No More Learning

I have just read over, once more of many times, your _Zeluco. _ I
marked with my pencil, as I went along, every passage that pleased me
particularly above the rest; and one or two, I think, which with
humble deference, I am disposed to think unequal to the merits of the
book. I have sometimes thought to transcribe these marked passages, or
at least so much of them as to point where they are, and send them to
you. Original strokes that strongly depict the human heart, is your
and Fielding's province beyond any other novelist I have ever perused.
Richardson indeed might perhaps be excepted; but unhappily, _dramatis
personae_ are beings of another world; and however they may captivate
the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever,
in proportion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our
riper years.

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer before
the Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself ranked on the
list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet employed as such, but in
a few years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority.
I have had an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn; the
patron from whom all my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent of
my grateful attachment to him, which was indeed so strong that it
pervaded my very soul, and was entwined with the thread of my
existence: so soon as the prince's friends had got in (and every dog
you know has his day), my getting forward in the excise would have
been an easier business than otherwise it will be. Though this was a
consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live and
rhyme as I am: and as to my boys, poor little fellows! if I cannot
place them on as high an elevation in life, as I could wish, I shall,
if I am favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to see that
period, fix them on as broad and independent a basis as possible.
Among the many wise adages which have been treasured up by our
Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best, _Better be the head o'
the commonalty, than the tail o' the gentry. _

But I am got on a subject, which however interesting to me, is of no
manner of consequence to you; so I shall give you a short poem on the
other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the
honour to be,

Yours, &c.

R. B.
Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very young
lady, whom I had formerly characterized under the denomination of _The
Rose Bud. _ * * *

* * * * *




CCX.


TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

[Cunningham could tell a merry story, and sing a humorous song; nor
was he without a feeling for the deep sensibilities of his friend's
verse. ]

_Ellisland, 12th March, 1791. _

If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let me have them. For
my own part, a thing that I have just composed always appears through
a double portion of that partial medium in which an author will ever
view his own works. I believe in general, novelty has something in it
that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates and fumes
away like other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, as usual,
with an aching heart. A striking instance of this might be adduced,
in the revolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into
stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my
parish-priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you
another song of my late composition, which will appear perhaps in
Johnson's work, as well as the former.

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, _There'll never be peace 'till
Jamie comes hame. _ When political combustion ceases to be the object
of princes and patriots, it then you know becomes the lawful prey of
historians and poets.

By yon castle wa' at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came--
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot
imagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if by the
charms of your delightful voice, you would give my honest effusion to
"the memory of joys that are past," to the few friends whom you
indulge in that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I hear the
clock has intimated the near approach of

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane.