DEAR SIR,
I should ere now have owned the receipt of your very friendly epistle, and intended to return it in kind; but I find that the Muse has rather jilted me for the present. You must be sensible that a person cannot at all times sit down to write a poem as a joiner would do to make a chair; therefore, I hope you will accept of these, my plain prose acknowledgments. Independent of the compliments with which your verses honour me, they certainly possess a considerable share of poetical merit. [1] . . . . I was gratified on finding that my efforts, had in some degree, pleased the good folks in your town ; and now, since my poetical mania has rather subsided, I can as clearly discern and as readily acknowledge their deficiencies as if they had been written by any other person (at least, I think so). You may perhaps hear from me at a future period. In the meantime, believe me to be yours,
With due respect,
ROBERT TANNAHILL.
NOTE BY FINLAYSON.
“I believe a number of my readers will consider the publication of the above extract (from Tannahill's letter) as a palpable instance of vanity in me. It may appear so to them. I, however, should be wanting in that respect for my own character (which the most il-liberal of my detractors must allow, on a due investigation of my case, to be laudable), were I to omit such a fair opportunity of exhibiting to those who have so eminently sneered at my pre-sumption in giving these contemptible trifles to the world,—the approbation of a 'Poet of Nature' to at least one of these trifles. Few—I may say none— ever dared to assume the dignity of an author in opposition to such an overwhelming tide of humiliating admonitions to beware of attempting the dangerous eminence. No literary companion ever smoothed my verses,—no animating voice ever cheered my solitary ravings round the base of Parnassus; and shall I then suppress the only semblance of commendation I ever received, and that, too, from a bard whose merit is universally acknowledged. No; the incense of praise is at all times grateful, but, doubly so, when given in proper season, and rendered by one duly qualified to bestow it.—I shall not, therefore, easily forget that there was, at least, one who did not denominate me a dunce, and that one no less than the ingenious Bard of Renfrewshire.
Allow me to conclude this long Note with a quotation from one of my own pieces, the egotism of which precludes it from a place in this edition:—
Without some vanity, nae bardie
Wad be sae confident an hardie,
As lea tae ilka critic's wordie
His reputation ;
For weel kens he, Envy's ne'er tardie
At defamation.
Then, on my pow the blame be laid
If thoughtlessly the fool I've played,
I court nae countenance ; nae aid
From frien or foe,—
Hiss'd or applauded, undismayed
My verse shall flow."
[1] This letter is copied from Finlayson's Poems, published in 1816. See the Epistle and the Note at the end of the Correspondence.—Ed.