abilities, complete without a flaw, and polished without a blemish, the standard of human excellence? This is certainly the stanch opinion of men of the world; but I call on honour, virtue, and worth to give the Stygian doctrine a loud negative! However, this must be allowed-that if you abstract from man the idea of an existence beyond the grave, then the true measure of human conduct is, proper and improper. Virtue and vice, as dispositions of the heart, are in that case of scarcely the same import and value to the world at large as harmony and discord in the modifications of sound; and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it may sometimes give the possessor an ecstasy unknown to the coarser organs of the herd, yet, considering the harsh gratings and inharmonic jars in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds but the individual would be as happy, and certainly would be as much respected by the true judges of society, as it would then stand, without either a good ear or a good heart.

You must know I have just met with the Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I am quite in raptures with them; I should be glad to have your opinion of some of the papers. The one I have just read, Lounger, No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than anything I have read of a long time. Mackenzie has been called the Addison of the Scots, and, in my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the comparison. If he has not Addison's exquisite humour he as certainly outdoes him in the tender and the pathetic. His Man of Feeling-but I am not counsel-learned in the laws of criticism-I estimate as the first performance in its kind I ever saw. From what book, moral or even pious, will the susceptible young mind receive impressions more congenial to humanity and kindness, generosity and benevolence-in short, more of all that ennobles the soul to herself, or endears her to others-than from the simple, affecting tale of poor Harley?

Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie's writings, I do not know if they are the fittest reading for a young man who is about to set out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. Do not you think, madam, that among the few favoured of Heaven in the structure of their minds-for such there certainly are-there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree absolutely disqualifying, for the truly important business of making a man's way into life! If I am not much mistaken, my gallant young friend A— is very much under these disqualifications; and for the young females of a family I could mention, well may they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common acquaintance, or, as my vanity will have it, a humble friend, have often trembled for a turn of mind which may render them eminently happy or peculiarly miserable!

I have been manufacturing some verses lately; but as I have got the most hurried season of Excise business over, I hope to

have more leisure to transcribe anything that may shew how much I have the honour to be, madam, yours, &c.,

R. B.

CCXVII.

TO DR MOORE.

DUMFRIES, EXCISE-OFFICE, 14th July 1790.

SIR,-Coming into town this morning to attend my duty in this office, it being collection-day, I met with a gentleman who tells me he is on his way to London; so I take the opportunity of writing to you, as franking is at present under a temporary death. I shall have some snatches of leisure through the day amid our horrid business and bustle, and I shall improve them as well as I can; but let my letter be as stupid as ****, as miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as a hungry grace-before-meat, or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas cause; as ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty ByreMucker's answer to it; I hope, considering circumstances, you will forgive it; and as it will put you to no expense of postage, I shall have the less reflection about it.

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning my thanks for your most valuable present, Zeluco. In fact, you are in some degree blameable for my neglect. You were pleased to express a wish for my opinion of the work, which so flattered me, that nothing less would serve my overweening fancy than a formal criticism on the book. In fact, I have gravely planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett, in your different qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never bring the business to bear; but I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shews in the book of Job"And I said, I will also declare my opinion." I have quite disfigured my copy of the book with my annotations. I never take it up without at the same time taking my pencil, and marking with asterisms, parentheses, &c., wherever I meet with an original thought, a nervous remark on life and manners, a remarkable, well-turned period, or a character sketched with uncommon precision.

Though I should hardly think of fairly writing out my "Comparative View," I shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, such as they are.

I have just received from my gentleman that horrid summons in the book of Revelation-"That time shall be no more!"

The little collection of sonnets have some charming poetry in them. If indeed I am indebted to the fair author for the book,* and not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of the other

This book was the Sonnets of Charlotte Smith.

sex, I should certainly have written to the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, and my own ideas of the comparative excellence of her pieces. I would do this last, not from any vanity of thinking that my remarks could be of much consequence to Mrs Smith, but merely from my own feelings as an author, doing as I would be done by. R. B.

CCXVIII.

TO MR MURDOCH, TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON.

ELLISLAND, 16th July 1790

MY DEAR SIR,-I received a letter from you a long time ago, but unfortunately, as it was in the time of my peregrinations and journeyings through Scotland, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence your direction along with it. Luckily, my good star brought me acquainted with Mr Kennedy, who, I understand, is an acquaintance of yours; and by his means and mediation I hope to replace that link which my unfortunate negligence had so unluckily broke in the chain of our correspondence. I was the more vexed at the vile accident, as my brother William, a journeyman saddler, has been for some time in London, and wished above all things for your direction, that he might have paid his respects to his father's friend.

