"--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.
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.
Robert Burns
The grave I shall cast into the usual division of
those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling
wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are the men of
pleasure of all denominations; the jovial lads, who have too much fire
and spirit to have any settled rule of action; but, without much
deliberation, follow the strong impulses of nature: the thoughtless,
the careless, the indolent--in particular _he_ who, with a happy
sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals
through life--generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty
and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make
a repining comparison between his own situation and that of others;
and lastly, to grace the quorum, such are, generally, those whose
heads are capable of all the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are
warmed with all the delicacy of feeling.
* * * * *
_August. _
The foregoing was to have been an elaborate dissertation on the
various species of men; but as I cannot please myself in the
arrangement of my ideas, I must wait till farther experience and nicer
observation throw more light on the subject. --In the mean time I shall
set down the following fragment, which, as it is the genuine language
of my heart, will enable anybody to determine which of the classes I
belong to:
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O. [150]
As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with
that BEING to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that
renders life delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct
towards our fellow-creatures; that so, by forming piety and virtue
into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and
the good, which reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the
grave, I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of such a one
as the above verses describe--one who spends the hours and thoughts
which the vocations of the day can spare with Ossian, Shakspeare,
Thomson, Shenstone, Sterne, &c. ; or, as the maggot takes him, a gun, a
fiddle, or a song to make or mend; and at all times some heart's-dear
bonnie lass in view--I say I do not see that the turn of mind and
pursuits of such an one are in the least more inimical to the sacred
interests of piety and virtue, than the even lawful, bustling and
straining after the world's riches and honours: and I do not see but
he may gain heaven as well--which, by the by, is no mean
consideration--who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself
with every little flower that fortune throws in his way, as he, who
straining straight forward, and perhaps spattering all about him,
gains some of life's little eminencies, where, after all, he can only
see and be seen a little more conspicuously than what, in the pride of
his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left
behind him.
* * * * *
_August. _
A Prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of a
pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still
threatens me, first put nature on the alarm:--
O thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear! [151]
* * * * *
_August. _
Misgivings in the hour of _despondency_ and prospect of death:--
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene. [152]
* * * * *
EGOTISMS FROM MY OWN SENSATIONS.
_May. _
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.
those who are goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling
wish is to make a figure in the world. The merry are the men of
pleasure of all denominations; the jovial lads, who have too much fire
and spirit to have any settled rule of action; but, without much
deliberation, follow the strong impulses of nature: the thoughtless,
the careless, the indolent--in particular _he_ who, with a happy
sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals
through life--generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty
and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit gravely down and make
a repining comparison between his own situation and that of others;
and lastly, to grace the quorum, such are, generally, those whose
heads are capable of all the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are
warmed with all the delicacy of feeling.
* * * * *
_August. _
The foregoing was to have been an elaborate dissertation on the
various species of men; but as I cannot please myself in the
arrangement of my ideas, I must wait till farther experience and nicer
observation throw more light on the subject. --In the mean time I shall
set down the following fragment, which, as it is the genuine language
of my heart, will enable anybody to determine which of the classes I
belong to:
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O. [150]
As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with
that BEING to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that
renders life delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct
towards our fellow-creatures; that so, by forming piety and virtue
into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and
the good, which reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the
grave, I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of such a one
as the above verses describe--one who spends the hours and thoughts
which the vocations of the day can spare with Ossian, Shakspeare,
Thomson, Shenstone, Sterne, &c. ; or, as the maggot takes him, a gun, a
fiddle, or a song to make or mend; and at all times some heart's-dear
bonnie lass in view--I say I do not see that the turn of mind and
pursuits of such an one are in the least more inimical to the sacred
interests of piety and virtue, than the even lawful, bustling and
straining after the world's riches and honours: and I do not see but
he may gain heaven as well--which, by the by, is no mean
consideration--who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself
with every little flower that fortune throws in his way, as he, who
straining straight forward, and perhaps spattering all about him,
gains some of life's little eminencies, where, after all, he can only
see and be seen a little more conspicuously than what, in the pride of
his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left
behind him.
* * * * *
_August. _
A Prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of a
pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still
threatens me, first put nature on the alarm:--
O thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear! [151]
* * * * *
_August. _
Misgivings in the hour of _despondency_ and prospect of death:--
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene. [152]
* * * * *
EGOTISMS FROM MY OWN SENSATIONS.
_May. _
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.
