" If my
resentment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak: and
if-- * * * * *
Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visiters of
R.
resentment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak: and
if-- * * * * *
Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visiters of
R.
Robert Burns-
ii.
p.
181.
The song begins,
Raving winds around her blowing. [251]
Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank Irish. If they were like
the "Banks of Banna," for instance, though really Irish, yet in the
Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish
music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number? We
could easily find this quantity of charming airs; I will take care
that you shall not want songs; and I assure you that you would find it
the most saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of "Roy's wife,"
for the music's sake, we shall not insert it. "Deil tak the wars" is a
charming song; so is, "Saw ye my Peggy? " "There's nae luck about the
house" well deserves a place. I cannot say that "O'er the hills and
far awa" strikes me as equal to your selection. "This is no my ain
house," is a great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me your
set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your
opinion of "I hae laid a herrin' in saut? " I like it much. Your
jacobite airs are pretty, and there are many others of the same kind
pretty; but you have not room for them. You cannot, I think, insert
"Fy! let's a' to the bridal," to any other words than its own.
What pleases me, as simple and _naive_, disgusts you as ludicrous and
low. For this reason, "Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs," "Fy let's a' to
the bridal," with several others of that cast, are to me highly
pleasing; while "Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother? " delights me
with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, "Ken ye what Meg o'
the mill has gotten? " pleases myself so much, that I cannot try my
hand at another song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I know you
will laugh at all this: but "ilka man wears his belt his ain gait. "
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 250: Song CCXII. ]
[Footnote 251: Song LII. ]
* * * * *
CCLXXVII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Of the Hon. Andrew Erskine an account was communicated in a letter to
Burns by Thomson, which the writer has withheld. He was a gentleman of
talent, and joint projector of Thomson's now celebrated work. ]
_October, 1793. _
Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news.
Alas, poor Erskine! [252] The recollection that he was a co-adjutator in
your publication, has till now scared me from writing to you, or
turning my thoughts on composing for you.
I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the "Quaker's
wife;" though, by the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep
antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of
"Leiger m' choss. " The following verses, I hope, will please you, as
an English song to the air.
Thine am I, my faithful fair:[253]
Your objection to the English song I proposed for "John Anderson my
jo," is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of
mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I
think is so much in your favour. The more original good poetry your
collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit.
SONG. --BY GAVIN TURNBULL. [254]
Oh, condescend, dear charming maid,
My wretched state to view;
A tender swain, to love betray'd,
And sad despair, by you.
While here, all melancholy,
My passion I deplore,
Yet, urg'd by stern, resistless fate,
I love thee more and more.
I heard of love, and with disdain
The urchin's power denied.
I laugh'd at every lover's pain,
And mock'd them when they sigh'd.
But how my state is alter'd!
Those happy days are o'er;
For all thy unrelenting hate,
I love thee more and more.
Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield!
No longer let me mourn;
And though victorious in the field,
Thy captive do not scorn.
Let generous pity warm thee,
My wonted peace restore;
And grateful I shall bless thee still,
And love thee more and more.
The following address of Turnbull's to the Nightingale will suit as an
English song to the air "There was a lass, and she was fair. " By the
bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS. , which I can command, if
you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may
be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove,
That ever tried the plaintive strain,
Awake thy tender tale of love,
And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
For though the muses deign to aid
And teach him smoothly to complain,
Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid,
Is deaf to her forsaken swain.
All day, with fashion's gaudy sons,
In sport she wanders o'er the plain:
Their tales approves, and still she shuns
The notes of her forsaken swain.
When evening shades obscure the sky,
And bring the solemn hours again,
Begin, sweet bird, thy melody,
And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go
charmingly to "Lewie Gordon. "
LAURA.
Let me wander where I will,
By shady wood, or winding rill;
Where the sweetest May-born flowers
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers;
Where the linnet's early song
Echoes sweet the woods among:
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
If at rosy dawn I choose
To indulge the smiling muse;
If I court some cool retreat,
To avoid the noontide heat;
If beneath the moon's pale ray,
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray;
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
When at night the drowsy god
Waves his sleep-compelling rod,
And to fancy's wakeful eyes
Bids celestial visions rise,
While with boundless joy I rove
Thro' the fairy land of love;
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 252: "The honorable Andrew Erskine, whose melancholy death Mr.
Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has
suppressed. "--CURRIE. ]
[Footnote 253: Song CCXIII. ]
[Footnote 254: Gavin Turnbull was author of a now forgotten volume,
published at Glasgow, in 1788, under the title of "Poetical Essays. "]
* * * * *
CCLXXVIII.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. ,
WITH A PARCEL.
[The collection of songs alluded to in this letter, are only known to
the curious in loose lore: they were printed by an obscure
bookseller, but not before death had secured him from the indignation
of Burns. ]
_Dumfries, [December, 1793. ]_
SIR,
'Tis said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest
friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in
which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer
than ever I owed it to any man. Here is Kerr's account, and here are
the six guineas; and now I don't owe a shilling to man--or woman
either. But for these d----d dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages,[255] I
had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. Independent
of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the
consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, of
itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against; but to owe
you money too, was more than I could face.
I think I once mentioned something to you of a collection of Scots
songs I have for some years been making: I send you a perusal of what
I have got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or
six days, and five or six glances of them will probably more than
suffice you. When you are tired of them, please leave them with Mr.
Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not another copy of the collection
in the world; and I should be sorry that any unfortunate negligence
should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains.
I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 255: Scottish Bank notes. ]
* * * * *
CCLXXIX.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. ,
DRUMLANRIG.
[These words, thrown into the form of a note, are copied from a blank
leaf of the poet's works, published in two volumes, small octavo, in
1793. ]
_Dumfries, 1793. _
Will Mr. M'Murdo do me the favour to accept of these volumes; a
trifling but sincere mark of the very high respect I bear for his
worth as a man, his manners as a gentleman, and his kindness as a
friend. However inferior now, or afterwards, I may rank as a poet; one
honest virtue to which few poets can pretend, I trust I shall ever
claim as mine:--to no man, whatever his station in life, or his power
to serve me, have I ever paid a compliment at the expense of
TRUTH.
