No More Learning

I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path
that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, Poverty; attended as he
always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering contempt; but I have
sturdily withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day already,
and still my motto is--I DARE! My worst enemy is _moi-meme. _
I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a
mischievous, light-armed, well-mounted banditti, under the banners of
imagination, whim, caprice, and passion: and the heavy-armed veteran
regulars of wisdom, prudence, and forethought move so very, very slow,
that I am almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and, alas! frequent
defeat. There are just two creatures I would envy, a horse in his wild
state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the
desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without enjoyment, the
other has neither wish nor fear.

R. B.

* * * * *




XCIII.


TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD.

[The Whitefoords of Whitefoord, interested themselves in all matters
connected with literature: the power of the family, unluckily for
Burns, was not equal to their taste. ]

_Edinburgh, December_, 1787.

SIR,

Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has
informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate
as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a poet.
I have, Sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those of your
character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by * * * * *
friends to them and honoured acquaintances to me!
but you are the
first gentleman in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart
has interested himself for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not
master enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I
stay to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety
disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am convinced, from
the light in which you kindly view me, that you will do me the justice
to believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of the needy, sharping
author, fastening on those in upper life, who honour him with a little
notice of him or his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is
generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, palliate that
prostitution of heart and talents, they have at times been guilty of.
I do not think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary concomitant
of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless indolent attention to
economy, is almost inseparable from it; then there must be in the
heart of every bard of Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility,
mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of
those windfalls of fortune which frequently light on hardy impudence
and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless
state than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose
character as a scholar gives him some pretensions to the _politesse_
of life--yet is as poor as I am.

For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kinder; learning never
elevated my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an independent
fortune at the plough-tail.

I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended in the least to the
manners of the gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop
to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel,
too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my
story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth with
which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too
frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but reverence to
God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever
preserve. I have no return, Sir, to make you for your goodness but
one--a return which, I am persuaded, will not be unacceptable--the
honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for your happiness, and every
one of that lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial relation. If
ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to
ward the blow!

R. B.

* * * * *




XCIV.


TO MISS WILLIAMS,

ON READING HER POEM OF THE SLAVE-TRADE.

[The name and merits of Miss Williams are widely known; nor is it a
small honour to her muse that her tender song of "Evan Banks" was
imputed to Burns by Cromek: other editors since have continued to
include it in his works, though Sir Walter Scott named the true
author.