No More Learning

And what frugal lessons, as we
straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of the poker and tongs!

Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remembered in the old way to you.
I used all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the hand,
and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to urge her out
to Harvieston, but all in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost
its effect on the lovely half of mankind. I have seen the day--but
that is a "tale of other years. "--In my conscience I believe that my
heart has been so oft on fire that it is absolutely vitrified. I look
on the sex with something like the admiration with which I regard the
starry sky in a frosty December night. I admire the beauty of the
Creator's workmanship; I am charmed with the wild but graceful
eccentricity of their motions, and--wish them good night. I mean this
with respect to a certain passion _dont j'ai eu l'honneur d'etre un
miserable esclave_: as for friendship, you and Charlotte have given me
pleasure, permanent pleasure, "which the world cannot give, nor take
away," I hope; and which will outlast the heavens and the earth.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 179: Of the Scots Musical Museum]

* * * * *




LXXXI.


TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS.

[That fine song, "The Banks of the Devon," dedicated to the charms of
Charlotte Hamilton, was enclosed in the following letter. ]

_Without date. _

I have been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided about
a farm in that country. I am rather hopeless in it; but as my brother
is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an exceedingly prudent, sober
man (qualities which are only a younger brother's fortune in our
family), I am determined, if my Dumfries business fail me, to return
into partnership with him, and at our leisure take another farm in the
neighbourhood.

I assure you I look for high compliments from you and Charlotte on
this very sage instance of my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom.
Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have, to the best of my
power, paid her a poetic compliment, now completed. The air is
admirable: true old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic song, which
an Inverness lady sung me when I was there; and I was so charmed with
it that I begged her to write me a set of it from her singing; for it
had never been set before. I am fixed that it shall go in Johnson's
next number; so Charlotte and you need not spend your precious time in
contradicting me. I won't say the poetry is first-rate; though I am
convinced it is very well; and, what is not always the case with
compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere, but just.

R. B.

* * * * *




LXXXII.


TO JAMES HOY, ESQ.

GORDON CASTLE

[James Hoy, librarian of Gordon Castle, was, it is said, the gentleman
whom his grace of Gordon sent with a message inviting in vain that
"obstinate son of Latin prose," Nicol, to stop and enjoy himself. ]

_Edinburgh, 20th October_, 1787.

SIR,

I will defend my conduct in giving you this trouble, on the best of
Christian principles--"Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto
you, do ye even so unto them. "--I shall certainly, among my legacies,
leave my latest curse to that unlucky predicament which hurried--tore
me away from Castle Gordon. May that obstinate son of Latin prose
[Nicol] be curst to Scotch mile periods, and damned to seven league
paragraphs; while Declension and Conjugation, Gender, Number, and
Time, under the ragged banners of Dissonance and Disarrangement,
eternally rank against him in hostile array.

Allow me, Sir, to strengthen the small claim I have to your
acquaintance, by the following request. An engraver, James Johnson, in
Edinburgh, has, not from mercenary views, but from an honest, Scotch
enthusiasm, set about collecting all our native songs and setting them
to music; particularly those that have never been set before. Clarke,
the well known musician, presides over the musical arrangement, and
Drs. Beattie and Blacklock, Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, and your
humble servant to the utmost of his small power, assist in collecting
the old poetry, or sometimes for a fine air make a stanza, when it has
no words. The brats, too tedious to mention, claim a parental pang
from my bardship. I suppose it will appear in Johnson's second
number--the first was published before my acquaintance with him. My
request is--"Cauld Kail in Aberdeen," is one intended for this number,
and I beg a copy of his Grace of Gordon's words to it, which you were
so kind as to repeat to me. You may be sure we won't prefix the
author's name, except you like, though I look on it as no small merit
to this work that the names of many of the authors of our old Scotch
songs, names almost forgotten, will be inserted.

I do not well know where to write to you--I rather write at you; but
if you will be so obliging, immediately on receipt of this, as to
write me a few lines, I shall perhaps pay you in kind, though not in
quality. Johnson's terms are:--each number a handsome pocket volume,
to consist at least of a hundred Scotch songs, with basses for the
harpsichord, &c. The price to subscribers 5s. ; to non-subscribers 6s.
He will have three numbers I conjecture.

