he tint it.
He gap'd for't, he grap'd for't,
He fand it was awa, man;
But what his common sense came short,
He eked it out wi' law, man.'

Had pen-portraits, such as these, been merely caricatures, they might
have been forgiven; but, unfortunately, they were convincing likenesses,
therefore libels. We doubt not, as Cunningham tells us, that the
_literati_ of Edinburgh were not displeased when such a man left them;
they could never feel at their ease so long as he was in their midst.
'Nor were the titled part of the community without their share in this
silent rejoicing; his presence was a reproach to them. The illustrious
of his native land, from whom he had looked for patronage, had proved
that they had the carcass of greatness, but wanted the soul; they
subscribed for his poems, and looked on their generosity "as an alms
could keep a god alive." He turned his back on Edinburgh, and from that
time forward scarcely counted that man his friend who spoke of titled
persons in his presence.'

It was with feelings of relief, also, that Burns left the
super-scholarly litterateurs; 'white curd of asses' milk,' he called
them; gentlemen who reminded him of some spinsters in his country who
'spin their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' To
such men, recognising only the culture of schools, a genius like Burns
was a puzzle, easier dismissed than solved. Burns saw them, in all their
tinsel of academic tradition, through and through.

Coming from Edinburgh to the quiet home-life of Mossgiel was like coming
out of the vitiated atmosphere of a ballroom into the pure and bracing
air of early morning. Away from the fever of city life, he only
gradually comes back to sanity and health. The artificialities and
affectations of polite society are not to be thrown off in a day's time.
Hardly had he arrived at Mauchline before he penned a letter to
Clarinda, that simply staggers the reader with the shameless and
heartless way in which it speaks of Jean Armour. 'I am dissatisfied with
her--I cannot endure her! I, while my heart smote me for the profanity,
tried to compare her with my Clarinda. 'Twas setting the expiring
glimmer of a farthing taper beside the cloudless glory of the meridian
sun. _Here_ was tasteless insipidity, vulgarity of soul, and mercenary
fawning; _there_, polished good sense, heaven-born genius, and the most
generous, the most delicate, the most tender passion. I have done