LETTER TO MISS CHALMERS.

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I will make no apology, dear madam, for this egotistic detail; I know you and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it. What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness! When fellow-partakers of the same nature fear the same God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the same scorn at everything unworthy-if they are not in the dependence of absolute beggary, in the name of common sense, are they not EQUALS? And if the bias, the instinctive bias of their souls run the same way, why may they not be FRIENDS?

When I may have an opportunity of sending this, Heaven only knows. Shenstone says: When one is confined idle within doors by bad weather, the best antidote against ennui is to read the letters of or write to one's friends :' in that case, then, if the weather continues thus, I may scrawl you half a quire.

I very lately-namely, since harvest began-wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the manner, of Pope's 'Moral Epistles.' It is only a short essay, just to try the strength of my Muse's pinion in that way. I will send you a copy of it when once I have heard from you. I have likewise been laying the foundation of some pretty large poetic works: how the superstructure will come on I leave to that great maker and marrer of projects-TIME. Johnson's collection of Scots songs is going on in the third volume; and, of consequence, finds me a consumpt for a great deal of idle metre. One of the most tolerable things I have done in that way is two stanzas I made to an air a musical gentleman of my acquaintance [Captain Riddell of Glenriddell] composed for the anniversary of his wedding-day, which happens on the 7th of November. Take it as follows:

THE DAY RETURNS.
TUNE-Seventh of November.

The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet ;
Though winter wild in tempest toiled,
Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o'er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more-it made thee mine!

While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give,
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live.
When that grim foe of life below

Comes in between to make us part,
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss-it breaks my

heart!

I shall give over this letter for shame. If I should be seized with a scribbling fit before this goes away, I shall make it another letter; and then you may allow your patience a week's respite between the two. I have not room for more than the old, kind, hearty farewell!

To make some amends, mes chères mesdames, for dragging you on to this second sheet, and to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstudied and uncorrectible prose, I shall transcribe you some of my late poetic bagatelles; though I have, these eight or ten months, done very little that way. One day, in a hermitage on the banks of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a key at pleasure, I wrote as follows, supposing myself the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the lonely R. B.

mansion.

In September, the house was approaching completion, and Burns was eager to inhabit at least a portion of it. He thus addressed the worthy joiner at Mauchline whom he had commissioned to prepare his household furniture:

TO MR MORRISON, MAUCHLINE.

ELLISLAND, September 22, 1788. MY DEAR SIR-Necessity obliges me to go into my new house even before it be plastered. I will inhabit the one end until the other is finished. About three weeks more, I think, will at farthest be my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this present house. If ever you wish to deserve the blessing of him that was ready to perish; if ever you were in a situation that a little kindness would have rescued you from many evils; if ever you hope to find rest in future states of untried being-get these matters of mine ready. My servant will be out in the beginning of next week for the clock. My compliments to Mrs Morrison. I am, after all my tribulation, dear sir, yours, R. B.

Burns had been told by some of his literary friends, that it was a great error to write in Scotch, seeing that thereby he was cut off from the appreciation of the English public. He was disposed to give way to this hint, and henceforth to compose chiefly in English, or at least to try his hand upon the soft lyres of Twickenham and Richmond, in the hope of succeeding equally well as he had hitherto done upon the rustic reed of Scotland. It seems to have been a great mistake. The flow of versification and the felicity of diction for which Burns's Scottish poems and songs are remarkable, vanish when he attempts the southern strain. We see this well exemplified in a poem of the present

EPISTLE TO MR GRAHAM OF FINTRY.

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summer, in which he aimed at the style of Pope's Moral Epistles, while at the same time he sought to advance his personal fortunes through the medium of a patron.

FIRST EPISTLE TO MR GRAHAM OF FINTRY.

When Nature her great masterpiece designed,
And framed her last, best work, the human mind,
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan,

She formed of various parts the various man.

Then first she calls the useful many forth;
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth:
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth,
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth:
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds,
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds.
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet,
The lead and buoy are needful to the net;

The caput mortuum of gross desires

Makes a material for mere knights and squires ;
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow;

She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough,

Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs,
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines;
Last, she sublimes the Aurora of the poles,
The flashing elements of female souls.
The order'd system fair before her stood,

Nature, well-pleased, pronounced it very good;
But ere she gave creating labour o'er,
Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more.
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter,

Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter;
With arch alacrity and conscious glee
(Nature may have her whim as well as we,
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to shew it)
She forms the thing, and christens it—a poet,
Creature, though oft the prey of care and sorrow,
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow.
A being formed t' amuse his graver friends,
Admired and praised-and there the homage ends:
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife,
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life;
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give,
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live;

Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.

But honest nature is not quite a Turk,

She laughed at first, then felt for her poor work.
Pitying the propless climber of mankind,
She cast about a standard tree to find;
And, to support his helpless woodbine state,
Attached him to the generous truly great,
A title, and the only one I claim,

To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train,

Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main!
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff,
That never gives-though humbly takes enough;
The little fate allows, they share as soon,

Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon.
The world were blest did bliss on them depend,
Ah, that 'the friendly e'er should want a friend!'
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son,
Who life and wisdom at one race begun,
Who feel by reason and who give by rule
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!)—
Who make poor will do wait upon I should-

We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good f
Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye!
God's image rudely etched on base alloy !
But come, ye who the godlike pleasure know,
Heaven's attribute distinguished-to bestow!
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race:
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace;
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes!
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times.
Why shrinks my soul half-blushing, half-afraid,
Backward, abashed, to ask thy friendly aid?
I know my need, I know thy giving hand,
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command;
But there are such who court the tuneful nine-
Heavens! should the branded character be mine!
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows,
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit
Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit!
Seek not the proofs in private life to find;
Pity the best of words should be but wind!

So to heaven's gate the lark's shrill song ascends,
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends.
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want,
They dun benevolence with shameless front;
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays,
They persecute you all your future days!

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,
My horny fist assume the plough again;
The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more;
On eighteenpence a week I've lived before.

Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift!
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift:

That, placed by thee upon the wished-for height,
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight,

My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.

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One cannot but feel that, though the bard guards himself against being confounded with the common herd of patronageseekers, his words truly express somewhat more of a sense of dependence than it is agreeable to contemplate in connection with so proud a name. Anticipation of difficulties had already somewhat'sicklied o'er the native hue of resolution.'

TO MRS DUNLOP OF DUNLOP.

MAUCHLINE, 27th Sept. 1788.

I have received twins, dear madam, more than once, but scarcely ever with more pleasure than when I received yours of the 12th instant. To make myself understood: I had wrote to Mr Graham, enclosing my poem addressed to him, and the same post which favoured me with yours brought me an answer from him. It was dated the very day he had received mine; and I am quite at a loss to say whether it was most polite or kind.

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are truly the work of a friend. They are not the blasting depredations of a cankertoothed, caterpillar critic; nor are they the fair statement of cold impartiality, balancing with unfeeling exactitude the pro and con of an author's merits: they are the judicious observations of animated friendship, selecting the beauties of the piece. I am just arrived from Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was on horseback this morning by three o'clock; for between my wife and my farm is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on in the dark, I was taken with a poetic fit as follows:

MRS FERGUSSON OF CRAIGDARROCH'S LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH
OF HER SON AN UNCOMMONLY PROMISING YOUTH OF EIGHTEEN OR
NINETEEN YEARS OF AGE.1

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierc'd my darling's heart;
And with him all the joys are fled

Life can to me impart.

'Died here on Monday last [Nov. 19, 1787] James Fergusson, Esq., younger of Craigdarroch. The worth of this truly amiable and much-lamented youth can