whom I took with me was highly pleased | breast of the man of keen sensibility, when with the bargain, and advised me to accept no less is on the tapis than his aim, his emof it. He is the most intelligent, sensible ployment, his very existence, through future farmer in the country, and his advice has life? staggered me a good deal. I have the two Now that, not my apology, but my defence, plans before me: I shall endeavour to balance is made, I feel my soul respire more easily. them to the best of my judgment, and fix I know you will go along with me in my on the most eligible. On the whole, if I justification-would to Heaven you could find Mr. Miller in the same favourable dis-in my adoption too! I mean an adoption position as when I saw him last, I shall in beneath the stars-an adoption where I all probability turn farmer. might revel in the immediate beams of I have been through sore tribulation, and under much buffetting of the wicked one, since I came to this country. Jean I found banished, forlorn, destitute and friendless; I have reconciled her to her fate, and I have reconciled her to her mother. I shall be in Edinburgh the middle of next week. My farming ideas I shall keep private till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and she tells me she has got no letter of mine but one. Tell her that I wrote to her from Glasgow, from Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and yesterday from Cumnock as I returned from Dumfries. Indeed, she is the only person in Edinburgh I have written to till this day. How are your soul and body putting up ?-a little like man and wife, I suppose. R. B. NO. CXVI. TO CLARINDA. Mossgiel, March 7th, 1788. CLARINDA, I have been so stung with your reproach for unkindness—a sin so unlike me, a sin I detest more than a breach of the whole Decalogue, fifth, sixth, seventh, and ninth articles excepted that I believe I shall not rest in my grave about it, if I die before I see you. You have often allowed me the head to judge, and the heart to feel, the influence of female excellence. Was it not blasphemy, then, against your own charms, and against my feelings, to suppose that a short fortnight could abate my passion? You, my Love, may have your cares and anxieties to disturb you, but they are the usual occurrences of life; your future views are fixed, and your mind in a settled routine. Could not you, my ever dearest Madam, make a little allowance for a man, after long absence, paying a short visit to a country full of friends, relations and early intimates? Cannot you guess, my Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what anxious forebodings, hopes and fears, must crowd the I would not have you, my dear Madam, so much hurt at Miss --'s coldness. "Tis placing yourself below her, an honour she by no means deserves. We ought, when we wish to be economists in happiness---we ought, in the first place, to fix the standard of our own character; and when, on full examination, we know where we stand, and how much ground we occupy, let us contend for it as property: and those who seem to doubt, or deny us what is justly ours, let us either pity their prejudices, or despise their judgment. I know, my dear, you will say this is self conceit; but I call it self-knowledge. The one is the overweening opinion of a fool, who fancies himself to be what he wishes himself to be thought; the other is the honest justice that a man of sense, who has thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself. Without this standard, this column in our own mind, we are perpetually at the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay, the very weakness and wickedness of our fellowcreatures. I urge this, my dear, both to confirm myself in the doctrine which, I assure you, I sometimes need; and because I know that this causes you often much disquiet.---To return to Miss - she is most certainly a worthy soul, and equalled by very, very few, in goodness of heart. But can she boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda? Not even prejudice will dare to say so. For penetration and discernment, Clarinda sees far beyond her: to wit, Miss dare make no pretence; to Clarinda's wit, scarcely any of her sex dare make pretence. Personal charms, it would be ridiculous to run the parallel. And for conduct in life, Miss was never called out, either much to do or to suffer; Clarinda has been both; and has performed her part where Miss would bave sunk at the bare idea. Away, then, with these disquietudes! Let us pray with the honest weaver of Kilbarchan-" Lord, send us a guid conceit o' oursel!" Or, in the words of the auld sang, "Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again, And I'll never mind any such foes." There is an error in the commerce of intimacy with those who are perpetually taking what they, in the way of exchange, have not in equivalent to give us; and, what is still worse, we have no idea of the value of our goods. Happy is our lot, indeed, when we meet with an honest merchant, who is qualified to deal with us on our own terms; but that is a rarity. With almost every body we must pocket our pearls, less or more, and learn, in the old Scotch phrase "To gie sic like as we get." For this reason, one should try to erect a kind of bank or store-house in one's own mind; or as the Psalmist says, "We should commune with our own hearts, and be still." This is exactly * [rest wanting.] NO. CXVII. TO RICHARD BROWN. Mauchline, March 7th, 1788. NO. CXVIII. TO MR MUIR. Mossgiel, March 7th, 1788. DEAR SIR-I have particularly changed my ideas, since I saw you. I took old Glenconner with me to Mr. Miller's farm, and he was so pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which if he accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer, the happiest of lives when a man can live by it. In this case, I shall not stay in Edinburgh above a week. I set out on Monday, and would have come by Kilmarnock, but there are several small sums owing me for my first edition about Galston and Newmills, and I shall set off so early as to dispatch my business and reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I shall devote a forenoon or two to make some kind of acknowledgment for all the kindness I owe your friendship. Now that I hope to settle with some credit and comfort at home, there was not any friendship or friendly correspondence that promised me more pleasure than yours; I hope I will not be disappointed. I trust the spring will renew your shattered frame, and make your friends happy. You and I have often agreed that life is no great blessing on the whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning age, is Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun I HAVE been out of the country, my dear friend, and have not had an