No More Learning

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[Falconer, the poet, whom Burns mentions here, perished in the Aurora,
in which he acted as purser: he was a satirist of no mean power, and
wrote that useful work, the Marine Dictionary: but his fame depends
upon "The Shipwreck," one of the most original and mournful poems in
the language. ]

_Ellisland, 25th January, 1790. _

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have not
written to you, Madam, long ere now. My health is greatly better, and
I now begin once more to share in satisfaction and enjoyment with the
rest of my fellow-creatures.

Many thanks, my much-esteemed friend, for your kind letters; but why
will you make me run the risk of being contemptible and mercenary in
my own eyes? When I pique myself on my independent spirit, I hope it
is neither poetic license, nor poetic rant; and I am so flattered with
the honour you have done me, in making me your compeer in friendship
and friendly correspondence, that I cannot without pain, and a degree
of mortification, be reminded of the real inequality between our
situations.

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam, in the good news of
Anthony. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for
such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow, in the little I had of
his acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes.

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the "Shipwreck," which you so much
admire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he so
feelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering many hard gales
of fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate!

I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving him birth; but
he was the son of obscurity and misfortune. He was one of those daring
adventurous spirits, which Scotland, beyond any other country, is
remarkable for producing. Little does the fond mother think, as she
hangs delighted over the sweet little leech at her bosom, where the
poor fellow may hereafter wander, and what may be his fate.
I remember
a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding its rude
simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart:

"Little did my mother think,
That day she cradled me,
What land I was to travel in,
Or what death I should die! "[195]

Old Scottish song are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit of
mine, and now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas
of another old simple ballad, which I am sure will please you. The
catastrophe of the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting her fate.
She concludes with this pathetic wish:--

"O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd;
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung!
O that my cradle had never been rock'd;
But that I had died when I was young!

"O that the grave it were my bed;
My blankets were my winding sheet;
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a';
And O sae sound as I should sleep! "

I do not remember in all my reading, to have met with anything more
truly the language of misery, than the exclamation in the last line.
Misery is like love; to speak its language truly, the author must have
felt it.

I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson[196]
the small-pox. They are _rife_ in the country, and I tremble for his
fate. By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and
spirit. Every person who sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest,
handsomest child he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the
manly swell of his little chest, and a certain miniature dignity in
the carriage of his head, and the glance of his fine black eye, which
promise the undaunted gallantry of an independent mind.

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promise
you poetry until you are tired of it, next time I have the honour of
assuring you how truly I am, &c.

R.