The
comparison
of the sunbeam
is fine.
is fine.
Robert Forst
]
_Edinburgh_, 1787.
DEAR SIR,
I suppose the devil is so elated with his success with you that he is
determined by a _coup de main_ to complete his purposes on you all at
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me;
hummed over the rhymes; and, as I saw they were extempore, said to
myself, they were very well; but when I saw at the bottom a name that
I shall ever value with grateful respect, "I gapit wide, but naething
spak. " I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of
affliction-bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days and
seven nights, and spake not a word.
I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon as my
wonder-scared imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed its
functions, I cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My
foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility; and several
events, great in their magnitude, and important in their consequences,
occurred to my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of
the Cork rumps; a ducal coronet to Lord George Gordon and the
Protestant interest; or St. Peter's keys to * * * * * *.
You want to know how I come on. I am just in _statu quo_, or, not to
insult a gentleman with my Latin, in "auld use and wont. " The noble
Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself
in my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent Being, whose
image he so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality of
the soul, than any that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can
never die. Let the worshipful squire H. L. , or the reverend Mass J. M.
go into their primitive nothing. At best, they are but ill-digested
lumps of chaos, only one of them strongly tinged with bituminous
particles and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as
the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of
benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at "the war of elements,
the wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. "
R. B.
* * * * *
LXXXVIII.
TO CHARLES HAY. ESQ. ,
ADVOCATE.
[The verses enclosed were written on the death of the Lord President
Dundas, at the suggestion of Charles Hay, Esq. , advocate, afterwards a
judge, under the title of Lord Newton. ]
SIR,
The enclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion, last
time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of
next morning's sleep, but did not please me; so it lay by, an
ill-digested effort, till the other day that I gave it a critic brush.
These kind of subjects are much hackneyed; and, besides, the wailings
of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly
suspicious, and out of all character for sincerity. These ideas damped
my muse's fire; however, I have done the best I could, and, at all
events, it gives me an opportunity of declaring that I have the honour
to be, Sir, your obliged humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
LXXXIX.
TO MISS M----N.
[This letter appeared for the first time in the "Letters to Clarinda,"
a little work which was speedily suppressed--it is, on the whole, a
sort of Corydon and Phillis affair, with here and there expressions
too graphic, and passages over-warm. Who the lady was is not known--or
known only to one. ]
_Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Square_,
_New Town, Edinburgh_
Here have I sat, my 'dear Madam, in the stony altitude of perplexed
study for fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, bending over the
intended card; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured
around; my pendulous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the
future letter, all for the important purpose of writing a
complimentary card to accompany your trinket.
Compliment is such a miserable Greenland expression, lies at such a
chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I
cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have
the twentieth part of the esteem every one must have for you who knows
you.
As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the pleasure
of calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about
seven or after, I shall wait on you for your farewell commands.
The hinge of your box I put into the hands of the proper connoisseur.
The broken glass, likewise, went under review; but deliberative wisdom
thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric.
I am, dear Madam,
With all sincerity of enthusiasm,
Your very obedient servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XC.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[Some dozen or so, it is said, of the most beautiful letters that
Burns ever wrote, and dedicated to the beauty of Charlotte Hamilton,
were destroyed by that lady, in a moment when anger was too strong for
reflection. ]
_Edinburgh, Nov. _ 21, 1787.
I have one vexatious fault to the kindly-welcome, well-filled sheet
which I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness,--it contains too much
sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is impossible that even you
two, whom I declare to my God I will give credit for any degree of
excellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can
go on to correspond at that rate; so like those who, Shenstone says,
retire because they make a good speech, I shall, after a few letters,
hear no more of you. I insist that you shall write whatever comes
first: what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire,
what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense; or to fill up a
corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite
hints about flattery; I leave that to your lovers, if you have or
shall have any; though, thank heaven, I have found at last two girls
who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another,
without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss--A LOVER.
Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting-places for my soul in
her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. God
knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle: I glory in being a Poet, and I
want to be thought a wise man--I would fondly be generous, and I wish
to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. "Some folk hae
a hantle o' fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel. "
_Afternoon_--To close the melancholy reflections at the end of last
sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Carrick
by the title of the "Wabster's grace:"--
"Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we,
Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we!
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he!
--Up and to your looms, lads. "
R. B.
* * * * *
XCI.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[The "Ochel-Hills," which the poet promises in this letter, is a song,
beginning,
"Where braving angry winter's storms
The lofty Ochels rise,"
written in honour of Margaret Chalmers, and published along with the
"Banks of the Devon," in Johnson's Musical Museum. ]
_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 12, 1787.
I am here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on
a cushion; and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horror
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was the cause
of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil; misfortune, bodily
constitution, hell, and myself have formed a "quadruple alliance" to
guaranty the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly
better.
I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five
books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book.
I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo
Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town; and bind it with
all the elegance of his craft.
I would give my best song to my worst enemy, I mean the merit of
making it, to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures,
and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit.
I enclose you a proof copy of the "Banks of the Devon," which present
with my best wishes to Charlotte. The "Ochel-hills" you shall probably
have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches!
R. B.
* * * * *
XCII.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[The eloquent hypochondriasm of the concluding paragraph of this
letter, called forth the commendation of Lord Jeffrey, when he
criticised Cromek's Reliques of Burns, in the Edinburgh Review. ]
_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 19, 1787.
I begin this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, which is
not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly
clearer than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I
crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my
hardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts; throwing my best
leg with an air! and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance,
as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, enjoying the
fragrance of the refreshed earth, after the long-expected shower!
