confidence to look for, there is an end of all writing with me. I have no spirits :-When the Rose came, I was obliged to prepare for his coming by a nightly dose of laudanum-twelve drops suffice; but without them I am devoured by melancholy."* 1794. To Mr. Hayley, in answer to a proposal for engaging in a joint work. "My poor Mary's .infirm condition makes it impossible for me at present to engage in a work such as you propose. My thoughts are not sufficiently free, nor have I, or can I, by any means find opportunity: added to which, comes a difficulty, which, though you are not at all aware of it, presents itself to me under a most for.bidding appearance: can you guess it? No, not you; neither perhaps will you be able to imagine that such a difficulty can possibly subsist. If your hair begins to bristle, stroak it down again, for there is no need why it should erect itself. It concerns me, not you. I know myself too well not to know, that I am nobody in verse, unless in a corner, and alone, and unconnected in my operations. This is not owing to want of love for you, my brother, or the most consummate confidence in you; for I have both in a degree, that has not been exceeded in the experience of any friend you have, or ever had. But I am so made up; I will not enter into a metaphysical analysis of my strange composition, in order to detect the true cause of this evil; but on a general view of the matter, I suspect that it proceeds from that eshyness, which has been my effectual and almost fatal hindrance on many other important occasions; and which I should feel, I well know, on this, to a degree that would perfectly cripple me. No! I shall neither do, nor attempt any thing of consequence more, unless my poor Mary get better; nor even then, unless it should please God to give me another nature, in concert with any man. I could not, even with my own father or brother, were they now alive." But I must forbear, or I shall transcribe half the poet's letters. Whether it is that there have seldom existed such adequate memorials of men of genius as have been left of Cowper, or whether, as I believe, few have ever been so thoroughly steeped in the well-head of the Muses, it is certain that few are recorded to have possessed qualities so well suited to the inspiration of the lyre. That sensibility which was so excessive, as at times, when it operated on a diseased body, to endanger and over! come his reason, prompted him at other times to inimitable strains of moral pathos, touching sentiment, or brilliant description. In proportion as he was little fitted for the ordinary intercourse, and bustle and intrigues of society, he attained and cherished a state of mind, which qualified him for those compositions by which his name has been en deared to his cotemporaries and consecrated to poste rity. Whoever has experienced the delight of such a mood, whoever has felt the intense pleasure of an intellectual occupation, by which he hopes to preserve his name to future ages, can alone appreciate the extent of sufferings which the exercise of such *Letters II. p. 132. endowments can counterbalance. It may be asked, whether in the cold tomb he can hear the sounds of admiration which are now lavished upon his poetry; and what recompence there can be in these empty returns for his sorrows and inexpressible afflictions. of mind! To this question I am not bold enough to reply: but I can scarcely suppose that the universal desire of being remembered after death, which is felt in every state of society, from the most savage to the most refined, is implanted in us for nothing. ART. DCXCV. Traits of the character of Burns, the Poet: with extracts from his letters, and a comparison of his genius with that of Cowper. SOME traits of the character of Cowper have been already inserted in the preceding article. Perhaps a few remarks on a still more extraordinary genius of our days may not be unacceptable. The writer is not so presumptuous as to attempt to add any new light to what is contained in the life of BURNS, by Dr. Currie, who, himself, alas! is now to be numbered with the dead; but ventures merely to indulge himself, and, he hopes, some of his readers, in dwelling on a pleasing topic, and, perhaps, in、 comparing some of the endowments of this gifted Being, with those of the author of The Task. No poet's life ever exhibited colours so much in unison with those of his writings as that of Burns; and as the charms of his poetry excited our curiosity for the memoirs of the man, the latter have raised a new and infinitely increased interest in his com positions. Much as I admire the exquisite tenderness and moral delicacy of Cowper's temperament, I confess I am still more delighted with the boldness and vehemence of the bard of Caledonia. "His generous affections, his ardent eloquence, his brilliant and daring imagination*" make him my idol. His proper regard to the dignity of his own powers, his stern and indignant elevation of manners, and due jealousy and repression of the insolence of rank and wealth, are worthy of inexpressible applause. "Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre," says Beattie, who, however, with a more timid character, does not seem to have entirely acted up to his own advice. Burns knew it well, and extorted respect from the most unwilling. The herd of stupid sensualists, who consider the writer of verses as an idler in childish toys and silly bubbles of air, were awed in his presence. The tones of his voice, the dark frowns of his commanding countenance, the lightning of his eye, produced instantaneous feelings of inferiority and submission, and secured to genius its just estimation. They who abandon the cause which they ought to support, who shrink before vulgar greatness, and who seem ashamed in public of that on which the reflections of their closets teach them to place the highest veneration, and on which their only claims to notice can be grounded, deserve no common con tempt. The courage and high sentiments of Burns placed him far above this meanness. In a letter to Mr. Cunningham, August 8, 1790, he says "However, tossed about as I am, if I choose, (and who would not choose) to bind down with the crampets of attention the brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear up the superstructure of independence, and from its daring turrets bid defiance to the storms of fate. And is not this " a consummation devoutly to be wished?" 66 Thy spirit, Independence, let me share; Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, Nor heed the storm that bowls along the sky!" "Are not these noble verses? They are the introduction of Smollet's Ode to Independence. How wretched is the man that hangs on by the favours of the great! To shrink from every dignity of man, at the approach of a lordly piece of self-consequence, who, amid all his tinsel glitter and stately hauteur, is but a creature formed as thou art, and perhaps not so well formed as thou art, came into the world a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out of it as all men must, a naked corse. It was not far from the same time, and nearly in the same spirit, that he wrote the following, Jan. 17, 1791, to Mr. Peter Hill. "Take these two guineas, and place them over * "The strain of indignant invective goes on some time longer in the stile which our bard was too apt to indulge." Currie's note. |