THE AUTHOR.
* * * * *
CCLXXX.
TO CAPTAIN ----.
[This excellent letter, obtained from Stewart of Dalguise, is copied
from my kind friend Chambers's collection of Scottish songs. ]
_Dumfries, 5th December, 1793. _
SIR,
Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I was perhaps rather seemingly
impertinent in my anxious wish to be honoured with your acquaintance.
You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heart-felt respect. "He is
the father of the Scottish county reform, and is a man who does honour
to the business, at the same time that the business does honour to
him," said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by me who was
talking of your coming to this county with your corps. "Then," I said,
"I have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, and say to him,
'Sir, I honour you as a man to whom the interests of humanity are
dear, and as a patriot to whom the rights of your country are
sacred. '"
In times like these, Sir, when our commoners are barely able by the
glimmer of their own twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and
when lords are what gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to whom shall a
sinking country call for help? To the independent country gentleman.
To him who has too deep a stake in his country not to be in earnest
for her welfare; and who in the honest pride of a man can view with
equal contempt the insolence of office and the allurements of
corruption.
I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had lately composed, and
which I think has some merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall in
with you at the theatre, I shall be glad to have your opinion of it.
Accept it, Sir, as a very humble but most sincere tribute of respect
from a man, who, dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet holds dearer an
independent mind.
I have the honour to be,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXI.
TO MRS. RIDDEL,
_Who was about to bespeak a Play one evening at the Dumfries Theatre. _
[This clever lady, whom Burns so happily applies the words of Thomson,
died in the year 1820, at Hampton Court. ]
I am thinking to send my "Address" to some periodical publication, but
it has not yet got your sanction, so pray look at it.
As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, my dear madam, to give
us, "The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret! " to which please add, "The
Spoilt Child"--you will highly oblige me by so doing.
Ah, what an enviable creature you are! There now, this cursed, gloomy,
blue-devil day, you are going to a party of choice spirits--
"To play the shapes
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form
Those rapid pictures, assembled train
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before,
Where lively _wit_ excites to gay surprise;
Or folly-painting _humour_, grave himself,
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve. "
THOMSON.
But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, do also remember to weep
with them that weep, and pity your melancholy friend.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXII.
TO A LADY.
IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER'S BENEFIT.
[The name of the lady to whom this letter is addressed, has not
transpired. ]
_Dumfries, 1794. _
MADAM,
You were so very good as to promise me to honour my friend with your
presence on his benefit night. That night is fixed for Friday first:
the play a most interesting one! "The Way to Keep Him. " I have the
pleasure to know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is generally
acknowledged. He has genius and worth which would do honour to
patronage: he is a poor and modest man; claims which from their very
_silence_ have the more forcible power on the generous heart. Alas,
for pity! that from the indolence of those who have the good things of
this life in their gift, too often does brazen-fronted importunity
snatch that boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble want! Of all
the qualities we assign to the author and director of nature, by far
the most enviable is--to be able "to wipe away all tears from all
eyes. " O what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however chance
may have loaded them with wealth, who go to their graves, to their
magnificent _mausoleums_, with hardly the consciousness of having made
one poor honest heart happy!
But I crave your pardon, Madam; I came to beg, not to preach.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXIII.
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN,
_With a Copy of Bruce's Address to his Troops at Bannockburn. _
[This fantastic Earl of Buchan died a few years ago: when he was put
into the family burial-ground, at Dryburgh, his head was laid the
wrong way, which Sir Walter Scott said was little matter, as it had
never been quite right in his lifetime. ]
_Dumfries, 12th January, 1794. _
MY LORD,
Will your lordship allow me to present you with the enclosed little
composition of mine, as a small tribute of gratitude for the
acquaintance with which you have been pleased to honour me?
Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I have rarely met with
anything in history which interests my feelings as a man, equal with
the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a cruel, but able usurper,
leading on the finest army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of
freedom among a greatly-daring and greatly-injured people; on the
other hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting
themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish with her.
Liberty! thou art a prize truly and indeed invaluable! for never canst
thou be too dearly bought!
If my little ode has the honour of your lordship's approbation, it
will gratify my highest ambition.
I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXIV.
TO CAPTAIN MILLER,
DALSWINTON.
[Captain Miller, of Dalswinton, sat in the House of Commons for the
Dumfries district of boroughs. Dalswinton has passed from the family
to my friend James M'Alpine Leny, Esq. ]
DEAR SIR,
The following ode is on a subject which I know you by no means regard
with indifference. Oh, Liberty,
"Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay,
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. "
ADDISON.
It does me so much good to meet with a man whose honest bosom glows
with the generous enthusiasm, the heroic daring of liberty, that I
could not forbear sending you a composition of my own on the subject,
which I really think is in my best manner.
I have the honour to be,
Dear Sir, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXV.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The dragon guarding the Hesperian fruit, was simply a military
officer, who, with the courtesy of those whose trade is arms, paid
attention to the lady. ]
DEAR MADAM,
I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to your
box-door, the first object which greeted my view, was one of those
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding the
Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so obligingly
offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of
your box-furniture on Tuesday; when we may arrange the business of the
visit.
Among the profusion of idle compliments, which insidious craft, or
unmeaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine--a shrine, how far
exalted above such adoration--permit me, were it but for rarity's
sake, to pay you the honest tribute of a warm heart and an independent
mind; and to assure you, that I am, thou most amiable and most
accomplished of thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, and fervent
regard, thine, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXVI.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The patient sons of order and prudence seem often to have stirred the
poet to such invectives as this letter exhibits. ]
I will wait on you, my ever-valued friend, but whether in the morning
I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business,
and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine
employment for a poet's pen! There is a species of the human genus
that I call _the gin-horse class:_ what enviable dogs they are! Round,
and round, and round they go,--Mundell's ox that drives his
cotton-mill is their exact prototype--without an idea or wish beyond
their circle; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented; while
here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d--mn'd melange of fretfulness
and melancholy; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of
the other to repose me in torpor, my soul flouncing and fluttering
round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of
winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was
of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold--"And behold, on
whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper!
