Original Letter of Burns. an' a' the members o' your singing-club; an' tell them, gif they be for makin' a Concert, no till seek help frae Lun'on-bred singers, nor yet gi'e the sweet native airs o' our ain kintra, a florie, Englifiet dress; for a bonnie sang, like a bonnie lass, "Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most." I remain, Davie, your frien' and weel wis'er, Rye'sdale, Fursday nicht, 1819. SAWNIE CROODLE ORIGINAL LETTER OF BURNS. The following letter seems to have been written by the poet, after the birth of his twin children; and immediately before his marriage with Miss Armour. The part of the country in which his uncle resided, was notorious for smuggling-and it is "on this hint he speaks." ED. DEAR UNCLE, Mossgiel, 4th May, 1789. These I hope will find you and your conjugal yoke fellow, in your good old ordinary. I am impatient to know if the Ailsa fowling be commenced for this season yet, as I want three or four stones of feathers, and hope you will bespeak them. for me. It would be a vain attempt for me to enumerate the various transactions I have been engaged in since I saw you last, but this know-I engaged in the smuggling trade, and, God knows, if ever any poor man experienced better returns-two for one!! But as freight and delivering have turned out so ***** dear, I am thinking of taking out a licence and beginning in fair trade-I have taken a farm on the banks of the Nith, and in imitation of the old Patriarchs, get men servants and maid ser vants, flocks and herds, and beget sons and daughters. Your obedient Nephew, To Mr. Samuel Brown, Ballochniel Miln. ROBERT BURNS. Imitation. IMITATION. I must caution you against a servile imitation of any one Author whatever. Blair. To imitate the manner that is agreable, the address that is easy and facetious and the style that has been justly admired for purity and elegance, is highly commendable.-But we must beware of servile imitation. Much however, as this requires to be guarded against, not a day that passes, but we have instances of it, to an extent truly ridiculous. In manner and address, we have the apish and acquired bawl for the easy and manly declination, and the simpering smile, for natural eheerfulness of countenance. Such people who so far forget the honour due to their own natural dispositions, should remember that, "Soft pleasing speech, and graceful outward show, But a servile imitation of the style of another is much more dangerous, and requires more particularly to be guarded against. Independent of this however, you cannot attend a Theological or Debating Society, but you can trace, in almost every speaker, a strong resemblance, not only in manner, but also in style to a distinguished and justly admired Orator of the present day. We have all his gestures, all his attitudes, and all his vehemence, without either his ease, feeling or sincerity. In the imitation of his style, for loftiness and sublimity, we hear them rising on foaming billows of hyperbole, and sweeping through whole pages of anaphora. Disregarding perspicuity, we find their chief attention directed to the structure and dimensions of their sentences: and accordingly we have one sentence swelled up, and another curtailed to be more like the original.—These defects are the characteristicts of almost every servile imitation. But, there are other pernicious consequences, to which we will now advert. In the formation of our taste and style, we must allow the natural force of our own abilities to cooperate with the influence of example, otherwise we will acquire a stiffness in our composition, which should always be avoided. It hampers the natural genius of man, and makes us distrustful of our own abilities.—The model is the criterion by which we judge of the merits and demer The Reflector. its of our productions; and the more they are unlike, the less they are valued. On this account, those spontaneous effusions which might do us credit, are destroyed from an over anxiety to assimilate them to the model of imitation. However far, therefore, our admiration may carry us, we should carefully guard against a servile imitation, as it is fatal to pure and nuine composition. Glasgow, 15th April, 1819. S. ge At an early period of my youth, I deem myself happy in laying the foundation of a friendship, the dearest which can ever again fall to my lot-a friendship the objects of which, thought they saw in its strength, the signs of lasting duration. When the juvenile years had swiftly flown over our heads, we accompanied each other into the scenes of study and the walks of literature. The same happy unanimity of sentiment which displayed itself in the innocent amusements of infancy, again bloomed afresh in our more advanced and important pursuits. We entered together the venerable University of this city, and with delight embibed the sweets of precious learning. Last winter we entered upon the third session of our academical education, and while pursuing it as formerly, smote by cruel contagion my friend, was snatched