My direction for two or three weeks will be at Mr. William
Cruikshank's, St. James's-square, New-town, Edinburgh.

I am,

Sir,

Your's to command,

R. B.

* * * * *




LXXXIII.


TO REV. JOHN SKINNER.

[The songs of "Tullochgorum," and "John of Badenyon," have made the
name of Skinner dear to all lovers of Scottish verse: he was a man
cheerful and pious, nor did the family talent expire with him: his son
became Bishop of Aberdeen. ]

_Edinburgh, October 25,_ 1787.

REVEREND AND VENERABLE SIR,

Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere thanks for the best
poetical compliment I ever received. I assure you, Sir, as a poet, you
have conjured up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, which the best
abilities in your other capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret,
and while I live I shall regret, that when I was in the north, I had
not the pleasure of paying a younger brother's dutiful respect to the
author of the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw--"Tullochgorum's my
delight! " The world may think slightingly of the craft of song-making,
if they please, but, as Job says--"Oh! that mine adversary had written
a book! "--let them try. There is a certain something in the old Scotch
songs, a wild happiness of thought and expression, which peculiarly
marks them, not only from English songs, but also from the modern
efforts of song-wrights in our native manner and language. The only
remains of this enchantment, these spells of the imagination, rests
with you. Our true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was likewise "owre
cannie"--a "wild warlock"--but now he sings among the "sons of the
morning. "

I have often wished, and will certainly endeavour to form a kind of
common acquaintance among all the genuine sons of Caledonian song. The
world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, may overlook most of us; but
"reverence thyself. " The world is not our _peers_, so we challenge the
jury. We can lash that world, and find ourselves a very great source
of amusement and happiness independent of that world.

There is a work going on in Edinburgh, just now, which claims your
best assistance. An engraver in this town has set about collecting and
publishing all the Scotch songs, with the music, that can be found.
Songs in the English language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted, but the
music must all be Scotch. Drs. Beattie and Blacklock are lending a
hand, and the first musician in town presides over that department. I
have been absolutely crazed about it, collecting old stanzas, and
every information respecting their origin, authors, &c. &c. This last
is but a very fragment business; but at the end of his second
number--the first is already published--a small account will be given
of the authors, particularly to preserve those of latter times. Your
three songs, "Tullochgorum," "John of Badenyon," and "Ewie wi' the
crookit horn," go in this second number. I was determined, before I
got your letter, to write you, begging that you would let me know
where the editions of these pieces may be found, as you would wish
them to continue in future times: and if you would be so kind to this
undertaking as send any songs, of your own or others, that you would
think proper to publish, your name will be inserted among the other
authors,--"Nill ye, will ye. " One half of Scotland already give your
songs to other authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear from you; the
sooner the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three
weeks. --

I am,

With the warmest sincerity, Sir,

Your obliged humble servant,--R. B.

* * * * *




LXXXIV.


TO JAMES HOY, ESQ.

AT GORDON CASTLE, FOCHABERS.

[In singleness of heart and simplicity of manners James Hoy is said,
by one who knew him well, to have rivalled Dominie Sampson: his love
of learning and his scorn of wealth are still remembered to his
honour. ]

_Edinburgh, 6th November_, 1787.

DEAR SIR,

I would have wrote you immediately on receipt of your kind letter, but
a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem whispered me that I ought to
send you something by way of return. When a poet owes anything,
particularly when he is indebted for good offices, the payment that
usually recurs to him--the only coin indeed in which he probably is
conversant--is rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed,
and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks: my return I intended
should have been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world have not
seen, or, perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot see. These I shall send
you before I leave Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, which,
on the whole, is no bad way of spending one's precious hours and still
more precious breath: at any rate, they will be, though a small, yet a
very sincere mark of my respectful esteem for a gentleman whose
further acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar obligation.

The duke's song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms me. There
is I know not what of wild happiness of thought and expression
peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style, of which his
Grace, old venerable Skinner, the author of "Tullochgorum," &c. , and
the late Ross, at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the
only modern instances that I recollect, since Ramsay with his
contemporaries, and poor Bob Fergusson, went to the world of deathless
existence and truly immortal song. The mob of mankind, that
many-headed beast, would laugh at so serious a speech about an old
song; but as Job says, "O that mine adversary had written a book! "
Those who think that composing a Scotch song is a trifling
business--let them try.