" If my
resentment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak: and
if-- * * * * *
Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visiters of
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXVII.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The bard often offended and often appeased this whimsical but very
clever lady. ]
I have this moment got the song from Syme, and I am sorry to see that
he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend
him anything again.
I have sent you "Werter," truly happy to have any the smallest
opportunity of obliging you.
'Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I was at Woodlea; and that once
froze the very life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me was such,
that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce
sentence of death on him could only have envied my feelings and
situation. But I hate the theme, and never more shall write or speak
on it.
One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute
of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man
whom I have seen approach her.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXVIII.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[Burns often complained in company, and sometimes in his letters, of
the caprice of Mrs. Riddel. ]
I have often told you, my dear friend, that you had a spice of caprice
in your composition, and you have as often disavowed it; even perhaps
while your opinions were, at the moment, irrefragably proving it.
Could _anything_ estrange me from a friend such as you? --No! To-morrow
I shall have the honour of waiting on you.
Farewell, thou first of friends, and most accomplished of women; even
with all thy little caprices!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXIX.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The offended lady was soothed by this submissive letter, and the bard
was re-established in her good graces. ]
MADAM,
I return your common-place book. I have perused it with much pleasure,
and would have continued my criticisms, but as it seems the critic has
forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their value.
If it is true that "offences come only from the heart," before you I
am guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you as the most
accomplished of women, and the first of friends--if these are crimes,
I am the most offending thing alive.
In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly
confidence, _now_ to find cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn--is a
wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of
miserable good luck, and while _de haut-en-bas_ rigour may depress an
unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a
stubborn something in his bosom, which, though it cannot heal the
wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy.
With the profoundest respect for your abilities; the most sincere
esteem and ardent regard for your gentle heart and amiable manners;
and the most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and
bliss, I have the honour to be,
Madam,
Your most devoted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXC.
TO JOHN SYME, ESQ.
[John Syme, of the stamp-office, was the companion as well as comrade
in arms, of Burns: he was a well-informed gentleman, loved witty
company, and sinned in rhyme now and then: his epigrams were often
happy. ]
You know that among other high dignities, you have the honour to be my
supreme court of critical judicature, from which there is no appeal. I
enclose you a song which I composed since I saw you, and I am going to
give you the history of it. Do you know that among much that I admire
in the characters and manners of those great folks whom I have now the
honour to call my acquaintances, the Oswald family, there is nothing
charms me more than Mr. Oswald's unconcealable attachment to that
incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear Syme, meet with a man who
owed more to the Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O. ? A fine
fortune; a pleasing exterior; self-evident amiable dispositions, and
an ingenuous upright mind, and that informed, too, much beyond the
usual run of young fellows of his rank and fortune: and to all this,
such a woman! --but of her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of
saying anything adequate: in my song I have endeavoured to do justice
to what would be his feelings, on seeing, in the scene I have drawn,
the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with my
performance, I, in my first fervour, thought of sending it to Mrs.
Oswald, but on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the honest
incense of genuine respect, might, from the well-known character of
poverty and poetry, be construed into some modification or other of
that servility which my soul abhors.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCI.
TO MISS ----.
[Burns, on other occasions than this, recalled both his letters and
verses: it is to be regretted that he did not recall more of both. ]
_Dumfries, 1794. _
MADAM,
Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me
trouble you with this letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for
your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising in my breast, as
I put pen to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with
the friend of my soul and his amiable connexions! the wrench at my
heart to think that he is gone, for ever gone from me, never more to
meet in the wanderings of a weary world! and the cutting reflection of
all, that I had most unfortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the
confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took its flight!
These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary anguish. --However, you
also may be offended with some _imputed_ improprieties of mine;
sensibility you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny me.
To oppose those prejudices which have been raised against me, is not
the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how to
wage. The powers of positive vice I can in some degree calculate, and
against direct malevolence I can be on my guard; but who can estimate
the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off the unthinking mischief of
precipitate folly?
I have a favour to request of you, Madam, and of your sister Mrs. ----,
through your means. You know that, at the wish of my late friend, I
made a collection of all my trifles in verse which I had ever written.
They are many of them local, some of them puerile and silly, and all
of them unfit for the public eye. As I have some little fame at stake,
a fame that I trust may live when the hate of those who "watch for my
halting," and the contumelious sneer of those whom accident has made
my superiors, will, with themselves, be gone to the regions of
oblivion; I am uneasy now for the fate of those manuscripts--Will
Mrs. ---- have the goodness to destroy them, or return them to me? As a
pledge of friendship they were bestowed; and that circumstance indeed
was all their merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit they no longer
possess; and I hope that Mrs. ---- 's goodness, which I well know, and
ever will revere, will not refuse this favour to a man whom she once
held in some degree of estimation.
With the sincerest esteem,
I have the honour to be,
Madam, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCII.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[The religious feeling of Burns was sometimes blunted, but at times it
burst out, as in this letter, with eloquence and fervour, mingled with
fear. ]
_25th February, 1794. _
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and
rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to
guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her?
Canst thou give to a frame tremblingly alive as the tortures of
suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the
blast? If thou canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou
disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me?
* * * * *
For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My
constitution and frame were, _ab origine_, blasted with a deep
incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a
number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of
these cursed times; losses which, though trifling, were yet what I
could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could
only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that
dooms it to perdition.
Are you deep in the language of consolation? I have exhausted in
reflection every topic of comfort. _A heart at ease_ would have been
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself I was like
Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel; he might melt and mould the
hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native
incorrigibility.
Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of
misfortune and misery. The one is composed of the different
modifications of a certain noble stubborn something in man, known by
the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of
those feelings and sentiments, which, however the sceptic may deny
them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced,
original and component parts of the human soul; those _senses of the
mind_, if I may be allowed the expression, which connect us with, and
link us to, those awful, obscure realities--an all-powerful, and
equally beneficent God; and a world to come, beyond death and the
grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams
on the field: the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which
time can never cure.
I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on
the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the
trick of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning MANY; or at
most as an uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know anything
of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do.
Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I
would for his want of a musical ear. I would regret that he was shut
out from what, to me and to others, were such superlative sources of
enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and for this reason, that I
will deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my
son should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I
shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that
this sweet little fellow, who is just now running about my desk, will
be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart; and an imagination,
delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him
wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy
the growing luxuriance of spring; himself the while in the blooming
youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to
nature's God. His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is rapt above
this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts
out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson,
"These, as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. --The rolling year
Is full of thee. "
And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These
are no ideal pleasures, they are real delights; and I ask what of the
delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal to them?
And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue
stamps them for her own; and lays hold on them to bring herself into
the presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving God.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCIII.
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.
[The original letter is in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Halland, of
Poynings: it is undated, but from a memorandum on the back it appears
to have been written in May, 1794. ]
_May, 1794. _
MY LORD,
When you cast your eye on the name at the bottom of this letter, and
on the title-page of the book I do myself the honour to send your
lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my vanity tells me that it
must be a name not entirely unknown to you. The generous patronage of
your late illustrious brother found me in the lowest obscurity: he
introduced my rustic muse to the partiality of my country; and to him
I owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the anguish of my soul at
losing my truly noble protector and friend, I have endeavoured to
express in a poem to his memory, which I have now published. This
edition is just from the press; and in my gratitude to the dead, and
my respect for the living (fame belies you, my lord, if you possess
not the same dignity of man, which was your noble brother's
characteristic feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl of
Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in town:--allow me to
present it you.
I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal contagion which pervades the
world of letters, that professions of respect from an author,
particularly from a poet, to a lord, are more than suspicious. I claim
my by-past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to
the too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours of your lordship's
name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of mine; with the uprightness of
an honest man, I come before your lordship with an offering, however
humble, 'tis all I have to give, of my grateful respect; and to beg of
you, my lord,--'tis all I have to ask of you,--that you will do me the
honour to accept of it.
I have the honour to be,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The correspondence between the poet and the musician was interrupted
in spring, but in summer and autumn the song-strains were renewed. ]
_May, 1794. _
MY DEAR SIR,
I return you the plates, with which I am highly pleased; I would
humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting stockings, to put a
stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the
ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and, though an
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the burin, is quite charmed
with Allan's manner. I got him a peep of the "Gentle Shepherd;" and he
pronounces Allan a most original artist of great excellence.
For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing my favourite poem for his
subject, to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received.
I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up in France, as it will put
an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, I shall
be quite in song, as you shall see by and bye. I got an air, pretty
enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls
"The Banks of Cree. " Cree is a beautiful romantic stream; and, as her
ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following
song to it.
Here is the glen and here the bower. [256]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 256: Song CCXXIII. ]
* * * * *
CCXCV.
TO DAVID M'CULLOCH, ESQ.
[The endorsement on the back of the original letter shows in what far
lands it has travelled:--"Given by David M'Culloch, Penang, 1810. A.
Fraser. " "Received 15th December, 1823, in Calcutta, from Captain
Frazer's widow, by me, Thomas Rankine. " "Transmitted to Archibald
Hastie, Esq. , London, March 27th, 1824, from Bombay. "]
_Dumfries, 21st June, 1794. _
MY DEAR SIR,
My long-projected journey through your country is at last fixed: and
on Wednesday next, if you have nothing of more importance to do, take
a saunter down to Gatehouse about two or three o'clock, I shall be
happy to take a draught of M'Kune's best with you. Collector Syme will
be at Glens about that time, and will meet us about dish-of-tea hour.
Syme goes also to Kerroughtree, and let me remind you of your kind
promise to accompany me there; I will need all the friends I can
muster, for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach your
honourables and right honourables.
Yours sincerely,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village: it was in other days
called "The Carlinwark," but accepted its present proud name from an
opulent family of mercantile Douglasses, well known in Scotland,
England, and America. ]
_Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794. _
Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to
amuse my brooding fancy as I may. --Solitary confinement, you know, is
Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by
what fatality it happens that I have so long been so exceeding sinful
as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on
earth. To tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse
enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for
the follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying
gout; but I trust they are mistaken.
I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first
sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The
subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme
is to me. I design it as an irregular ode for General Washington's
birth-day. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I
come to Scotland thus:--
Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, famed for martial deed, and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead!
Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep.
with additions of
That arm which nerved with thundering fate,
Braved usurpation's boldest daring!
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star,
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.
You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVII.
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON.
[The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry, while in the
press, was great: he found full employment for months in correcting a
new edition of his poems. ]
_Dumfries, 1794. _
MY DEAR FRIEND,
You should have heard from me long ago; but over and above some
vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I
have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so
that _I have almost hung my harp on the willow-trees. _
I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this,
with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment.
I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty-one songs for your fifth
volume; if we cannot finish it in any other way, what would you think
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the mean time, at your
leisure, give a copy of the Museum to my worthy friend, Sir. Peter
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves,
exactly as he did the Laird of Glenriddel's, that I may insert every
anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on
the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to
publish at some after period, by way of making the Museum a book
famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever.
