God have mercy on me! a poor d-mned, incautious, duped, unfortunate fool! The sport, the miserable victim of rebellious pride; hypochondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility, and bedlam passions! "I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to die!" I had lately "a hairbreadth 'scape in th' imminent deadly breach" of love too. Thank my stars I got off heart-whole, "waur fleyd than hurt."-Interruption. I have this moment got a hint I fear I am something like undone—but I hope for the best. Come, stubborn pride and unshrinking resolution! accompany me through this, to me, miserable world! You must not desert me! Your friend. ship I think I can count on, though I should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously, though life at present presents me with but a melancholy path: but-my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on. Edinburgh, Sunday. To-MORROW, my dear madam, I leave Edinburgh. I have altered all my plans of future life. A farm that I could live in, I could not find; and indeed, after the necessary support my brother and the rest of the family required, I could not venture on farming in that style suitable to my feelings. You will condemn me for the next step I have taken. I have entered into the excise. I stay in the west about three weeks, and then return to Edinburgh for six weeks instructions; afterwards, for I get employ instantly, I go où il plait a Dieu,-et mon Roi. I have chosen this, my dear friend, after mature deliberation. The question is not, at what door of fortune's palace shall we enter in; but what doors does she open to us? I was not likely to get any thing to do. I wanted un bût, which is a dangerous, and unhappy situation. I got this without any hanging on, or mortifying solicitation; it is immediate bread, and though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life besides, the commissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them. my firm friends. Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Sqr. HERE have I sat, my dear Madam, in the stony attitude 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. Compliments 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 for you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, sometime about seven, or after, I shall wait on you, for your farewell commands. The hinges of your box, I put into the hands of the proper Connoisseur. 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 sincerity of Enthusiasm, No. 260. To MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, EDINBURGH. Edinburgh, Sunday Morning, I BEG, my dear Sir, you would not make any appointment to take us to Mr. Ainsfie's to-night. On looking over my engagements, constitution, present state of my health, some little vexatious soul concerns, &c. I find I cannot sup abroad to-night. I shall be in to-day till one o'clock, if you have a leisure hour. 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 blue-devilism, 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 God's world, but you are so to me. I tell you 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 warmly as I ought to be Your friend. No. 261. To MISS CHALMERS. MY DEAR MADAM, Edinburgh, Dec. 1787. I JUST now have read yours. The poetic compliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. They are neither of them so particular as to point you out to the world at large; and the circle of your acquaintances will allow all I have said. Besides I have complimented you chiefly, almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you? I will; so look to it. Personal attractions, madam, you have much above par; wit, understanding, and worth, you possess in the first class. This is a cursed flat way of telling you these truths, but let me hear no more of your sheepish timidity. I know the world a little. I know what they will say of my poems; by second sight I suppose: for I am seldom out |