Be sure to remember a poor poet
militant
in your prayers.
Robert Burns
_
The foregoing was to have been an elaborate dissertation on the
various species of men; but as I cannot please myself in the
arrangement of my ideas, I must wait till farther experience and nicer
observation throw more light on the subject. --In the mean time I shall
set down the following fragment, which, as it is the genuine language
of my heart, will enable anybody to determine which of the classes I
belong to:
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O. [150]
As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with
that BEING to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that
renders life delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct
towards our fellow-creatures; that so, by forming piety and virtue
into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and
the good, which reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the
grave, I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of such a one
as the above verses describe--one who spends the hours and thoughts
which the vocations of the day can spare with Ossian, Shakspeare,
Thomson, Shenstone, Sterne, &c. ; or, as the maggot takes him, a gun, a
fiddle, or a song to make or mend; and at all times some heart's-dear
bonnie lass in view--I say I do not see that the turn of mind and
pursuits of such an one are in the least more inimical to the sacred
interests of piety and virtue, than the even lawful, bustling and
straining after the world's riches and honours: and I do not see but
he may gain heaven as well--which, by the by, is no mean
consideration--who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself
with every little flower that fortune throws in his way, as he, who
straining straight forward, and perhaps spattering all about him,
gains some of life's little eminencies, where, after all, he can only
see and be seen a little more conspicuously than what, in the pride of
his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left
behind him.
* * * * *
_August. _
A Prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of a
pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still
threatens me, first put nature on the alarm:--
O thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear! [151]
* * * * *
_August. _
Misgivings in the hour of _despondency_ and prospect of death:--
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene. [152]
* * * * *
EGOTISMS FROM MY OWN SENSATIONS.
_May. _
I don't well know what is the reason of it, but somehow or other,
though I am when I have a mind pretty generally beloved, yet I never
could get the art of commanding respect. --I imagine it is owing to my
being deficient in what Sterne calls "that understrapping virtue of
discretion. "--I am so apt to a _lapsus linguae_, that I sometimes think
the character of a certain great man I have read of somewhere is very
much _apropos_ to myself--that he was a compound of great talents and
great folly. --N. B. To try if I can discover the causes of this
wretched infirmity, and, if possible, to mend it.
* * * * *
_August. _
However I am pleased with the works of our Scotch poets, particularly
the excellent Ramsay, and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet I am
hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, rivers, woods,
haughs, &c. , immortalized in such celebrated performances, while my dear
native country, the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunningham,
famous both in ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlike race
of inhabitants; a country where civil, and particularly religious
liberty have ever found their first support, and their last asylum; a
country, the birth-place of many famous philosophers, soldiers,
statesman, and the scene of many important events recorded in Scottish
history, particularly a great many of the actions of the glorious
WALLACE, the SAVIOUR of his country; yet, we have never had one Scotch
poet of any eminence, to make the fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic
woodlands and sequestered scenes on Ayr, and the healthy mountainous
source and winding sweep of DOON, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, Tweed,
&c. This is a complaint I would gladly remedy, but, alas! I am far
unequal to the task, both in native genius and education. Obscure I am,
and obscure I must be, though no young poet, nor young soldier's heart,
ever beat more fondly for fame than mine--
"And if there is no other scene of being
Where my insatiate wish may have its fill,--
This something at my heart that heaves for room,
My best, my dearest part, was made in vain. "
* * * * *
_September. _
There is a great irregularity in the old Scotch songs, a redundancy of
syllables with respect to that exactness of accent and measure that
the English poetry requires, but which glides in, most melodiously,
with the respective tunes to which they are set. For instance, the
fine old song of "The Mill, Mill, O,"[153] to give it a plain prosaic
reading, it halts prodigiously out of measure; on the other hand, the
song set to the same tune in Bremner's collection of Scotch songs,
which begins "To Fanny fair could I impart," &c. , it is most exact
measure, and yet, let them both be sung before a real critic, one
above the biases of prejudice, but a thorough judge of nature,--how
flat and spiritless will the last appear, how trite, and lamely
methodical, compared with the wild warbling cadence, the heart-moving
melody of the first! --This is particularly the case with all those
airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable. There is a degree of
wild irregularity in many of the compositions and fragments which are
daily sung to them by my compeers, the common people--a certain happy
arrangement of old Scotch syllables, and yet, very frequently,
nothing, not even like rhyme or sameness of jingle, at the ends of the
lines. This has made me sometimes imagine that perhaps it might be
possible for a Scotch poet, with a nice judicious ear, to set
compositions to many of our most favourite airs, particularly that
class of them mentioned above, independent of rhyme altogether.
* * * * *
There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our
ancient ballads, which show them to be the work of a masterly hand:
and it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect that such
glorious old bards--bards who very probably owed all their talents to
native genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of
disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of
nature--that their very names (O how mortifying to a bard's vanity! )
are now "buried among the wreck of things which were. "
O ye illustrious names unknown! who could feel so strongly and
describe so well: the last, the meanest of the muses' train--one who,
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with
trembling wing would sometimes soar after you--a poor rustic bard
unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory! Some of you tell
us, with all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate in
the world--unfortunate in love: he, too, has felt the loss of his
little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of
the woman he adored. Like you, all his consolation was his muse: she
taught him in rustic measures to complain. Happy could he have done it
with your strength of imagination and flow of verse! May the turf lie
lightly on your bones! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest
which this world rarely gives to the heart tuned to all the feelings
of poesy and love!
* * * * *
_September. _
The following fragment is done something in imitation of the manner of
a noble old Scottish piece, called M'Millan's Peggy, and sings to the
tune of Galla Water. --My Montgomery's Peggy was my deity for six or
eight months. She had been bred (though, as the world says, without
any just pretence for it) in a style of life rather elegant; but, as
Vanbrugh says in one of his comedies, my "d----d star found me out"
there too: for though I began the affair merely in a _gaitie de
coeur_, or, to tell the truth, which will scarcely be believed, a
vanity of showing my parts in courtship, particularly my abilities at
a _billet-doux_, which I always piqued myself upon, made me lay siege
to her; and when, as I always do in my foolish gallantries, I had
fettered myself into a very warm affection for her, she told me one
day, in a flag of truce, that her fortress had been for some time
before the rightful property of another; but, with the greatest
friendship and politeness, she offered me every allegiance except
actual possession. I found out afterwards that what she told me of a
pre-engagement was really true; but it cost me some heart-aches to get
rid of the affair.
I have even tried to imitate in this extempore thing that irregularity
in the rhymes, which, when judiciously done, has such a fine effect on
the ear.
"Altho' my bed were in yon muir. "[154]
* * * * *
_September. _
There is another fragment in imitation of an old Scotch song, well
known among the country ingle-sides. --I cannot tell the name, neither
of the song nor the tune, but they are in fine unison with one
another. --By the way, these old Scottish airs are so nobly
sentimental, that when one would compose to them, to "south the tune,"
as our Scotch phrase is, over and over, is the readiest way to catch
the inspiration, and raise the bard into that glorious enthusiasm so
strongly characteristic of our old Scotch poetry. I shall here set
down one verse of the piece mentioned above, both to mark the song and
tune I mean, and likewise as a debt I owe to the author, as the
repeating of that verse has lighted up my flame a thousand times:--
When clouds in skies do come together
To hide the brightness of the sun,
There will surely be some pleasant weather
When a' their storms are past and gone. [155]
Though fickle fortune has deceived me,
She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill;
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me,
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.
I'll act with prudence as far as I'm able,
But if success I must never find,
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,
I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.
The above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of
misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was
just at the close of that dreadful period mentioned already, and
though the weather has brightened up a little with me, yet there has
always been since a tempest brewing round me in the grim sky of
futurity, which I pretty plainly see will some time or other, perhaps
ere long, overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine
in solitary, squalid wretchedness. --However, as I hope my poor country
muse, who, all rustic, awkward, and unpolished as she is, has more
charms for me than any other of the pleasures of life beside--as I
hope she will not then desert me, I may even then learn to be, if not
happy, at least easy, and south a sang to soothe my misery.