I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path
that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, Poverty; attended as he
always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering contempt; but I have
sturdily withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day already,
and still my motto is--I DARE! My worst enemy is _moi-meme. _
I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a
mischievous, light-armed, well-mounted banditti, under the banners of
imagination, whim, caprice, and passion: and the heavy-armed veteran
regulars of wisdom, prudence, and forethought move so very, very slow,
that I am almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and, alas! frequent
defeat. There are just two creatures I would envy, a horse in his wild
state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the
desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without enjoyment, the
other has neither wish nor fear.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCIII.
TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD.
[The Whitefoords of Whitefoord, interested themselves in all matters
connected with literature: the power of the family, unluckily for
Burns, was not equal to their taste. ]
_Edinburgh, December_, 1787.
SIR,
Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has
informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate
as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a poet.
I have, Sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those of your
character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by * * * * *
friends to them and honoured acquaintances to me! but you are the
first gentleman in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart
has interested himself for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not
master enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I
stay to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety
disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am convinced, from
the light in which you kindly view me, that you will do me the justice
to believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of the needy, sharping
author, fastening on those in upper life, who honour him with a little
notice of him or his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is
generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, palliate that
prostitution of heart and talents, they have at times been guilty of.
I do not think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary concomitant
of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless indolent attention to
economy, is almost inseparable from it; then there must be in the
heart of every bard of Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility,
mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of
those windfalls of fortune which frequently light on hardy impudence
and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless
state than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose
character as a scholar gives him some pretensions to the _politesse_
of life--yet is as poor as I am.
For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kinder; learning never
elevated my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an independent
fortune at the plough-tail.
I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended in the least to the
manners of the gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop
to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel,
too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my
story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth with
which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too
frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but reverence to
God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever
preserve. I have no return, Sir, to make you for your goodness but
one--a return which, I am persuaded, will not be unacceptable--the
honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for your happiness, and every
one of that lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial relation. If
ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to
ward the blow!
R. B.
* * * * *
XCIV.
TO MISS WILLIAMS,
ON READING HER POEM OF THE SLAVE-TRADE.
[The name and merits of Miss Williams are widely known; nor is it a
small honour to her muse that her tender song of "Evan Banks" was
imputed to Burns by Cromek: other editors since have continued to
include it in his works, though Sir Walter Scott named the true
author. ]
_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 1787.
I know very little of scientific criticism, so all I can pretend to in
that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages
strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression
seems to be perplexed or faulty.
The poem opens finely. There are none of these idle prefatory lines
which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th
and 10th in particular,
"Where ocean's unseen bound
Leaves a drear world of waters round,"
are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurricane is likewise fine;
and, indeed, beautiful as the poem is, almost all the similes rise
decidedly above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th is a pretty eulogy
on Britain. Verse 36th, "That foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly
expressive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather unworthy of the rest;
"to dare to feel" is an idea that I do not altogether like. The
contrast of valour and mercy, from the 36th verse to the 50th, is
admirable.
Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little
confused in the apostrophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent
to verses 57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connexion seems
ungrammatical:--
"Powers. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
With no gradation mark'd their flight,
But rose at once to glory's height. "
Ris'n should be the word instead of rose. Try it in prose.
Powers,--their flight marked by no gradations, but [the same powers]
risen at once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 53d, "For this,"
is evidently meant to lead on the sense of the verses 59th, 60th,
61st, and 62d: but let us try how the thread of connexion runs,--
"For this . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The deeds of mercy, that embrace
A distant sphere, an alien race,
Shall virtue's lips record and claim
The fairest honours of thy name. "
I beg pardon if I misapprehended the matter, but this appears to me
the only imperfect passage in the poem.
The comparison of the sunbeam
is fine.
The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, I hope, as just as it is
certainly elegant The thought,
"Virtue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sends from her unsullied source,
The gems of thought their purest force,"
is exceeding beautiful. The idea, from verse 81st to the 85th, that
the "blest decree" is like the beams of morning ushering in the
glorious day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or unapplauded.
From verse 85th to verse 108th, is an animated contrast between the
unfeeling selfishness of the oppressor on the one hand, and the misery
of the captive on the other. Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus:
"Nor ever _quit_ her narrow maze. " We are said to _pass_ a bound, but
we _quit_, a maze. Verse 100th is exquisitely beautiful:--
"They, whom wasted blessings tire. "
Verse 110th is I doubt a clashing of metaphors: "to load a span" is, I
am afraid, an unwarrantable expression. In verse 114th, "Cast the
universe in shade," is a fine idea. From the 115th verse to the 142d
is a striking description of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse
120th, "The load of unremitted pain," is a remarkable, strong
expression. The address to the advocates for abolishing the
slave-trade, from verse 143d to verse 208th, is animated with the true
life of genius. The picture of oppression:--
"While she links her impious chain,
And calculates the price of pain;
Weighs agony in sordid scales,
And marks if death or life prevails,"--
is nobly executed.
What a tender idea is in verse 108th! Indeed, that whole description
of home may vie with Thomson's description of home, somewhere in the
beginning of his Autumn. I do not remember to have seen a stronger
expression of misery than is contained in these verses:--
"Condemned, severe extreme, to live
When all is fled that life can give"
The comparison of our distant joys to distant objects is equally
original and striking.
The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal traffic is a
well done though a horrid picture. I am not sure how far introducing
the sailor was right; for though the sailor's common characteristic is
generosity, yet, in this case, he is certainly not only an unconcerned
witness, but, in some degree, an efficient agent in the business.
