pleased with the manners of the old lady and her daughter. On the 30th of October, he is found addressing the major in an epistle expressed in merry but careless verse :— brought to him, he said, with a knowing grin: 'No; I would rather ye took the water out o't.' One of his remarks was: It is said that persons who eat much die of apoplexy; it is also said that persons who drink much die of apoplexy. My case is different, for I both eat much and drink much therefore, I shall not die of apoplexy.' He used to talk with high relish of the days when he was a prisoner in America: Plenty to eat and drink, and no parades.' One of his puns was so felicitous, that Thomas Hood himself might have envied it. A young officer was talking freely on religious subjects in the company of the major. He wound up with: 'In fact, I look upon the Deity merely as my superior, and myself as his vassal.' 'Yes,' quoth Logan, 'ye may well say that, for I have no doubt you pay him feu-duties'— quasi dicitur, few duties.* The poor wit, overgrown with the effects of over-indulgence, was at length the victim of painful ailments. The Rev. Mr Cuthill, one of the Ayr ministers, called to see him, and remarked that it would require fortitude to bear up under such sufferings. 'Ay,' said the dying major, 'it would take fiftitude.' *Feu-duties are in Scotland equivalent to ground-rent in England. We've faults and failings-granted clearly, We're frail backsliding mortals merely, Eve's bonny squad priests wyte them sheerly But still, but still-I like them dearly- But by yon moon !—and that's high swearin' And every star within my hearin'! And by her een wha was a dear ane! I'll ne'er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin' In fair-play yet. gadflies chosen miserly doubt jole expect blame mad made-sleepless My loss I mourn, but not repent it, Faites mes baise-mains respectueuses, And honest Lucky; no to roose you, That sic a couple Fate allows ye Nae mair at present can I measure, And trowth, my rhymin' ware 's nae treasure; Be 't light, be 't dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure MOSSGIEL, 30th October 1786. witching R. B. 'But of all the friendships,' says Gilbert, which Robert acquired in Ayrshire and elsewhere, none seemed more agreeable to him than that of Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop, nor any which has been more uniformly and constantly exerted in behalf of him and his family, of which, were it proper, I could give many instances. Robert was on the point of setting out for Edinburgh before Mrs Dunlop had heard of him. About the time of my brother's publishing in Kilmarnock, she had been afflicted with a long and severe illness, which had reduced her mind to the most distressing state of depression. In this situation, a copy of the printed Poems was laid on her table by a friend; and happening to open on The Cotter's Saturday Night, she read it over with the greatest pleasure and surprise; the poet's description of the simple cottagers operating on her mind like the charm of a powerful exorcist, expelling the demon ennui, and restoring her to her wonted inward harmony and satisfaction. Mrs Dunlop sent off a person express to Mossgiel, distant fifteen or sixteen miles, with a very obliging letter to my brother, desiring him to send her half-a-dozen copies of his Poems, if he had them to spare, and begging he would do her the pleasure of calling at Dunlop House as soon as convenient. This was the beginning of a correspondence which ended only with the poet's life. [Nearly] the last use he made of his pen was writing a short letter to this lady a few days before his death.' It may be added, by way of explanation, that Mrs Dunlop, as daughter of Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, was regarded as a descendant of the celebrated Scottish patriot, though, in reality, her ancestor was only his brother. TO MRS DUNLOP OF DUNLOP. MADAM-I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus: nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges honour him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the saviour of his country. 'Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!' The first book I met with in my early years which I perused with pleasure was The Life of Hannibal; the next was, The History of Sir William Wallace; for several of my earlier years I had few other authors, and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember in particular being struck with that part of Wallace's story where these lines occur: 'Syne to the Leglen Wood, when it was late, To make a silent and a safe retreat.' I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked half-a-dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen Wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto; and as I explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his merits. R. B. There is reason to believe, that early in November Burns paid a second visit to St Margaret's Hill, probably with the design of consulting Mr Lawrie about his future movements. In the course of conversation, allusion was made to the story of Miss Peggy K -, which was then beginning to make a noise in Ayrshire. It will be remembered that Burns had some time before formed the acquaintance of this hapless daughter of beauty, and written a song in her praise. It was now feared by many that she had qualified herself for a worse than doubtful position in society. Contrary to what might have been expected of Burns, he took the least favourable view of the case of Young Peggy. Mrs Lawrie, who had a great horror for talk of this kind, said something sharp to Burns with reference to his remarks, and this sank into his sensitive mind. Before taking his leave, he had promised to send Ossian, and a collection of songs, for the perusal of the young people. He did so, accompanying the parcel with the following letter :— TO MR ARCHIBALD LAWRIE. MOSSGIEL, November 13, 1786. DEAR SIR-I have along with this sent two volumes of Ossian, with the remaining volume of the songs. Ossian I am not in such a hurry about; but I wish the songs, with the volume of the Scotch poets, as soon as they can conveniently be despatched. If they are left at Mr Wilson the bookseller's shop in Kilmarnock, they will easily reach me. My most respectful compliments to Mr and Mrs Lawrie; and a poet's warmest wishes for their happiness to the young ladies, particularly the fair musician, whom I think much better qualified than ever David was, or could be, to charm an evil spirit out of Saul. Indeed it needs not the feelings of a poet to be interested in the welfare of one of the sweetest scenes of domestic peace and kindred love that ever I saw; as I think the peaceful unity of St Margaret's Hill can only be excelled by the harmonious concord of the Apocalyptic Zion. R. B. When the books were opened, a slip of paper dropped out from between the leaves of one of the volumes, containing the following modest expostulation on the rebuke which had been administered by Mrs Lawrie: Rusticity's ungainly form May cloud the highest mind; |