he
was fond of were mice. They were encouraged "to play" about in his
workshop. I remember, when one got among his papers, that he exclaimed,
"Ho! ho! here's a mouse at work; why won't he come into my lap?--but
then I ought to be writing legislation, and that would not do."

One day, while we were at dinner, mice had got, as they frequently did,
into the drawers of the dinner-table, and were making no small noise. "O
you rascals," exclaimed Bentham, "there's an uproar among you. I'll tell
puss of you;" and then added, "I became once very intimate with a
colony of mice. They used to run up my legs, and eat crumbs from my lap.
I love everything that has four legs; so did George Wilson. We were fond
of mice, and fond of cats; but it was difficult to reconcile the two
affections."

Jeremy Bentham records: "George Wilson had a disorder which kept him two
months to his couch. The _mouses_ used to run up his back and eat the
powder and pomatum from his hair. They used also to run up my knees when
I went to see him. I remember they did so to Lord Glenbervie, who
thought it odd."[168]

BURNS AND THE FIELD MOUSE.

The history of the origin of this well-known piece of the Scottish poet
is thus given by Mr Chambers in that edition of the Life and Works of
Robert Burns,[169] which will ever be regarded, by Scotchmen at least,
as the most complete and carefully-edited of the numerous editions of
that most popular poet.

"We have the testimony of Gilbert Burns that this beautiful poem was
composed while the author was following the plough. Burns ploughed with
four horses, being twice the amount of power now required on most of the
soils of Scotland. He required an assistant, called a _gaudsman_, to
drive the horses, his own duty being to hold and guide the plough. John
Blane, who had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years
afterwards, had a distinct recollection of the turning-up of the mouse.
Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he ran after the creature to kill
it, but was checked and recalled by his master, who, he observed, became
thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, who treated his servants
with the familiarity of fellow-labourers, soon after read the poem to
Blane.

TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785.

"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou needna start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wa