ness! he owns, in his sober moments, that from his own volatility of inclination, the circumstances in which he is situated, and his knowledge of his father's disposition, the whole affair is chimerical-yet he will gratify an idle penchant at the enormous, cruel expense, of perhaps ruining the peace of the very woman for whom he professes the generous passion of love! He is a gentleman in his mind and manners-tant pis! He is a volatile school-boy-the heir of a man's fortune who well knows the value of two times two! Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before they should make the amiable, the lovely the derided object of their purse-proud contempt! I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. ——— 's recovery, because I really thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting her : As I cam in by Glenap, I met with an aged woman; She bade me cheer up my heart, For the best o' my days was comin.' (51) This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are, like myself, not what they ought to be; yet better than what they appear to be. Heaven's Sovereign saves all but himself— That hideous sight-a naked human heart. Farewell! remember me to Charlotte. NO. LXXVIII. R. B. TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. Edinburgh, December, 1787. SIR. Mr Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend (52), has informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a poet. I have, Sir, in one or two instances, been patronised by those of your character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by * * ** friends to them, and honoured acquaintances to me; but you are the first gentleman in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart has interested himself for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am convinced, from the light in which you kindly view me, that you will do me the justice to believe this letter is not the manœuvre of the needy, sharping author, fastening on those in upper life who honour him with a little notice of him and his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and talents they have at times been guilty of. I do not think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless, indolent inattention to economy is almost inseparable from it; then there must be in the heart of every bard of Nature's making a certain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of those windfalls of fortune which frequently light on hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose character as a scholar gives him some pretensions to the politessse of life-yet is as poor as I am. For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kinder; learning never elevated my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an independent fortune at the plough-tail. I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended in the least to the manners of the gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so unhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth with which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, caprice and passion; but reverence to God, and integrity to my fellowcreatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. I have no return, Sir, to make you for your goodness but one-a return which, I am per suaded, will not be unacceptable-the honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for your happiness, and every one of that lovely flock who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward the blow! NO. LXXIX. R. B. MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided about a farm in that county. I am rather hopeless in it; but as my brother is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an exceedingly prudent sober man (qualities which are only a younger brother's fortune in our family), I am determined, if my Dumfries business fail me, to remove into partnership with him, and at our leisure take another farm in the neighbourhood. I assure you I look for high compliments from you and Charlotte on this very sage instance of my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom.-Talking of Charlotte I must tell her that I have, to the best of my power, paid her a poetic compliment now completed. The air is admirable; true old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic song which an Inverness lady sang me when I was there; I was so charmed with it, that I begged her to write me a set of it from her singing, for it had never been set before. I am fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next number; so Charlotte and you need not spend your precious time in contradicting me. I won't say the poetry is first-rate, though I am convinced it is very well; and, what is not always the case with compli ments to ladies, it is not only sincere, but just. R. B. NO. LXXX. TO MISS WILLIAMS (53), ON READING THE POEM OF THE SLAVE TRADE. Edinburgh, Dec., 1787. I KNOW very little of scientific criticism, so all I can pretend to in that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression seems to be perplexed or faulty. The poem opens finely. There are none of those idle prefatory lines which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th and 10th in particular, Where ocean's unseen bound Leaves a drear world of waters round, are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurricane is likewise fine; and, indeed, beautiful as the poem is, almost all the similes rise decidedly above it. From verse 31st to verse From verse 31st to verse 50th is a pretty eulogy on Britain. Verse 36th, That foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly expressive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather unworthy of the rest; "to dare to feel," is an idea that I do not altogether like. The contrast of valour and mercy, from the 46th verse to the 50th, is admirable. Sends from her unsullied source, The gems of thought their purest force, is exceedingly beautiful. The idea, from verse 81st to the 85th, that the "blest decree" is like the beams of morning ushering in the glorious day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or unapplauded. From verse 85th to verse 108, is an animated contrast between the unfeeling selfishness of the oppressor on the one hand, and the misery of the captive on the other. Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus:-" Nor ever quit her narrow maze." We are said to pass a bound, but we quit a maze. Verse 100th is exquisitely beautiful : They, whom wasted blessings tire. Verse 110th is, I doubt, a clashing of meta. phors; "to load a span" is, I am afraid, an unwarrantable expression. In verse 114th, "Cast the universe in shade," is a fine idea. From the 115th verse to the 142nd is a striking description of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse 120th, "The load of unremitted pain," is a remarkable, strong Condemned, severe extreme, to live When all is fled that life can give. The comparison of our distant joys to distant objects is equally original and striking. The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal traffic is a well done, though a horrid picture. I am not sure how far introducing the sailor was right; for though the sailor's common characteristic is generosity, yet, in this case, he is certainly not only an unconcerned witness, but, in some degree, an efficient agent in the business. Verse 224th is nervous and expressive "The heart convulsive anguish breaks." The description of the captive wretch when he arrives in the West Indies, is carried on with equal spirit. The thought that the oppressor's sorrow, on seeing the slave pine, is like the butcher's regret when his destined lamb dies a natural death, is exceedingly fine. I am got so much into the cant of criticism, that I begin to be afraid lest I have nothing except the cant of it; and instead of elucidating my author, am only benighting myself. For this reason, I will not pretend to go through the whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful lines, however, I cannot Verse 280th is the strongest pass over. description of selfishness I ever saw. The comparison in verses 285th and 286th is new and fine; and the line, "Your arms to penury you lend," is excellent. In verse 317th, “like” should certainly be as" or "so;" for instance : His sway the hardened bosom leads If you insert the word "like" where I have placed "as," you must alter "darts” to "darting," and "heeds" to "heeding,” in order to make it grammar. A tempest is a favourite subject with the poets, but I do not remember any thing, even in Thomson's winter, superior to your verses from the 347th to the 351st. Indeed, the last simile, beginning with "Fancy may dress," &c., and ending with the 350th verse, is, in my opinion, the most beautiful passage in the poem; it would do honour to the greatest names that ever graced our profession. I will not beg your pardon, Madam, for these strictures, as my conscience tells me, that for once in my life I have acted up to the duties of a Christian, in doing as I would be done by. R. B. NO. LXXXI. TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, Edinburgh, Dec. 30th, 1787. MY DEAR SIR.-I have met with few things in life which have given me more pleasure than Fortune's kindness to you since those days in which we met in the vale of misery; as of misery; as I can honestly say, that I never knew a man who more truly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly wished it. I have been much indebted since that time to your story and sentiments for steeling my mind against evils, of which I have had a pretty decent share. My will-o'Sunday we spent together in Eglinton wisp fate you know: do you recollect a woods? You told me, on my repeating some verses to you, that you wondered I could resist the temptation of sending verses this remark I derived that idea of my own of such merit to a magazine. It was from pieces which encouraged me to endeavour at the character of a poet. I am happy to at home. As soon as a bruised limb will hear that you will be two or three months permit me, I shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet; "and faith, I hope we'll not sit dumb, nor yet cast out!" I have much to tell you "of men, their manners, and their ways," perhaps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered to Mrs. Brown. There, I doubt not, my dear friend, but you have found substantial happiness. I expect to find you something of an altered, but not a different man; the wild, bold, generous young fellow composed into the steady, affectionate husband, and the fond careful parent. For me, I am just the same will-o'-wisp being I used to be. About the first and fourth quarters of the moon, I generally set in for the trade-wind of wisdom; but about the full and change, I am the luckless victim of mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. Almighty love still reigns and revels in my hosom; and I am, at this moment, ready to hang myself for a young Edinburgh widow (55), who has wit and wisdom more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the Sicilian bandit, or the poisoned arrow of the savage African. My Highland dirk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, the key of which I cannot command in case of spring-tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit by the following verses, which she sent me the other day : Talk not of love, it gives me pain, And plunged me deep in woe! But friendship's pure and lasting joys, Your friendship much can make me blest- You know I must deny? My best compliments to our friend Allan. Adieu! NO. LXXXII. R. B. TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON, Edinburgh, Dec., 1787. MY DEAR SIR.