MY DEAR SIR,—Here am I. That is all I can tell you of that unaccountable being, myself. What I am doing no mortal can tell; what I am thinking, I myself cannot tell; what I am usually saying is not worth telling. The clock is just striking—one, two, three, four...twelve, forenoon; and here I sit in the attic storey, the garret, with a friend on the right hand of my standish, a friend whose kindness I shall largely experience at the close of this line—there, thank you!—a friend, my dear Lawrie, whose kindness often makes me blush—a friend who has more of the milk of human kindness than all the human race put together, and what is highly to his honour, peculiarly a friend to the friendless as often as they come his way; in short, Sir, he is wthout the least alloy a universal philanthropist, and his much-beloved name is a bottle of good old Port!
In a week, if whim and weather serve, I set out for the north, a tour to the Highlands.
I ate some Newhaven broth—in other words, boiled mussels—with Mr. Farquharson's family t'other day. Now I see you prick up your ears. They are all well, and mademoiselle is particularly well. She begs her respects to you all—along with which please present those of your humble servant. I can no more. I have so high a veneration, or rather idolatrization, for the clerical character, that even a little futurum esse priestling, with his penna pennæ, throws an awe over my mind in his presence, and shortens my sentences into single ideas.
Farewell, and believe me to be ever, my dear Sir, yours,
ROBERT BURNS.
[44] Son, and successor, to the minister of Loudon.
LVIII.—To MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMARNOCK.
STIRLING, 26
th August
1787.