Lately I was a
sixpenny
private; and, God
knows, a miserable soldier enough; now I march to the campaign, a
starving cadet: a little more conspicuously wretched.
knows, a miserable soldier enough; now I march to the campaign, a
starving cadet: a little more conspicuously wretched.
Robert Forst
"
This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are, like myself,
not what they ought to be; yet better than what they appear to be.
"Heaven's sovereign saves all beings but himself--
That hideous sight--a naked human heart. "
Farewell! remember me to Charlotte.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCVIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The poet alludes in this letter, as in some before, to a hurt which
he got in one of his excursions in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. ]
_Edinburgh, January 21, 1788. _
After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across the room.
They have been six horrible weeks; anguish and low spirits made me
unfit to read, write, or think.
I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer
resigns a commission: for I would not take in any poor, ignorant
wretch, by selling out.
Lately I was a sixpenny private; and, God
knows, a miserable soldier enough; now I march to the campaign, a
starving cadet: a little more conspicuously wretched.
I am ashamed of all this; for though I do want bravery for the warfare
of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice.
As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the
middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh: and soon after I shall pay my
grateful duty at Dunlop-House.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCIX.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The levity with which Burns sometimes spoke of things sacred, had
been obliquely touched upon by his good and anxious friend Mrs.
Dunlop: he pleads guilty of folly, but not of irreligion. ]
_Edinburgh, February 12, 1788. _
Some things in your late letters hurt me: not that _you say them_, but
that _you mistake me. _ Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been
all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have,
indeed, been the luckless victim of wayward follies; but, alas! I have
ever been "more fool than knave. " A mathematician without religion is
a probable character; an irreligious poet is a monster.
This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are, like myself,
not what they ought to be; yet better than what they appear to be.
"Heaven's sovereign saves all beings but himself--
That hideous sight--a naked human heart. "
Farewell! remember me to Charlotte.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCVIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The poet alludes in this letter, as in some before, to a hurt which
he got in one of his excursions in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. ]
_Edinburgh, January 21, 1788. _
After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across the room.
They have been six horrible weeks; anguish and low spirits made me
unfit to read, write, or think.
I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer
resigns a commission: for I would not take in any poor, ignorant
wretch, by selling out.
Lately I was a sixpenny private; and, God
knows, a miserable soldier enough; now I march to the campaign, a
starving cadet: a little more conspicuously wretched.
I am ashamed of all this; for though I do want bravery for the warfare
of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice.
As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the
middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh: and soon after I shall pay my
grateful duty at Dunlop-House.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCIX.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The levity with which Burns sometimes spoke of things sacred, had
been obliquely touched upon by his good and anxious friend Mrs.
Dunlop: he pleads guilty of folly, but not of irreligion. ]
_Edinburgh, February 12, 1788. _
Some things in your late letters hurt me: not that _you say them_, but
that _you mistake me. _ Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been
all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have,
indeed, been the luckless victim of wayward follies; but, alas! I have
ever been "more fool than knave. " A mathematician without religion is
a probable character; an irreligious poet is a monster.