Verse 224th is a nervous . . . expressive--"The heart convulsive anguish
breaks. " The description of the captive wretch when he arrives in the
West Indies, is carried on with equal spirit. The thought that the
oppressor's sorrow on seeing the slave pine, is like the butcher's
regret when his destined lamb dies a natural death, is exceedingly
fine.
I am got so much into the cant of criticism, that I begin to be afraid
lest I have nothing except the cant of it; and instead of elucidating
my author, am only benighting myself. For this reason, I will not
pretend to go through the whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful
lines, however, I cannot pass over. Verse 280th is the strongest
description of selfishness I ever saw. The comparison of verses 285th
and 286th is new and fine; and the line, "Your arms to penury you
lend," is excellent. In verse 317th, "like" should certainly be "as"
or "so;" for instance--
"His sway the hardened bosom leads
To cruelty's remorseless deeds:
As (or, so) the blue lightning when it springs
With fury on its livid wings,
Darts on the goal with rapid force,
Nor heeds that ruin marks its course. "
If you insert the word "like" where I have placed "as," you must alter
"darts" to "darting," and "heeds" to "heeding" in order to make it
grammar. A tempest is a favourite subject with the poets, but I do not
remember anything even in Thomson's Winter superior to your verses
from the 347th to the 351st. Indeed, the last simile, beginning with
"Fancy may dress," &c. , and ending with the 350th verse, is, in my
opinion, the most beautiful passage in the poem; it would do honour to
the greatest names that ever graced our profession.
I will not beg your pardon, Madam, for these strictures, as my
conscience tells me, that for once in my life I have acted up to the
duties of a Christian, in doing as I would be done by.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCV.
TO MR. RICHARD BROWN,
IRVINE.
[Richard Brown was the "hapless son of misfortune," alluded to by
Burns in his biographical letter to Dr. Moore: by fortitude and
prudence he retrieved his fortunes, and lived much respected in
Greenock, to a good old age. He said Burns had little to learn in
matters of levity, when he became acquainted with him. ]
_Edinburgh, 30th Dec. _ 1787.
MY DEAR SIR,
I have met with few things in life which have given me more pleasure
than Fortune's kindness to you since those days in which we met in the
vale of misery; as I can honestly say, that I never knew a man who
more truly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly wished it. I
have been much indebted since that time to your story and sentiments
for steeling my mind against evils, of which I have had a pretty
decent share. My will-o'wisp fate you know: do you recollect a Sunday
we spent together in Eglinton woods! You told me, on my repeating some
verses to you, that you wondered I could resist the temptation of
sending verses of such merit to a magazine. It was from this remark I
derived that idea of my own pieces, which encouraged me to endeavour
at the character of a poet. I am happy to hear that you will be two or
three months at home. As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I
shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet; "and faith, I hope we'll
not sit dumb, nor yet cast out! "
I have much to tell you "of men, their manners, and their ways,"
perhaps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered to
Mrs. Brown. There I doubt not, my dear friend, but you have found
substantial happiness. I expect to find you something of an altered
but not a different man; the wild, bold, generous young fellow
composed into the steady affectionate husband, and the fond careful
parent. For me, I am just the same will-o'-wisp being I used to be.
About the first and fourth quarters of the moon, I generally set in
for the trade wind of wisdom: but about the full and change, I am the
luckless victim of mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. Almighty
love still reigns and revels in my bosom; and I am at this moment
ready to hang myself for a young Edinburgh widow, who has wit and
wisdom more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the
Sicilian banditti, or the poisoned arrow of the savage African. My
highland dirk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely
removed into a neighbouring closet, the key of which I cannot command
in case of spring-tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit by
the following verses, which she sent me the other day:--
Talk not of love, it gives me pain,
For love has been my foe;
He bound me with an iron chain,
And plunged me deep in woe!
But friendship's pure and lasting joys.
My heart was formed to prove,--
There, welcome, win, and wear the prize,
But never talk of love!
Your friendship much can make me blest--
O why that bliss destroy?
Why urge the odious one request,
You know I must deny? [180]
My best compliments to our friend Allan.
Adieu!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 180: See song 186, in Johnson's Musical Museum. Burns altered
the two last lines, and added a stanza:
Why urge the only one request
You know I will deny!
Your thought if love must harbour there,
Conceal it in that thought;
Nor cause me from my bosom tear
The very friend I sought. ]
* * * * *
XCVI.
TO GAVIN HAMILTON.
[The Hamiltons of the West continue to love the memory of Burns: the
old arm-chair in which the bard sat, when he visited Nanse Tinnocks,
was lately presented to the mason Lodge of Mauchline, by Dr. Hamilton,
the "wee curly Johnie" of the Dedication. ]
[_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 1787. ]
MY DEAR SIR,
It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I congratulate you on the
return of days of ease and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours
of misery in which I saw you suffering existence when last in
Ayrshire; I seldom pray for any body, "I'm baith dead-sweer and
wretched ill o't;" but most fervently do I beseech the Power that
directs the world, that you may live long and be happy, but live no
longer than you are happy. It is needless for me to advise you to have
a reverend care of your health. I know you will make it a point never
at one time to drink more than a pint of wine (I mean an English
pint), and that you will never be witness to more than one bowl of
punch at a time, and that cold drams you will never more taste; and,
above all things, I am convinced, that after drinking perhaps boiling
punch, you will never mount your horse and gallop home in a chill late
hour. Above all things, as I understand you are in habits of intimacy
with that Boanerges of gospel powers, Father Auld, be earnest with him
that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that you may see the vanity of
vanities in trusting to, or even practising the casual moral works of
charity, humanity, generosity, and forgiveness of things, which you
practised so flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in them,
neglecting, or perhaps profanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of
faith without works, the only anchor of salvation. A hymn of
thanksgiving would, in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at
present, and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly press on you
to be diligent in chanting over the two enclosed pieces of sacred
poesy. My best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy.