'Twas at the same time I set about composing an air in the old Scotch
style. --I am not musical scholar enough to prick down my tune
properly, so it can never see the light, and perhaps 'tis no great
matter; but the following were the verses I composed to suit it:--
O raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O! [156]
The tune consisted of three parts, so that the above verses just went
through the whole air.
* * * * *
_October_, 1785.
If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to throw
his eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the
following observations, as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor
devil's dear-bought experience. --I have literally, like that great
poet and great gallant, and by consequence, that great fool, Solomon,
"turned my eyes to behold madness and folly. " Nay, I have, with all
the ardour of a lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination,
accompanied with a warm, feeling, poetic heart, shaken hands with
their intoxicating friendship.
In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up
a regular, warm intercourse with the Deity. * * * *
This is all worth quoting in my MSS. , and more than all.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 145: See Songs and Ballads, No. I. ]
[Footnote 146: See Winter. A Dirge. Poem I. ]
[Footnote 147: Song XIV. ]
[Footnote 148: Poem IX. ]
[Footnote 149: Song V]
[Footnote 150: Song XVII. ]
[Footnote 151: Poem X. ]
[Footnote 152: Poem XI. ]
[Footnote 153: "The Mill, Mill, O," is by Allan Ramsay. ]
[Footnote 154: Song VIII. ]
[Footnote 155: Alluding to the misfortunes he feelingly laments before
this verse. (This is the author's note. )]
[Footnote 156: Song II. ]
* * * * *
IX.
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,
MONTROSE.
[The elder Burns, whose death this letter intimates, lies buried in
the kirk-yard of Alloway, with a tombstone recording his worth. ]
_Lochlea_, 17_th Feb. _ 1784.
DEAR COUSIN,
I would have returned you my thanks for your kind favour of the 13th
of December sooner, had it not been that I waited to give you an
account of that melancholy event, which, for some time past, we have
from day to day expected.
On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Though, to be sure, we
have had long warning of the impending stroke; still the feelings of
nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments
and parental lessons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors,
without feeling what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would
partly condemn.
I hope my father's friends in your country will not let their
connexion in this place die with him. For my part I shall ever with
pleasure--with pride, acknowledge my connexion with those who were
allied by the ties of blood and friendship to a man whose memory I
shall ever honour and revere.
I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will not neglect any opportunity
of letting me hear from you, which will very much oblige,
My dear Cousin, yours sincerely,
R. B.
* * * * *
X.
TO JAMES BURNESS,
MONTROSE.
[Mrs. Buchan, the forerunner in extravagance and absurdity of Joanna
Southcote, after attempting to fix her tent among the hills of the
west and the vales of the Nith, finally set up her staff at
Auchengibbert-Hill, in Galloway, where she lectured her followers, and
held out hopes of their reaching the stars, even in this life. She
died early: one or two of her people, as she called them, survived
till within these half-dozen years. ]
_Mossgiel, August_, 1784.
We have been surprised with one of the most extraordinary phenomena in
the moral world which, I dare say, had happened in the course of this
half century. We have had a party of Presbytery relief, as they call
themselves, for some time in this country. A pretty thriving society
of them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some years past, till
about two years ago, a Mrs. Buchan from Glasgow came among them, and
began to spread some fanatical notions of religion among them, and, in
a short time, made many converts; and, among others, their preacher,
Mr. Whyte, who, upon that account, has been suspended and formally
deposed by his brethren. He continued, however, to preach in private
to his party, and was supported, both he and their spiritual mother,
as they affect to call old Buchan, by the contributions of the rest,
several of whom were in good circumstances; till, in spring last, the
populace rose and mobbed Mrs. Buchan, and put her out of the town; on
which all her followers voluntarily quitted the place likewise, and
with such precipitation, that many of them never shut their doors
behind them; one left a washing on the green, another a cow bellowing
at the crib without food, or anybody to mind her, and after several
stages, they are fixed at present in the neighbourhood of Dumfries.
Their tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic jargon; among
others, she pretends to give them the Holy Ghost by breathing on them,
which she does with postures and practices that are scandalously
indecent; they have likewise disposed of all their effects, and hold a
community of goods, and live nearly an idle life, carrying on a great
farce of pretended devotion in barns and woods, where they lodge and
lie all together, and hold likewise a community of women, as it is
another of their tenets that they can commit no mortal sin. I am
personally acquainted with most of them, and I can assure you the
above mentioned are facts.
This, my dear Sir, is one of the many instances of the folly of
leaving the guidance of sound reason and common sense in matters of
religion.
Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred monitors, the whimsical
notions of a perturbated brain are taken for the immediate influences
of the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and the most inconstant
absurdities, will meet with abettors and converts. Nay, I have often
thought, that the more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies are,
if once they are sanctified under the sacred name of religion, the
unhappy mistaken votaries are the more firmly glued to them.
R. B.
* * * * *
XI.
TO MISS ----.
[This has generally been printed among the early letters of Burns.
Cromek thinks that the person addressed was the "Peggy" of the
Common-place Book. This is questioned by Robert Chambers, who,
however, leaves both name and date unsettled. ]
MY DEAR COUNTRYWOMAN,
I am so impatient to show you that I am once more at peace with you,
that I send you the book I mentioned directly, rather than wait the
uncertain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or lost
Collins' Poems, which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, I
will forward them by you; if not, you must apologize for me.
I know you will laugh at it when I tell you that your piano and you
together have played the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast has
been widowed these many months, and I thought myself proof against the
fascinating witchcraft; but I am afraid you will "feelingly convince
me what I am. " I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure what is the
matter with me. I have one miserable bad symptom; when you whisper, or
look kindly to another, it gives me a draught of damnation. I have a
kind of wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though
what I would say, Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know not. I have
no formed design in all this; but just, in the nakedness of my heart,
write you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You may perhaps give
yourself airs of distance on this, and that will completely cure me;
but I wish you would not: just let us meet, if you please, in the old
beaten way of friendship.
I will not subscribe myself your humble servant, for that is a phrase,
I think at least fifty miles off from the heart; but I will conclude
with sincerely wishing that the Great Protector of innocence may
shield you from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert
snare of deceit.
R. B.
* * * * *
XII.
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND,
OF EDINBURGH.
[John Richmond, writer, one of the poet's Mauchline friends, to whom
we are indebted for much valuable information concerning Burns and his
productions--Connel was the Mauchline carrier. ]
_Mossgiel, Feb. _ 17, 1786.
MY DEAR SIR,
I have not time at present to upbraid you for your silence and
neglect; I shall only say I received yours with great pleasure. I have
enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your perusal. I have been
very busy with the muses since I saw you, and have composed, among
several others, "The Ordination," a poem on Mr. M'Kinlay's being
called to Kilmarnock; "Scotch Drink," a poem; "The Cotter's Saturday
Night;" "An Address to the Devil," &c. I have likewise completed my
poem on the "Dogs," but have not shown it to the world. My chief
patron now is Mr. Aiken, in Ayr, who is pleased to express great
approbation of my works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, by Connel,
and I will remit you the money. I have no news to acquaint you with
about Mauchline, they are just going on in the old way. I have some
very important news with respect to myself, not the most
agreeable--news that I am sure you cannot guess, but I shall give you
the particulars another time. I am extremely happy with Smith; he is
the only friend I have now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive your
long neglect of me, and I beg you will let me hear from you regularly
by Connel. If you would act your part as a friend, I am sure neither
good nor bad fortune should strange of alter me. Excuse haste, as I
got yours but yesterday.
I am, my dear Sir,
Yours,
R. B.
* * * * *
XIII.
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY,
DUMFRIES HOUSE.
[Who the John Kennedy was to whom Burns addressed this note, enclosing
"The Cotter's Saturday night," it is now, perhaps, vain to inquire:
the Kennedy to whom Mr. Cobbett introduces us was a Thomas--perhaps a
relation. ]
_Mossgiel, 3d March_, 1786.
