Where fam’d St. Andrew’s turrets tower on high;
Where frozen doctors lecture, doze, and die;
Where Knowledge sleeps, and Science seeks repose,
And mouldering halls more mouldering heads disclose,—
Where Roman Virgil pipes in Celtic verse,
And Grecian Homer sings to gods in Erse;—
’Twas there that Sandy form’d his worldly creed,
Brush’d gowns, swept book-shelves, learn’d to shave and read:
From craft to craft his willing genius rose;
When cash was scarce he wisely wrought for clothes,
And threadbare trophies, once the kirkmen’s pride,
Mickle by mickle swell’d his wallet’s side.
Well turn’d, well scoured, the rags denied their age,
While Sandy’s granite visage aped the _sage_.
Here, great Lavater! here thy science stands
Confess’d, and proved by more than mortal hands.
Though o’er his features Nature’s skill we see,
Her deepest secrets are disclosed through thee.
The green-tinged eye, curl’d lip, and lowering brows,
Which malice harrows, and which treachery ploughs,
In deep sunk furrows on his front we find,
Tilling the crops that thrive in Sandy’s mind.
No soft sensations can that face impart;
No gratitude springs glowing from the heart;
As deadly nightshade creeping on the ground,
He tries to poison what he cannot wound.
Yet Sandy has a most consistent mind,
Too low to rise, too coarse to be refin’d,
Too rough to polish, and too loose to bind:
Yet if * * * * *
On looking over the residue, I conceived that I could not with propriety
continue the publication: were I to proceed five or six lines further,
ill-natured people might possibly (though erroneously) affect to find a
pretence for _designation_, and I should be very sorry to be considered
as capable of becoming an instrument in so improper a procedure. My
friend assured me he did not intend to particularise any individual: I,
however, returned the copy to my portfolio, and subsequently to the
author, mentioning my reasons, and advising him to burn the rest. His
reply to me was laconic—“My dear B * * *, _qui caput ille facit_. If any
man adopts it, ’tis not my fault.”
The other trifle is a mere _jeu d’esprit_, and cannot be disagreeable to
any body, unless it may be taken amiss by some West-Indian proprietor,
whose probable touchiness at the introduction of the word _slavery_ I do
not feel called on to compassionate.