opportunity of writing till now, when I am afraid you will | be gone out of the country too. I have been looking at farms, and, after all, perhaps I may settle in the character of a farmer. I have got so vicious a bent to idleness, and But an honest man has nothing to fear. have ever been so little a man of business, If we lie down in the grave, the whole man that it will take no ordinary effort to bring a piece of broken machinery, to moulder my mind properly into the routine; but you with the clods of the valley, be it so; at will say a "great effort is worthy of you." least there is an end of pain, care, woes and I say so myself; and butter up my vanity wants: if that part of us called mind does with all the stimulating compliments I can survive the apparent destruction of the man think of. Men of grave, geometrical minds,--away with old-wife prejudices and tales! the sons of "which was to be demonstrated," -may cry up reason as much as they please; but I have always found an honest passion, or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in the warfare of this world. Reason almost always comes to me like an unlucky wife to a poor devil of a husband, just in sufficient time to add her reproaches to his other grievances. I am gratified with your kind inquiries after Jean; as, after all, I may say with Othello Every age and every nation has had a different set of stories; and as the many are always weak of consequence, they have often, perhaps always, been deceived: a man conscious of having acted an honest part among his fellow-creatures-even granting that he may have been the sport at times of passions and instincts-he goes to a great unknown Being, who could have no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy, who gave him those passions and instincts, and well knows their force. These, my worthy friend, are my ideas; and I know they are not far different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think for himself, particularly in a case where all men are equally interested, and where, indeed, all men are equally in the dark. Adieu, my dear Sir; God send us a cheerful meeting! R. B. The dignified and dignifying consciousness of an honest man, and the wellgrounded trust in approving Heaven, are two most substantial sources of happiness. * SYLVANDER. NO. CXIX. (69) TO CLARINDA. I own myself guilty, Clarinda; I should have written you last week; but when you recollect, my dearest Madam, that your's of this night's post is only the third I have got you, from and that this is the fifth or sixth I have sent to you, you will not reproach me, with a good grace, for unkindness. I have always some kind of idea, not to sit down to write a letter, except I have time and possession of my faculties so as to do some justice to my letter; which at present is rarely my situation. For instance, yesterday I dined at a friend's at some distance; the savage hospitality of this country spent me the most part of the night over the nauseous potion in the bowl: this day sick — head-ache-low spirited-miserable -fasting, except for a draught of water or small beer now eight o'clock at night only able to crawl ten minutes' walk into Mauchline to wait the post, in the pleasureable hope of hearing from the mistress of my soul. But, a truce to all this! When I sit down to write to you, all is harmony and peace. An hundred times a-day do I figure you, before your taper, your book or work laid aside, as I get within the room. How happy have I been! and how little of that scantling portion of time, called the life of man, is sacred to happiness! I could moralize to-night like a death's head : "O what is life, that thoughtless wish of all! A drop of honey in a draught of gall.” Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the wheels of life, than the thoughtless career we run in the hour of health. “None saith, where is God, my Maker, that giveth songs in the night; who teacheth us more knowledge than the beasts of the field, and more understanding than the fowls of the air.” NO. CXX. TO MISS MY DEAR COUNTRYWOMAN-I am so impatient to show you that I am once more at peace with you, that I send you the book I mentioned directly, rather than wait the uncertain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or lost Collins's Poems, which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, I will forward them by you; if not, you must apologise for me. I know you,will laugh at it when I tell you that your piano and you together have played the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast has been widowed these many mouths, and I thought myself proof against the fascinating witchcraft; but I am afraid you will "feelingly convince me what I am." I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure what is the matter with me. I have one what is the matter with me. miserable bad symptom; when you whisper, or look kindly to another, it gives me a draught of damnation. I have a kind of wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though what I would say, Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know not. I have no formed design in all this, but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You may perhaps give yourself airs of distance on this, and that will completely cure me; but I wish you would not-just let us meet, if you please, in the old beaten way of friendship. I will not subscribe myself your humble servant, for that is a phrase, I think, at least fifty miles off from the heart; but I will conclude with sincerely wishing that the Great Protector of innocence may shield you from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert snare of deceit. NO. CXXI. R. B. *** I have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller of Dalswinton for the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, &c.; and Heaven be my help! for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind into the routine of business. I have discharged all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, and pleasures-a motley host! and have literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends which I have incorporated into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observation, "Where much is attempted, something is done." Firmness, both in suffering and exertion, is a character I would wish to be thought to possess; and have always despised the whining yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble resolve. Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this winter, and begged me to remember her to you the first time I wrote to you. Surely woman, amiable woman, is often made in vain. Too delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition; too noble for the dirt of avarice, and even too gentle for the rage of pleasure; formed indeed for, and highly susceptible of, enjoyment and rapture; but that enjoyment, alas! almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupidity, or wickedness of an animal at all times comparatively unfeeling, and often brutal. NO. CXXII. TO MRS. DUNLOP. R. B. Mossgiel, March 17th, 1788. MADAM-The last paragraph in yours of the 30th February affected me most, so I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I am often a sinner, with any little wit I have, I do confess: but I have taxed my recollection to no purpose, to find out when it was employed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal worse than I do the devil, at least as Milton describes him; and though I may be rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light but you are sure of being respectable-you can afford to pass by an occasion to display your wit, because you may depend for fame on your sense; or, if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on the gratitude of many, and the esteem Y of all; but God help us, who are wits or witlings by profession, if we stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported! I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila. I may say to the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ross, the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila ('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scottish dialect, which perhaps you have never seen) :— Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, NO. CXXIII. TO RICHARD BROWN. R. B. Glasgow, March 26th, 1788. I AM monstrously to blame, my dear Sir, in not writing to you, and sending you the Directory. I have been getting my tack extended, as I have taken a farm, and I have been racking shop accounts with Mr. Creech; both of which, together with watching, fatigue, and a load of care almost too heavy for my shoulders, have in some degree actually fevered me. I really forgot the Directory yesterday, which vexed me; but I was convulsed with rage a great part of the day. I have to thank you for the ingenious, friendly and elegant epistle from your friend Mr. Crawford. I shall certainly write to him, but not now. This is merely a card to you, as I am posting to Dumfries shire, where many perplexing arrangements await me. I am vexed about the Directory; but, my dear Sir, forgive me: these eight days I have been positively crazed. My compliments to Mrs. B. I shall write to you at Grenada. I am ever, my dearest R. B friend, yours, NO. CXXIV. TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. Mauchline, March 31st, 1788. YESTERDAY, my dear Sir, as I was riding through a tract of melancholy, joyless muirs, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs; and your favourite air, "Captain O'Kean," coming at length into my head, I tried these words to it. (70) You will see that the first part of the tune must be repeated. I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it with you to try if they suit the measure of the music. I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about this farming project of mine, that my muse has degenerated into the veriest prosewench that ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When I am fairly got into the routine of business, I shall trouble you with a longer epistle; perhaps with some queries respecting farming: at present, the world sets such a load on my mind that it has effaced almost every trace of the poet in Mauchline, April 7th, 1788. I AM indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for letting me know Miss Kennedy. Strange! how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judgments of one another! Even I, who pique my skill in marking characters--because I am too proud of my character as a man to be dazzled in my judgment for glaring wealth, and too proud of my situation as a poor man to be biassed against squalid poverty-I was unacquainted with Miss K.'s very uncommon worth. I am going on a good deal progressive in mon grand bat, the sober science of life. I have lately made some sacritices, for which, were I vivá voce with you to paint the situation and recount the circumstances (71), you would applaud me. R. B. NO. CXXVI. TO MR. WILLAM DUNBAR, EDINBURGH. Mauchline, April 7th, 1788. I HAVE not delayed so long to write you, my much respected friend, because I thought no farther of my promise. I have long since given up that kind of formal correspondence, where one sits down irksomely to write a letter, because we think we are in duty bound so to do. I have been roving over the country, as the farm I have taken is forty miles from this place, hiring servants and preparing matters; but most of all, I am earnestly busy to bring about a revolution in my own mind. As, till within these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy master of ten guineas, my knowledge of business is to learn; add to this, my late scenes of idleness and dissipation have enervated my mind to an alarming degree. Skill in the sober science of life 13 my most serious and hourly study. I have dropped all conversation and all reading (prose reading) but what tends in some way or other to my serious aim. Except one worthy young fellow, I have not one single correspondent in Edinburgh. You have indeed kindly made me an offer of that kind. The world of wits, and gens comme il faut which I lately left, and with whom I never again will intimately mix-from that port, Sir, I expect your Gazette: what les beaux esprits are saying, what they are doing, and what they are singing. Any sober intelligence from my sequestered walks of life; any droll original; any passing remark, important forsooth, because it is mine; any little poetic effort, however embroyth; these, my dear Sir, are all you have to expect from me. When I talk of poetic efforts, I must have it always understood, that I appeal from your wit and taste to your friendship and good nature. The first would be my favourite tribunal, where I defied censure; but the last, where I declined justice. I have scarcely made a single distich since I saw you. When I meet with an old Scots air that has any facetious idea in its name, I have a peculiar pleasure in following out that idea for a verse or two. I trust that this will find you in better health than I did last time I called for you. A few lines from you, directed to me at Mauchline, were it but to let me know how you are, will set my mind a good deal at peace. Now, never shun the idea of writing me, because perhaps you may be out of humour or spirits. I could give you a hundred good consequences attending a dull letter; one, for example, and the remaining ninety-nine some other time-it will always serve to keep in countenance, my much respected Sir, your obliged friend and humble servant, R. B. |