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 bosom ; and I am at this moment ready to hang myself for a young Edinburgh widow, who has wit and wisdom more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the Sicilian banditti, 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,

For love has been my foe;

He bound me with an iron chain,
And plunged me deep in woe!

"But friendship's pure and lasting joys,
My heart was formed to prove,—
There welcome win and wear the prize,
But never talk of love!

"Your friendship much can make me blest

O why that bliss destroy?

Why urge the odious one request,

You know I must deny?"

My best compliments to our friend Allan. Adieu !

No. LXXXIX.

TO GAVIN HAMILTON.

MY DEAR SIR,

R. B.

EDINBURGH, Dec. 1787.

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 beseech 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. 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 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 you are in the 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 anchor of salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at present, and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly press on you to be diligent in chaunting over the two inclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs Hamilton and Miss Kennedy.

Yours, &c.

R. B

No. XC.

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 in my conjectures; and you may believe me, my dear madam, I would not run any risk of hurting you by any ill-judged compliment. I wish to show to the world the odds between a poet's friends and those of simple prosemen. More for your information, both the pieces go in. One of them, 'Where braving angry winter's storms,' is already set-the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny; the other is to be set to an old Highland air in Daniel Dow's collection of ancient Scots music; the name is 'Ha a Chaillich air mo Dheith My treacherous memory has forgot every circumstance about Les Incas, only I think you mentioned them as being in Creech's possession. I shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of Somebody' will come too late-as I shall, for certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes are slender. I leave my direction in town, so any thing, wherever I am, will reach me.

I saw yours to ; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary, like a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in the Christmas days. Mr. has given him the invitation, and he is determined to ac cept of it. O selfishness! 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!

the derided

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before they should make the amiable, the lovely object of their purse-proud contempt!

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs

's recovery, be

cause I really thought all was over with her. days of pleasure yet awaiting her :

"As I came in by Glenap,

I met with an aged woman;
She bade me cheer up my heart,

For the best o' my days was comin'."

There are

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 beings but himself—

That hideous sight-a naked human heart."

Farewell! remember me to Charlotte.

R. B.

No. XCI.

TO MRS DUNLOP.

EDINBURGH, January 21, 1788. AFTER Six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across the room. They have been six horrible weeks; anguish and low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or think.

I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer resigns a commission: for I would not take in any poor, ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private; and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough; now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet: a little more conspicuously wretched.

I am ashamed of all this; for though I do want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice.

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh; and soon after I shall pay my grateful duty at DunlopHouse.

No. XCII.

R. B.*

TO THE SAME.

EDINBURGH, February 12, 1788.

SOME things in your late letters hurt me: not that you say them, but that you mistake me. Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been all my life my chief de

"This is one of the best amongst a whole series of eloquent hypochondriasm.”—Jeffrey.