r notice,
too obscure; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged
too suddenly into the glare of polite and learned observation.

I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, write you an account of my
every step; and better health and more spirits may enable me to make
it something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle.

I have the honour to be,

Good Sir,

Your ever grateful humble servant,

R. B.

If any of my friends write me, my direction is, care of Mr. Creech,
bookseller.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 163: Lady Betty Cunningham.]

[Footnote 164: The paper here alluded to, was written by Mr. Mackenzie,
the celebrated author of "The Man of Feeling."]

* * * * *

XXXVII.

TO MR. ROBERT MUIR.

["Muir, thy weaknesses," says Burns, writing of this gentleman to Mrs.
Dunlop, "thy weaknesses were the aberrations of human nature; but thy
heart glowed with everything generous, manly, and noble: and if ever
emanation from the All-good Being animated a human form, it was
thine."]

_Edinburgh, Dec. 20th, 1786._

MY DEAR FRIEND,

I have just time for the carrier, to tell you that I received your
letter; of which I shall say no more but what a lass of my
acquaintance said of her bastard wean; she said she "did na ken wha
was the father exactly, but she suspected it was some o' the bonny
blackguard smugglers, for it was like them." So I only say your
obliging epistle was like you. I enclose you a parcel of subscription
bills. Your affair of sixty copies is also like you; but it would not
be like me to comply.

Your friend's notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head of
sketching it in some future epistle to you. My compliments to Charles
and Mr. Parker.

R. B.

* * * * *

XXXVIII.

TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS,

WRITER, AYR.

[William Chalmers drew out the assignment of the copyright of Burns's
Poems, in favour of his brother Gilbert, and for the maintenance of
his natural child, when engaged to go to the West Indies, in the
autumn of 1786.]

_Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786._

MY DEAR FRIEND,

I confess I have sinned the sin for which there is hardly any
forgiveness--ingratitude to friendship--in not writing you sooner; but
of all men living, I had intended to have sent you an entertaining
letter; and by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding,
conceited majesty, preside over the dull routine of b