Yours in the L--d,
R. B.
* * * * *
XCVII.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[The blank which takes the place of the name of the "Gentleman in mind
and manners," of this letter, cannot now be filled up, nor is it much
matter: the acquaintance of such a man as the poet describes few or
none would desire. ]
_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 1787.
MY DEAR MADAM,
I just now have read yours. The poetic compliments I pay cannot be
misunderstood. They are neither of them so particular as to point you
out to the world at large; and the circle of your acquaintances will
allow all I have said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly,
almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you? I
will; so look to it. Personal attractions, Madam, you have much above
par; wit, understanding, and worth, you possess in the first class.
This is a cursed flat way of telling you these truths, but let me hear
no more of your sheepish timidity. I know the world a little. I know
what they will say of my poems; by second sight I suppose; for I am
seldom out in my conjectures; and you may believe me, my dear Madam, I
would not run any risk of hurting you by any ill-judged compliment. I
wish to show to the world, the odds between a poet's friends and those
of simple prosemen. More for your information, both the pieces go in.
One of them, "Where braving angry winter's storms," is already
set--the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for _Abercarny_; the other is
to be set to an old Highland air in Daniel Dow's collection of ancient
Scots music; the name is "_Ha a Chaillich air mo Dheith. _" My
treacherous memory has forgot every circumstance about _Les Incas_,
only I think you mentioned them as being in Creech's possession. I
shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of "Somebody" will come
too late--as I shall, for certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire,
and from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes are slender. I leave my
direction in town, so anything, wherever I am, will reach me.
I saw yours to ----; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. On
the contrary, like a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in the
Christmas days. Mr. ---- has given him the invitation, and he is
determined to accept of it. O selfishness! he owns, in his sober
moments, that from his own volatility of inclination, the
circumstances in which he is situated, and his knowledge of his
father's disposition;--the whole affair is chimerical--yet he _will_
gratify an idle _penchant_ at the enormous, cruel expense, of perhaps
ruining the peace of the very woman for whom he professes the generous
passion of love! He is a gentleman in his mind and manners--_tant
pis_! He is a volatile school-boy--the heir of a man's fortune who
well knows the value of two times two!
Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before they should make the
amiable, the lovely ----, the derided object of their purse-proud
contempt!
I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. ----'s recovery, because I really
thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting
her:
"As I came in by Glenap,
I met with an aged woman:
She bad me cheer up my heart,
For the best o' my days was comin'. "
This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are, like myself,
not what they ought to be; yet better than what they appear to be.
"Heaven's sovereign saves all beings but himself--
That hideous sight--a naked human heart. "
Farewell! remember me to Charlotte.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCVIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The poet alludes in this letter, as in some before, to a hurt which
he got in one of his excursions in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. ]
_Edinburgh, January 21, 1788. _
After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across the room.
They have been six horrible weeks; anguish and low spirits made me
unfit to read, write, or think.
I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer
resigns a commission: for I would not take in any poor, ignorant
wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private; and, God
knows, a miserable soldier enough; now I march to the campaign, a
starving cadet: a little more conspicuously wretched.
I am ashamed of all this; for though I do want bravery for the warfare
of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice.
As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the
middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh: and soon after I shall pay my
grateful duty at Dunlop-House.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCIX.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The levity with which Burns sometimes spoke of things sacred, had
been obliquely touched upon by his good and anxious friend Mrs.
Dunlop: he pleads guilty of folly, but not of irreligion. ]
_Edinburgh, February 12, 1788. _
Some things in your late letters hurt me: not that _you say them_, but
that _you mistake me. _ Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been
all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have,
indeed, been the luckless victim of wayward follies; but, alas! I have
ever been "more fool than knave. " A mathematician without religion is
a probable character; an irreligious poet is a monster.
R. B.
* * * * *
C.
TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER.
[When Burns undertook to supply Johnson with songs for the Musical
Museum, he laid all the bards of Scotland under contribution, and
Skinner among the number, of whose talents, as well as those of Ross,
author of Helenore, he was a great admirer. ]
_Edinburgh, 14th February, 1788. _
REVEREND AND DEAR SIR,
I have been a cripple now near three months, though I am getting
vastly better, and have been very much hurried beside, or else I would
have wrote you sooner. I must beg your pardon for the epistle you sent
me appearing in the Magazine. I had given a copy or two to some of my
intimate friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the
publication of the Magazine. However, as it does great honour to us
both, you will forgive it.
The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last is
published to-day. I send you a copy which I beg you will accept as a
mark of the veneration I have long had, and shall ever have, for your
character, and of the claim I make to your continued acquaintance.
Your songs appear in the third volume, with your name in the index;
as, I assure you, Sir, I have heard your "Tullochgorum," particularly
among our west-country folks, given to many different names, and most
commonly to the immortal author of "The Minstrel," who, indeed, never
wrote anything superior to "Gie's a sang, Montgomery cried.
_Edinburgh_, 1787.