SIR,
I have done myself the pleasure of complying with your request in
sending you my Cottager. --If you have a leisure minute, I should be
glad you would copy it, and return me either the original or the
transcript, as I have not a copy of it by me, and I have a friend who
wishes to see it.
"Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse. "[157]
ROBT. BURNESS.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 157: Poem LXXV. ]
* * * * *
XIV.
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR,
KILMARNOCK.
[The Muirs--there were two brothers--were kind and generous patrons of
the poet. They subscribed for half-a-hundred copies of the Kilmarnock
edition of his works, and befriended him when friends were few. ]
_Mossgiel_, 20_th March_, 1786.
DEAR SIR,
I am heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as you
returned through Mauchline; but as I was engaged, I could not be in
town before the evening.
I here enclose you my "Scotch Drink," and "may the ---- follow with a
blessing for your edification. " I hope, some time before we hear the
gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend
we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin-stoup; which will be a
great comfort and consolation to,
Dear Sir,
Your humble servant,
ROBT. BURNESS.
* * * * *
XV.
TO MR. AIKEN.
[Robert Aiken, the gentleman to whom the "Cotter's Saturday Night" is
inscribed, is also introduced in the "Brigs of Ayr. " This is the last
letter to which Burns seems to have subscribed his name in the
spelling of his ancestors. ]
_Mossgiel, 3d April_, 1786.
DEAR SIR,
I received your kind letter with double pleasure, on account of the
second flattering instance of Mrs. C. 's notice and approbation, I
assure you I
"Turn out the burnt o' my shin,"
as the famous Ramsay, of jingling memory, says, at such a patroness.
Present her my most grateful acknowledgment in your very best manner
of telling truth. I have inscribed the following stanza on the blank
leaf of Miss More's Work:--[158]
My proposals for publishing I am just going to send to press. I expect
to hear from you by the first opportunity.
I am ever, dear Sir,
Yours,
ROBT. BURNESS.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 158: See Poem LXXVIII. ]
* * * * *
XVI.
TO MR. M'WHINNIE,
WRITER, AYR.
[Mr. M'Whinnie obtained for Burns several subscriptions for the first
edition of his Poems, of which this note enclosed the proposals. ]
_Mossgiel, 17th April, 1786. _
It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that elegantly bear the
impression of the good Creator, to say to them you give them the
trouble of obliging a friend; for this reason, I only tell you that I
gratify my own feelings in requesting your friendly offices with
respect to the enclosed, because I know it will gratify yours to
assist me in it to the utmost of your power.
I have sent you four copies, as I have no less than eight dozen, which
is a great deal more than I shall ever need.
Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your prayers. He looks
forward with fear and trembling to that, to him, important moment
which stamps the die with--with--with, perhaps, the eternal disgrace
of,
My dear Sir,
Your humble,
afflicted, tormented,
ROBERT BURNS.
* * * * *
XVII.
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.
["The small piece," the very last of his productions, which the poet
enclosed in this letter, was "The Mountain Daisy," called in the
manuscript more properly "The Gowan. "]
_Mossgiel, 20th April, 1786. _
SIR,
By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I did not hear of your kind request
for a subscription paper 'till this day. I will not attempt any
acknowledgment for this, nor the manner in which I see your name in
Mr. Hamilton's subscription list. Allow me only to say, Sir, I feel
the weight of the debt.
I have here likewise enclosed a small piece, the very latest of my
productions. I am a good deal pleased with some sentiments myself, as
they are just the native querulous feelings of a heart, which, as the
elegantly melting Gray says, "melancholy has marked for her own. "
Our race comes on a-pace; that much-expected scene of revelry and
mirth; but to me it brings no joy equal to that meeting with which
your last flattered the expectation of,
Sir,
Your indebted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XVIII.
TO MON. JAMES SMITH,
MAUCHLINE.
[James Smith, of whom Burns said he was small of stature, but large of
soul, kept at that time a draper's shop in Mauchline, and was comrade
to the poet in many a wild adventure. ]
_Monday Morning, Mossgiel, 1786. _
MY DEAR SIR,
I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully resolved to take the
opportunity of Captain Smith: but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and
Mrs. White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged my plans
altogether. They assure him that to send me from Savannah la Mar to
Port Antonio will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards of fifty
pounds; besides running the risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic
fever, in consequence of hard travelling in the sun. On these
accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, but a vessel sails from
Greenock the first of September, right for the place of my
destination. The Captain of her is an intimate friend of Mr. Gavin
Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish: with him I am
destined to go. Where I shall shelter, I know not, but I hope to
weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them! I
know their worst, and am prepared to meet it;--
"I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg,
As lang's I dow. "
On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be
out of bed about seven o'clock, I shall see you, as I ride through to
Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex! I feel there is still
happiness for me among them:
"O woman, lovely woman! Heaven design'd you
To temper man! --we had been brutes without you. "[159]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 159: Otway. Venice Preserved. ]
* * * * *
XIX.
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.
[Burns was busy in a two-fold sense at present: he was seeking patrons
in every quarter for his contemplated volume, and was composing for it
some of his most exquisite poetry. ]
_Mossgiel, 16 May, 1796. _
DEAR SIR,
I have sent you the above hasty copy as I promised. In about three or
four weeks I shall probably set the press a-going. I am much hurried
at present, otherwise your diligence, so very friendly in my
subscription, should have a more lengthened acknowledgment from,
Dear Sir,
Your obliged servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XX.
TO MR. DAVID BRICE.
[David Brice was a shoemaker, and shared with Smith the confidence of
the poet in his love affairs. He was working in Glasgow when this
letter was written. ]
_Mossgiel, June_ 12, 1786.
DEAR BRICE,
I received your message by G. Patterson, and as I am not very throng
at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a
worthless, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the
land of the living, though I can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I
have no news to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or
you to hear.
Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You have
heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is.
What she thinks of her conduct now, I don't know; one thing I do
know--she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather
adored a woman more than I did her; and, to confess a truth between
you and me, I do still love her to distraction after all, though I
won't tell her so if I were to see her, which I don't want to do. My
poor dear unfortunate Jean! how happy have I been in thy arms! It is
not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel
most severely: I foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal
ruin. * * * *
May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from
my very soul forgive her: and may his grace be with her and bless her
in all her future life! I can have no nearer idea of the place of
eternal punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her
account. I have tried often to forget her; I have run into all kinds
of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other
mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a
grand cure; the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to
Jamaica; and then, farewell dear old Scotland! and farewell dear
ungrateful Jean! for never never will I see you more.
You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print; and to
morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about
two hundred pages--it is just the last foolish action I intend to do;
and then turn a wise man as fast as possible.
Believe me to be, dear Brice,
Your friend and well-wisher,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXI.
TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN.
[This letter was written under great distress of mind. That separation
which Burns records in "The Lament," had, unhappily, taken place
between him and Jean Armour, and it would appear, that for a time at
least a coldness ensued between the poet and the patron, occasioned,
it is conjectured, by that fruitful subject of sorrow and disquiet.
The letter, I regret to say, is not wholly here. ]
[_Ayrshire_, 1786. ]
SIR,
I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and settled all our
by-gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made
him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out
of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the
paper of a thousand copies would cost me about twenty-seven pounds,
and the printing about fifteen or sixteen: he offers to agree to this
for the printing, if I will advance for the paper, but this, you know,
is out of my power; so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow
rich! an epoch which I think will arrive at the payment of the
British national debt.