Raving winds around her blowing. [251]
Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are rank Irish. If they were like
the "Banks of Banna," for instance, though really Irish, yet in the
Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish
music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number? We
could easily find this quantity of charming airs; I will take care
that you shall not want songs; and I assure you that you would find it
the most saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of "Roy's wife,"
for the music's sake, we shall not insert it. "Deil tak the wars" is a
charming song; so is, "Saw ye my Peggy? " "There's nae luck about the
house" well deserves a place. I cannot say that "O'er the hills and
far awa" strikes me as equal to your selection. "This is no my ain
house," is a great favourite air of mine; and if you will send me your
set of it, I will task my muse to her highest effort. What is your
opinion of "I hae laid a herrin' in saut? " I like it much. Your
jacobite airs are pretty, and there are many others of the same kind
pretty; but you have not room for them. You cannot, I think, insert
"Fy! let's a' to the bridal," to any other words than its own.
What pleases me, as simple and _naive_, disgusts you as ludicrous and
low. For this reason, "Fy! gie me my coggie, Sirs," "Fy let's a' to
the bridal," with several others of that cast, are to me highly
pleasing; while "Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother? " delights me
with its descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, "Ken ye what Meg o'
the mill has gotten? " pleases myself so much, that I cannot try my
hand at another song to the air, so I shall not attempt it. I know you
will laugh at all this: but "ilka man wears his belt his ain gait. "
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 250: Song CCXII. ]
[Footnote 251: Song LII. ]
* * * * *
CCLXXVII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[Of the Hon. Andrew Erskine an account was communicated in a letter to
Burns by Thomson, which the writer has withheld. He was a gentleman of
talent, and joint projector of Thomson's now celebrated work. ]
_October, 1793. _
Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was indeed laden with heavy news.
Alas, poor Erskine! [252] The recollection that he was a co-adjutator in
your publication, has till now scared me from writing to you, or
turning my thoughts on composing for you.
I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air of the "Quaker's
wife;" though, by the bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep
antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the name of
"Leiger m' choss. " The following verses, I hope, will please you, as
an English song to the air.
Thine am I, my faithful fair:[253]
Your objection to the English song I proposed for "John Anderson my
jo," is certainly just. The following is by an old acquaintance of
mine, and I think has merit. The song was never in print, which I
think is so much in your favour. The more original good poetry your
collection contains, it certainly has so much the more merit.
SONG. --BY GAVIN TURNBULL. [254]
Oh, condescend, dear charming maid,
My wretched state to view;
A tender swain, to love betray'd,
And sad despair, by you.
While here, all melancholy,
My passion I deplore,
Yet, urg'd by stern, resistless fate,
I love thee more and more.
I heard of love, and with disdain
The urchin's power denied.
I laugh'd at every lover's pain,
And mock'd them when they sigh'd.
But how my state is alter'd!
Those happy days are o'er;
For all thy unrelenting hate,
I love thee more and more.
Oh, yield, illustrious beauty, yield!
No longer let me mourn;
And though victorious in the field,
Thy captive do not scorn.
Let generous pity warm thee,
My wonted peace restore;
And grateful I shall bless thee still,
And love thee more and more.
The following address of Turnbull's to the Nightingale will suit as an
English song to the air "There was a lass, and she was fair. " By the
bye, Turnbull has a great many songs in MS. , which I can command, if
you like his manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of mine, I may
be prejudiced in his favour; but I like some of his pieces very much.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove,
That ever tried the plaintive strain,
Awake thy tender tale of love,
And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
For though the muses deign to aid
And teach him smoothly to complain,
Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid,
Is deaf to her forsaken swain.
All day, with fashion's gaudy sons,
In sport she wanders o'er the plain:
Their tales approves, and still she shuns
The notes of her forsaken swain.
When evening shades obscure the sky,
And bring the solemn hours again,
Begin, sweet bird, thy melody,
And soothe a poor forsaken swain.
I shall just transcribe another of Turnbull's, which would go
charmingly to "Lewie Gordon. "
LAURA.
Let me wander where I will,
By shady wood, or winding rill;
Where the sweetest May-born flowers
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers;
Where the linnet's early song
Echoes sweet the woods among:
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
If at rosy dawn I choose
To indulge the smiling muse;
If I court some cool retreat,
To avoid the noontide heat;
If beneath the moon's pale ray,
Thro' unfrequented wilds I stray;
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
When at night the drowsy god
Waves his sleep-compelling rod,
And to fancy's wakeful eyes
Bids celestial visions rise,
While with boundless joy I rove
Thro' the fairy land of love;
Let me wander where I will,
Laura haunts my fancy still.
The rest of your letter I shall answer at some other opportunity.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 252: "The honorable Andrew Erskine, whose melancholy death Mr.
Thomson had communicated in an excellent letter, which he has
suppressed. "--CURRIE. ]
[Footnote 253: Song CCXIII. ]
[Footnote 254: Gavin Turnbull was author of a now forgotten volume,
published at Glasgow, in 1788, under the title of "Poetical Essays. "]
* * * * *
CCLXXVIII.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. ,
WITH A PARCEL.
[The collection of songs alluded to in this letter, are only known to
the curious in loose lore: they were printed by an obscure
bookseller, but not before death had secured him from the indignation
of Burns. ]
_Dumfries, [December, 1793. ]_
SIR,
'Tis said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest
friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in
which I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer
than ever I owed it to any man. Here is Kerr's account, and here are
the six guineas; and now I don't owe a shilling to man--or woman
either. But for these d----d dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages,[255] I
had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. Independent
of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the
consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, of
itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against; but to owe
you money too, was more than I could face.
I think I once mentioned something to you of a collection of Scots
songs I have for some years been making: I send you a perusal of what
I have got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or
six days, and five or six glances of them will probably more than
suffice you. When you are tired of them, please leave them with Mr.
Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not another copy of the collection
in the world; and I should be sorry that any unfortunate negligence
should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains.
I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 255: Scottish Bank notes. ]
* * * * *
CCLXXIX.
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. ,
DRUMLANRIG.
[These words, thrown into the form of a note, are copied from a blank
leaf of the poet's works, published in two volumes, small octavo, in
1793. ]
_Dumfries, 1793. _
Will Mr. M'Murdo do me the favour to accept of these volumes; a
trifling but sincere mark of the very high respect I bear for his
worth as a man, his manners as a gentleman, and his kindness as a
friend. However inferior now, or afterwards, I may rank as a poet; one
honest virtue to which few poets can pretend, I trust I shall ever
claim as mine:--to no man, whatever his station in life, or his power
to serve me, have I ever paid a compliment at the expense of
TRUTH.