-It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I congratulate you on the return of days of ease and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours of misery in which I saw you suffering existence when last in Ayrshire. I seldom pray for anybody—"I'm baith dead-sweer and wretched ill o't;" but most fervently do I beseeeh the Power that directs the world, that you may live long and be happy, but live no longer than you are happy. It is needless for me to advise you to have a reverend care of your health. health. I know you will make it a point never at one time to drink more than a pint of wine (I mean an English pint), and that you will never be witness to more than one bowl of punch at a time, and that cold you drams you will never more taste; and, above all things, I am convinced, that after drinking perhaps boiling punch you will never mount your horse and gallop home in a chill late hour. Above all things, as I understand are in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges of gospel powers, Father Auld, be earnest with him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that you may see the vanity of vanities in trusting to, or even practising, the casual moral works of charity, humanity, generosity, and forgiveness of things, which you practised so flagrantly, that it was evident you delighted in them, neglecting, or perhaps profanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of faith without works, the only author of salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at present, and in my zeal for your wellbeing, I earnestly press on you to be diligent in chanting over the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. Yours, &c. NO. LXXXIII. TO CLARINDA. R. B. Thursday Evening. MADAM, (56)—I had set no small store by my tea-drinking to-night, and have not often been so disappointed. Saturday evening I shall embrace the opportunity with the greatest pleasure. I leave this town this day sen'night, and, probably for a couple of twelvemonths; but must ever regret that I so lately got an acquaintance I shall ever highly esteem, and in whose welfare I shall ever be warmly interested. Our worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant way, rallied me a good deal on my new acquaintance, and in the humour of her ideas I wrote some lines, which I enclose you, as I think they have a good deal of poetic merit; and Miss- tells me you are not only a critic, but a poetess. Fiction, you know, is the native region of poetry; and I hope you will pardon my vanity in sending you the bagatelle as a tolerable offhand jeu-d'esprit. I have several poetic trifles, which I shall gladly leave with Miss or you, if they were worth houseroom; as there are scarcely two people on earth by whom it would mortify me more to be forgotten, though at the distance of ninescore miles. I am, Madam, with the highest respect, your very humble servant, R. B. NO. LXXXIV. TO THE SAME. (57) Saturday Evening. I CAN say with truth, Madam, that I never met with a person in my life whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. To-night I was to have had that very great pleasure; I was intoxicated with the idea, but an unlucky fall from a coach has so bruised one of my knees that I can't stir my leg; so if I don't see you again, I shall not rest in my grave for chagrin. I was vexed to the soul I had not seen you sooner; I determined to cultivate your friendship with the enthusiasm of religion; but thus has Fortune ever served me. I cannot bear the idea of leaving Edinburgh without seeing you. I know not how to account for it-I am strangely taken with some people, nor am I often mistaken. You are a stranger to me; but I am an odd being; some yet unnamed feelings, things, not principles, but better than whims, carry me farther than boasted reason ever did a philosopher.-Farewell! every happiness be yours! NO. LXXXV. Friday Evening, Dec. 22nd, 1787. please in its place. I believe there is no own. I enclose you a few lines I composed on a late melancholy occasion. I will not give above five or six copies of it at all, and I would be hurt if any friend should give any copies without my consent. fre You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the idea of Arcadian names in a commerce of this kind), how much store I have set by the hopes of your future friendship. I do not know if you have a just idea of my character, but I wish you to see me as I am. I. am, as most people of my trade are, a strange will-o'-wisp being; the victim, too quently, of much imprudence and many follies. My great constituent elements are I BEG your pardon, my dear "Clarinda," pride and passion. The first I have enfor the fragment scrawl I sent you yester-deavoured to humanize into integrity and day. (58) I really do not know what I wrote. A gentleman, for whose character, abilities, and critical knowledge, I have the highest veneration, called in just as I had begun the second sentence, and I would not make the porter wait. I read to my much respected friend some of my own bagatelles, and, among others, your lines, which I had copied out. He began some criticisms on them as on the other pieces, when I informed him they were the work of a young lady in this town, which, I assure you, made him stare. My learned friend seriously protested that he did not believe any young woman in Edinburgh was capable of such lines and if you know anything of Professor Gregory, you will neither doubt of his abilities nor his sincerity. I do love you, if possible, still better for having so fine a taste and turn for poesy. I have again gone wrong in my usual unguarded way, but you may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, or any other tame Dutch expression you honour; the last makes me a devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm, in love religion, or friendship-either of them, or all together, as I happen to be inspired. "Tis true, I never saw you but once; but how much acquaintance did I form with you in that once! Do not think I flatter you, or have a design upon you, Clarinda; I have too much pride for the one, and too little cold contrivance for the other; but of all God's creatures I ever could approach in the beaten way of my acquaintance, you struck me with the deepest, the strongest, the most permanent impression. I say, the most permanent, because I know myself well, and how far I can promise either in my prepossessions or powers. Why are you unhappy? And why are so many of our fellow-creatures, unworthy to belong to the same species with you, blest with all they can wish? You have a hand allbenevolent to give; why are you denied the pleasure? You have a heart formed— |