circumstances, which ever forcibly recall to my mind our evenings and
nights at the Salutation); my eyes and brain are heavy and asleep, but
my heart is awake; and if words came as ready as ideas, and ideas as
feelings, I could say ten hundred kind things. Coleridge, you know not
my supreme happiness at having one on earth (though counties separate
us) whom I can call a friend. Remember you those tender lines of
Logan?--

"Our broken friendships we deplore,
And loves of youth that are no more;
No after friendships e'er can raise
Th' endearments of our early days,
And ne'er the heart such fondness prove,
As when we first began to love."

I am writing at random, and half-tipsy, what you may not _equally_
understand, as you will be sober when you read it; but _my_ sober and
_my_ half-tipsy hours you are alike a sharer in. Good night.

"Then up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink,
Craigdoroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink."

BURNS.

_Thursday_ [June 16, 1796].

I am now in high hopes to be able to visit you, if perfectly convenient
on your part, by the end of next month--perhaps the last week or
fortnight in July. A change of scene and a change of faces would do me
good, even if that scene were not to be Bristol, and those faces