C H A R A C T E R S. 



323 



leave to tell you, that the poor 

 author wrote thera under some 

 twitching qualms of conscience, 

 arising from a suspicion that he 

 was doing what he ought not to 

 do; a predicament he has mOre 

 than once been in before. 



I have not the most distant pre- 

 tensions to assume that character 

 which the pye-coated guardians of 

 escutcheons call a gentleman. — 

 WTien at Edinburgh last winter, 

 I got acquainted in the Heralds- 

 Office ; and looking through that 

 granary of honours, I there found 

 almost every name of the kingdom ; 

 but for me, 



My ancient, but iftnoble blood, 

 Has crept through scoundrels ever since 

 the flood. 



gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite 

 disowned me. 



My father was of the north of 

 Scotland, the son of a farmer, and 

 was thrown by early misfortune 

 on the world at large; where, after 

 many years wanderings and sojourn- 

 ings, he picked up a pretty large 

 quantity of observation and expe- 

 rience, to which I am indebted for 

 most of my little pretensions to 

 wisdom. I have met with few who 

 understood men, their manners and 

 their ways, equal to him; but stub- 

 born ungainly integrity, and head- 

 strong ungovernable irascibility, 

 are disqualifying circumstances : 

 consequently I was born a very poor 

 man's son. For the first six or seven 

 years of my life, my father was 

 gardener to a worthy gentleman of 

 small estate in the neighbourhood of 

 Ayre. Had he continued in that 

 station, I must have marched off to 

 be one of the little underlings about 

 a farm-house ; but it was his dearest 

 wish and prayer to have it in his 



power to keep his children under 

 ins own eye, till they could discern 

 between good and evil ; so, with 

 the assistance of his generous master, 

 my father ventured on a small farm 

 on his estate. At those years I was 

 by no rneans a favourite with any 

 body. I was a good deal noted for 

 a retentive memory, a stubborn 

 sturdy something in my disposition, 

 and an enthusiastic idiot piety. 

 I say, idiot piety, because I was 

 then but a child. Though it cost 

 the school-master some thrashings, 

 I made an excellen t English scholar ; 

 and by the time I was ten or eleven 

 years of age, I was a critic in sub- 

 stantives, verbs, and particles. In 

 my infant and boyish days too t 

 owed much to an old woman who 

 resided in the family, remarkable 

 for her ignorance, credulity and 

 superstition. She had I suppose, 

 the largest collection in the country 

 of tales and songs concerning 

 devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, 

 witches, warlocks, spunldes, kel- 

 pies, elf candles, dead lights, 

 wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, 

 giants, enchanted towers, dragons, 

 and other trumpery. This culti- 

 vated the latent seeds of poetry; 

 but had so strong an effect on my 

 imagination, that to this hour, in 

 my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes 

 keep a sharp look out in suspicious 

 places ; and though nobody caii be 

 more sceptical than I am in such 

 matters, yet it often takes an effort 

 of philosophy to shake off these idle 

 terrors. The earliest composition 

 that I recollect taking pleasure in 

 was " The Vision of Mirza," and 

 a hymn of Addison's, beginning — 

 " How are thy servants blest, O 

 Lord !" I particularly remember 

 one half stanza which was music 

 to my boyish ear — 

 Y 2 