DEAR SIR,
I suppose the devil is so elated with his success with you that he is
determined by a _coup de main_ to complete his purposes on you all at
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me;
hummed over the rhymes; and, as I saw they were extempore, said to
myself, they were very well; but when I saw at the bottom a name that
I shall ever value with grateful respect, "I gapit wide, but naething
spak. " I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of
affliction-bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days and
seven nights, and spake not a word.
I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon as my
wonder-scared imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed its
functions, I cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My
foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility; and several
events, great in their magnitude, and important in their consequences,
occurred to my fancy. The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of
the Cork rumps; a ducal coronet to Lord George Gordon and the
Protestant interest; or St. Peter's keys to * * * * * *.
You want to know how I come on. I am just in _statu quo_, or, not to
insult a gentleman with my Latin, in "auld use and wont. " The noble
Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself
in my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent Being, whose
image he so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality of
the soul, than any that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can
never die. Let the worshipful squire H. L. , or the reverend Mass J. M.
go into their primitive nothing. At best, they are but ill-digested
lumps of chaos, only one of them strongly tinged with bituminous
particles and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as
the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of
benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at "the war of elements,
the wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. "
R. B.
* * * * *
LXXXVIII.
TO CHARLES HAY. ESQ. ,
ADVOCATE.
[The verses enclosed were written on the death of the Lord President
Dundas, at the suggestion of Charles Hay, Esq. , advocate, afterwards a
judge, under the title of Lord Newton. ]
SIR,
The enclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion, last
time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of
next morning's sleep, but did not please me; so it lay by, an
ill-digested effort, till the other day that I gave it a critic brush.
These kind of subjects are much hackneyed; and, besides, the wailings
of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly
suspicious, and out of all character for sincerity. These ideas damped
my muse's fire; however, I have done the best I could, and, at all
events, it gives me an opportunity of declaring that I have the honour
to be, Sir, your obliged humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
LXXXIX.
TO MISS M----N.
[This letter appeared for the first time in the "Letters to Clarinda,"
a little work which was speedily suppressed--it is, on the whole, a
sort of Corydon and Phillis affair, with here and there expressions
too graphic, and passages over-warm. Who the lady was is not known--or
known only to one. ]
_Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. James's Square_,
_New Town, Edinburgh_
Here have I sat, my 'dear Madam, in the stony altitude of perplexed
study for fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, bending over the
intended card; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured
around; my pendulous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the
future letter, all for the important purpose of writing a
complimentary card to accompany your trinket.
Compliment is such a miserable Greenland expression, lies at such a
chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I
cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have
the twentieth part of the esteem every one must have for you who knows
you.
As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the pleasure
of calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about
seven or after, I shall wait on you for your farewell commands.
The hinge of your box I put into the hands of the proper connoisseur.
The broken glass, likewise, went under review; but deliberative wisdom
thought it would too much endanger the whole fabric.
I am, dear Madam,
With all sincerity of enthusiasm,
Your very obedient servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XC.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[Some dozen or so, it is said, of the most beautiful letters that
Burns ever wrote, and dedicated to the beauty of Charlotte Hamilton,
were destroyed by that lady, in a moment when anger was too strong for
reflection. ]
_Edinburgh, Nov. _ 21, 1787.
I have one vexatious fault to the kindly-welcome, well-filled sheet
which I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness,--it contains too much
sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is impossible that even you
two, whom I declare to my God I will give credit for any degree of
excellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can
go on to correspond at that rate; so like those who, Shenstone says,
retire because they make a good speech, I shall, after a few letters,
hear no more of you. I insist that you shall write whatever comes
first: what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire,
what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense; or to fill up a
corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. Now none of your polite
hints about flattery; I leave that to your lovers, if you have or
shall have any; though, thank heaven, I have found at last two girls
who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another,
without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss--A LOVER.
Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting-places for my soul in
her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. God
knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle: I glory in being a Poet, and I
want to be thought a wise man--I would fondly be generous, and I wish
to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. "Some folk hae
a hantle o' fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel. "
_Afternoon_--To close the melancholy reflections at the end of last
sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in Carrick
by the title of the "Wabster's grace:"--
"Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we,
Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we!
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he!
--Up and to your looms, lads. "
R. B.
* * * * *
XCI.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[The "Ochel-Hills," which the poet promises in this letter, is a song,
beginning,
"Where braving angry winter's storms
The lofty Ochels rise,"
written in honour of Margaret Chalmers, and published along with the
"Banks of the Devon," in Johnson's Musical Museum. ]
_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 12, 1787.
I am here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on
a cushion; and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horror
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was the cause
of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil; misfortune, bodily
constitution, hell, and myself have formed a "quadruple alliance" to
guaranty the other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly
better.
I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five
books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book.
I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo
Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town; and bind it with
all the elegance of his craft.
I would give my best song to my worst enemy, I mean the merit of
making it, to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures,
and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit.
I enclose you a proof copy of the "Banks of the Devon," which present
with my best wishes to Charlotte. The "Ochel-hills" you shall probably
have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches!
R. B.
* * * * *
XCII.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[The eloquent hypochondriasm of the concluding paragraph of this
letter, called forth the commendation of Lord Jeffrey, when he
criticised Cromek's Reliques of Burns, in the Edinburgh Review. ]
_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 19, 1787.
I begin this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, which is
not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly
clearer than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I
crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart good to see my
hardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts; throwing my best
leg with an air! and with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance,
as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, enjoying the
fragrance of the refreshed earth, after the long-expected shower!