His last address he sent me was, "Wm. Burns, at Mr Barber's, saddler, No. 181 Strand." I writ him by Mr Kennedy, but neglected to ask him for your address; so, if you find a spare half minute, please let my brother know by a card where and when he will find you, and the poor fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of the few surviving friends of the man whose name, and christian name too, he has the honour to bear.

The next letter I write you shall be a long one. I have much to tell you of "hairbreadth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach," with all the eventful history of a life, the early years of which owed so much to your kind tutorage; but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest compliments to Mrs Murdoch and family. I am ever, my dear sir, your obliged friend, R. B.

CCXIX.

TO MR M'MURDO.

ELLISLAND, 2d August 1790.

SIR,-Now that you are over with the sirens of Flattery, the harpies of Corruption, and the furies of Ambition-these infernal deities that on all sides, and in all parties, preside over the

villanous business of politics-permit a rustic Muse of your acquaintance to do her best to sooth you with a song (He's gane, p. 156).

You knew Henderson-I have not flattered his memory. I have the honour to be, sir, your obliged, humble servant, R. B.

CCXX.

TO MRS DUNLOP.

8th August 1790.

DEAR MADAM,-After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I sit down to write to you. Ask me not why I have delayed it so long? It was owing to hurry, indolence, and fifty other things; in short, to anything but forgetfulness of la plus aimable de son sexe. By the by, you are indebted your best courtesy to me for this last compliment, as I pay it from my sincere conviction of its truth -a quality rather rare in compliments of these grinning, bowing, scraping times.

Well, I hope writing to you will ease a little my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised to-day! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an intimate acquaintance of yours, has given my feelings a wound that I perceive will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride! R. B.

CCXXI.

TO MR CUNNINGHAM.

ELLISLAND, 8th August 1790.

FORGIVE me, my once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot sit down and fancy the busy life I lead. I laid down my goose-feather to beat my brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts of a country grannum at a family christening; a bride on the market-day before her marriage; an orthodox clergyman at a Paisley sacrament; or a tavern-keeper at an election dinner; but the resemblance that hits my fancy best is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who, &c., &c., roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching whom he may devour. However, tossed about as I am, if I choose-and who would not choose?—to bind down with the crampets of attention the brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear up the superstructure of independence, and from its daring turrets bid defiance to the storms of fate And is not this a "consummation devoutly to be wished?" "Thy spirit, Independence, let me share;

Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye!
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky!"

Are not these noble verses? They are the introduction of Smollett's Ode to Independence: if you have not seen the poem, I will send it to you. How wretched is the man that hangs on by the favours of the great! To shrink from every dignity of man, at the approach of a lordly piece of self-consequence, who, amid all his tinsel glitter and stately hauteur, is but a creature formed as thou art and perhaps not so well formed as thou art-came into the world a pulling infant as thou didst, and must go out of it as all men must-a naked corse. R. B.

CCXXII.

TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL.

ELLISLAND, October 1790.

SIR,-I shall not fail to wait on Captain Riddel to-night. I wish and pray that the goddess of justice herself would appeat to-morrow among our hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word in their ear that mercy to the thief is injustice to the honest man. For my part, I have galloped over my ten parishes these four days, until this moment that I am just alighted, or rather that my poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let me down; for the miserable creature has been on his knees half a score of times within the last twenty miles, telling me, in his own way-" Behold, am not I thy faithful jade of a horse, on which thou hasc ridden these many years?"

In short, sir, I have broke my horse's wind, and almost broke my own neck, besides some injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing to a hard-hearted stone of a saddle. I find that every offender has so many great men to espouse his cause, that I shall not be surprised if I am not committed to the stronghold of the law to-morrow for insolence to the dear friends of the gentlemen of the country. I have the honour to be, sir, your obliged and obedient humble R. B.

CCXXIII.

TO CRAUFORD TAIT, ESQ., EDINBURGH.

ELLISLAND, 15th October 1790. DEAR SIR,-Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance the bearer, Mr Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, whom I have long known and long loved. His father, whose only son he is, has a decent little property in Ayrshire, and has bred the young man to the law, in which department he comes up an adventurer to your good town. I shall give you my friend's character in two words-As to his head, he has talents enough, and more than