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enough to prick down my tune properly, so it can ne-
ver see the light, and perhaps 'tis no great matter, but
the following were the verses I composed to suit it:
O raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low! O
O raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low! O
My stem was fair, my bud was green,
My blossom sweet did blow; O
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
And made my branches grow; O
But luckless fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O

But luckless fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O.

The tune consisted of three parts, so that the above verses just went through the whole air.

October, 1785.

If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to throw his eyes over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following observations; as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor devil's dearbought experience. I have, literally, like that great poet and great gallant, and by consequence, that great fool, Solomon," turned my eyes to behold madness and folly."-Nay, I have, with all the ardor of a lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, accompanied with a warm, feeling, poetic heart-shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship.

In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up a regular, warm intercourse with the deity.

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(Here the MSS. abruptly close.)

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FRAGMENTS,

MISCELLANEOUS REMARKS,

&c.

"Every single observation that is published by a man of genius, be it ever so trivial, should be esteemed of importance; because he speaks from his own impressions: whereas common men publish common things, which they have perhaps gleaned from frivolous writers."

Shenstone.

I LIKE to have quotations for every occasion: They give one's ideas so pat, and save one the trouble of finding expressions adequate to one's feelings. I think it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, &c. an embodied form in verse; which, to me, is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says finely of his

muse

"Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe;

"That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so."

What a creature is man! A little alarm last night, and to-day, that I am mortal, has made such a revolution on my spirits! There is no philosophy, no divinity, that comes half so much home to the mind. I have no idea of courage that braves Heaven: 'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero in Bedlam.

My favorite feature in Milton's Satan is, his manly fortitude in supporting what cannot be remedied-in short, the wild, broken fragments of a noble, exalted

mind in ruins. I meant no more by saying he was a favorite hero of mine.

I am just risen from a two-hours bout after supper, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common with me-but the port. "One."-'Tis now "witching time of night;" and whatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute it to enchantments and spells; for I can't look over it, but will seal it up directly, as I don't care for to-morrow's criticisms on it.

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 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 mind, we are perpetually at the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay the very weakness and wickedness of our fellow

creatures.

Away, then, with disquietudes! Let us pray with the honest weaver of Kilbarchan, "L-d send us a gude conceit o' oursel!" Or, in the words of the old sang;

"Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again,
"And I'll never mind any such foes."

Your thoughts on religion shall be welcome. You may perhaps distrust me when I say 'tis also my fa

vorite topic; but mine is the religion of the bosom. I hate the very idea of a controversial divinity; as I firmly believe that every honest, upright man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the deity. I despise the superstition of a fanatic, but I love the religion of

a man.

Why have I not heard from you? To-day I well expected it; and before supper, when a letter to me was announced, my heart danced with rapture: but behold! 'twas some fool who had taken it into his head to turn poet; and made an offering of the first fruits of his nonsense.

I believe there is no holding converse, or carrying on correspondence, with an amiable fine woman, without some mixture of that delicious passion, whose most devoted slave I have more than once had the honor of being: but why be hurt or offended on that account? Can no honest man have a prepossession for a fine woman, but he must run his head against an intrigue? Take a little of the tender witchcraft of love, and add to it the generous, the honorable sentiments of manly friendship; and I know but one more delightful morsel, which few, few in any rank ever taste. Such a composition is like adding cream to strawberries-it not only gives the fruit a more eiegant richness, but has a peculiar deliciousness of its

own.

Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the wheel of life, than the thoughtless career we run in the hour of health. “None saith, where is God, "my maker, that giveth me songs in the night: who "teacheth us more knowledge than the beasts of the "field, and more understanding than the fowls of the "air."

I had a letter from my old friend a while ago, but it was so dry, so distant, so like a card to one of his clients, that I could scarce bear to read it. He is a good, honest fellow; and can write a friendly letter, which would do equal honor to his head and his heart, as a whole sheaf of his letters I have by me will witness; and though Fame does not blow her trumpet at my approach now, as she did then, when he first honored me with his friendship, yet I am as proud as ever; and when I am laid in my grave, I wish to be stretched at my full length, that I may occupy every inch of ground which I have a right to.

You would laugh, were you to see me where I am just now Here am I set, a solitary hermit, in the solitary room of a solitary inn, with a solitary bottle of wine by me-as grave and stupid as an owl-but like that owl, still faithful to my old song; in confirmation of which, my dear here is your good health! May the hand-wal'd bennisons o' heaven bless your bonie face; and the wratch wha skellies at your weelfare, may the auld tinkler deil get him to clout his rotten heart! Amen!

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I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. Moore, giving an account of my life: it is truth, every word of it; and will give you the just idea of a man whom you have honored with your friendship, I wish you to see me as I am. I am, as most people of my trade are, a strange Will o' Wish being, the victim, too frequently, of much imprudence and many follies. My great constituent elements are pride and passion. The first I have endeavoured to humanize into integrity and honor; the last makes me a devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm, in love, religion, or friendship; either of them, or altogether, as I happen to be inspired.

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Alluding to the time of his first appearance in Edinburgh.

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