I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path
that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, Poverty; attended as he
always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering contempt; but I have
sturdily withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day already,
and still my motto is--I DARE! My worst enemy is _moi-meme. _
I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a
mischievous, light-armed, well-mounted banditti, under the banners of
imagination, whim, caprice, and passion: and the heavy-armed veteran
regulars of wisdom, prudence, and forethought move so very, very slow,
that I am almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and, alas! frequent
defeat. There are just two creatures I would envy, a horse in his wild
state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the
desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without enjoyment, the
other has neither wish nor fear.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCIII.
TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD.
[The Whitefoords of Whitefoord, interested themselves in all matters
connected with literature: the power of the family, unluckily for
Burns, was not equal to their taste. ]
_Edinburgh, December_, 1787.
SIR,
Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has
informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate
as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as a poet.
I have, Sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those of your
character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by * * * * *
friends to them and honoured acquaintances to me! but you are the
first gentleman in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart
has interested himself for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not
master enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I
stay to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety
disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as I am convinced, from
the light in which you kindly view me, that you will do me the justice
to believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of the needy, sharping
author, fastening on those in upper life, who honour him with a little
notice of him or his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is
generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, palliate that
prostitution of heart and talents, they have at times been guilty of.
I do not think prodigality is, by any means, a necessary concomitant
of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless indolent attention to
economy, is almost inseparable from it; then there must be in the
heart of every bard of Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility,
mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of
those windfalls of fortune which frequently light on hardy impudence
and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless
state than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose
character as a scholar gives him some pretensions to the _politesse_
of life--yet is as poor as I am.
For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kinder; learning never
elevated my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an independent
fortune at the plough-tail.
I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended in the least to the
manners of the gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop
to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel,
too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my
story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank you, Sir, for the warmth with
which you interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too
frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but reverence to
God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever
preserve. I have no return, Sir, to make you for your goodness but
one--a return which, I am persuaded, will not be unacceptable--the
honest, warm wishes of a grateful heart for your happiness, and every
one of that lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial relation. If
ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to
ward the blow!
R. B.
* * * * *
XCIV.
TO MISS WILLIAMS,
ON READING HER POEM OF THE SLAVE-TRADE.
[The name and merits of Miss Williams are widely known; nor is it a
small honour to her muse that her tender song of "Evan Banks" was
imputed to Burns by Cromek: other editors since have continued to
include it in his works, though Sir Walter Scott named the true
author. ]
_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 1787.
I know very little of scientific criticism, so all I can pretend to in
that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages
strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression
seems to be perplexed or faulty.
The poem opens finely. There are none of these idle prefatory lines
which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th
and 10th in particular,
"Where ocean's unseen bound
Leaves a drear world of waters round,"
are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurricane is likewise fine;
and, indeed, beautiful as the poem is, almost all the similes rise
decidedly above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th is a pretty eulogy
on Britain. Verse 36th, "That foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly
expressive. Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather unworthy of the rest;
"to dare to feel" is an idea that I do not altogether like. The
contrast of valour and mercy, from the 36th verse to the 50th, is
admirable.
Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little
confused in the apostrophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent
to verses 57th and 58th, but in verse 58th the connexion seems
ungrammatical:--
"Powers. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
With no gradation mark'd their flight,
But rose at once to glory's height. "
Ris'n should be the word instead of rose. Try it in prose.
Powers,--their flight marked by no gradations, but [the same powers]
risen at once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 53d, "For this,"
is evidently meant to lead on the sense of the verses 59th, 60th,
61st, and 62d: but let us try how the thread of connexion runs,--
"For this . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The deeds of mercy, that embrace
A distant sphere, an alien race,
Shall virtue's lips record and claim
The fairest honours of thy name. "
I beg pardon if I misapprehended the matter, but this appears to me
the only imperfect passage in the poem.
The comparison of the sunbeam
is fine.
The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, I hope, as just as it is
certainly elegant The thought,
"Virtue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sends from her unsullied source,
The gems of thought their purest force,"
is exceeding beautiful. The idea, from verse 81st to the 85th, that
the "blest decree" is like the beams of morning ushering in the
glorious day of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or unapplauded.
From verse 85th to verse 108th, is an animated contrast between the
unfeeling selfishness of the oppressor on the one hand, and the misery
of the captive on the other. Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus:
"Nor ever _quit_ her narrow maze. " We are said to _pass_ a bound, but
we _quit_, a maze. Verse 100th is exquisitely beautiful:--
"They, whom wasted blessings tire. "
Verse 110th is I doubt a clashing of metaphors: "to load a span" is, I
am afraid, an unwarrantable expression. In verse 114th, "Cast the
universe in shade," is a fine idea. From the 115th verse to the 142d
is a striking description of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse
120th, "The load of unremitted pain," is a remarkable, strong
expression. The address to the advocates for abolishing the
slave-trade, from verse 143d to verse 208th, is animated with the true
life of genius. The picture of oppression:--
"While she links her impious chain,
And calculates the price of pain;
Weighs agony in sordid scales,
And marks if death or life prevails,"--
is nobly executed.
What a tender idea is in verse 108th! Indeed, that whole description
of home may vie with Thomson's description of home, somewhere in the
beginning of his Autumn. I do not remember to have seen a stronger
expression of misery than is contained in these verses:--
"Condemned, severe extreme, to live
When all is fled that life can give"
The comparison of our distant joys to distant objects is equally
original and striking.
The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal traffic is a
well done though a horrid picture. I am not sure how far introducing
the sailor was right; for though the sailor's common characteristic is
generosity, yet, in this case, he is certainly not only an unconcerned
witness, but, in some degree, an efficient agent in the business.
