Now though since God has thought pro- | be such a hard-run match in the whole per to make one powerful and another general election.* helpless, the connexion of obliger and obliged is all fair; and though my being under your patronage is to me highly honourable, yet, Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that as a poet and an honest man, you first interested yourself in my welfare, and principally as such still, you permit me to approach you. I have found the excise-business go on a great deal smoother with me than I expected; owing a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. Mitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to my correspondence with the Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and I believe to most of their acquaintance, like the visits of good angels, are short and far between; but I meet them now and then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of them the productions of my leisure thoughts in my excise rides. I am too little a man to have any political attachments; I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for, individuals of both parties; but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who * is a character that one cannot speak of with patience. * * * Sir J. J. does "what man can do ;" but yet I doubt his fate. No. LXXXVII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. Ellisland, 13th December, 1789. sheetful of rhymes. Though at present MANY thanks, dear Madam, for your I am below the veriest prose, yet from you every thing pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of a diseased nervous If you know or have ever seen Captain system; a system, the state of which is most Grose the antiquarian, you will enter into conducive to our happiness—or the most any humour that is in the verses on him. productive of our misery. For now near Perhaps you have seen them before, as three weeks I have been so ill with the I sent them to a London newspaper. nervous head-ache, that I have been oblig Though I dare say you have none of the ed to give up for a time my excise-books, solemn-league-and-covenant fire, which being scarcely able to lift my head, much shone so conspicuous in Lord George less to ride once a week over ten muir Gordon and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet parishes. What is man? To-day in the I think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, luxuriance of health, exulting in the enone of the clergymen of Ayr, and his he-joyment of existence; in a few days, perretical book. God help him, poor man! Though he is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out to the mercy of the winter-winds. The enclosed ballad on that business is, I confess, too local, but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too. The election ballad, as you will see, alludes to the present canvass in our string haps in a few hours, loaded with conscious painful being, counting the tardy pace of the lingering moments by the repercussions of anguish, and refusing or denied a comforter, day follows night, and night comes after day, only to curse him with life which gives him no pleasure; and yet the awful, dark termination of that life is a something at which he recoils. "Tell us, ye dead; will none of you in pity What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be! A little time will make us learn'd as you are. *This alludes to the contest for the borough of Dum of boroughs. I do not believe there will fries, between the Duke of Queensberry's interest and Y that of Sir James Johnstone. E. Can it be possible, that when I resign | nervous affections are in fact discases of I cannot reason, I cannot this frail, feverish being, I shall still find the mind. myself in conscious existence! When the think; and but to you I would not venlast gasp of agony has announced that I ture to write any thing above an order to am no more to those that knew me, and a cobbler. You have felt too much of the the few who loved me; when the cold, ills of life not to sympathize with a disstiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is re- eased wretch, who is impaired more than signed into the earth, to be the prey of half of any faculties he possessed. Your excuse this distracted unsightly reptiles, and to become in time goodness will a trodden clod, shall I be yet warm in scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely life, seeing and seen, enjoying and en-read, and which he would throw into the joyed? Ye venerable sages, and holy fire were he able to write any thing betflamens, is there probability in your con- ter, or indeed any thing at all. jectures, truth in your stories, of another world beyond death; or, are they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricated fables? If there is another life, it must be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and the humane: what a flattering idea, then, is a world to come! Would to God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it! There I should meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many buffetings of an evil world, against which he so long and so bravely struggled. There should I meet the friend, the disinterested friend of my early life; the man who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me and could serve me.- -Muir; thy weaknesses, were the aberrations of human nature, but thy heart glowed with every thing generous, manly and noble; and if ever emanation from the All-good Being animated a human form, it is thine !