etly at home, and
pleasant-natured Jean has made herself neat, and come in at six
o'clock to give him his tea--a meal he always takes. At this period,
however, there is something remarkably exciting in the proceedings of
the French army under Pichegru; or Fox, Adam, or Sheridan, is expected
to make an onslaught upon the ministry in the House of Commons. The
post comes into Dumfries at eight o'clock at night. There is always a
group of gentlemen on the street, eager to hear the news. Burns
saunters out to the High Street, and waits amongst the rest. The
intelligence of the evening is very interesting. The Convention has
decreed the annexation of the Netherlands--or the new treason-bill has
passed the House of Lords, with only the feeble protest of Bedford,
Derby, and Lauderdale. These things merit some discussion. The
trades-lads go off to strong ale in the closes; the gentlemen slide in
little groups into the King's Arms Hotel or the George. As for Burns,
he will just have a single glass and a half-hour's chat beside John
Hyslop's fire, and then go quietly home. So he is quickly absorbed in
the little narrow close where that vintner maintains his state. There,
however, one or two friends have already established themselves, all
with precisely the same virtuous intent. They heartily greet the bard.
Meg or John bustles about to give him his accustomed place, which no
one ever disputes. And, somehow, the debate on the news of the evening
leads on to other chat of an interesting kind. Then Burns becomes
brilliant, and his friends give him the applause of their laughter.
One jug succeeds another--mirth abounds--and it is not till Mrs Hyslop
has declared that they are going beyond all bounds, and she positively
will not give them another drop of hot water, that our bard at length
bethinks him of returning home, where Bonnie Jean has been lost in
peaceful slumber for three hours, after vainly wondering "what can be
keeping Robert out so late the nicht." Burns gets to bed a little
excited and worn out, but not in a state to provoke much remark from
his amiable partner, in whom nothing can abate the veneration with
which she has all along regarded him. And though he beds at a latish
hour, most likely he is up next morning between seven and eight, to
hear little Robert his day's lesson in _Caesar_, or, if the season
invites, to take a half-hour's stroll before breakfast along the
favourite Dock Green.'

Whenever a female of any