You have shown me one
thing which was to be demonstrated: that strong pride of reasoning,
with a little affectation of singularity, may mislead the best of
hearts.
thing which was to be demonstrated: that strong pride of reasoning,
with a little affectation of singularity, may mislead the best of
hearts.
Robert Forst
"
This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble station,
and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. Still, my
lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that
dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those
her distinguished sons who have honoured me so much with their
patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through my humble
shades; ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, draw forth the
swelling tear.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 167: Imitated from Pope's Eloisa to Abelard. ]
* * * * *
L.
TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH.
[James Candlish, a student of medicine, was well acquainted with the
poetry of Lowe, author of that sublime lyric, "Mary's Dream," and at
the request of Burns sent Lowe's classic song of "Pompey's Ghost," to
the Musical Museum. ]
_Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. _
MY EVER DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE,
I was equally surprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare say
you will think by my delaying so long to write to you that I am so
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to be indifferent to
old, and once dear connexions. The truth is, I was determined to write
a good letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as
Bayes says, _all that. _ I thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my
soul, I could not; and, lest you should mistake the cause of my
silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't give yourself credit,
though, that the strength of your logic scares me: the truth is, I
never mean to meet you on that ground at all.
You have shown me one
thing which was to be demonstrated: that strong pride of reasoning,
with a little affectation of singularity, may mislead the best of
hearts. I likewise, since you and I were first acquainted, in the
pride of despising old woman's stories, ventured in "the daring path
Spinosa trod;" but experience of the weakness, not the strength of
human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion.
I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, "The old man with his
deeds," as when we were sporting about the "Lady Thorn. " I shall be
four weeks here yet at least; and so I shall expect to hear from you;
welcome sense, welcome nonsense.
I am, with the warmest sincerity,
R. B.
* * * * *
LI.
TO ----.
[The name of the friend to whom this letter was addressed is still
unknown, though known to Dr. Currie. The Esculapian Club of Edinburgh
have, since the death of Burns, added some iron-work, with an
inscription in honour of the Ayrshire poet to the original headstone.
The cost to the poet was ? 5 10s. ]
_Edinburgh, March, 1787. _
MY DEAR SIR,
You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrateful fellow,
having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and
yet never putting pen to paper to say thank you; but if you knew what
a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your good
heart would think yourself too much avenged. By the bye, there is
nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to be so unaccountable
as that thing called conscience.
This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble station,
and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. Still, my
lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that
dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those
her distinguished sons who have honoured me so much with their
patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through my humble
shades; ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, draw forth the
swelling tear.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 167: Imitated from Pope's Eloisa to Abelard. ]
* * * * *
L.
TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH.
[James Candlish, a student of medicine, was well acquainted with the
poetry of Lowe, author of that sublime lyric, "Mary's Dream," and at
the request of Burns sent Lowe's classic song of "Pompey's Ghost," to
the Musical Museum. ]
_Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. _
MY EVER DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE,
I was equally surprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare say
you will think by my delaying so long to write to you that I am so
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to be indifferent to
old, and once dear connexions. The truth is, I was determined to write
a good letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as
Bayes says, _all that. _ I thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my
soul, I could not; and, lest you should mistake the cause of my
silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't give yourself credit,
though, that the strength of your logic scares me: the truth is, I
never mean to meet you on that ground at all.
You have shown me one
thing which was to be demonstrated: that strong pride of reasoning,
with a little affectation of singularity, may mislead the best of
hearts. I likewise, since you and I were first acquainted, in the
pride of despising old woman's stories, ventured in "the daring path
Spinosa trod;" but experience of the weakness, not the strength of
human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion.
I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, "The old man with his
deeds," as when we were sporting about the "Lady Thorn. " I shall be
four weeks here yet at least; and so I shall expect to hear from you;
welcome sense, welcome nonsense.
I am, with the warmest sincerity,
R. B.
* * * * *
LI.
TO ----.
[The name of the friend to whom this letter was addressed is still
unknown, though known to Dr. Currie. The Esculapian Club of Edinburgh
have, since the death of Burns, added some iron-work, with an
inscription in honour of the Ayrshire poet to the original headstone.
The cost to the poet was ? 5 10s. ]
_Edinburgh, March, 1787. _
MY DEAR SIR,
You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrateful fellow,
having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and
yet never putting pen to paper to say thank you; but if you knew what
a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your good
heart would think yourself too much avenged. By the bye, there is
nothing in the whole frame of man which seems to be so unaccountable
as that thing called conscience.