There is scarcely anything hurts me so much in being disappointed of
my second edition, as not having it in my power to show my gratitude
to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poem of "The Brigs of Ayr. " I
would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very
long life of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with
which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself
in my greateful sensations; but I believe, on the whole, I have very
little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence
of reflection; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my heart, too
inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish
habits. I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements
within, respecting the excise. There are many things plead strongly
against it; the uncertainty of getting soon into business; the
consequences of my follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable
for me to stay at home; and besides I have for some time been pining
under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know--the
pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs
of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures,
when attention is not called away by the calls of society, or the
vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gayety is
the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands of the
executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad, and to all these
reasons I have only one answer--the feelings of a father. This, in the
present mood I am in, overbalances everything that can be laid in the
scale against it. * * * *
You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment
which strikes home to my very soul: though sceptical in some points of
our current belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the
reality of a life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence;
if so, then, how should I, in the presence of that tremendous Being,
the Author of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who
stand to me in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the
smiling innocency of helpless infancy? O, thou great unknown
Power! --thou almighty God! who has lighted up reason in my breast, and
blessed me with immortality! --I have frequently wandered from that
order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet
thou hast never left me nor forsaken me! * * * *
Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm
of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my
friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications for me,
perhaps it may not be in my power, in that way, to reap the fruit of
your friendly efforts. What I have written in the preceding pages, is
the settled tenor of my present resolution; but should inimical
circumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it
only threaten to entail farther misery-- * * * *
To tell the truth, I have little reason for complaint; as the world,
in general, has been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I was, for
some time past, fast getting into the pining, distrustful snarl of the
misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unlit for the struggle of life,
shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of
fortune, while all defenceless I looked about in vain for a cover. It
never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that
this world is a busy scene, and man, a creature destined for a
progressive struggle; and that, however I might possess a warm heart
and inoffensive manners (which last, by the by, was rather more than I
could well boast); still, more than these passive qualities, there was
something to be done. When all my school-fellows and youthful compeers
(those misguided few excepted who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the
"hallachores" of the human race) were striking off with eager hope and
earnest intent, in some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I
was "standing idle in the market-place," or only left the chase of the
butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to
whim. * * * *
You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a probability of
mending them, I stand a fair chance; but according to the reverend
Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is
very far from always implying it. * * * *
R. B.
* * * * *
XXII.
TO JOHN RICHMOND,
EDINBURGH.
[The minister who took upon him to pronounce Burns a single man, as he
intimates in this letter, was the Rev. Mr. Auld, of Mauchline: that
the law of the land and the law of the church were at variance on the
subject no one can deny. ]
_Mossgiel_, 9_th July_, 1786.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
With the sincerest grief I read your letter. You are truly a son of
misfortune. I shall be extremely anxious to hear from you how your
health goes on; if it is in any way re-establishing, or if Leith
promises well; in short, how you feel in the inner man.
No news worth anything: only godly Bryan was in the inquisition
yesterday, and half the country-side as witness against him. He still
stands out steady and denying: but proof was led yesternight of
circumstances highly suspicious: almost _de facto_ one of the servant
girls made faith that she upon a time rashly entered the house--to
speak in your cant, "in the hour of cause. "
I have waited on Armour since her return home; not from any the least
view of reconciliation, but merely to ask for her health and--to you I
will confess it--from a foolish hankering fondness--very ill placed
indeed. The mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show the
penitence that might have been expected. However, the priest, I am
informed, will give me a certificate as a single man, if I comply with
the rules of the church, which for that very reason I intend to do.
I am going to put on sack-cloth and ashes this day. I am indulged so
far as to appear in my own seat. _Peccavi, pater, miserere mei. _ My
book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have any subscribers, return
them by Connel. The Lord stand with the righteous: amen, amen.
R. B.
* * * * *
XXIII.
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE,
OF AYR.
[There is a plain account in this letter of the destruction of the
lines of marriage which united, as far as a civil contract in a manner
civil can, the poet and Jean Armour. Aiken was consulted, and in
consequence of his advice, the certificate of marriage was destroyed. ]
HONOURED SIR,
My proposals came to hand last night, and knowing that you would wish
to have it in your power to do me a service as early as anybody, I
enclose you half a sheet of them. I must consult you, first
opportunity, on the propriety of sending my quondam friend, Mr. Aiken,
a copy. If he is now reconciled to my character as an honest man, I
would do it with all my soul; but I would not be beholden to the
noblest being ever God created, if he imagined me to be a rascal.
Apropos, old Mr. Armour prevailed with him to mutilate that unlucky
paper yesterday. Would you believe it? though I had not a hope, nor
even a wish, to make her mine after her conduct; yet, when he told me
the names were all out of the paper, my heart died within me, and he
cut my veins with the news. Perdition seize her falsehood!
R. B.
* * * * *
XXIV.
TO MR. DAVID BRICE.
SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW.
[The letters of Burns at the sad period of his life are full of his
private sorrows. Had Jean Armour been left to the guidance of her own
heart, the story of her early years would have been brighter. ]
_Mossgiel, 17th July, 1786. _
I have been so throng printing my Poems, that I could scarcely find as
much time as to write to you. Poor Armour is come back again to
Mauchline, and I went to call for her, and her mother forbade me the
house, nor did she herself express much sorrow for what she has done.
I have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the
liberty of standing in my own seat. I do this to get a certificate as
a bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. I am now fixed to go for
the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that
she should stand along with me in the kirk, but the minister would not
allow it, which bred a great trouble I assure you, and I am blamed as
the cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent; but I am very much
pleased, for all that, not to have had her company. I have no news to
tell you that I remember. I am really happy to hear of your welfare,
and that you are so well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you before I
leave the country. I shall expect to hear from you soon, and am,
Dear Brice,
Yours,--R. B.
* * * * *
XXV.
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND.
[When this letter was written the poet was skulking from place to
place: the merciless pack of the law had been uncoupled at his heels.
Mr. Armour did not wish to imprison, but to drive him from the
country. ]
_Old Rome Forest, 30th July, 1786. _
MY DEAR RICHMOND,
My hour is now come--you and I will never meet in Britain more. I have
orders within three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the Nancy,
Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and call at Antigua. This,
except to our friend Smith, whom God long preserve, is a secret about
Mauchline. Would you believe it? Armour has got a warrant to throw me
in jail till I find security for an enormous sum. This they keep an
entire secret, but I got it by a channel they little dream of; and I
am wandering from one friend's house to another, and, like a true son
of the gospel, "have nowhere to lay my head. " I know you will pour an
execration on her head, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, for my
sake; though may all the furies that rend the injured, enraged lover's
bosom, await her mother until her latest hour! I write in a moment of
rage, reflecting on my miserable situation--exiled, abandoned,
forlorn. I can write no more--let me hear from you by the return of
coach. I will write you ere I go.
I am dear Sir,
Yours, here and hereafter,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXVI.
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR,
KILMARNOCK.
[Burns never tried to conceal either his joys or his sorrows: he sent
copies of his favorite pieces, and intimations of much that befel him
to his chief friends and comrades--this brief note was made to carry
double. ]
_Mossgiel, Friday noon. _
MY FRIEND, MY BROTHER,
Warm recollection of an absent friend presses so hard upon my heart,
that I send him the prefixed bagatelle (the Calf), pleased with the
thought that it will greet the man of my bosom, and be a kind of
distant language of friendship.
You will have heard that poor Armour has repaid me double. A very fine
boy and a girl have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, some
with tender pressure and some with foreboding anguish, through my
soul.
The poem was nearly an extemporaneous production, on a wager with Mr.
Hamilton, that I would not produce a poem on the subject in a given
time.
If you think it worth while, read it to Charles and Mr. W. Parker, and
if they choose a copy of it, it is at their service, as they are men
whose friendship I shall be proud to claim, both in this world and
that which is to come.