Verse 224th is a nervous . . . expressive--"The heart convulsive anguish
breaks. " The description of the captive wretch when he arrives in the
West Indies, is carried on with equal spirit. The thought that the
oppressor's sorrow on seeing the slave pine, is like the butcher's
regret when his destined lamb dies a natural death, is exceedingly
fine.
I am got so much into the cant of criticism, that I begin to be afraid
lest I have nothing except the cant of it; and instead of elucidating
my author, am only benighting myself. For this reason, I will not
pretend to go through the whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful
lines, however, I cannot pass over. Verse 280th is the strongest
description of selfishness I ever saw. The comparison of verses 285th
and 286th is new and fine; and the line, "Your arms to penury you
lend," is excellent. In verse 317th, "like" should certainly be "as"
or "so;" for instance--
"His sway the hardened bosom leads
To cruelty's remorseless deeds:
As (or, so) the blue lightning when it springs
With fury on its livid wings,
Darts on the goal with rapid force,
Nor heeds that ruin marks its course. "
If you insert the word "like" where I have placed "as," you must alter
"darts" to "darting," and "heeds" to "heeding" in order to make it
grammar. A tempest is a favourite subject with the poets, but I do not
remember anything even in Thomson's Winter superior to your verses
from the 347th to the 351st. Indeed, the last simile, beginning with
"Fancy may dress," &c. , and ending with the 350th verse, is, in my
opinion, the most beautiful passage in the poem; it would do honour to
the greatest names that ever graced our profession.
I will not beg your pardon, Madam, for these strictures, as my
conscience tells me, that for once in my life I have acted up to the
duties of a Christian, in doing as I would be done by.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCV.
TO MR. RICHARD BROWN,
IRVINE.
[Richard Brown was the "hapless son of misfortune," alluded to by
Burns in his biographical letter to Dr. Moore: by fortitude and
prudence he retrieved his fortunes, and lived much respected in
Greenock, to a good old age. He said Burns had little to learn in
matters of levity, when he became acquainted with him. ]
_Edinburgh, 30th Dec. _ 1787.
MY DEAR SIR,
I have met with few things in life which have given me more pleasure
than Fortune's kindness to you since those days in which we met in the
vale of misery; as I can honestly say, that I never knew a man who
more truly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly wished it. I
have been much indebted since that time to your story and sentiments
for steeling my mind against evils, of which I have had a pretty
decent share. My will-o'wisp fate you know: do you recollect a Sunday
we spent together in Eglinton woods! You told me, on my repeating some
verses to you, that you wondered I could resist the temptation of
sending verses of such merit to a magazine. It was from this remark I
derived that idea of my own pieces, which encouraged me to endeavour
at the character of a poet. I am happy to hear that you will be two or
three months at home. As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I
shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall meet; "and faith, I hope we'll
not sit dumb, nor yet cast out! "
I have much to tell you "of men, their manners, and their ways,"
perhaps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered to
Mrs. Brown. There I doubt not, my dear friend, but you have found
substantial happiness. I expect to find you something of an altered
but not a different man; the wild, bold, generous young fellow
composed into the steady affectionate husband, and the fond careful
parent. For me, I am just the same will-o'-wisp being I used to be.
About the first and fourth quarters of the moon, I generally set in
for the trade wind of wisdom: but about the full and change, I am the
luckless victim of mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. Almighty
love still reigns and revels in my bosom; and I am at this moment
ready to hang myself for a young Edinburgh widow, who has wit and
wisdom more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the
Sicilian banditti, or the poisoned arrow of the savage African. My
highland dirk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely
removed into a neighbouring closet, the key of which I cannot command
in case of spring-tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit by
the following verses, which she sent me the other day:--
Talk not of love, it gives me pain,
For love has been my foe;
He bound me with an iron chain,
And plunged me deep in woe!
But friendship's pure and lasting joys.
My heart was formed to prove,--
There, welcome, win, and wear the prize,
But never talk of love!
Your friendship much can make me blest--
O why that bliss destroy?
Why urge the odious one request,
You know I must deny? [180]
My best compliments to our friend Allan.
Adieu!
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 180: See song 186, in Johnson's Musical Museum. Burns altered
the two last lines, and added a stanza:
Why urge the only one request
You know I will deny!
Your thought if love must harbour there,
Conceal it in that thought;
Nor cause me from my bosom tear
The very friend I sought. ]
* * * * *
XCVI.
TO GAVIN HAMILTON.
[The Hamiltons of the West continue to love the memory of Burns: the
old arm-chair in which the bard sat, when he visited Nanse Tinnocks,
was lately presented to the mason Lodge of Mauchline, by Dr. Hamilton,
the "wee curly Johnie" of the Dedication. ]
[_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 1787. ]
MY DEAR SIR,
It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I congratulate you on the
return of days of ease and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours
of misery in which I saw you suffering existence when last in
Ayrshire; I seldom pray for any body, "I'm baith dead-sweer and
wretched ill o't;" but most fervently do I beseech the Power that
directs the world, that you may live long and be happy, but live no
longer than you are happy. It is needless for me to advise you to have
a reverend care of your health. I know you will make it a point never
at one time to drink more than a pint of wine (I mean an English
pint), and that you will never be witness to more than one bowl of
punch at a time, and that cold drams you will never more taste; and,
above all things, I am convinced, that after drinking perhaps boiling
punch, you will never mount your horse and gallop home in a chill late
hour. Above all things, as I understand you are in habits of intimacy
with that Boanerges of gospel powers, Father Auld, be earnest with him
that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that you may see the vanity of
vanities in trusting to, or even practising the casual moral works of
charity, humanity, generosity, and forgiveness of things, which you
practised so flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in them,
neglecting, or perhaps profanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of
faith without works, the only anchor of salvation. A hymn of
thanksgiving would, in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at
present, and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly press on you
to be diligent in chanting over the two enclosed pieces of sacred
poesy. My best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy.
