No More Learning

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet;
alas! Madam, I know myself and the world too well. I do not mean any
airs of affected modesty; I am willing to believe that my abilities
deserve some notice; but in a most enlightened, informed age and
nation, when poetry is and has been the study of man of the first
natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite
books, and polite company--to be dragged forth to the full glare of
learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections of awkward
rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on my head--I assure you, Madam,
I do not dissemble when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. The
novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of those
advantages which are reckoned necessary for that character, at least
at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice which
has borne me to a height, where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my
abilities are inadequate to support me; and too surely do I see that
time when the same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far
below the mark of truth. I do not say this in the ridiculous
affectation of self-abasement and modesty. I have studied myself, and
know what ground I occupy; and, however a friend or the world may
differ from me in that particular, I stand for my own opinion, in
silent resolve, with all the tenaciousness of property. I mention this
to you once for all to disburthen my mind, and I do not wish to hear
or say more about it--But,

"When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes,"

you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the
highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup in my hand,
looking forward with rueful resolve to the hastening time, when the
blow of Calumny should dash it to the ground with all the eagerness of
vengeful triumph.

Your patronizing me and interesting yourself in my fame and character
as a poet, I rejoice in; it exalts me in my own idea; and whether you
can or cannot aid me in my subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry
subscription-bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compared with the
patronage of the descendant of the immortal Wallace?

R. B.

* * * * *




XLIV.


TO DR. MOORE.

[Dr.
Moore, the accomplished author of Zeluco and father of Sir John
Moore, interested himself in the fame and fortune of Burns, as soon as
the publication of his Poems made his name known to the world. ]

_Edinburgh, Jan. 1787. _

SIR,

Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me extracts of letters she has
had from you, where you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing him
and his works. Those who have felt the anxieties and solicitudes of
authorship, can only know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such
a manner, by judges of the first character. Your criticism, Sir, I
receive with reverence; only I am sorry they mostly came too late: a
peccant passage or two that I would certainly have altered, were gone
to the press.

The hope to be admired for ages, is, in by far the greater part of
those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my
part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please
my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever-changing
language and manners shall allow me to be relished and understood. I
am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities; and as
few, if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately
acquainted with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly
mingled, I may have seen men and manners in a different phasis from
what is common, which may assist originality of thought. Still I know
very well the novelty of my character has by far the greatest share in
the learned and polite notice I have lately had; and in a language
where Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray
drawn the tear; where Thomson and Beattie have painted the landscape,
and Lyttelton and Collins described the heart, I am not vain enough to
hope for distinguished poetic fame.

R. B.

* * * * *




XLV.


TO THE REV. G.