To Mr. Gilbert Burns

DEAR BROTHER, I mean to take advantage of the frank, though I have not, in my present frame of mind, much appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves are in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochondria pervading every atom of both body and soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands But let it go to bell! I'll fight it out and be off with it. We have gotten a set of very decent players here just now. I have seen them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent worth. On New-year-day evening I gave him the following prologue, which he spouted to his audience with applause. No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, That queens it o'er our taste—the more's the pity: Tho', by the bye, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives here at home. I can no more.—If once I was clear of this cursed farm, I should respire more at ease. R. B.