No More Learning

I will not beg your pardon, Madam, for these strictures, as my
conscience tells me, that for once in my life I have acted up to the
duties of a Christian, in doing as I would be done by.

R. B.

* * * * *




XCV.


TO MR. RICHARD BROWN,

IRVINE.

[Richard Brown was the "hapless son of misfortune," alluded to by
Burns in his biographical letter to Dr. Moore: by fortitude and
prudence he retrieved his fortunes, and lived much respected in
Greenock, to a good old age. He said Burns had little to learn in
matters of levity, when he became acquainted with him. ]

_Edinburgh, 30th Dec. _ 1787.

MY DEAR SIR,

I have met with few things in life which have given me more pleasure
than Fortune's kindness to you since those days in which we met in the
vale of misery; as I can honestly say, that I never knew a man who
more truly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly wished it. I
have been much indebted since that time to your story and sentiments
for steeling my mind against evils, of which I have had a pretty
decent share. My will-o'wisp fate you know: do you recollect a Sunday
we spent together in Eglinton woods! You told me, on my repeating some
verses to you, that you wondered I could resist the temptation of
sending verses of such merit to a magazine.
It was from this remark I
derived that idea of my own pieces, which encouraged me to endeavour
at the character of a poet. I am happy to hear that you will be two or
three months at home. As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I
shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet; "and faith, I hope we'll
not sit dumb, nor yet cast out! "

I have much to tell you "of men, their manners, and their ways,"
perhaps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered to
Mrs. Brown. There I doubt not, my dear friend, but you have found
substantial happiness. I expect to find you something of an altered
but not a different man; the wild, bold, generous young fellow
composed into the steady affectionate husband, and the fond careful
parent. For me, I am just the same will-o'-wisp being I used to be.
About the first and fourth quarters of the moon, I generally set in
for the trade wind of wisdom: but about the full and change, I am the
luckless victim of mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. Almighty
love still reigns and revels in my bosom; and I am at this moment
ready to hang myself for a young Edinburgh widow, who has wit and
wisdom more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the
Sicilian banditti, or the poisoned arrow of the savage African. My
highland dirk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely
removed into a neighbouring closet, the key of which I cannot command
in case of spring-tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit by
the following verses, which she sent me the other day:--

Talk not of love, it gives me pain,
For love has been my foe;
He bound me with an iron chain,
And plunged me deep in woe!

But friendship's pure and lasting joys.
My heart was formed to prove,--
There, welcome, win, and wear the prize,
But never talk of love!

Your friendship much can make me blest--
O why that bliss destroy?