. . . . . . . . . . . .
“Tell us, ye dead,
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret,
What ’tis you are, and we must shortly be?”
Blair
A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the departed sons of men, but not one of them has ever thought fit to answer the question. “O that some courteous ghost would blab it out!” but it cannot be; you and I, my friend, must make the experiment by ourselves and for ourselves. However, I am so convinced that an unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion is not only necessary, by making us better men, but also by making us happier men, that I should take every care that your little godson, and every little creature that shall call me father, shall be taught them.
So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at this wild place of the world, in the intervals of my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from Antigua.
R. B.
CCXXXIII.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[There is both bitterness and humour in this letter: the poet discourses on many matters, and woman is among them—but he places the bottle at his elbow as an antidote against the discourtesy of scandal.]
Dumfries, 10th September, 1792.