I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abortive, but more of
this when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with
a visit from,
My dear Sir,
Your most devoted,
R. B.
The foregoing was to have been an elaborate dissertation on the
various species of men; but as I cannot please myself in the
arrangement of my ideas, I must wait till farther experience and nicer
observation throw more light on the subject. --In the mean time I shall
set down the following fragment, which, as it is the genuine language
of my heart, will enable anybody to determine which of the classes I
belong to:
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O. [150]
As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with
that BEING to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that
renders life delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct
towards our fellow-creatures; that so, by forming piety and virtue
into habit, we may be fit members for that society of the pious and
the good, which reason and revelation teach us to expect beyond the
grave, I do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits of such a one
as the above verses describe--one who spends the hours and thoughts
which the vocations of the day can spare with Ossian, Shakspeare,
Thomson, Shenstone, Sterne, &c. ; or, as the maggot takes him, a gun, a
fiddle, or a song to make or mend; and at all times some heart's-dear
bonnie lass in view--I say I do not see that the turn of mind and
pursuits of such an one are in the least more inimical to the sacred
interests of piety and virtue, than the even lawful, bustling and
straining after the world's riches and honours: and I do not see but
he may gain heaven as well--which, by the by, is no mean
consideration--who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself
with every little flower that fortune throws in his way, as he, who
straining straight forward, and perhaps spattering all about him,
gains some of life's little eminencies, where, after all, he can only
see and be seen a little more conspicuously than what, in the pride of
his heart, he is apt to term the poor, indolent devil he has left
behind him.
* * * * *
_August. _
A Prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of a
pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still
threatens me, first put nature on the alarm:--
O thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear! [151]
* * * * *
_August. _
Misgivings in the hour of _despondency_ and prospect of death:--
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene. [152]
* * * * *
EGOTISMS FROM MY OWN SENSATIONS.
_May. _
I don't well know what is the reason of it, but somehow or other,
though I am when I have a mind pretty generally beloved, yet I never
could get the art of commanding respect. --I imagine it is owing to my
being deficient in what Sterne calls "that understrapping virtue of
discretion. "--I am so apt to a _lapsus linguae_, that I sometimes think
the character of a certain great man I have read of somewhere is very
much _apropos_ to myself--that he was a compound of great talents and
great folly. --N. B. To try if I can discover the causes of this
wretched infirmity, and, if possible, to mend it.
* * * * *
_August. _
However I am pleased with the works of our Scotch poets, particularly
the excellent Ramsay, and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet I am
hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, rivers, woods,
haughs, &c. , immortalized in such celebrated performances, while my dear
native country, the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunningham,
famous both in ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlike race
of inhabitants; a country where civil, and particularly religious
liberty have ever found their first support, and their last asylum; a
country, the birth-place of many famous philosophers, soldiers,
statesman, and the scene of many important events recorded in Scottish
history, particularly a great many of the actions of the glorious
WALLACE, the SAVIOUR of his country; yet, we have never had one Scotch
poet of any eminence, to make the fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic
woodlands and sequestered scenes on Ayr, and the healthy mountainous
source and winding sweep of DOON, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, Tweed,
&c. This is a complaint I would gladly remedy, but, alas! I am far
unequal to the task, both in native genius and education. Obscure I am,
and obscure I must be, though no young poet, nor young soldier's heart,
ever beat more fondly for fame than mine--
"And if there is no other scene of being
Where my insatiate wish may have its fill,--
This something at my heart that heaves for room,
My best, my dearest part, was made in vain. "
* * * * *
_September. _
There is a great irregularity in the old Scotch songs, a redundancy of
syllables with respect to that exactness of accent and measure that
the English poetry requires, but which glides in, most melodiously,
with the respective tunes to which they are set. For instance, the
fine old song of "The Mill, Mill, O,"[153] to give it a plain prosaic
reading, it halts prodigiously out of measure; on the other hand, the
song set to the same tune in Bremner's collection of Scotch songs,
which begins "To Fanny fair could I impart," &c. , it is most exact
measure, and yet, let them both be sung before a real critic, one
above the biases of prejudice, but a thorough judge of nature,--how
flat and spiritless will the last appear, how trite, and lamely
methodical, compared with the wild warbling cadence, the heart-moving
melody of the first! --This is particularly the case with all those
airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable. There is a degree of
wild irregularity in many of the compositions and fragments which are
daily sung to them by my compeers, the common people--a certain happy
arrangement of old Scotch syllables, and yet, very frequently,
nothing, not even like rhyme or sameness of jingle, at the ends of the
lines. This has made me sometimes imagine that perhaps it might be
possible for a Scotch poet, with a nice judicious ear, to set
compositions to many of our most favourite airs, particularly that
class of them mentioned above, independent of rhyme altogether.
* * * * *
There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our
ancient ballads, which show them to be the work of a masterly hand:
and it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect that such
glorious old bards--bards who very probably owed all their talents to
native genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of
disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of
nature--that their very names (O how mortifying to a bard's vanity! )
are now "buried among the wreck of things which were. "
O ye illustrious names unknown! who could feel so strongly and
describe so well: the last, the meanest of the muses' train--one who,
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with
trembling wing would sometimes soar after you--a poor rustic bard
unknown, pays this sympathetic pang to your memory! Some of you tell
us, with all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate in
the world--unfortunate in love: he, too, has felt the loss of his
little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of
the woman he adored. Like you, all his consolation was his muse: she
taught him in rustic measures to complain. Happy could he have done it
with your strength of imagination and flow of verse! May the turf lie
lightly on your bones! and may you now enjoy that solace and rest
which this world rarely gives to the heart tuned to all the feelings
of poesy and love!
* * * * *
_September. _
The following fragment is done something in imitation of the manner of
a noble old Scottish piece, called M'Millan's Peggy, and sings to the
tune of Galla Water. --My Montgomery's Peggy was my deity for six or
eight months. She had been bred (though, as the world says, without
any just pretence for it) in a style of life rather elegant; but, as
Vanbrugh says in one of his comedies, my "d----d star found me out"
there too: for though I began the affair merely in a _gaitie de
coeur_, or, to tell the truth, which will scarcely be believed, a
vanity of showing my parts in courtship, particularly my abilities at
a _billet-doux_, which I always piqued myself upon, made me lay siege
to her; and when, as I always do in my foolish gallantries, I had
fettered myself into a very warm affection for her, she told me one
day, in a flag of truce, that her fortress had been for some time
before the rightful property of another; but, with the greatest
friendship and politeness, she offered me every allegiance except
actual possession. I found out afterwards that what she told me of a
pre-engagement was really true; but it cost me some heart-aches to get
rid of the affair.
I have even tried to imitate in this extempore thing that irregularity
in the rhymes, which, when judiciously done, has such a fine effect on
the ear.
"Altho' my bed were in yon muir. "[154]
* * * * *
_September. _
There is another fragment in imitation of an old Scotch song, well
known among the country ingle-sides. --I cannot tell the name, neither
of the song nor the tune, but they are in fine unison with one
another. --By the way, these old Scottish airs are so nobly
sentimental, that when one would compose to them, to "south the tune,"
as our Scotch phrase is, over and over, is the readiest way to catch
the inspiration, and raise the bard into that glorious enthusiasm so
strongly characteristic of our old Scotch poetry. I shall here set
down one verse of the piece mentioned above, both to mark the song and
tune I mean, and likewise as a debt I owe to the author, as the
repeating of that verse has lighted up my flame a thousand times:--
When clouds in skies do come together
To hide the brightness of the sun,
There will surely be some pleasant weather
When a' their storms are past and gone. [155]
Though fickle fortune has deceived me,
She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill;
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me,
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.
I'll act with prudence as far as I'm able,
But if success I must never find,
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,
I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.
The above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of
misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was
just at the close of that dreadful period mentioned already, and
though the weather has brightened up a little with me, yet there has
always been since a tempest brewing round me in the grim sky of
futurity, which I pretty plainly see will some time or other, perhaps
ere long, overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine
in solitary, squalid wretchedness. --However, as I hope my poor country
muse, who, all rustic, awkward, and unpolished as she is, has more
charms for me than any other of the pleasures of life beside--as I
hope she will not then desert me, I may even then learn to be, if not
happy, at least easy, and south a sang to soothe my misery.
