glen near his house, with pencil and paper in his hand--entered into
conversation with him--found out that he was a poet--and gave him the
"Invocation to Venus" in the opening of Lucretius, to translate, which
he did on the spot, and thus removed some doubts Lord Gardenstown had
entertained as to whether his poetry was actually his own; and, besides,
Lord Monboddo, a remarkable man, alike in talent and eccentricity; and
both vied with each other in their patronage of the poetical _dominie_
when he had undisturbed leisure for study and solitary communion with
nature. On the whole, perhaps, the future "Minstrel" was happier as a
parish schoolmaster than in any part of his after life; and perhaps
often, in more brilliant but less easy days, would revert with a sigh to
the simple school and the stream which murmurs past the small kirkyard
of Fordoun.

While there, he wrote a few poetical pieces, which he sent with his
initials, and the name of his place of abode, to the _Scots Magazine_.
We can fancy him, like the immortal Peter Pattieson, on the day the
Magazine was due, walking as far as the little height of Auchcairnie, to
watch and weary for the long-expected carrier's cart wending its slow
way from the south and, when the parcel reached his hand, with eager,
trembling fingers, opening it up, to have all the joy of virgin
authorship awakened in his soul. In these days a poetic production from
the country seemed a phenomenon--as great, to use an expression of De
Quincey's, as if "a dragoon horse had struck up 'Rule Britannia,'" and
no doubt, many an eyebrow in Auld Reekie rose in wonder, and many a
voice exclaimed, "Who can this be?" when verses so good by J. B.
Fordoun, flashed upon the public from time to time. But, although his
poetry procured him more fame than he was then aware of, it brought him
nothing more, and his way to competence and elevation in society, seemed
as completely blocked up as ever.