being always welcome! All that is here is thine, together with the hearts of those who dwell here. I am only sorry that your journey hither is necessarily postponed beyond the time when I did hope to have seen you; sorry, too, that my uncle's infirmities are the occasion of it. But years will have their course and their effect; they are happiest, so far as this life is concerned, who like him escape those effects the longest,

*With Mr., afterwards Sir John Throckmorton, the

Editor had not the opportunity of being acquainted; but he would fail in rendering what is due to departed worth, if he did not record the high sense which be entertained of the virtues of his brother, Sir George Throck morton. To the polished manners of the gentlem:n he united the accomplishments of the scholar and the man of taste and refinement; while the attention paid to the wants, the comforts, and instruction of the poor, in which another participated with equal promptness and delight, has left behind a memorial that will not soon be for gotten.

has this rare property to recommend it, that nobody suffers by it.

and who do not grow old before their time. Trouble and anguish do that for some, which only longevity does for others. A few I am making a gravel-walk for winter use, months since I was older than your father is under a warm hedge in the orchard. It shall now, and, though I have lately recovered, as be furnished with a low seat for your accomFalstaff says, some smatch of my youth, I have modation, and if you do but like it I shall be but little confidence, in truth none, in so flat- satisfied. In wet weather, or rather after wet tering a change, but expect, when I least ex-weather, when the street is dirty, it will suit pect it, to wither again. The past is a pledge for the future.

Mr. G. is here, Mrs. Throckmorton's uncle. He is lately arrived from Italy, where he has resided several years, and is so much the gentleman that it is impossible to be more so. Sensible, polite, obliging; slender in his figure, and in manners most engaging every way worthy to be related to the Throckmortons.*

I have read Savary's Travels into Egypt;† Memoires du Baron de Tott; Fenn's Original Letters; the letters of Frederick of Bohemia; and am now reading Memoires d'Henri de Lorraine, Duc de Guise. I have also read Barclay's Argenis, a Latin romance, and the best romance that ever was written-all these, together with Madan's Letters to Priestly, and several pamphlets, within these two months. So I am a great reader.

TO LADY HESKETH.

W. C.

you well, for, lying on an easy declivity through its whole length, it must of course be immediately dry.

You are very much wished for by our friends at the Hall-how much by me I will not tell you till the second week in October. Yours, W. C.

TO LADY HESKETH.

The Lodge, Sept. 29, 1787.

My dear Coz.,-I thank you for your political intelligence: retired as we are, and seemingly excluded from the world, we are not indifferent to what passes in it; on the contrary, the arrival of a newspaper, at the present juncture, never fails to furnish us with a theme for discussion, short indeed, but satisfactory, for we seldom differ in opinion.

I have received such an impression of the Turks, from the Memoirs of Baron de Tott, which I read lately, that I can hardly help presaging the conquest of that empire by the The Lodge, Sept. 15, 1787. Russians. The disciples of Mahomet are My dearest Cousin,-on Monday last I was such babies in modern tactics, and so enerinvited to meet your friend, Miss J- at vated by the use of their favorite drug, so the Hall, and there we found her. Her good fatally secure in their predestinarian dream, nature, her humorous manner, and her good and so prone to a spirit of mutiny against sense, are charming, insomuch that even I, their leaders, that nothing less can be exwho was never much addicted to speech- pected. In fact, they had not been their own making, and who at present find myself par- masters at this day, had but the Russians ticularly indisposed to it, could not help saying known the weakness of their enemies half so at parting, I am glad that I have seen you, and well as they undoubtedly know it now. sorry that I have seen so little of you. We to this, that there is a popular prophecy current were sometimes many in company; on Thurs- in both countries, that Turkey is one day to day we were fifteen, but we had not alto-fall under the Russian sceptre. A prophecy, gether so much vivacity and cleverness as Miss J, whose talent at mirth-making

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which, from whatever authority it be derived,
as it will naturally encourage the Russians, and
dispirit the Turks, in exact proportion to the
degree of credit it has obtained on both sides,
has a direct tendency to effect its own ac-
complishment. In the meantime, if I wish
them conquered, it is only because I think it
will be a blessing to them to be governed by
For under
any other hand than their own.
heaven has there never been a throne so ex-
ecrably tyrannical as theirs. The heads of
the innocent that have been cut off to gratify
the humor or caprice of their tyrants, could
they be all collected and discharged against
the walls of their city, would not leave one
stone on another.

O that you were here this beautiful day! It is too fine by half to be spent in London. have a perpetual din in my head, and

I

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Weston Underwood, Oct. 2, 1787.

My dear Friend, After a long but necessary interruption of our correspondence, I return to it again, in one respect at least better qualified for it than before; I mean by a belief of your identity, which for thirteen years I did not believe. The acquisition of this light, if light it may be called which leaves

me as much in the dark as ever on the most interesting subjects, releases me however from the disagreeable suspicion that I am addressing myself to you as the friend whom I loved and valued so highly in my better days, while in fact you are not that friend, but a stranger. I can now write to you without seeming to act a part, and without having any need to charge myself with dissimulation-a charge from which, in that state of mind and under such an uncomfortable persuasion, I knew not how to exculpate myself, and which, as you will easily conceive, not seldom made my correspondence with you a burden. Still, indeed, it wants, and is likely to want, that best ingredient which can alone make it truly pleasant either to myself or you that spirituality which once enlivened all our intercourse. You will tell me, no doubt, that the knowledge I have gained is an earnest of more and more valuable information, and that the dispersion of the clouds, in part, promises, in due time, their complete dispersion. I should be happy to believe it; but the power to do so is at present far from me. Never was the mind of man benighted to the degree that mine has been. The storms that have assailed me would have overset the faith of every man that ever had any; and the very remembrance of them, even after they have been long passed by, makes hope impossible.

Mrs. Unwin, whose poor bark is still held together, though shattered by being tossed and agitated so long at the side of mine, does not forget yours and Mrs. Newton's kindness on this last occasion. Mrs. Newton's offer to come to her assistance, and your readiness to have rendered us the same service, could you have hoped for any salutary effect of your presence, neither Mrs. Unwin nor my

* Private correspondence.

self undervalue, nor shall presently forget. But you judged right when you supposed, that even your company would have been no relief to me; the company of my father or my brother, could they have returned from the dead to visit me, would have been none to me.

We are busied in preparing for the recep tion of Lady Hesketh, whom we expect here shortly. We have beds to put up, and furniture for beds to make; workmen, and scouring, and bustle. Mrs. Unwin's time has of course been lately occupied to a degree that made writing to her impracticable; and she excused herself the rather, knowing my intentions to take her office. It does not, however, suit me to write much at a time. This last tempest has left my nerves in a worse condition than it found them; my head especially, though better informed, is more infirm than ever. I will therefore only add our joint love to yourself and Mrs. Newton, and that I am, my dear friend,

Your affectionate

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ.

W. C.*

Weston, Oct. 19, 1787.

Dear Sir,-A summons from Johnston, which I received yesterday, calls my attention once more to the business of translation.

Before I begin, I am willing to catch though last favor. The necessity of applying my but a short opportunity to acknowledge your self with all diligence to a long work, that has been but too long interrupted, will make my opportunities of writing rare in future. but particularly so to the man whose mind Air and exercise are necessary to all men, labors, and to him who has been all his life accustomed to much of both they are necessary in the extreme. parted, has been devoted entirely to the recovery of health and strength for this service, Ten months have passed since I discontinued and I am willing to hope with good effect. my poetical efforts; I do not expect to find the same readiness as before, till exercise of the neglected faculty, such as it is, shall have

restored it to me.

My time, since we

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