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper attention to the Christian
admonition--"Hide not your candle under a bushel," but "let your light
shine before men. " I could name half a dozen dukes that I guess are a
devilish deal worse employed: nay, I question if there are half a
dozen better: perhaps there are not half that scanty number whom
Heaven has favoured with the tuneful, happy, and, I will say, glorious
gift.

I am, dear Sir,

Your obliged humble servant,

R. B.

* * * * *




LXXXV.


TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE,

EDINBURGH.

["I set you down," says Burns, elsewhere, to Ainslie, "as the staff of
my old age, when all my other friends, after a decent show of pity,
will have forgot me. "]

_Edinburgh, Sunday Morning_,

_Nov. _ 23, 1787.

I Beg, my dear Sir, you would not make any appointment to take us to
Mr. Ainslie's to-night. On looking over my engagements, constitution,
present state of my health, some little vexatious soul concerns, &c. ,
I find I can't sup abroad to-night. I shall be in to-day till one
o'clock if you have a leisure hour.

You will think it romantic when I tell you, that I find the idea of
your friendship almost necessary to my existence. --You assume a proper
length of face in my bitter hours of blue-devilism, and you laugh
fully up to my highest wishes at my good things. --I don't know upon
the whole, if you are one of the first fellows in God's world, but you
are so to me. I tell you this just now in the conviction that some
inequalities in my temper and manner may perhaps sometimes make you
suspect that I am not so warmly as I ought to be your friend.

R. B.

* * * * *




LXXXVI.


TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

[The views of Burns were always humble: he regarded a place in the
excise as a thing worthy of paying court for, both in verse and
prose. ]

_Edinburgh_, 1787.

MY LORD,

I know your lordship will disapprove of my ideas in a request I am
going to make to you; but I have weighed, long and seriously weighed,
my situation, my hopes and turn of mind, and am fully fixed to my
scheme if I can possibly effectuate it. I wish to get into the Excise;
I am told that your lordship's interest will easily procure me the
grant from the commissioners; and your lordship's patronage and
goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness,
and exile, embolden me to ask that interest. You have likewise put it
in my power to save the little tie of home that sheltered an aged
mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. There, my
lord, you have bound me over to the highest gratitude.

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, but I think he will
probably weather out the remaining seven years of it; and after the
assistance which I have given and will give him, to keep the family
together, I think, by my guess, I shall have rather better than two
hundred pounds, and instead of seeking, what is almost impossible at
present to find, a farm that I can certainly live by, with so small a
stock, I shall lodge this sum in a banking-house, a sacred deposit,
expecting only the calls of uncommon distress or necessitous old age.

These, my lord, are my views: I have resolved from the maturest
deliberation; and now I am fixed, I shall leave no stone unturned to
carry my resolve into execution. Your lordship's patronage is the
strength of my hopes; nor have I yet applied to anybody else. Indeed
my heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any other of the
great who have honoured me with their countenance. I am ill qualified
to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicitation,
and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as the
cold denial; but to your lordship I have not only the honour, the
comfort, but the pleasure of being

Your lordship's much obliged

And deeply indebted humble servant,

R. B.

* * * * *




LXXXVII.


TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ.

ORANGEFIELD.

[James Dalrymple, Esq. , of Orangefield, was a gentleman of birth and
poetic tastes--he interested himself in the fortunes of Burns. ]

_Edinburgh_, 1787.

DEAR SIR,

I suppose the devil is so elated with his success with you that he is
determined by a _coup de main_ to complete his purposes on you all at
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me;
hummed over the rhymes; and, as I saw they were extempore, said to
myself, they were very well; but when I saw at the bottom a name that
I shall ever value with grateful respect, "I gapit wide, but naething
spak. " I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of
affliction-bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days and
seven nights, and spake not a word.

I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon as my
wonder-scared imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed its
functions, I cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My
foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility; and several
events, great in their magnitude, and important in their consequences,
occurred to my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of
the Cork rumps; a ducal coronet to Lord George Gordon and the
Protestant interest; or St. Peter's keys to * * * * * *.

