Pardon me, ye my adored household gods,
independence of spirit, and integrity of soul!
independence of spirit, and integrity of soul!
Robert Burns
DUNLOP.
[Mrs. Miller, of Dalswinton, was a lady of beauty and talent: she
wrote verses with skill and taste. Her maiden name was Jean Lindsay. ]
_Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. _
I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac
epistle; and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian:--
"Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn?
Why sinks my soul, beneath each wintry sky? "
My increasing cares in this, as yet strange country--gloomy
conjectures in the dark vista of futurity--consciousness of my own
inability for the struggle of the world--my broadened mark to
misfortune in a wife and children;--I could indulge these reflections
till my humour should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that would
corrode the very thread of life.
To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write to
you; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sovereign
balm for my wounded spirit.
I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's to dinner for the first time. My
reception was quite to my mind: from the lady of the house quite
flattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, _impromptu. _ She
repeated one or two to the admiration of all present. My suffrage as a
professional man, was expected: I for once went agonizing over the
belly of my conscience.
Pardon me, ye my adored household gods,
independence of spirit, and integrity of soul! In the course of
conversation, "Johnson's Musical Museum," a collection of Scottish
songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord,
beginning,
"Raving winds around her blowing. "[187]
The air was much admired: the lady of the house asked me whose were
the words. "Mine, Madam--they are indeed my very best verses;" she
took not the smallest notice of them! The old Scottish proverb says
well, "king's caff is better than ither folks' corn. " I was going to
make a New Testament quotation about "casting pearls" but that would
be too virulent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste.
After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is
by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selected few,
favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tuned to gladness amid
riches and honours, and prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected
many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days are sold to the minions
of fortune.
If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a
stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called, "The Life and Age of Man;"
beginning thus:
"'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year
Of God and fifty-three,
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear,
As writings testifie. "
I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived awhile in her
girlish years; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere
he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and
cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of "the Life and
Age of Man. "
It is this way of thinking; it is these melancholy truths, that make
religion so precious to the poor, miserable children of men. --If it is
a mere phantom, existing only in the heated imagination of enthusiasm,
"What truth on earth so precious as a lie. "
My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the
necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophisings the lie.
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth; the soul affianced to her
God; the correspondent devout thanksgiving, constant as the
vicissitudes of even and morn; who thinks to meet with these in the
court, the palace, in the glare of public life?
[Mrs. Miller, of Dalswinton, was a lady of beauty and talent: she
wrote verses with skill and taste. Her maiden name was Jean Lindsay. ]
_Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. _
I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac
epistle; and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian:--
"Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn?
Why sinks my soul, beneath each wintry sky? "
My increasing cares in this, as yet strange country--gloomy
conjectures in the dark vista of futurity--consciousness of my own
inability for the struggle of the world--my broadened mark to
misfortune in a wife and children;--I could indulge these reflections
till my humour should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that would
corrode the very thread of life.
To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write to
you; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sovereign
balm for my wounded spirit.
I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's to dinner for the first time. My
reception was quite to my mind: from the lady of the house quite
flattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, _impromptu. _ She
repeated one or two to the admiration of all present. My suffrage as a
professional man, was expected: I for once went agonizing over the
belly of my conscience.
Pardon me, ye my adored household gods,
independence of spirit, and integrity of soul! In the course of
conversation, "Johnson's Musical Museum," a collection of Scottish
songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord,
beginning,
"Raving winds around her blowing. "[187]
The air was much admired: the lady of the house asked me whose were
the words. "Mine, Madam--they are indeed my very best verses;" she
took not the smallest notice of them! The old Scottish proverb says
well, "king's caff is better than ither folks' corn. " I was going to
make a New Testament quotation about "casting pearls" but that would
be too virulent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste.
After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is
by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selected few,
favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tuned to gladness amid
riches and honours, and prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected
many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days are sold to the minions
of fortune.
If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a
stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called, "The Life and Age of Man;"
beginning thus:
"'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year
Of God and fifty-three,
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear,
As writings testifie. "
I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived awhile in her
girlish years; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere
he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and
cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of "the Life and
Age of Man. "
It is this way of thinking; it is these melancholy truths, that make
religion so precious to the poor, miserable children of men. --If it is
a mere phantom, existing only in the heated imagination of enthusiasm,
"What truth on earth so precious as a lie. "
My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the
necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophisings the lie.
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth; the soul affianced to her
God; the correspondent devout thanksgiving, constant as the
vicissitudes of even and morn; who thinks to meet with these in the
court, the palace, in the glare of public life?
