Keep the name of man in mind, Him whose wondrous work thou art; Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the production of yesterday as I jog ged through the wild hills of New Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my excise hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fintry; one of the worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, not only of this country, but, I will dare to say it, of this age. The following are just the first crude thoughts, "unhousel'd, unannointed, unanneal'd." Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train; Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye; But come Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow! you vex me much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayr shire ten days from this date. I have just room for an old Roman farewell! No. LIII. To THE SAME. Mauchline, 10th August, 1788. My much honoured friend, Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another valued friend-my wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire: I met both with the sincerest pleasure. When I write you, madam, I do not sit down to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful commons of Great Britain in parliament assembled, answering a speech from the best of kings! I express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may perhaps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries; but not from your very odd reason that I do not read your letters. All your epistles for several months have cost me nothing, except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration. Mrs. Burns, madam, is the identical woman When she first found herself "as women wish to be who love their lords;" as I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps for a private marriage. Her parents got the hint; and not only forbade me her company and their house, but, on my ru moured West Indian voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail, until I should find security in my Vol. II. E about-to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my eclatant return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray her; and as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, literally turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her, until my return, when our marriage was declared. Her happiness or misery were in my hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit? I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for my journey of life, but, upon my honour, I have never seen the individual instance, Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner, for life, who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my favourite authors, &c. without probably entailing on me, at the same time, expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all the other blessed, boarding-school acquirements, which (pardonnezmoi, madame) are sometimes to be found among females of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the would-be-gentry, I like your way in your church-yard lucubra tions. Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting health, place, or company, have often a strength, and always an originality, that would in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances and studied paragraphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping a letter, in progression, by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind, is my pruriency of writing to you at large. A page of post is on such a dis-social, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it; and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a monstrous tax in a close correspondence. No. LIV. To THE SAME. Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac epistle; and want only ge nius to make it quite Shenstonian. "Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn? Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky?" My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange coun try-gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futu rity-consciousness of my own inability for the struggle of the world-my broadened mark to mis fortune in a wife and children ;-I could indulge these reflections, till my humour should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life. To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write to you; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. I was yesterday at Mr.'s to dinner, for the first time. My reception was quite to my mind: from the lady of the house quite flattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, impromptu. She repeated one or two to the admiration of all present. My suffrage, as a professional man, was expected: I for once went agonizing over the belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored household gods, independence of spirit, and inte grity of soul! In the course of conversation, Johnson's Musical Museum, a collection of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord beginning, "Raving winds around her blowing*." The air was much admired: the lady of the house asked me whose were the words. "Mine, madam -they are indeed my very best verses;" she took not the smallest notice of them! The old Scottish proverb says well," king's caff is better than ither folks' corn." I was going to make a New Testament quotation about "casting pearls," but that would be too virulent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste. After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selected few, favoured by partial heaven; whose souls are tuned to gladness amid riches and honours, and prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days, are sold to the minions of fortune. If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called, The life and age of man; beginning thus, ""Twas in the sixteenth hunder year Of God and fifty three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, * See the songs that have appeared in the Mu sical Museum, in vol. iii. |