No More Learning

TO MR. DAVID BRICE.

[David Brice was a shoemaker, and shared with Smith the confidence of
the poet in his love affairs. He was working in Glasgow when this
letter was written. ]

_Mossgiel, June_ 12, 1786.

DEAR BRICE,

I received your message by G. Patterson, and as I am not very throng
at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a
worthless, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the
land of the living, though I can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I
have no news to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or
you to hear.

Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You have
heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is.
What she thinks of her conduct now, I don't know; one thing I do
know--she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather
adored a woman more than I did her; and, to confess a truth between
you and me, I do still love her to distraction after all, though I
won't tell her so if I were to see her, which I don't want to do. My
poor dear unfortunate Jean! how happy have I been in thy arms! It is
not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel
most severely: I foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal
ruin.
* * * *

May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from
my very soul forgive her: and may his grace be with her and bless her
in all her future life! I can have no nearer idea of the place of
eternal punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her
account. I have tried often to forget her; I have run into all kinds
of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other
mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a
grand cure; the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to
Jamaica; and then, farewell dear old Scotland! and farewell dear
ungrateful Jean! for never never will I see you more.

You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print; and to
morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about
two hundred pages--it is just the last foolish action I intend to do;
and then turn a wise man as fast as possible.

Believe me to be, dear Brice,

Your friend and well-wisher,

R. B.

* * * * *




XXI.


TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN.

[This letter was written under great distress of mind. That separation
which Burns records in "The Lament," had, unhappily, taken place
between him and Jean Armour, and it would appear, that for a time at
least a coldness ensued between the poet and the patron, occasioned,
it is conjectured, by that fruitful subject of sorrow and disquiet.
The letter, I regret to say, is not wholly here.