'Twas at the same time I set about composing an air in the old Scotch
style. --I am not musical scholar enough to prick down my tune
properly, so it can never see the light, and perhaps 'tis no great
matter; but the following were the verses I composed to suit it:--
O raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O! [156]
The tune consisted of three parts, so that the above verses just went
through the whole air.
* * * * *
_October_, 1785.
If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to throw
his eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the
following observations, as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor
devil's dear-bought experience. --I have literally, like that great
poet and great gallant, and by consequence, that great fool, Solomon,
"turned my eyes to behold madness and folly. " Nay, I have, with all
the ardour of a lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination,
accompanied with a warm, feeling, poetic heart, shaken hands with
their intoxicating friendship.
In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up
a regular, warm intercourse with the Deity. * * * *
This is all worth quoting in my MSS. , and more than all.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 145: See Songs and Ballads, No. I. ]
[Footnote 146: See Winter. A Dirge. Poem I. ]
[Footnote 147: Song XIV. ]
[Footnote 148: Poem IX. ]
[Footnote 149: Song V]
[Footnote 150: Song XVII. ]
[Footnote 151: Poem X. ]
[Footnote 152: Poem XI. ]
[Footnote 153: "The Mill, Mill, O," is by Allan Ramsay. ]
[Footnote 154: Song VIII. ]
[Footnote 155: Alluding to the misfortunes he feelingly laments before
this verse. (This is the author's note. )]
[Footnote 156: Song II. ]
* * * * *
IX.
TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,
MONTROSE.
[The elder Burns, whose death this letter intimates, lies buried in
the kirk-yard of Alloway, with a tombstone recording his worth. ]
_Lochlea_, 17_th Feb. _ 1784.
DEAR COUSIN,
I would have returned you my thanks for your kind favour of the 13th
of December sooner, had it not been that I waited to give you an
account of that melancholy event, which, for some time past, we have
from day to day expected.
On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Though, to be sure, we
have had long warning of the impending stroke; still the feelings of
nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments
and parental lessons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors,
without feeling what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would
partly condemn.
I hope my father's friends in your country will not let their
connexion in this place die with him. For my part I shall ever with
pleasure--with pride, acknowledge my connexion with those who were
allied by the ties of blood and friendship to a man whose memory I
shall ever honour and revere.
I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will not neglect any opportunity
of letting me hear from you, which will very much oblige,
My dear Cousin, yours sincerely,
R. B.
* * * * *
X.
TO JAMES BURNESS,
MONTROSE.
[Mrs. Buchan, the forerunner in extravagance and absurdity of Joanna
Southcote, after attempting to fix her tent among the hills of the
west and the vales of the Nith, finally set up her staff at
Auchengibbert-Hill, in Galloway, where she lectured her followers, and
held out hopes of their reaching the stars, even in this life. She
died early: one or two of her people, as she called them, survived
till within these half-dozen years. ]
_Mossgiel, August_, 1784.
We have been surprised with one of the most extraordinary phenomena in
the moral world which, I dare say, had happened in the course of this
half century. We have had a party of Presbytery relief, as they call
themselves, for some time in this country. A pretty thriving society
of them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some years past, till
about two years ago, a Mrs. Buchan from Glasgow came among them, and
began to spread some fanatical notions of religion among them, and, in
a short time, made many converts; and, among others, their preacher,
Mr. Whyte, who, upon that account, has been suspended and formally
deposed by his brethren. He continued, however, to preach in private
to his party, and was supported, both he and their spiritual mother,
as they affect to call old Buchan, by the contributions of the rest,
several of whom were in good circumstances; till, in spring last, the
populace rose and mobbed Mrs. Buchan, and put her out of the town; on
which all her followers voluntarily quitted the place likewise, and
with such precipitation, that many of them never shut their doors
behind them; one left a washing on the green, another a cow bellowing
at the crib without food, or anybody to mind her, and after several
stages, they are fixed at present in the neighbourhood of Dumfries.
Their tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic jargon; among
others, she pretends to give them the Holy Ghost by breathing on them,
which she does with postures and practices that are scandalously
indecent; they have likewise disposed of all their effects, and hold a
community of goods, and live nearly an idle life, carrying on a great
farce of pretended devotion in barns and woods, where they lodge and
lie all together, and hold likewise a community of women, as it is
another of their tenets that they can commit no mortal sin. I am
personally acquainted with most of them, and I can assure you the
above mentioned are facts.
This, my dear Sir, is one of the many instances of the folly of
leaving the guidance of sound reason and common sense in matters of
religion.
Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred monitors, the whimsical
notions of a perturbated brain are taken for the immediate influences
of the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and the most inconstant
absurdities, will meet with abettors and converts. Nay, I have often
thought, that the more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies are,
if once they are sanctified under the sacred name of religion, the
unhappy mistaken votaries are the more firmly glued to them.
R. B.
* * * * *
XI.
TO MISS ----.
[This has generally been printed among the early letters of Burns.
Cromek thinks that the person addressed was the "Peggy" of the
Common-place Book. This is questioned by Robert Chambers, who,
however, leaves both name and date unsettled. ]
MY DEAR COUNTRYWOMAN,
I am so impatient to show you that I am once more at peace with you,
that I send you the book I mentioned directly, rather than wait the
uncertain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or lost
Collins' Poems, which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, I
will forward them by you; if not, you must apologize for me.
I know you will laugh at it when I tell you that your piano and you
together have played the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast has
been widowed these many months, and I thought myself proof against the
fascinating witchcraft; but I am afraid you will "feelingly convince
me what I am. " I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure what is the
matter with me. I have one miserable bad symptom; when you whisper, or
look kindly to another, it gives me a draught of damnation. I have a
kind of wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though
what I would say, Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know not. I have
no formed design in all this; but just, in the nakedness of my heart,
write you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You may perhaps give
yourself airs of distance on this, and that will completely cure me;
but I wish you would not: just let us meet, if you please, in the old
beaten way of friendship.
I will not subscribe myself your humble servant, for that is a phrase,
I think at least fifty miles off from the heart; but I will conclude
with sincerely wishing that the Great Protector of innocence may
shield you from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert
snare of deceit.
R. B.
* * * * *
XII.
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND,
OF EDINBURGH.
[John Richmond, writer, one of the poet's Mauchline friends, to whom
we are indebted for much valuable information concerning Burns and his
productions--Connel was the Mauchline carrier. ]
_Mossgiel, Feb. _ 17, 1786.
MY DEAR SIR,
I have not time at present to upbraid you for your silence and
neglect; I shall only say I received yours with great pleasure. I have
enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your perusal. I have been
very busy with the muses since I saw you, and have composed, among
several others, "The Ordination," a poem on Mr. M'Kinlay's being
called to Kilmarnock; "Scotch Drink," a poem; "The Cotter's Saturday
Night;" "An Address to the Devil," &c. I have likewise completed my
poem on the "Dogs," but have not shown it to the world. My chief
patron now is Mr. Aiken, in Ayr, who is pleased to express great
approbation of my works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, by Connel,
and I will remit you the money. I have no news to acquaint you with
about Mauchline, they are just going on in the old way. I have some
very important news with respect to myself, not the most
agreeable--news that I am sure you cannot guess, but I shall give you
the particulars another time. I am extremely happy with Smith; he is
the only friend I have now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive your
long neglect of me, and I beg you will let me hear from you regularly
by Connel. If you would act your part as a friend, I am sure neither
good nor bad fortune should strange of alter me. Excuse haste, as I
got yours but yesterday.
I am, my dear Sir,
Yours,
R. B.
* * * * *
XIII.
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY,
DUMFRIES HOUSE.
[Who the John Kennedy was to whom Burns addressed this note, enclosing
"The Cotter's Saturday night," it is now, perhaps, vain to inquire:
the Kennedy to whom Mr. Cobbett introduces us was a Thomas--perhaps a
relation. ]
_Mossgiel, 3d March_, 1786.
SIR,
I have done myself the pleasure of complying with your request in
sending you my Cottager. --If you have a leisure minute, I should be
glad you would copy it, and return me either the original or the
transcript, as I have not a copy of it by me, and I have a friend who
wishes to see it.
"Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse. "[157]
ROBT. BURNESS.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 157: Poem LXXV. ]
* * * * *
XIV.
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR,
KILMARNOCK.
[The Muirs--there were two brothers--were kind and generous patrons of
the poet. They subscribed for half-a-hundred copies of the Kilmarnock
edition of his works, and befriended him when friends were few. ]
_Mossgiel_, 20_th March_, 1786.
DEAR SIR,
I am heartily sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as you
returned through Mauchline; but as I was engaged, I could not be in
town before the evening.
I here enclose you my "Scotch Drink," and "may the ---- follow with a
blessing for your edification. " I hope, some time before we hear the
gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend
we shall have a gill between us, in a mutchkin-stoup; which will be a
great comfort and consolation to,
Dear Sir,
Your humble servant,
ROBT. BURNESS.
* * * * *
XV.
TO MR. AIKEN.
[Robert Aiken, the gentleman to whom the "Cotter's Saturday Night" is
inscribed, is also introduced in the "Brigs of Ayr. " This is the last
letter to which Burns seems to have subscribed his name in the
spelling of his ancestors. ]
_Mossgiel, 3d April_, 1786.
DEAR SIR,
I received your kind letter with double pleasure, on account of the
second flattering instance of Mrs. C. 's notice and approbation, I
assure you I
"Turn out the burnt o' my shin,"
as the famous Ramsay, of jingling memory, says, at such a patroness.
Present her my most grateful acknowledgment in your very best manner
of telling truth. I have inscribed the following stanza on the blank
leaf of Miss More's Work:--[158]
My proposals for publishing I am just going to send to press. I expect
to hear from you by the first opportunity.
I am ever, dear Sir,
Yours,
ROBT. BURNESS.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 158: See Poem LXXVIII. ]
* * * * *
XVI.
TO MR. M'WHINNIE,
WRITER, AYR.
[Mr. M'Whinnie obtained for Burns several subscriptions for the first
edition of his Poems, of which this note enclosed the proposals. ]
_Mossgiel, 17th April, 1786. _
It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that elegantly bear the
impression of the good Creator, to say to them you give them the
trouble of obliging a friend; for this reason, I only tell you that I
gratify my own feelings in requesting your friendly offices with
respect to the enclosed, because I know it will gratify yours to
assist me in it to the utmost of your power.
I have sent you four copies, as I have no less than eight dozen, which
is a great deal more than I shall ever need.
Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your prayers. He looks
forward with fear and trembling to that, to him, important moment
which stamps the die with--with--with, perhaps, the eternal disgrace
of,
My dear Sir,
Your humble,
afflicted, tormented,
ROBERT BURNS.
* * * * *
XVII.
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.
["The small piece," the very last of his productions, which the poet
enclosed in this letter, was "The Mountain Daisy," called in the
manuscript more properly "The Gowan. "]
_Mossgiel, 20th April, 1786. _
SIR,
By some neglect in Mr. Hamilton, I did not hear of your kind request
for a subscription paper 'till this day. I will not attempt any
acknowledgment for this, nor the manner in which I see your name in
Mr. Hamilton's subscription list. Allow me only to say, Sir, I feel
the weight of the debt.
I have here likewise enclosed a small piece, the very latest of my
productions. I am a good deal pleased with some sentiments myself, as
they are just the native querulous feelings of a heart, which, as the
elegantly melting Gray says, "melancholy has marked for her own. "
Our race comes on a-pace; that much-expected scene of revelry and
mirth; but to me it brings no joy equal to that meeting with which
your last flattered the expectation of,
Sir,
Your indebted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XVIII.
TO MON. JAMES SMITH,
MAUCHLINE.
[James Smith, of whom Burns said he was small of stature, but large of
soul, kept at that time a draper's shop in Mauchline, and was comrade
to the poet in many a wild adventure. ]
_Monday Morning, Mossgiel, 1786. _
MY DEAR SIR,
I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully resolved to take the
opportunity of Captain Smith: but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and
Mrs. White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged my plans
altogether. They assure him that to send me from Savannah la Mar to
Port Antonio will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards of fifty
pounds; besides running the risk of throwing myself into a pleuritic
fever, in consequence of hard travelling in the sun. On these
accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, but a vessel sails from
Greenock the first of September, right for the place of my
destination. The Captain of her is an intimate friend of Mr. Gavin
Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish: with him I am
destined to go. Where I shall shelter, I know not, but I hope to
weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them! I
know their worst, and am prepared to meet it;--
"I'll laugh an' sing, an' shake my leg,
As lang's I dow. "
On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be
out of bed about seven o'clock, I shall see you, as I ride through to
Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex! I feel there is still
happiness for me among them:
"O woman, lovely woman! Heaven design'd you
To temper man! --we had been brutes without you. "[159]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 159: Otway. Venice Preserved. ]
* * * * *
XIX.
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.
[Burns was busy in a two-fold sense at present: he was seeking patrons
in every quarter for his contemplated volume, and was composing for it
some of his most exquisite poetry. ]
_Mossgiel, 16 May, 1796. _
DEAR SIR,
I have sent you the above hasty copy as I promised. In about three or
four weeks I shall probably set the press a-going. I am much hurried
at present, otherwise your diligence, so very friendly in my
subscription, should have a more lengthened acknowledgment from,
Dear Sir,
Your obliged servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
XX.
TO MR. DAVID BRICE.
[David Brice was a shoemaker, and shared with Smith the confidence of
the poet in his love affairs. He was working in Glasgow when this
letter was written. ]
_Mossgiel, June_ 12, 1786.
DEAR BRICE,
I received your message by G. Patterson, and as I am not very throng
at present, I just write to let you know that there is such a
worthless, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, still in the
land of the living, though I can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I
have no news to tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or
you to hear.
Poor ill-advised ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You have
heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is.
What she thinks of her conduct now, I don't know; one thing I do
know--she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather
adored a woman more than I did her; and, to confess a truth between
you and me, I do still love her to distraction after all, though I
won't tell her so if I were to see her, which I don't want to do. My
poor dear unfortunate Jean! how happy have I been in thy arms! It is
not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel
most severely: I foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal
ruin. * * * *
May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from
my very soul forgive her: and may his grace be with her and bless her
in all her future life! I can have no nearer idea of the place of
eternal punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her
account. I have tried often to forget her; I have run into all kinds
of dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other
mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a
grand cure; the ship is on her way home that is to take me out to
Jamaica; and then, farewell dear old Scotland! and farewell dear
ungrateful Jean! for never never will I see you more.
You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print; and to
morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of about
two hundred pages--it is just the last foolish action I intend to do;
and then turn a wise man as fast as possible.
Believe me to be, dear Brice,
Your friend and well-wisher,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXI.
TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN.
[This letter was written under great distress of mind. That separation
which Burns records in "The Lament," had, unhappily, taken place
between him and Jean Armour, and it would appear, that for a time at
least a coldness ensued between the poet and the patron, occasioned,
it is conjectured, by that fruitful subject of sorrow and disquiet.
The letter, I regret to say, is not wholly here. ]
[_Ayrshire_, 1786. ]
SIR,
I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and settled all our
by-gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made
him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out
of the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the
paper of a thousand copies would cost me about twenty-seven pounds,
and the printing about fifteen or sixteen: he offers to agree to this
for the printing, if I will advance for the paper, but this, you know,
is out of my power; so farewell hopes of a second edition till I grow
rich! an epoch which I think will arrive at the payment of the
British national debt.
