No. LXXXII. From MISS WILLIAMS. 7th August, 1789. DEAR SIR, Do not lose a moment in returning you my sincere acknowledgements for your letter, and your criticism on my poem, which is a very flattering proof that you have read it with attention. I think your objections are perfectly just, except in one instance * * pane You have indeed been very profuse of gyric on my little performance. A much less. portion of applause from you would have been gratifying to me; since I think its value depends entirely upon the source from whence it proceeds the incense of praise, like other incense, is more grateful from the quality, than the quantity of the odour. I hope I hope you still cultivate the pleasures of poetry, which are precious, even independent of the rewards of fame. Perhaps the most valuable property of poetry is its power of disengaging the mind from worldly cares, and leading the imagination to the richest springs of intellectual enjoyment; since, however frequently life may be chequered with gloomy scenes, those who truly love the Muse can always find one little path adorned with flowers and cheered by sunshine. * No. No. LXXXIII. LOP. To MRS. DUNLOP. Ellisland, 6th Sept. 1789. DEAR MADAM, I HAVE mentioned, in my last, my appointment to the Excise, and the birth of little Frank, who, by the bye, I trust, will be no discredit to the honourable name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly countenance, and a figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months older; and likewise an excellent good temper, though, when he pleases, he has a pipe, only not quite so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling-bridge. I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. L, a very ingenious but modest composition. VOL. II. S position. I should have written her, as she requested, but for the hurry of this new business. I have heard of her and her compositions in this country; and, I am happy to add, always to the honour of her character. The fact is, I know not well how to write to her: I should sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine-drawn letter-writing; and except when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, which happens extremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her name) that presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, when necesitated to write, as I would sit down to beat hemp. Some parts of your letter of the 20th August struck me with the most melancholy concern for the state of your mind at present. * Would I could write you a letter of comfort! I would sit down to it with as much pleasure as I would to write an epic poem of my own composition that should equal the Iliad. Religion, my dear friend, is the true comfort! A strong persuasion in a future state of existence; a proposition so obviously probable, that, setting revelation aside, every nation and people, so far as as investigation has reached, for at least near four thousand years, have in some mode or other firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring pitch; but when I reflected that I was opposing the most ardent wishes, and the most darling hopes of good men, and flying in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was shocked at my own conduct. I know not whether I have ever sent you the following lines, or if you have ever seen them; but it is one of my favourite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my progress through life, in the language of the Book of Job, 66 Against the day of battle and of war" spoken of religion. ""Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few; Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." |