which pervades the world of letters, that professions of respect from an author, particularly from a poet, to a lord, are more than suspicious. I claim my bypast conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours of your lordship's name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of mine; with the uprightness of an honest man, I come before your lordship, with an offering, however humble, 'tis all I have to give, of my grateful respect; and to beg of you, my lord, 'tis all I have to ask of you, that you will do me the honour to accept of it.

I have the honour to be, R. B.

[The original letter is in the possession of the Honourable Mrs. Holland, of Poynings. From a memorandum on the back, it appears to have been written in May, 1794. ED.]

I AM much indebted to my worthy friend Dr. Blacklock for introducing me to a gentleman of Dr. Anderson's celebrity; but when you do me the honour to ask my assistance in your proposed publication, Alas, Sir! you might as well think to cheapen a little honesty at the sign of an Advocate's wig, or humility under the Geneva band. I am a miserable hurried devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of holding the noses of the poor publicans to the grindstone of the Excise! and like Milton's Satan, for private reasons, am forced

*

"To do what yet tho' damn'd I would abhor."

and except a couplet or two of honest execration

[Dr. Robert Anderson was one of the kindest and most benevolent authors of his time: his door was never shut against the deserving, and he held out his hand to almost all young literary aspirants. He was one of the first to discover the genius of Campbell, and the poet acknowledged his discernment in a dedication. He has been for some time numbered with the dead. ED.]

No. CCXXXVIII.

TO DAVID MACCULLOCH, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

Dumfries, 21st. June 1794.

My long projected journey through your country is at last fixed and on Wednesday next, if you have nothing of more importance to do, take a saunter down to Gatehouse about two or three o'clock, I shall be happy to take a draught of Mc Kune's best with you. Collector Syme will be at Glens about that time, and will meet us about dish-of-tea hour. Syme goes also to Kerroughtree, and let me remind you of your kind promise to accompany me there, I will need all the friends I can muster, for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach your honourables and right honourables.

yours, sincerely, R. B.

[The endorsement on the back of the original letter shows what is felt about Burns in far lands.

Given to me by David M'Culloch, Penang, 1810. A. FRASER." "Received 15th December, 1823, in Calcutta, from Captain Fraser's widow by me, Thomas Rankine." "Transmitted to Archibald Hastie, London; March 27th, 1824, from Bombay." ED.]

No. CCXXXIX,

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794.

HERE in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may. -Solitary confinement you know, is Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by what fatality it happens that I have so long been exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I trust they are mistaken.

I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design it an irregular ode for General Washington's birth-day. After having mentioned

the degeneracy of other kingdoms I come to Scotland thus:

"Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,

Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,

To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fied?

Immingled with the mighty dead!

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies,

Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death,
Ye babbling winds in silence sweep,
Disturb ye not the hero's sleep."

with the additions of

Vol. iii. page 243.

"That arm which nerved with thundering fate,
Braved usurpation's boldest daring!

One quenched in darkness like the sinking star,

And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age."

You will probably have another scrawl from me

in a stage or two.

R. B.