There is scarcely anything hurts me so much in being disappointed of
my second edition, as not having it in my power to show my gratitude
to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poem of "The Brigs of Ayr. " I
would detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very
long life of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with
which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself
in my greateful sensations; but I believe, on the whole, I have very
little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence
of reflection; but sheerly the instinctive emotion of my heart, too
inattentive to allow worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish
habits. I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements
within, respecting the excise. There are many things plead strongly
against it; the uncertainty of getting soon into business; the
consequences of my follies, which may perhaps make it impracticable
for me to stay at home; and besides I have for some time been pining
under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know--the
pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs
of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures,
when attention is not called away by the calls of society, or the
vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gayety is
the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands of the
executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad, and to all these
reasons I have only one answer--the feelings of a father. This, in the
present mood I am in, overbalances everything that can be laid in the
scale against it. * * * *
You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment
which strikes home to my very soul: though sceptical in some points of
our current belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the
reality of a life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence;
if so, then, how should I, in the presence of that tremendous Being,
the Author of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who
stand to me in the dear relation of children, whom I deserted in the
smiling innocency of helpless infancy? O, thou great unknown
Power! --thou almighty God! who has lighted up reason in my breast, and
blessed me with immortality! --I have frequently wandered from that
order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet
thou hast never left me nor forsaken me! * * * *
Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something of the storm
of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my
friends, my benefactors, be successful in your applications for me,
perhaps it may not be in my power, in that way, to reap the fruit of
your friendly efforts. What I have written in the preceding pages, is
the settled tenor of my present resolution; but should inimical
circumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it
only threaten to entail farther misery-- * * * *
To tell the truth, I have little reason for complaint; as the world,
in general, has been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I was, for
some time past, fast getting into the pining, distrustful snarl of the
misanthrope. I saw myself alone, unlit for the struggle of life,
shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of
fortune, while all defenceless I looked about in vain for a cover. It
never occurred to me, at least never with the force it deserved, that
this world is a busy scene, and man, a creature destined for a
progressive struggle; and that, however I might possess a warm heart
and inoffensive manners (which last, by the by, was rather more than I
could well boast); still, more than these passive qualities, there was
something to be done. When all my school-fellows and youthful compeers
(those misguided few excepted who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the
"hallachores" of the human race) were striking off with eager hope and
earnest intent, in some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I
was "standing idle in the market-place," or only left the chase of the
butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim to
whim. * * * *
You see, Sir, that if to know one's errors were a probability of
mending them, I stand a fair chance; but according to the reverend
Westminster divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is
very far from always implying it. * * * *
R. B.
* * * * *
XXII.
TO JOHN RICHMOND,
EDINBURGH.
[The minister who took upon him to pronounce Burns a single man, as he
intimates in this letter, was the Rev. Mr. Auld, of Mauchline: that
the law of the land and the law of the church were at variance on the
subject no one can deny. ]
_Mossgiel_, 9_th July_, 1786.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
With the sincerest grief I read your letter. You are truly a son of
misfortune. I shall be extremely anxious to hear from you how your
health goes on; if it is in any way re-establishing, or if Leith
promises well; in short, how you feel in the inner man.
No news worth anything: only godly Bryan was in the inquisition
yesterday, and half the country-side as witness against him. He still
stands out steady and denying: but proof was led yesternight of
circumstances highly suspicious: almost _de facto_ one of the servant
girls made faith that she upon a time rashly entered the house--to
speak in your cant, "in the hour of cause. "
I have waited on Armour since her return home; not from any the least
view of reconciliation, but merely to ask for her health and--to you I
will confess it--from a foolish hankering fondness--very ill placed
indeed. The mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show the
penitence that might have been expected. However, the priest, I am
informed, will give me a certificate as a single man, if I comply with
the rules of the church, which for that very reason I intend to do.
I am going to put on sack-cloth and ashes this day. I am indulged so
far as to appear in my own seat. _Peccavi, pater, miserere mei. _ My
book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have any subscribers, return
them by Connel. The Lord stand with the righteous: amen, amen.
R. B.
* * * * *
XXIII.
TO JOHN BALLANTYNE,
OF AYR.
[There is a plain account in this letter of the destruction of the
lines of marriage which united, as far as a civil contract in a manner
civil can, the poet and Jean Armour. Aiken was consulted, and in
consequence of his advice, the certificate of marriage was destroyed. ]
HONOURED SIR,
My proposals came to hand last night, and knowing that you would wish
to have it in your power to do me a service as early as anybody, I
enclose you half a sheet of them. I must consult you, first
opportunity, on the propriety of sending my quondam friend, Mr. Aiken,
a copy. If he is now reconciled to my character as an honest man, I
would do it with all my soul; but I would not be beholden to the
noblest being ever God created, if he imagined me to be a rascal.
Apropos, old Mr. Armour prevailed with him to mutilate that unlucky
paper yesterday. Would you believe it? though I had not a hope, nor
even a wish, to make her mine after her conduct; yet, when he told me
the names were all out of the paper, my heart died within me, and he
cut my veins with the news. Perdition seize her falsehood!
R. B.
* * * * *
XXIV.
TO MR. DAVID BRICE.
SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW.
[The letters of Burns at the sad period of his life are full of his
private sorrows. Had Jean Armour been left to the guidance of her own
heart, the story of her early years would have been brighter. ]
_Mossgiel, 17th July, 1786. _
I have been so throng printing my Poems, that I could scarcely find as
much time as to write to you. Poor Armour is come back again to
Mauchline, and I went to call for her, and her mother forbade me the
house, nor did she herself express much sorrow for what she has done.
I have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the
liberty of standing in my own seat. I do this to get a certificate as
a bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. I am now fixed to go for
the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that
she should stand along with me in the kirk, but the minister would not
allow it, which bred a great trouble I assure you, and I am blamed as
the cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent; but I am very much
pleased, for all that, not to have had her company. I have no news to
tell you that I remember. I am really happy to hear of your welfare,
and that you are so well in Glasgow. I must certainly see you before I
leave the country. I shall expect to hear from you soon, and am,
Dear Brice,
Yours,--R. B.
* * * * *
XXV.
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND.
[When this letter was written the poet was skulking from place to
place: the merciless pack of the law had been uncoupled at his heels.
Mr. Armour did not wish to imprison, but to drive him from the
country. ]
_Old Rome Forest, 30th July, 1786. _
MY DEAR RICHMOND,
My hour is now come--you and I will never meet in Britain more. I have
orders within three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the Nancy,
Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and call at Antigua. This,
except to our friend Smith, whom God long preserve, is a secret about
Mauchline. Would you believe it? Armour has got a warrant to throw me
in jail till I find security for an enormous sum. This they keep an
entire secret, but I got it by a channel they little dream of; and I
am wandering from one friend's house to another, and, like a true son
of the gospel, "have nowhere to lay my head. " I know you will pour an
execration on her head, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, for my
sake; though may all the furies that rend the injured, enraged lover's
bosom, await her mother until her latest hour! I write in a moment of
rage, reflecting on my miserable situation--exiled, abandoned,
forlorn. I can write no more--let me hear from you by the return of
coach. I will write you ere I go.
I am dear Sir,
Yours, here and hereafter,
R. B.
* * * * *
XXVI.
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR,
KILMARNOCK.
[Burns never tried to conceal either his joys or his sorrows: he sent
copies of his favorite pieces, and intimations of much that befel him
to his chief friends and comrades--this brief note was made to carry
double. ]
_Mossgiel, Friday noon. _
MY FRIEND, MY BROTHER,
Warm recollection of an absent friend presses so hard upon my heart,
that I send him the prefixed bagatelle (the Calf), pleased with the
thought that it will greet the man of my bosom, and be a kind of
distant language of friendship.
You will have heard that poor Armour has repaid me double. A very fine
boy and a girl have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, some
with tender pressure and some with foreboding anguish, through my
soul.
The poem was nearly an extemporaneous production, on a wager with Mr.
Hamilton, that I would not produce a poem on the subject in a given
time.
If you think it worth while, read it to Charles and Mr. W. Parker, and
if they choose a copy of it, it is at their service, as they are men
whose friendship I shall be proud to claim, both in this world and
that which is to come.
I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abortive, but more of
this when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with
a visit from,
My dear Sir,
Your most devoted,
R. B.