Yours in the L--d,
R. B.
* * * * *
XCVII.
TO MISS CHALMERS.
[The blank which takes the place of the name of the "Gentleman in mind
and manners," of this letter, cannot now be filled up, nor is it much
matter: the acquaintance of such a man as the poet describes few or
none would desire. ]
_Edinburgh, Dec. _ 1787.
MY DEAR MADAM,
I just now have read yours. The poetic compliments I pay cannot be
misunderstood. They are neither of them so particular as to point you
out to the world at large; and the circle of your acquaintances will
allow all I have said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly,
almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you? I
will; so look to it. Personal attractions, Madam, you have much above
par; wit, understanding, and worth, you possess in the first class.
This is a cursed flat way of telling you these truths, but let me hear
no more of your sheepish timidity. I know the world a little. I know
what they will say of my poems; by second sight I suppose; for I am
seldom out in my conjectures; and you may believe me, my dear Madam, I
would not run any risk of hurting you by any ill-judged compliment. I
wish to show to the world, the odds between a poet's friends and those
of simple prosemen. More for your information, both the pieces go in.
One of them, "Where braving angry winter's storms," is already
set--the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for _Abercarny_; the other is
to be set to an old Highland air in Daniel Dow's collection of ancient
Scots music; the name is "_Ha a Chaillich air mo Dheith. _" My
treacherous memory has forgot every circumstance about _Les Incas_,
only I think you mentioned them as being in Creech's possession. I
shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of "Somebody" will come
too late--as I shall, for certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire,
and from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes are slender. I leave my
direction in town, so anything, wherever I am, will reach me.
I saw yours to ----; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. On
the contrary, like a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in the
Christmas days. Mr. ---- has given him the invitation, and he is
determined to accept of it. O selfishness! he owns, in his sober
moments, that from his own volatility of inclination, the
circumstances in which he is situated, and his knowledge of his
father's disposition;--the whole affair is chimerical--yet he _will_
gratify an idle _penchant_ at the enormous, cruel expense, of perhaps
ruining the peace of the very woman for whom he professes the generous
passion of love! He is a gentleman in his mind and manners--_tant
pis_! He is a volatile school-boy--the heir of a man's fortune who
well knows the value of two times two!
Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before they should make the
amiable, the lovely ----, the derided object of their purse-proud
contempt!
I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. ----'s recovery, because I really
thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting
her:
"As I came in by Glenap,
I met with an aged woman:
She bad me cheer up my heart,
For the best o' my days was comin'. "
This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are, like myself,
not what they ought to be; yet better than what they appear to be.
"Heaven's sovereign saves all beings but himself--
That hideous sight--a naked human heart. "
Farewell! remember me to Charlotte.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCVIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The poet alludes in this letter, as in some before, to a hurt which
he got in one of his excursions in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. ]
_Edinburgh, January 21, 1788. _
After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across the room.
They have been six horrible weeks; anguish and low spirits made me
unfit to read, write, or think.
I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer
resigns a commission: for I would not take in any poor, ignorant
wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private; and, God
knows, a miserable soldier enough; now I march to the campaign, a
starving cadet: a little more conspicuously wretched.
I am ashamed of all this; for though I do want bravery for the warfare
of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice.
As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the
middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh: and soon after I shall pay my
grateful duty at Dunlop-House.
R. B.
* * * * *
XCIX.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The levity with which Burns sometimes spoke of things sacred, had
been obliquely touched upon by his good and anxious friend Mrs.
Dunlop: he pleads guilty of folly, but not of irreligion. ]
_Edinburgh, February 12, 1788. _
Some things in your late letters hurt me: not that _you say them_, but
that _you mistake me. _ Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been
all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. I have,
indeed, been the luckless victim of wayward follies; but, alas! I have
ever been "more fool than knave. " A mathematician without religion is
a probable character; an irreligious poet is a monster.
R. B.
* * * * *
C.
TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER.
[When Burns undertook to supply Johnson with songs for the Musical
Museum, he laid all the bards of Scotland under contribution, and
Skinner among the number, of whose talents, as well as those of Ross,
author of Helenore, he was a great admirer. ]
_Edinburgh, 14th February, 1788. _
REVEREND AND DEAR SIR,
I have been a cripple now near three months, though I am getting
vastly better, and have been very much hurried beside, or else I would
have wrote you sooner. I must beg your pardon for the epistle you sent
me appearing in the Magazine. I had given a copy or two to some of my
intimate friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the
publication of the Magazine. However, as it does great honour to us
both, you will forgive it.
The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last is
published to-day. I send you a copy which I beg you will accept as a
mark of the veneration I have long had, and shall ever have, for your
character, and of the claim I make to your continued acquaintance.
Your songs appear in the third volume, with your name in the index;
as, I assure you, Sir, I have heard your "Tullochgorum," particularly
among our west-country folks, given to many different names, and most
commonly to the immortal author of "The Minstrel," who, indeed, never
wrote anything superior to "Gie's a sang, Montgomery cried.