You want to know how I come on. I am just in _statu quo_, or, not to
insult a gentleman with my Latin, in "auld use and wont. " The noble
Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself
in my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent Being, whose
image he so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality of
the soul, than any that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can
never die. Let the worshipful squire H. L. , or the reverend Mass J. M.
go into their primitive nothing. At best, they are but ill-digested
lumps of chaos, only one of them strongly tinged with bituminous
particles and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as
the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of
benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at "the war of elements,
the wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. "

R. B.

* * * * *




LXXXVIII.


TO CHARLES HAY. ESQ. ,

ADVOCATE.

[The verses enclosed were written on the death of the Lord President
Dundas, at the suggestion of Charles Hay, Esq. , advocate, afterwards a
judge, under the title of Lord Newton. ]

SIR,

The enclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion, last
time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of
next morning's sleep, but did not please me; so it lay by, an
ill-digested effort, till the other day that I gave it a critic brush.
These kind of subjects are much hackneyed; and, besides, the wailings
of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly
suspicious, and out of all character for sincerity. These ideas damped
my muse's fire; however, I have done the best I could, and, at all
events, it gives me an opportunity of declaring that I have the honour
to be, Sir, your obliged humble servant,

R. B.

* * * * *




LXXXIX.


TO MISS M----N.

[This letter appeared for the first time in the "Letters to Clarinda,"
a little work which was speedily suppressed--it is, on the whole, a
sort of Corydon and Phillis affair, with here and there expressions
too graphic, and passages over-warm. Who the lady was is not known--or
known only to one. ]

_Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Square_,

_New Town, Edinburgh_

Here have I sat, my 'dear Madam, in the stony altitude of perplexed
study for fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, bending over the
intended card; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured
around; my pendulous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the
future letter, all for the important purpose of writing a
complimentary card to accompany your trinket.

Compliment is such a miserable Greenland expression, lies at such a
chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I
cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have
the twentieth part of the esteem every one must have for you who knows
you.

As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the pleasure
of calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about
seven or after, I shall wait on you for your farewell commands.

The hinge of your box I put into the hands of the proper connoisseur.
The broken glass, likewise, went under review; but deliberative wisdom
thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric.

I am, dear Madam,

With all sincerity of enthusiasm,

Your very obedient servant,

R. B.

* * * * *




XC.


TO MISS CHALMERS.

[Some dozen or so, it is said, of the most beautiful letters that
Burns ever wrote, and dedicated to the beauty of Charlotte Hamilton,
were destroyed by that lady, in a moment when anger was too strong for
reflection. ]

_Edinburgh, Nov. _ 21, 1787.

I have one vexatious fault to the kindly-welcome, well-filled sheet
which I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness,--it contains too much
sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is impossible that even you
two, whom I declare to my God I will give credit for any degree of
excellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can
go on to correspond at that rate; so like those who, Shenstone says,
retire because they make a good speech, I shall, after a few letters,
hear no more of you. I insist that you shall write whatever comes
first: what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire,
what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense; or to fill up a
corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite
hints about flattery; I leave that to your lovers, if you have or
shall have any; though, thank heaven, I have found at last two girls
who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another,
without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss--A LOVER.

Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting-places for my soul in
her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. God
knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle: I glory in being a Poet, and I
want to be thought a wise man--I would fondly be generous, and I wish
to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. "Some folk hae
a hantle o' fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel.
"

_Afternoon_--To close the melancholy reflections at the end of last
sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Carrick
by the title of the "Wabster's grace:"--

"Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we,
Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we!
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he!
--Up and to your looms, lads. "

R. B.

* * * * *




XCI.


TO MISS CHALMERS.

[The "Ochel-Hills," which the poet promises in this letter, is a song,
beginning,

"Where braving angry winter's storms
The lofty Ochels rise,"

written in honour of Margaret Chalmers, and published along with the
"Banks of the Devon," in Johnson's Musical Museum. ]

_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 12, 1787.

I am here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on
a cushion; and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horror
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was the cause
of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil; misfortune, bodily
constitution, hell, and myself have formed a "quadruple alliance" to
guaranty the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly
better.

I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five
books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book.
I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo
Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town; and bind it with
all the elegance of his craft.

I would give my best song to my worst enemy, I mean the merit of
making it, to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures,
and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit.

I enclose you a proof copy of the "Banks of the Devon," which present
with my best wishes to Charlotte. The "Ochel-hills" you shall probably
have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches!