from my arms, and carrried away to that "bourne whence no traveller returns." Those who have felt the smart of such an afflicting visitation, may picture to themselves the anguish of the unhappy disconsolate, who was thus left behind. The feelings which still intrude upon my mind are of such a peculiar nature, that I could not find words adequate to their expression. The parents of my dearest friend soon after The Reflector. the melancholy event, sent me the books and manuscripts of their amiable son, left by his dying request to me as sad memorials of ́times that were’-My friend had been in use to commit to writing his reflections on particular subjects. These productions have formed to me a pleasant, though melancholy study, and as they possess no small degree of merit I have prevailed upon myself to give to the public though the medium of your excellent Mirror, occasional extracts from my valued miscellany. Glasgow, 10th April, 1819. LOCH ARD. So wondrous wild, the whole might seem Scott. B. The contemplation of the works of nature, is a study, in its execution, interesting and agreeable; in its extent, inexhaustible, and in its effects of the most happy tendency. It is a study in which every mind must find something to please and instruct. Lessons of truth may be reaped from every field, and every scene comes fraught with salutary advice. To a discerning mind, the scene which with so much pleasure arrests the external organs of sight, is felt with far greater force on the internal vision, There the impression is as lasting as it is strong. Should the spectator be one who has forfeited every claim to virtue and honour; should he be one who has prostituted every fine feeling on the altar of a sensual appetite, here he will find no fuet to kindle his passion into the devouring flame. On the contrary he will find every thing to soothe and quell the tremours of a disturbed bosom. Or is the spectator unfortunate have his airy prospects of opulence and prosperity been overcast by the gloomy clouds of misfortune, or dissipated in the storm of adversity? There he can find nothing to add to his already accumulated woes-nothing to increase the pain of disappointed hopes. On the contrary, every thing to console and encourage. Amidst scenes like these how can he be melancholy? What! when every object which meets his eye, every note which breaks on his ear proclaims the fatherly attention of Omnipotence, shall man despair? When the beasts of the forest, and the fowls of The Reflector. the air, in the wildest parts of Nature's domains have ample provision afforded them, shall man, the lord of this creation despond? Shall the same hand which is so benignly extended for the preservation and protection of these, be with-held from the care of the human species? But however gratifying may be the scenes of nature on minds like these, to the philanthropic and to the virtuous, they afford the most pleasant emotions. To them no scene is like that of nature. There the fancy roams from the confines of its narrow abode, and soars beyond the precincts of time. The beautiful lake which forms the subject of these reflections, is situated in the western Highlands of Perthshire, about three miles to the west of the inn of Aberfoil. It has the usual characteristic of the Scottish lakes; a valley surrounded with mountains, where the course of some river impeded, has spread its waters. A stream flows from the foot of Benledi, and in its course it forms Loch Con, issuing from which after a short run, again spreading its waters, it forms Loch Ard, from which over a waterfall burst forth the waters of the Forth. Aberfoil inn stands in a beautiful vale, through which the Forth meanders in the manner so peculiar to that stream. Leaving the inn in going to the lake, the traveller proceeds westward along the banks of the Forth. The road here is extremely romantic. On the left it is environed by the river, and on the right by a very high hill clothed almost to the top with copsewood. After passing a mill and the waterfall before mentioned, he arrives at a bay of the loch called Lower Loch Ard, and a little farther on, after emerging from a very thick wood, all on a sudden a scene bursts on his view which for grandeur almost exceeds description. The lake in all its beauty lies at his feet, and its whole extent within command of his eye. On the north the road winds along the margin of the lake, beneath overhanging rocks whose aspect threatens destruction to the traveller. Behind, stupendous hills, the lower part clothed with wood, rear their rocky summits to the skies, and intercept his view in that quarter. On the Southern bank are several bays, likewise surrounded with hills less high, but more wild than those of the opposite shore. On this side likewise are a few small isles, on one of which stands the ruins of a castle, said to have belonged to one Murdoch Duke of Albany. But the grand view is to the west. There are those stupen dous barren mountains, which in their lap form the basin where |