might derive from the subscription, and the sale of his copy-right, a clear profit
of, at least, seven hundred pounds ; a sum that, to a man who had hitherto lived
in his indigent circumstances, would be absolutely more than the vainly expected
wealth of Sir Epicure Mammon.
Burns, in the mean time, led a life differing from that of his original condition in Ayrshire, almost as widely as differed the scenes and amusements of London, to which Omiah was introduced under the patronage of the Earl of Sandwich, from those with which he had been familiar in the Friendly Isles. The conversation of even the most eminent authors, is often found to be so unequal to the fame of their writings, that he who reads with admiration, can listen with none but sentiments of the most profound contempt. But the conversation of Burns was, in comparison with the formal and exterior circumstances of his education, perhaps even more wonderful than his poetry. He affected no soft airs, or graceful motions of politeness, which might have ill accorded with the rustic plainness of his native manners. Conscious superiority of mind taught him to associate with the great, the learned, and the gay, without being overawed into any such bashfulness as might have made him confused in thought, or hesitating in elocution. He possessed, withal, an extraordinary share of plain common sense, or mother wit, which prevented him from obtruding upon persons, of whatever rank, with whom he was admitted to converse, any of those effusions of vanity, envy, or self-conceit, in which authors are exceedingly apt to indulge, who have lived remote from the general practice of life, and whose minds have been almost exclusively confined to contemplate their own studies and their works. In conversation he displayed a sort of intuitive quickness and rectitude of judgment upon every subject that arose. The sensibility of his heart, and the vivacity of his fancy, gave a rich colouring to whatever reasoning he was disposed to advance; and his language in conversation was not at all less happy than in his writings. For these reasons he did not cease to please immediately after <he had been once seen. Those who had met and conversed with him once, were pleased to meet and converse with him again and again. I remember that the late Dr Robertson once observed to me, that he had scarcely ever met with any man whose conversation discovered greater vigour and activity of mind than that of Burns. Every one wondered that the rustic bard was not spoiled by so much caressing, favour, and flattery, as he found; and every one went on to spoil him, by continually repeating all these, as if with an obstinate resolution, that they should, in the end, produce their effect Nothing, however, of change in his manners appeared, at least for a while, to show that this was at all likely to happen. He, indeed, maintained himself, with considerable spirit, upon a footing of equality with all whom he had occasion to associate or converse with; yet he never arrogated any superiority, save what the fair and manly exertion of his powers, at the time, could undeniably command. Had he but been able to give a steady preference to the society of the virtuous, the learned, and the wise, rather than to that of the gay and the dissolute, it is probable that he could not have failed to rise to an exaltation of character and of talents fitted to do honour to human nature.
Unfortunately, however, that happened which was natural in those unaccustomed circumstances in which Burns found himself placed. He could not assume enough of superciliousness to reject the familiarity of all those who, without any sincere kindness for him, importunately pressed to obtain his acquaintance and intimacy. He was insensibly led to associate less with the learned, and austere, and the rigorously temperate, than with the young, with the votaries of intemperate joys, with persons to whom he was commended chiefly by licentious wit, and with whom he could not long associate without sharing in the excesses of
