DEAR SIR,
I acknowledge that before I received your letter, I was almost inclined to complain of your inattention; and could not conceive the reason of your delaying writing. The one which you assign, ought not to have deterred you a single moment. The pieces you sent me I received with pleasure. The manly sentiments contained in the sonnet, [2] I approve, and highly applaud. Sincerity is a cardinal virtue. Dissimulation I detest. The venal sophist I abhor. In short, I am pleased with all the pieces; but do not think you right, in your surmises, when you doubt I will think you ill-natured. If it is ill-natured to feel a strong abhorrence to vice, and strongly to express the feelings, long may you continue to be the same ill-natured being you were when your feelings dictated them. You were right when you were sure the beautiful poem of “The Old Beggar” [3] would please me. “The Soldier's Funeral” I also like. I was particularly pleased with that line—
“He fought like a lion yet thought as a man.”
This, in my opinion, is the characteristic of a hero, but I must acknowledge that I am a very imperfect judge upon that subject. Your request for privacy shall be scrupulously complied with. You express a desire that I would send you something of my own ; with regard to which, I answer, if I had anything that I thought would be capable of giving you satisfaction, I should not hesitate a moment, but the caseis quite otherwise. However, I send you the following, tho' I am afraid my “genius does not lye that way:”—
If ony merits in my line;
If ony glancing beauty shine;
If ony place be glowing fine,
That gars you feel;
For justice' sake it is na mine
I hae tae steal.
DESPONDENCY.
Oh, could I paint my happy lot !
Oh, could 1 raise the plaintive song !
Exil'd from happiness and peace,
I wander gayest scenes among ;
Despair lifts her horrific brow,
Then spreads her wings and flies away,
My trembling soul, enchain'd by fear,
In sullen darkness feels decay,
Hope, charming once unto my mind,
Ah, now she's gone, ne'er to return;
I did indulge the pleasing thing ;
But now her absence I must mourn.
But what have I to do with hope,
I'm more congenial to despair ;
My mind her power cannot impress,
Destin'd to never ending care.
Doom'd to uncertainty in all,
In every thing I think upon,
Destruction's sword hangs o'er my head;
And not a soul to mark my groan,
Without a friend to ease my grief,
My mind is restless as the wave,
Exil'd from hope, allied to fear,
I seek for shelter in the grave.
Dear Sir,—This you must allow is a proof of my zeal, though it should be none of my talent for poetry. It is intended to be inserted in the middle of another piece. I beg you will yet write me, whatever you please, and as soon as possible any remark which you may make shall be thankfully received. I have just room to subscribe my name, and
I am,
DEAR SIR,
Yours sincerely,
JOHN CRAWFORD.
The original is in possession of Mr. Matthew Blair.
[1] “John Crawford,” weaver, Large, was born in 1780, and brought up to the trade of a weaver. He was an acquaintance and correspondent of the author, and his brother Matthew, and when Tannahill went to Largs for the benefit of his health he resided with his friend. Crawford was also a Poet, and he has given a specimen of his verses in this letter. Several of his pieces appeared in periodicals, published in Ayrshire and Dumfriesshire. After the death of Tannahill, Mr. Crawford continued his intimacy and correspondence, till the day of his decease, with ‘Mr.’ Matthew Tannahill, the immediate younger brother, and the last letter of this correspondence is from the former to the latter. Mr. Crawford died on 14th November, 1861, in the 71st year of his age.—Ed.
[2] This is the “Sonnet to Sincerity” No. 14.
[3] These two pieces are Nos. 172 and 101. They both appeared in the first number of the Paisley Repository. In the indices at the beginning of this volume it will be seen that the former has appeared for the first time, and the latter in several of the previous editions of the Poet's Works. See notes to Nos. 14, 101, and 172.