-There should I, with speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, my ever dear Mary! whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love. My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of heavenly rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters! I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy revelation of blissful scenes of existence beyond death and the grave, is not one of the many impositions which, time after time, have been palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in thee "shall all the families of the earth be biessed," by being yet connected together in a better world, where every tie that bound heart to heart in this state of existence, shall be, far beyond our present conceptions, more endearing. I am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain, that what are called Rumour told me something of a son of yours who was returned from the East or West-Indies. If you have gotten news of James or Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know; as I promise you on the sincerity of a man who is weary of one world and anxious about another, that scarce any thing could give me so much pleasure as to hear of any good thing befalling my honoured friend. If you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in pity to le pauvre miserable. R. B. No. LXXXVIII. TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. SIR, THE following circumstance has, 1 believe, been omitted in the statistical account transmitted to you, of the parish of Dunscore, in Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you, because it is new, and may be useful. How far it is deserving of a place in your patriotic publication, you are the best judge. To store the minds of the lower classes with useful knowledge is certainly of very great importance, both to them as individuals, and to society at large. Giving them a turn for reading and reflection, is giving them a source of innocent and laudable amusement; and, besides, raises them to a more dignified degree in the scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulating library, on a plan so simple as to be practicable in any corner of the country; and so useful as to deserve the notice of every country gentleman, who thinks the improvement of that part of his | removed, except in shape, from the brutes own species, whom chance has thrown in- he drives.* to the humble walks of the peasant and the artisan, a matter worthy of his attention. Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much-merited success, I am, Sir, your humble servant, No. LXXXIX. TO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ. Under a fictitious Signature, enclosing a ballad, 1790, or 1791. Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants, and farming neighbours, to form themselves into a society for the purpose of having a library among themselves. They entered into a legal engagement to abide by it for three years; with a saving clause or two, in case of a removal to a distance, or of death. Each member, at his entry, paid five shillings; and at each of their meetings, which were held every fourth Saturday, sixpence more. With their entry-money, and the credit which they took on the faith of their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock of books, at the commencement. What authors they were to purchase, was always decided by the majority. At every meet-of ing, all the books, under certain fines and forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be produced: and the members had their choice of the volumes in rotation. He whose name stood for that night first on the list, had his choice of what volume he pleased in the whole collection; the second had his choice after the first; the third after the second; and so on to the last. At next meeting, he who had been first on the list at the preceding meeting was last at this; he who had been second was first; and so on through the whole three years. At the expiration of the engagement, the books were sold by auction, but only among the members themselves; and each man had share of the common stock, in money or in books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman rank and fortune, and I am a poor devil; you are a feather in the cap of soci ety, and I am a very hobnail in his shoes; yet I have the honour to belong to the same family with you, and on that score I now address you. You will perhaps suspect that I am going to claim affinity with the ancient and honourable house of Kilpatrick: No, no, Sir: I cannot indeed be properly said to belong to any house, or even any province or kingdom, as my mother, who for many years was spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into this bad world, aboard the packet boat, somewhere between Donaghadee and Portpatrick. By our common family, I mean, Sir, the family of the Muses. I am a fiddler and a poet; and you, I am told, play an exqui This letter is extracted from the third volume of Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598.-It was enclosed to Sir John by Mr. Riddel himself, in the following letter, also printed there. "Sir John, I enclose you a letter, written by Mr Burns, as an addition to the account of Dunscore parish. It contains an account of a small library which he was At the breaking up of this little society, which was formed under Mr. Riddel's patronage, what with benefactions of books from him, and what with their own purchases, they had collected together so good (at my desire) as to set on foot, in the barony upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. of Monkland, or Friar's Carse, in this parish. As its It will easily be guessed, that a good deal utility has been felt, particularly among the younger class of people, I think, that if a similar plan were esof trash would be bought. Among the tablished in the different parishes of Scotland, it would books, however, of this little library, were, tend greatly to the speedy improvement of the tenantBlair's Sermons, Robertson's History of ry, trades people, and work-people. Mr. Burns was so Scotland, Hume's History of the Stuarts, good as to take the whole charge of this small concern. The Spectator, Idler, Adventurer, Mirror, He was