THE AUTHOR.
* * * * *
CCLXXX.
TO CAPTAIN ----.
[This excellent letter, obtained from Stewart of Dalguise, is copied
from my kind friend Chambers's collection of Scottish songs. ]
_Dumfries, 5th December, 1793. _
SIR,
Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I was perhaps rather seemingly
impertinent in my anxious wish to be honoured with your acquaintance.
You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heart-felt respect. "He is
the father of the Scottish county reform, and is a man who does honour
to the business, at the same time that the business does honour to
him," said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by me who was
talking of your coming to this county with your corps. "Then," I said,
"I have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, and say to him,
'Sir, I honour you as a man to whom the interests of humanity are
dear, and as a patriot to whom the rights of your country are
sacred. '"
In times like these, Sir, when our commoners are barely able by the
glimmer of their own twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and
when lords are what gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to whom shall a
sinking country call for help? To the independent country gentleman.
To him who has too deep a stake in his country not to be in earnest
for her welfare; and who in the honest pride of a man can view with
equal contempt the insolence of office and the allurements of
corruption.
I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had lately composed, and
which I think has some merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall in
with you at the theatre, I shall be glad to have your opinion of it.
Accept it, Sir, as a very humble but most sincere tribute of respect
from a man, who, dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet holds dearer an
independent mind.
I have the honour to be,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXI.
TO MRS. RIDDEL,
_Who was about to bespeak a Play one evening at the Dumfries Theatre. _
[This clever lady, whom Burns so happily applies the words of Thomson,
died in the year 1820, at Hampton Court. ]
I am thinking to send my "Address" to some periodical publication, but
it has not yet got your sanction, so pray look at it.
As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, my dear madam, to give
us, "The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret! " to which please add, "The
Spoilt Child"--you will highly oblige me by so doing.
Ah, what an enviable creature you are! There now, this cursed, gloomy,
blue-devil day, you are going to a party of choice spirits--
"To play the shapes
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form
Those rapid pictures, assembled train
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before,
Where lively _wit_ excites to gay surprise;
Or folly-painting _humour_, grave himself,
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve. "
THOMSON.
But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, do also remember to weep
with them that weep, and pity your melancholy friend.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXII.
TO A LADY.
IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER'S BENEFIT.
[The name of the lady to whom this letter is addressed, has not
transpired. ]
_Dumfries, 1794. _
MADAM,
You were so very good as to promise me to honour my friend with your
presence on his benefit night. That night is fixed for Friday first:
the play a most interesting one! "The Way to Keep Him. " I have the
pleasure to know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is generally
acknowledged. He has genius and worth which would do honour to
patronage: he is a poor and modest man; claims which from their very
_silence_ have the more forcible power on the generous heart. Alas,
for pity! that from the indolence of those who have the good things of
this life in their gift, too often does brazen-fronted importunity
snatch that boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble want! Of all
the qualities we assign to the author and director of nature, by far
the most enviable is--to be able "to wipe away all tears from all
eyes. " O what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however chance
may have loaded them with wealth, who go to their graves, to their
magnificent _mausoleums_, with hardly the consciousness of having made
one poor honest heart happy!
But I crave your pardon, Madam; I came to beg, not to preach.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXIII.
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN,
_With a Copy of Bruce's Address to his Troops at Bannockburn. _
[This fantastic Earl of Buchan died a few years ago: when he was put
into the family burial-ground, at Dryburgh, his head was laid the
wrong way, which Sir Walter Scott said was little matter, as it had
never been quite right in his lifetime. ]
_Dumfries, 12th January, 1794. _
MY LORD,
Will your lordship allow me to present you with the enclosed little
composition of mine, as a small tribute of gratitude for the
acquaintance with which you have been pleased to honour me?
Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I have rarely met with
anything in history which interests my feelings as a man, equal with
the story of Bannockburn. On the one hand, a cruel, but able usurper,
leading on the finest army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of
freedom among a greatly-daring and greatly-injured people; on the
other hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting
themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish with her.
Liberty! thou art a prize truly and indeed invaluable! for never canst
thou be too dearly bought!
If my little ode has the honour of your lordship's approbation, it
will gratify my highest ambition.
I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXIV.
TO CAPTAIN MILLER,
DALSWINTON.
[Captain Miller, of Dalswinton, sat in the House of Commons for the
Dumfries district of boroughs. Dalswinton has passed from the family
to my friend James M'Alpine Leny, Esq. ]
DEAR SIR,
The following ode is on a subject which I know you by no means regard
with indifference. Oh, Liberty,
"Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay,
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. "
ADDISON.
It does me so much good to meet with a man whose honest bosom glows
with the generous enthusiasm, the heroic daring of liberty, that I
could not forbear sending you a composition of my own on the subject,
which I really think is in my best manner.
I have the honour to be,
Dear Sir, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXV.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The dragon guarding the Hesperian fruit, was simply a military
officer, who, with the courtesy of those whose trade is arms, paid
attention to the lady. ]
DEAR MADAM,
I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to your
box-door, the first object which greeted my view, was one of those
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding the
Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so obligingly
offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of
your box-furniture on Tuesday; when we may arrange the business of the
visit.
Among the profusion of idle compliments, which insidious craft, or
unmeaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine--a shrine, how far
exalted above such adoration--permit me, were it but for rarity's
sake, to pay you the honest tribute of a warm heart and an independent
mind; and to assure you, that I am, thou most amiable and most
accomplished of thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, and fervent
regard, thine, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXVI.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The patient sons of order and prudence seem often to have stirred the
poet to such invectives as this letter exhibits. ]
I will wait on you, my ever-valued friend, but whether in the morning
I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business,
and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine
employment for a poet's pen! There is a species of the human genus
that I call _the gin-horse class:_ what enviable dogs they are! Round,
and round, and round they go,--Mundell's ox that drives his
cotton-mill is their exact prototype--without an idea or wish beyond
their circle; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented; while
here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d--mn'd melange of fretfulness
and melancholy; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of
the other to repose me in torpor, my soul flouncing and fluttering
round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of
winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was
of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold--"And behold, on
whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper!
