No More Learning

The poem was nearly an extemporaneous production, on a wager with Mr.
Hamilton, that I would not produce a poem on the subject in a given
time.

If you think it worth while, read it to Charles and Mr. W. Parker, and
if they choose a copy of it, it is at their service, as they are men
whose friendship I shall be proud to claim, both in this world and
that which is to come.

I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abortive, but more of
this when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with
a visit from,

My dear Sir,

Your most devoted,

R. B.

* * * * *




XXVII.


TO MRS. DUNLOP,

OF DUNLOP.

[Mrs. Dunlop was a poetess, and had the blood of the Wallaces in her
veins: though she disliked the irregularities of the poet, she scorned
to got into a fine moral passion about follies which could not be
helped, and continued her friendship to the last of his life. ]

_Ayrshire_, 1786.

MADAM,

I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much
honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am
fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly
alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus: nor is
it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with
rapture, when those, whose character in life gives them a right to be
polite judges, honour him with their approbation.
Had you been
thoroughly acquainted with me, Madam, you could not have touched my
darling heart-chord more sweetly than by noticing my attempts to
celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of his Country.

"Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief! "[160]

The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with
pleasure, was, "The Life Of Hannibal;" the next was, "The History of
Sir William Wallace:" for several of my earlier years I had few other
authors; and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the
laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious,
but unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember, in
particular, being struck with that part of Wallace's story where these
lines occur--

"Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late,
To make a silent and safe retreat. "

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed,
and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen
wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto;
and, as I explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic
countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer)
that my heart glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in
some measure equal to his merits.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 160: Thomson. ]

* * * * *




XXVIII.


TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.

[It is a curious chapter in the life of Burns to count the number of
letters which he wrote, the number of fine poems he composed, and the
number of places which he visited in the unhappy summer and autumn of
1786. ]

_Kilmarnock, August_, 1786.

MY DEAR SIR,

Your truly facetious epistle of the 3d inst. gave me much
entertainment.