treasurer, librarian, and censor, to this little Lounger, Observer, Man of Feeling, Man society, who will long have a grateful sense of his pubof the World, Chrysal, Don Quixotte, Jo-lic spirit and exertions for their improvement and inseph Andrews, &c. A peasant who can read and enjoy such books, is certainly a much superior being to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very little formation. I have the honour to be, Sir John, ROBERT RIDDEL." site violin, and have a standard taste in However, Sir. don't let me mislead you, as if I would interest your pity. Fortune has so much forsaken me, that she has taught me to live without her; and, amid all my rags and poverty, I am as independent, and much more happy than monarch of the world. According to the hackneyed metaphor, I value the several actors in the great drama of life, simply as they act their parts. I can look on a worthless fellow of a duke with unqualified contempt; and can regard an honest scavenger with sincere respect. As you, Sir, go through your roll with such distinguished merit, permit me to make one in the chorus of universal applause, and assure you that, with the highest respect, I have the honour to be, &c No. XC. TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. DEAR BROTHER, I MEAN to take advantage of the frank, though I have not, in my present frame of mind, much appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves are in a **** state. I feel that horrid hypocondria pervading every atom of both body and soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. But let it go to ****! I'll fight it out and be off with it. to you, Madam, long ere now. My health | daring adventurous spirits which Scotland, is greatly better, and I now begin once beyond any other country, is remarkable more to share in satisfaction and enjoy- for producing. Little does the fond moment with the rest of my fellow-creatures. ther think, as she hangs delighted over the sweet little leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, I remember and what may be his fate. a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart: Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your kind letters; but why will you make me run the risk of being contemptible and mercenary in my own eyes? When I pique myself on my independent spirit, I hope it is neither poetic license, nor poetic rant; and I am so flattered with the honour you have done me, in making me your compeer in friendship and friendly correspondence, that I cannot without pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded of the real inequality between our situations. "Little did my mother think, That day she cradled me, Or what death I should die!" Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit of mine; and now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of another old simple Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, ballad, which I am sure will please you. dear Madam, in the good news of Antho-The catastrophe of the piece is a poor ny. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow, in the little I had of his acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Shipwreck, which you so much admire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering many hard gales of fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate! I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving him birth, but he was the son of obscurity and misfortune.* He was one of those * Falconer was in early life a sea-boy, to use a word of Shakspeare, on board a man-of-war, in which capacity he attracted the notice of Campbell, the author of the satire on Dr. Johnson, entitled Lexiphanes, then purser of the ship. Campbell took him as his servant, and delighted in giving him instruction; and when Falconer afterwards acquired celebrity, boasted of him a surgeon of a man-of-war, in 1777, who knew both Campbell and Falconer, and who himself perished soon after by shipwreck on the coast of America. as his scholar. The Editor had this information from derson to his works, in the complete edition of the Poets ruined female lamenting her fate. "O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd; O that the grave it were my bed; My blankets were my winding sheet; She I do not remember in all my reading to have met with any thing more truly the language of misery than the exclamation in the last line. Misery is like love; to speak its language truly, the author must have felt it. I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson* the small-pox. They are rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By the way I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every person who sees him acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest child he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the manly swell of his little chest, and a certain miniature dig Though the death of Falconer happened so lately as 1770 or 1771, yet in the biography prefixed by Dr. An-nity in the carriage of his head, and the glance of his fine black eye, which proof Great Britain, it is said-"Of the family, birth-mise the undaunted gallantry of an indeplace, and education of William Falconer, there are no memorials." On the authority already given, it may be mentioned, that he was a native of one of the towns on the coast of Fife: and that his parents who had suffered some misfortunes, removed to one of the sea-ports of England, where they both died soon after, of an epidemic fever, leaving poor Falconer, then a boy, forlorn and destitute. In consequence of which he entered on board a man-of-war. These last cir cumstances are, however less certain. E. pendent mind. I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promise you poetry until you are tired of it, next time I have the honour of assuring you how truly I am, &c. *The bard's second son, Francis. E. |