" If my
resentment is awaked, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak: and
if-- * * * * *
Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visiters of
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXVII.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The bard often offended and often appeased this whimsical but very
clever lady. ]
I have this moment got the song from Syme, and I am sorry to see that
he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend
him anything again.
I have sent you "Werter," truly happy to have any the smallest
opportunity of obliging you.
'Tis true, Madam, I saw you once since I was at Woodlea; and that once
froze the very life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me was such,
that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce
sentence of death on him could only have envied my feelings and
situation. But I hate the theme, and never more shall write or speak
on it.
One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute
of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man
whom I have seen approach her.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXVIII.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[Burns often complained in company, and sometimes in his letters, of
the caprice of Mrs. Riddel. ]
I have often told you, my dear friend, that you had a spice of caprice
in your composition, and you have as often disavowed it; even perhaps
while your opinions were, at the moment, irrefragably proving it.
Could _anything_ estrange me from a friend such as you? --No! To-morrow
I shall have the honour of waiting on you.
Farewell, thou first of friends, and most accomplished of women; even
with all thy little caprices!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCLXXXIX.
TO MRS. RIDDEL.
[The offended lady was soothed by this submissive letter, and the bard
was re-established in her good graces. ]
MADAM,
I return your common-place book. I have perused it with much pleasure,
and would have continued my criticisms, but as it seems the critic has
forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their value.
If it is true that "offences come only from the heart," before you I
am guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you as the most
accomplished of women, and the first of friends--if these are crimes,
I am the most offending thing alive.
In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly
confidence, _now_ to find cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn--is a
wrench that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of
miserable good luck, and while _de haut-en-bas_ rigour may depress an
unoffending wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a
stubborn something in his bosom, which, though it cannot heal the
wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy.
With the profoundest respect for your abilities; the most sincere
esteem and ardent regard for your gentle heart and amiable manners;
and the most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and
bliss, I have the honour to be,
Madam,
Your most devoted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXC.
TO JOHN SYME, ESQ.
[John Syme, of the stamp-office, was the companion as well as comrade
in arms, of Burns: he was a well-informed gentleman, loved witty
company, and sinned in rhyme now and then: his epigrams were often
happy. ]
You know that among other high dignities, you have the honour to be my
supreme court of critical judicature, from which there is no appeal. I
enclose you a song which I composed since I saw you, and I am going to
give you the history of it. Do you know that among much that I admire
in the characters and manners of those great folks whom I have now the
honour to call my acquaintances, the Oswald family, there is nothing
charms me more than Mr. Oswald's unconcealable attachment to that
incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear Syme, meet with a man who
owed more to the Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O. ? A fine
fortune; a pleasing exterior; self-evident amiable dispositions, and
an ingenuous upright mind, and that informed, too, much beyond the
usual run of young fellows of his rank and fortune: and to all this,
such a woman! --but of her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of
saying anything adequate: in my song I have endeavoured to do justice
to what would be his feelings, on seeing, in the scene I have drawn,
the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a good deal pleased with my
performance, I, in my first fervour, thought of sending it to Mrs.
Oswald, but on second thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the honest
incense of genuine respect, might, from the well-known character of
poverty and poetry, be construed into some modification or other of
that servility which my soul abhors.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCI.
TO MISS ----.
[Burns, on other occasions than this, recalled both his letters and
verses: it is to be regretted that he did not recall more of both. ]
_Dumfries, 1794. _
MADAM,
Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me
trouble you with this letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for
your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising in my breast, as
I put pen to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with
the friend of my soul and his amiable connexions! the wrench at my
heart to think that he is gone, for ever gone from me, never more to
meet in the wanderings of a weary world! and the cutting reflection of
all, that I had most unfortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the
confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took its flight!
These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary anguish. --However, you
also may be offended with some _imputed_ improprieties of mine;
sensibility you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny me.
To oppose those prejudices which have been raised against me, is not
the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how to
wage. The powers of positive vice I can in some degree calculate, and
against direct malevolence I can be on my guard; but who can estimate
the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off the unthinking mischief of
precipitate folly?
I have a favour to request of you, Madam, and of your sister Mrs. ----,
through your means. You know that, at the wish of my late friend, I
made a collection of all my trifles in verse which I had ever written.
They are many of them local, some of them puerile and silly, and all
of them unfit for the public eye. As I have some little fame at stake,
a fame that I trust may live when the hate of those who "watch for my
halting," and the contumelious sneer of those whom accident has made
my superiors, will, with themselves, be gone to the regions of
oblivion; I am uneasy now for the fate of those manuscripts--Will
Mrs. ---- have the goodness to destroy them, or return them to me? As a
pledge of friendship they were bestowed; and that circumstance indeed
was all their merit. Most unhappily for me, that merit they no longer
possess; and I hope that Mrs. ---- 's goodness, which I well know, and
ever will revere, will not refuse this favour to a man whom she once
held in some degree of estimation.
With the sincerest esteem,
I have the honour to be,
Madam, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCII.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[The religious feeling of Burns was sometimes blunted, but at times it
burst out, as in this letter, with eloquence and fervour, mingled with
fear. ]
_25th February, 1794. _
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and
rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to
guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her?
Canst thou give to a frame tremblingly alive as the tortures of
suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the
blast? If thou canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou
disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me?
* * * * *
For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My
constitution and frame were, _ab origine_, blasted with a deep
incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a
number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of
these cursed times; losses which, though trifling, were yet what I
could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could
only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that
dooms it to perdition.
