for wain of opportunity, or some accidental | thought that no man can be a proper critic of circumstance intervening; how many of the love-composition, except he himself, in one or weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, be- more instances, have been a warm votary of cause he was out of the line of such tempta- this passion. As I have been all along a tion; and, what often, if not always weighs miserable dupe to love, and have been led into more than all the rest, how much he is indebt- a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for ed to the world's good opinion, because the that reason I put the more confidence in my world does not know all: I say, any man who critical skill, in distinguishing foppery, and concan thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the ceit, from real passion and nature. Whether faults and crimes, of mankind around him, the following song will stand the test, I will with a brother's eye. not pretend to say, because it is my own; only I can say it was at the time, genuine from the heart. I have often courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind commonly known by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes farther than was consistent with the safety of my character; those who, by thoughtless prodigality or headstrong passions, have been driven to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes" stained with guilt, * *" I have yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and even modesty. April. As I am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would call a whimsical mortal, I have various sources of pleasure and enjoyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some here and there such other outof-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take in the season of winter, more than the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast: but there is something even in the Behind yon hills, &c. See Songs I think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough divided into two grand classes, which I shall call the grave and the merry; though, by the bye, these terms do not with propriety enough express my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are, the men of pleasure of all denominations; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of action; but without much deliberation, follow the strong impulses of nature; the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent-in particular he, who, with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals through life generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make a repining comparison between his own situation and that of others; and lastly to grace the quorum, such are, generally, those heads are capable of all Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. "Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste earth," which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to every thing great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more-I do not know if I should call it pleasure-but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me-than to walk in the sheltered side of the wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion: my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, "walks on the wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I composed the following: The wintry west extends his blast, &c. See Songs. Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, writ without any real passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits; and I have often As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with that Being to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that can render life delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and the good, which reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the grave: I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of any son of poverty and obscurity, are in the least more inimical to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling and straining after the world's riches and honours; and I do not see but that he may gain Heaven as well (which, by the bye, is no mean consideration), who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way; as he who, straining straight forward, and perhaps bespattering all about him, gains some of life's little "The poet's fate, is here in emblem shown, He ask❜d for bread, and he received a stone." It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that this is written. But how many brothers of Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and poor Fergusson, have asked for bread, and been served with the same sauce! The magistrates gave you liberty, did they? O generous magistrates! celebrated over the three kingdoms for his public spirit, gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a poor poet's memory!-most generous! *** once upon a time gave that same poet the mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy of his works. But then it must be considered that the poet was at this time absolutely starving, and besought his aid with all the earnestness of hunger; and, over and above, he received a worth, at least one-third of the value, in exchange, but which, I believe, the poet afterwards very ungratefully expunged. Next week I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you in Edinburgh; and as my stay will be for eight or ten days, I wish you or would take a snug, well-aired bed-room for me, where I may have the pleasure of seeing you over a morning cup of tea. But by all accounts, it will be a matter of some difficulty to see you at all, unless your company is bespoke a week before-hand. There is a great rumour here concerning your great intimacy with the Duchess of and other ladies of distinction. I am really told that "cards to invite fly by thousands each night;" and, if you had one, I suppose there would also be bribes to your old secretary." It seems you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Fergussou,.. Quærenda pecunia primum est, virtus post nummos, is a good maxim to thrive by: you seemed to despise it while in this country; but probably some philosopher in Edinburgh has taught you better sense. Pray, are you yet engraving as well as printing? Are you yet seized "With itch of picture in the front, With bays of wicked rhyme upon't!" But I must give up this trifling, and attend to matters that more concern myself: so, as the Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryly, we sal drink phan we meet.* *The above extract is from a letter of one of the ablest of our poet's correspondents, which contains some interesting anecdotes of Fergusson, that we should have been happy to have inserted, if they could have been authenticated. The writer is mistaken in suppos No. XXV. TO MRS DUNLOP. MADAM, Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. I READ your letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while ago, I had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom; now I am distinguished, patronized, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will not give them the cold name of criticisms, I receive with reverence. I have made some small alterations in what I before had printed. I have the advice of some very judicious friends among the literati here, but with them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me the honour of giving me his strictures: his hints with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow implicitly. You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects; there I can give you no light; it is all "Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my highest pride; to continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and Scottish story are the themes I could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with the routine of business, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia; to sit on the fields of her battles; to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers; and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes. But these are all Utopian thoughts: I have dallied long enough with life: 'tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care for; and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. Where the individual only suffers by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, indolence, or folly, he may be excusable: nay, shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, may half-sanctify a heedless character: but where God and nature have intrusted the welfare of others to his care; where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom these connexions will not rouse to exertion. I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred pounds by my authorship; with that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to ing the magistrates of Edinburgh had any share in the transaction respecting the monument erected for Fergusson by our bard; this, it is evident, passed between Burns and the Kirk Session of the Canongate. Neither at Edinburgh, nor anywhere else, do magistrates usually trouble themselves to inquire how the house of a poor poet is furnished, or how his grave is adorned. for want of opportunity, or some accidental | thought that no man can be a proper critic of circumstance intervening; how many of the love-composition, except he himself, in one or weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, be- more instances, have been a warm votary of cause he was out of the line of such tempta- this passion. As I have been all along a tion; and, what often, if not always weighs miserable dupe to love, and have been led into more than all the rest, how much he is indebt- a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for ed to the world's good opinion, because the that reason I put the more confidence in my world does not know all: I say, any man who critical skill, in distinguishing foppery, and concan thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the ceit, from real passion and nature. Whether faults and crimes, of mankind around him, the following song will stand the test, I will with a brother's eye. not pretend to say, because it is my own; only I can say it was at the time, genuine from the heart. I have often courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind commonly known by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes farther than was consistent with the safety of my character; those who, by thoughtless prodigality or headstrong passions, have been driven to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes" stained with guilt, * *," I have yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and even modesty. April. As I am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would call a whimsical mortal, I have various sources of pleasure and enjoyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some here and there such other outof-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take in the season of winter, more than the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast: but there is something even in the "Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to every thing great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more-I do not know if I should call it pleasure-but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me-than to walk in the sheltered side of the wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion: my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, "walks on the wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I composed the following: The wintry west extends his blast, &c. See Songs. Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, writ without any real passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits; and I have often I think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough divided into two grand classes, which I shall call the grave and the merry; though, by the bye, these terms do not with propriety enough express my ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are, the men of pleasure of all denominations; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of action; but without much deliberation, follow the strong impulses of nature; the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent-in particular he, who, with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals through life generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make a repining comparison between his own situation and that of others; and lastly to grace the quorum, such are, generally, those heads are capable of all the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with that Being to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that can render life delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and the good, which reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the grave: I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of any son of poverty and obscurity, are in the least more inimical to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling and straining after the world's riches and honours; and I do not see but that he may gain Heaven as well (which, by the bye, is no mean consideration), who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself with every little flower that fortune throws in his way; as he who, straining straight forward, and perhaps bespattering all about him, gains some of life's little eminences; where, after all, he can only see, and be seen, a little more conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left behind him. There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which shows them to be the work of a masterly hand: and it has often given me many a heartache to reflect, that such glorious old bardsbards who very probably owed all their talents to native genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of nature that their very names (O how mortifying to a bard's vanity!) are now "buried among the wreck of things which were." O ye illustrious names unknown! who could feel so strongly and describe so well; the last, the meanest of the muses' train-one who, though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with trembling wing would sometimes soar after you-a poor rustic bard unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory! Some of you tell us, with all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate in the world-unfortunate in love: he too has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. Like you, all his consolation was his muse she taught him in rustic measures to complain. Happy could he have done it with your strength of imagination and flow of verse! May the turf lie lightly on your bones! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest which this world seldom gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love! : but this you know, is out of my power; so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow richer!-an epocha which, I think, will arrive at the payment of the British national debt. There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much in being disappointed of my second edition, as not having it in my power to show my gratitude to Mr Ballantyne, by publishing my poem of The Brigs of Ayr. I would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable, in a very long life, of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself in my grateful sensations; but I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflection, but sheerly the instinctive emotion of a heart too inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within, respecting the excise. There are many things plead strongly against it; the uncertainty of getting soon into business, the consequences of my follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home; and besides, I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know-the pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the calls of society or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands of the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad; and to all these reasons I have only one answer-the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances every thing that can be laid in the scale against it. You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home to my very soul: though sceptical, in some points, of our current belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence; if so, then how should I, in the pre [The Gentleman to whom the COTTER'S SATURDAY sence of that tremendous Being, the Author SIR, NIGHT is addressed.] Ayrshire, 1786. I WAS with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and settled all our by-gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the paper of a thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing about fifteen or sixteen: he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will advance for the paper; of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless infancy? O, thou great unknown Power! thou Almighty God! who hast lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality! I have frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken me! Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have | for my copies, and incomparably more by the seen something of the storm of mischief thick- handsome compliments you are pleased to pay ening over my folly-devoted head. Should my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful there is not any class of mankind so feelingly in your applications for me, perhaps it may not alive to the titillations of applause as the sons be in my power in that way to reap the fruit of Parnassus; nor is it easy to conceive how of your friendly efforts. What I have written the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, in the preceding pages is the settled tenor of when those whose character in life gives them my present resolution; but should inimical a right to be polite judges, honour him with circumstances forbid me closing with your kind their approbation. Had you been thoroughly offer, or, enjoying it, only threaten to entail acquainted with me, Madam, you could not farther miseryhave touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of his Country. To tell the truth, I have little reason for this last complaint, as the world, in general, has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time past, fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising cloud in the chancedirected atmosphere of fortune, while, all defenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a creature destined for a progressive struggle; and that, however I might possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the bye, was rather more than I could well boast,) still, more than these passive qualities, there was something to be done. When all my school-fellows and youthful com peers (those misguided few excepted, who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallachores of the human race), were striking off with eager hope and earnest intent on some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was "standing idle in the market place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. "Great, patriot hero! ill requited chief!" The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal: the next was The History of Sir William Wallace: for several of my earlier years I had few other authors; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember in particular being struck with that part of Wallace's story where these lines occur "Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, To make a silent and a safe retreat." I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto; and, as I explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits. No. IX. TO MRS STEWART, OF STAIR. MADAM, 1786. THE hurry of my preparations for going abroad has hindered me from performing my promise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you a parcel of songs, &c. which never made their appearance, except to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great entertainment to you: but of that I am far from being an adequate judge. The song to the tune of Ettrick Banks, you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much even in manu. script. I think, myself, it has some merit, both as a tolerable description of one of Nature's sweetest scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know any thing of, |