I well remember the acute sorrow with which, by my own fire-side, I first perused Dr. Currie’s Narrative, and some of the letters, particularly of those composed in the latter part of the poet’s life.  If my pity for Burns was extreme, this pity did not preclude a strong indignation, of which he was not the object.  If, said I, it were in the power of a biographer to relate the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, the friends and surviving kindred of the deceased, for the sake of general benefit to mankind, might endure that such heart-rending communication should be made to the world.  But in no case is this possible; and, in the present, the opportunities of directly acquiring other than superficial knowledge have been most scanty; for the writer has barely seen the person who is the subject of his tale; nor did his avocations allow him to take the pains necessary for ascertaining what portion of the information conveyed to him was authentic.  So much for facts and actions; and to what purpose relate them even were they true, if the narrative cannot be heard without extreme pain; unless they are placed in such a light, and brought forward in such order, that they shall explain their own laws, and leave the reader in as little uncertainty as the mysteries of our nature will allow, respecting the spirit from which they derived their existence, and which governed the agent?  But hear on this pathetic and awful subject, the poet himself, pleading for those who have transgressed!

    One point must still be greatly dark,
    The moving why they do it,
    And just as lamely can ye mark
    How far, perhaps, they rue it.

    Who made the heart, ’tis he alone
    Decidedly can try us;
    He knows each chord—­its various tone,
    Each spring, its various bias.

    Then at the balance let’s be mute,
    We never can adjust it;
    What’s done we partly may compute,
    But know not what’s resisted.

How happened it that the recollection of this affecting passage did not check so amiable a man as Dr. Currie, while he was revealing to the world the infirmities of its author?  He must have known enough of human nature to be assured that men would be eager to sit in judgment, and pronounce decidedly upon the guilt or innocence of Burns by his testimony; nay, that there were multitudes whose main interest in the allegations would be derived from the incitements which they found therein to undertake this presumptuous office.  And where lies the collateral benefit, or what ultimate advantage can be expected, to counteract the injury that the many are thus tempted to do to their own minds; and to compensate the sorrow which must be fixed in the hearts of the considerate few, by language that proclaims so much, and provokes conjectures as unfavourable as imagination can furnish?  Here, said I, being moved beyond what it would become me