Are you deep in the language of consolation? I have exhausted in
reflection every topic of comfort. _A heart at ease_ would have been
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as to myself I was like
Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel; he might melt and mould the
hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native
incorrigibility.
Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of
misfortune and misery. The one is composed of the different
modifications of a certain noble stubborn something in man, known by
the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of
those feelings and sentiments, which, however the sceptic may deny
them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced,
original and component parts of the human soul; those _senses of the
mind_, if I may be allowed the expression, which connect us with, and
link us to, those awful, obscure realities--an all-powerful, and
equally beneficent God; and a world to come, beyond death and the
grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams
on the field: the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which
time can never cure.
I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked on
the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the
trick of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning MANY; or at
most as an uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know anything
of, and with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do.
Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I
would for his want of a musical ear. I would regret that he was shut
out from what, to me and to others, were such superlative sources of
enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and for this reason, that I
will deeply imbue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my
son should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I
shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that
this sweet little fellow, who is just now running about my desk, will
be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart; and an imagination,
delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him
wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy
the growing luxuriance of spring; himself the while in the blooming
youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to
nature's God. His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is rapt above
this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts
out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson,
"These, as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. --The rolling year
Is full of thee. "
And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These
are no ideal pleasures, they are real delights; and I ask what of the
delights among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal to them?
And they have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue
stamps them for her own; and lays hold on them to bring herself into
the presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving God.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCIII.
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.
[The original letter is in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Halland, of
Poynings: it is undated, but from a memorandum on the back it appears
to have been written in May, 1794. ]
_May, 1794. _
MY LORD,
When you cast your eye on the name at the bottom of this letter, and
on the title-page of the book I do myself the honour to send your
lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my vanity tells me that it
must be a name not entirely unknown to you. The generous patronage of
your late illustrious brother found me in the lowest obscurity: he
introduced my rustic muse to the partiality of my country; and to him
I owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the anguish of my soul at
losing my truly noble protector and friend, I have endeavoured to
express in a poem to his memory, which I have now published. This
edition is just from the press; and in my gratitude to the dead, and
my respect for the living (fame belies you, my lord, if you possess
not the same dignity of man, which was your noble brother's
characteristic feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl of
Glencairn. I learnt just now that you are in town:--allow me to
present it you.
I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal contagion which pervades the
world of letters, that professions of respect from an author,
particularly from a poet, to a lord, are more than suspicious. I claim
my by-past conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to
the too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours of your lordship's
name, and unnoted as is the obscurity of mine; with the uprightness of
an honest man, I come before your lordship with an offering, however
humble, 'tis all I have to give, of my grateful respect; and to beg of
you, my lord,--'tis all I have to ask of you,--that you will do me the
honour to accept of it.
I have the honour to be,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCIV.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The correspondence between the poet and the musician was interrupted
in spring, but in summer and autumn the song-strains were renewed. ]
_May, 1794. _
MY DEAR SIR,
I return you the plates, with which I am highly pleased; I would
humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting stockings, to put a
stock and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the
ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and, though an
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the burin, is quite charmed
with Allan's manner. I got him a peep of the "Gentle Shepherd;" and he
pronounces Allan a most original artist of great excellence.
For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing my favourite poem for his
subject, to be one of the highest compliments I have ever received.
I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up in France, as it will put
an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven months, I shall
be quite in song, as you shall see by and bye. I got an air, pretty
enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls
"The Banks of Cree. " Cree is a beautiful romantic stream; and, as her
ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following
song to it.
Here is the glen and here the bower. [256]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 256: Song CCXXIII. ]
* * * * *
CCXCV.
TO DAVID M'CULLOCH, ESQ.
[The endorsement on the back of the original letter shows in what far
lands it has travelled:--"Given by David M'Culloch, Penang, 1810. A.
Fraser. " "Received 15th December, 1823, in Calcutta, from Captain
Frazer's widow, by me, Thomas Rankine. " "Transmitted to Archibald
Hastie, Esq. , London, March 27th, 1824, from Bombay. "]
_Dumfries, 21st June, 1794. _
MY DEAR SIR,
My long-projected journey through your country is at last fixed: and
on Wednesday next, if you have nothing of more importance to do, take
a saunter down to Gatehouse about two or three o'clock, I shall be
happy to take a draught of M'Kune's best with you. Collector Syme will
be at Glens about that time, and will meet us about dish-of-tea hour.
Syme goes also to Kerroughtree, and let me remind you of your kind
promise to accompany me there; I will need all the friends I can
muster, for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach your
honourables and right honourables.
Yours sincerely,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village: it was in other days
called "The Carlinwark," but accepted its present proud name from an
opulent family of mercantile Douglasses, well known in Scotland,
England, and America. ]
_Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794. _
Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to
amuse my brooding fancy as I may. --Solitary confinement, you know, is
Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by
what fatality it happens that I have so long been so exceeding sinful
as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on
earth. To tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse
enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for
the follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying
gout; but I trust they are mistaken.
I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first
sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The
subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme
is to me. I design it as an irregular ode for General Washington's
birth-day. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I
come to Scotland thus:--
Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, famed for martial deed, and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead!
Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep.
with additions of
That arm which nerved with thundering fate,
Braved usurpation's boldest daring!
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star,
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.
You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXCVII.
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON.
[The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry, while in the
press, was great: he found full employment for months in correcting a
new edition of his poems. ]
_Dumfries, 1794. _
MY DEAR FRIEND,
You should have heard from me long ago; but over and above some
vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I
have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so
that _I have almost hung my harp on the willow-trees. _
I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this,
with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment.
I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty-one songs for your fifth
volume; if we cannot finish it in any other way, what would you think
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the mean time, at your
leisure, give a copy of the Museum to my worthy friend, Sir. Peter
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves,
exactly as he did the Laird of Glenriddel's, that I may insert every
anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on
the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to
publish at some after period, by way of making the Museum a book
famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever.