R. B.

* * * * *




XCII.


TO MISS CHALMERS.

[The eloquent hypochondriasm of the concluding paragraph of this
letter, called forth the commendation of Lord Jeffrey, when he
criticised Cromek's Reliques of Burns, in the Edinburgh Review. ]

_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 19, 1787.

I begin this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, which is
not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly
clearer than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I
crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my
hardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts; throwing my best
leg with an air! and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance,
as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, enjoying the
fragrance of the refreshed earth, after the long-expected shower!

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. ]

_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 1787.

I know very little of scientific criticism, so all I can pretend to in
that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages
strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression
seems to be perplexed or faulty.

The poem opens finely. There are none of these idle prefatory lines
which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th
and 10th in particular,

"Where ocean's unseen bound
Leaves a drear world of waters round,"

are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurricane is likewise fine;
and, indeed, beautiful as the poem is, almost all the similes rise
decidedly above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th is a pretty eulogy
on Britain. Verse 36th, "That foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly
expressive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather unworthy of the rest;
"to dare to feel" is an idea that I do not altogether like. The
contrast of valour and mercy, from the 36th verse to the 50th, is
admirable.

Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little
confused in the apostrophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent
to verses 57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connexion seems
ungrammatical:--

"Powers. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
With no gradation mark'd their flight,
But rose at once to glory's height. "

Ris'n should be the word instead of rose. Try it in prose.
Powers,--their flight marked by no gradations, but [the same powers]
risen at once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 53d, "For this,"
is evidently meant to lead on the sense of the verses 59th, 60th,
61st, and 62d: but let us try how the thread of connexion runs,--

"For this . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The deeds of mercy, that embrace
A distant sphere, an alien race,
Shall virtue's lips record and claim
The fairest honours of thy name. "

I beg pardon if I misapprehended the matter, but this appears to me
the only imperfect passage in the poem. The comparison of the sunbeam
is fine.

The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, I hope, as just as it is
certainly elegant The thought,

"Virtue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sends from her unsullied source,
The gems of thought their purest force,"

is exceeding beautiful. The idea, from verse 81st to the 85th, that
the "blest decree" is like the beams of morning ushering in the
glorious day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or unapplauded.
From verse 85th to verse 108th, is an animated contrast between the
unfeeling selfishness of the oppressor on the one hand, and the misery
of the captive on the other. Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus:
"Nor ever _quit_ her narrow maze. " We are said to _pass_ a bound, but
we _quit_, a maze. Verse 100th is exquisitely beautiful:--

"They, whom wasted blessings tire. "

Verse 110th is I doubt a clashing of metaphors: "to load a span" is, I
am afraid, an unwarrantable expression. In verse 114th, "Cast the
universe in shade," is a fine idea. From the 115th verse to the 142d
is a striking description of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse
120th, "The load of unremitted pain," is a remarkable, strong
expression. The address to the advocates for abolishing the
slave-trade, from verse 143d to verse 208th, is animated with the true
life of genius. The picture of oppression:--

"While she links her impious chain,
And calculates the price of pain;
Weighs agony in sordid scales,
And marks if death or life prevails,"--

is nobly executed.

What a tender idea is in verse 108th! Indeed, that whole description
of home may vie with Thomson's description of home, somewhere in the
beginning of his Autumn. I do not remember to have seen a stronger
expression of misery than is contained in these verses:--

"Condemned, severe extreme, to live
When all is fled that life can give"

The comparison of our distant joys to distant objects is equally
original and striking.

The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal traffic is a
well done though a horrid picture. I am not sure how far introducing
the sailor was right; for though the sailor's common characteristic is
generosity, yet, in this case, he is certainly not only an unconcerned
witness, but, in some degree, an efficient agent in the business.
Verse 224th is a nervous . . . expressive--"The heart convulsive anguish
breaks. " The description of the captive wretch when he arrives in the
West Indies, is carried on with equal spirit. The thought that the
oppressor's sorrow on seeing the slave pine, is like the butcher's
regret when his destined lamb dies a natural death, is exceedingly
fine.

I am got so much into the cant of criticism, that I begin to be afraid
lest I have nothing except the cant of it; and instead of elucidating
my author, am only benighting myself. For this reason, I will not
pretend to go through the whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful
lines, however, I cannot pass over.