No More Learning

_

I don't well know what is the reason of it, but somehow or other,
though I am when I have a mind pretty generally beloved, yet I never
could get the art of commanding respect. --I imagine it is owing to my
being deficient in what Sterne calls "that understrapping virtue of
discretion. "--I am so apt to a _lapsus linguae_, that I sometimes think
the character of a certain great man I have read of somewhere is very
much _apropos_ to myself--that he was a compound of great talents and
great folly. --N. B. To try if I can discover the causes of this
wretched infirmity, and, if possible, to mend it.

* * * * *

_August. _

However I am pleased with the works of our Scotch poets, particularly
the excellent Ramsay, and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet I am
hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, rivers, woods,
haughs, &c. , immortalized in such celebrated performances, while my dear
native country, the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunningham,
famous both in ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlike race
of inhabitants; a country where civil, and particularly religious
liberty have ever found their first support, and their last asylum; a
country, the birth-place of many famous philosophers, soldiers,
statesman, and the scene of many important events recorded in Scottish
history, particularly a great many of the actions of the glorious
WALLACE, the SAVIOUR of his country; yet, we have never had one Scotch
poet of any eminence, to make the fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic
woodlands and sequestered scenes on Ayr, and the healthy mountainous
source and winding sweep of DOON, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, Tweed,
&c. This is a complaint I would gladly remedy, but, alas! I am far
unequal to the task, both in native genius and education. Obscure I am,
and obscure I must be, though no young poet, nor young soldier's heart,
ever beat more fondly for fame than mine--

"And if there is no other scene of being
Where my insatiate wish may have its fill,--
This something at my heart that heaves for room,
My best, my dearest part, was made in vain. "

* * * * *

_September. _

There is a great irregularity in the old Scotch songs, a redundancy of
syllables with respect to that exactness of accent and measure that
the English poetry requires, but which glides in, most melodiously,
with the respective tunes to which they are set. For instance, the
fine old song of "The Mill, Mill, O,"[153] to give it a plain prosaic
reading, it halts prodigiously out of measure; on the other hand, the
song set to the same tune in Bremner's collection of Scotch songs,
which begins "To Fanny fair could I impart," &c.
, it is most exact
measure, and yet, let them both be sung before a real critic, one
above the biases of prejudice, but a thorough judge of nature,--how
flat and spiritless will the last appear, how trite, and lamely
methodical, compared with the wild warbling cadence, the heart-moving
melody of the first! --This is particularly the case with all those
airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable. There is a degree of
wild irregularity in many of the compositions and fragments which are
daily sung to them by my compeers, the common people--a certain happy
arrangement of old Scotch syllables, and yet, very frequently,
nothing, not even like rhyme or sameness of jingle, at the ends of the
lines. This has made me sometimes imagine that perhaps it might be
possible for a Scotch poet, with a nice judicious ear, to set
compositions to many of our most favourite airs, particularly that
class of them mentioned above, independent of rhyme altogether.

* * * * *

There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our
ancient ballads, which show them to be the work of a masterly hand:
and it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect that such
glorious old bards--bards who very probably owed all their talents to
native genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of
disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of
nature--that their very names (O how mortifying to a bard's vanity! )
are now "buried among the wreck of things which were. "

O ye illustrious names unknown! who could feel so strongly and
describe so well: the last, the meanest of the muses' train--one who,
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with
trembling wing would sometimes soar after you--a poor rustic bard
unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory! Some of you tell
us, with all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate in
the world--unfortunate in love: he, too, has felt the loss of his
little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of
the woman he adored. Like you, all his consolation was his muse: she
taught him in rustic measures to complain. Happy could he have done it
with your strength of imagination and flow of verse! May the turf lie
lightly on your bones! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest
which this world rarely gives to the heart tuned to all the feelings
of poesy and love!

* * * * *

_September. _

The following fragment is done something in imitation of the manner of
a noble old Scottish piece, called M'Millan's Peggy, and sings to the
tune of Galla Water. --My Montgomery's Peggy was my deity for six or
eight months.