No More Learning

All friends in this country and Ayrshire are well. Remember me to all
friends in the north. My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs. B. and
family.

I am ever, my dear Cousin,

Yours, sincerely,

R. B.

* * * * *




CLI.


TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[The beautiful lines with which this letter concludes, I have reason
to believe were the production of the lady to whom the epistle is
addressed. ]

_Ellisland, 4th March, 1789. _

Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the capital. To a
man, who has a home, however humble or remote--if that home is like
mine, the scene of domestic comfort--the bustle of Edinburgh will soon
be a business of sickening disgust.

"Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you!
"

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some
gaping blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to
exclaim--"What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had, in some
state of pre-existence, that he is ushered into this state of being
with the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches in his puny fist, and
I am kicked into the world, the sport of folly, or the victim of
pride? " I have read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think it was),
who was so out of humour with the Ptolemean system of astronomy, that
he said had he been of the CREATOR'S council, he could have
saved him a great deal of labour and absurdity. I will not defend this
blasphemous speech; but often, as I have glided with humble stealth
through the pomp of Princes' street, it has suggested itself to me, as
an improvement on the present human figure, that a man in proportion
to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have pushed
out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out his horns,
or, as we draw out a perspective. This trifling alteration, not to
mention the prodigious saving it would be in the tear and wear of the
neck and limb-sinews of many of his majesty's liege subjects, in the
way of tossing the head and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out
a vast advantage, in enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in
making a bow, or making way to a great man, and that too within a
second of the precise spherical angle of reverence, or an inch of the
particular point of respectful distance, which the important creature
itself requires; as a measuring-glance at its towering altitude, would
determine the affair like instinct.

You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor Mylne's poem, which he has
addressed to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has one
great fault--it is, by far, too long. Besides, my success has
encouraged such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public
notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that the very term Scottish
Poetry borders on the burlesque. When I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall
advise him rather to try one of his deceased friend's English pieces.
I am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, else I would have
requested a perusal of all Mylne's poetic performances; and would have
offered his friends my assistance in either selecting or correcting
what would be proper for the press. What it is that occupies me so
much, and perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, shall fill up
a paragraph in some future letter. In the mean time, allow me to close
this epistle with a few lines done by a friend of mine * * * * *. I give
you them, that as you have seen the original, you may guess whether
one or two alterations I have ventured to make in them, be any real
improvement.

"Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws,
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause,
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream,
And all you are, my charming . . .