No More Learning

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XLIX.


TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN.

[The Earl of Buchan, a man of talent, but more than tolerably vain,
advised Burns to visit the battle-fields and scenes celebrated in song
on the Scottish border, with the hope, perhaps, that he would drop a
few of his happy verses in Dryburgh Abbey, the residence of his
lordship. ]

MY LORD,

The honour your lordship has done me, by your notice and advice in
yours of the 1st instant, I shall ever gratefully remember:--

"Praise from thy lips, 'tis mine with joy to boast,
They best can give it who deserve it most. "[167]

Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart when you advise me
to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scotch scenes. I wish for
nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrimage through my native
country; to sit and muse on those once hard-contended fields, where
Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through broken ranks
to victory and fame; and, catching the inspiration, to pour the
deathless names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of these
enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking phantom
strides across my imagination, and pronounces these emphatic words:--

"I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, I do not come to open the
ill-closed wounds of your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you
pain: I wish through these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on your
heart. I will not mention how many of my salutary advices you have
despised: I have given you line upon line and precept upon precept;
and while I was chalking out to you the straight way to wealth and
character, with audacious effrontery you have zigzagged across the
path, contemning me to my face: you know the consequences. It is not
yet three months since home was so hot for you that you were on the
wing for the western shore of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but
to hide your misfortune.

"Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in your power to return to
the situation of your forefathers, will you follow these will-o'-wisp
meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you once more to the brink
of ruin? I grant that the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a
step from the veriest poverty; but still it is half a step from it. If
all that I can urge be ineffectual, let her who seldom calls to you in
vain, let the call of pride prevail with you. You know how you feel at
the iron gripe of ruthless oppression: you know how you bear the
galling sneer of contumelious greatness. I hold you out the
conveniences, the comforts of life, independence, and character, on
the one hand; I tender you civility, dependence, and wretchedness, on
the other.
I will not insult your understanding by bidding you make a
choice. "

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble station,
and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. Still, my
lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that
dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those
her distinguished sons who have honoured me so much with their
patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through my humble
shades; ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, draw forth the
swelling tear.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 167: Imitated from Pope's Eloisa to Abelard. ]

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L.


TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH.

[James Candlish, a student of medicine, was well acquainted with the
poetry of Lowe, author of that sublime lyric, "Mary's Dream," and at
the request of Burns sent Lowe's classic song of "Pompey's Ghost," to
the Musical Museum. ]

_Edinburgh, March 21, 1787. _

MY EVER DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE,

I was equally surprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare say
you will think by my delaying so long to write to you that I am so
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to be indifferent to
old, and once dear connexions. The truth is, I was determined to write
a good letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as
Bayes says, _all that. _ I thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my
soul, I could not; and, lest you should mistake the cause of my
silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't give yourself credit,
though, that the strength of your logic scares me: the truth is, I
never mean to meet you on that ground at all.