No More Learning

Doctor, is I fear very doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of
seven bull-hides and a plate of brass, which altogether set Hector's
utmost force at defiance. Alas! I am not a Hector, and the worthy
Doctor's foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. Ignorance,
superstition, bigotry, stupidity, malevolence, self-conceit, envy--all
strongly bound in a massy frame of brazen impudence. Good God, Sir! to
such a shield, humour is the peck of a sparrow, and satire the pop-gun
of a school-boy. Creation-disgracing scelerats such as they, God only
can mend, and the devil only can punish. In the comprehending way of
Caligula, I wish they all had but one neck. I feel impotent as a child
to the ardour of my wishes! O for a withering curse to blast the
germins of their wicked machinations! O for a poisonous tornado,
winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, to sweep the spreading crop
of their villainous contrivances to the lowest hell!

R. B.

* * * * *




CCI.


TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[The poet wrote out several copies of Tam o' Shanter and sent them to
his friends, requesting their criticisms: he wrote few poems so
universally applauded. ]

_Ellisland, November, 1790. _

"As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far
country. "

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for
the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I
most cordially obey the apostle--"Rejoice with them that do
rejoice"--for me, _to sing_ for joy, is no new thing; but _to preach_
for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a
pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before.

I read your letter--I literally jumped for joy--How could such a
mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of
the best news from his best friend. I seized my gilt-headed Wangee
rod, an instrument indispensably necessary in my left hand, in the
moment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, stride--quick and
quicker--out skipt I among the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my
joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs.
Little's is a more elegant, but not a more sincere compliment to the
sweet little fellow, than I, extempore almost, poured out to him in
the following verses:--

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love
And ward o' mony a prayer,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, an' fair.
November hirples o'er the lea
Chill on thy lovely form;
But gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree
Should shield thee frae the storm.

I am much flattered by your approbation of my _Tam o' Shanter_, which
you express in your former letter; though, by the bye, you load me in
that said letter with accusations heavy and many; to all which I
plead, _not guilty_! Your book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As
to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for the press, you have
only to spell it right, and place the capital letters properly: as to
the punctuation, the printers do that themselves.

I have a copy of _Tam o' Shanter_ ready to send you by the first
opportunity: it is too heavy to send by post.

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in consequence of your
recommendation, is most zealous to serve me. Please favour me soon
with an account of your good folks; if Mrs. H. is recovering, and the
young gentleman doing well.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCII.


TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE.

[The present alluded to was a gold snuff-box, with a portrait of Queen
Mary on the lid. ]

_Ellisland, 11th January, 1791. _

MY LADY,

Nothing less than the unlucky accident of having lately broken my
right arm, could have prevented me, the moment I received your
ladyship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from returning you my
warmest and most grateful acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I
shall set it apart--the symbols of religion shall only be more sacred.
In the moment of poetic composition, the box shall be my inspiring
genius. When I would breathe the comprehensive wish of benevolence for
the happiness of others, I shall recollect your ladyship; when I would
interest my fancy in the distresses incident to humanity, I shall
remember the unfortunate Mary.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCIII.


TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S.

[This letter was in answer to one from Dunbar, in which the witty
colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles supposed the poet had been
translated to Elysium to sing to the immortals, as his voice had not
been beard of late on earth. ]

_Ellisland, 17th January, 1791. _

I am not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, but am still here in
this sublunary world, serving my God, by propagating his image, and
honouring my king by begetting him loyal subjects.

Many happy returns of the season await my friend. May the thorns of
care never beset his path! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, and
rapture a frequent visitor of his soul! May the blood-hounds of
misfortune never track his steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm
his dwelling! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure number thy
days, thou friend of the bard! "Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and
cursed be he that curseth thee! ! ! "

As a further proof that I am still in the land of existence, I send
you a poem, the latest I have composed. I have a particular reason for
wishing you only to show it to select friends, should you think it
worthy a friend's perusal; but if, at your first leisure hour, you
will favour me with your opinion of, and strictures on the
performance, it will be an additional obligation on, dear Sir, your
deeply indebted humble servant,

R. B.

* * * * *




CCIV.


TO MR. PETER HILL.

[The poet's eloquent apostrophe to poverty has no little feeling in
it: he beheld the money which his poems brought melt silently away,
and he looked to the future with more fear than hope. ]

_Ellisland, 17th January, 1791. _

Take these two guineas, and place them over against that d--mned
account of yours! which has gagged my mouth these five or six months!
I can as little write good things as apologies to the man I owe money
to. O the supreme curse of making three guineas do the business of
five! Not all the labours of Hercules; not all the Hebrews' three
centuries of Egyptian bondage, were such an insuperable business, such
an infernal task! ! Poverty! thou half-sister of death, thou
cousin-german of hell: where shall I find force of execration equal to
the amplitude of thy demerits? Oppressed by thee, the venerable
ancient, grown hoary in the practice of every virtue, laden with years
and wretchedness, implores a little--little aid to support his
existence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, whose sun of prosperity
never knew a cloud; and is by him denied and insulted. Oppressed by
thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart glows with independence, and
melts with sensibility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in
bitterness of soul, under the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth.
Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition
plants him at the tables of the fashionable and polite, must see in
suffering silence, his remark neglected, and his person despised,
while shallow greatness in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet with
countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have
reason to complain of thee: the children of folly and vice, though in
common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod.
Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and neglected
education, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and
shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies as usual bring him to
want; and when his unprincipled necessities drive him to dishonest
practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice
of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man of family and
fortune. _His_ early follies and extravagance, are spirit and fire;
_his_ consequent wants are the embarrassments of an honest fellow; and
when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commission to
plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns,
perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder; lives wicked and
respected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord. --Nay, worst of all, alas
for helpless woman! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the
corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual
prostitution, is left neglected and insulted, ridden down by the
chariot wheels of the coroneted RIP, hurrying on to the
guilty assignation; she who without the same necessities to plead,
riots nightly in the same guilty trade.

Well! divines may say of it what they please; but execration is to the
mind what phlebotomy is to the body: the vital sluices of both are
wonderfully relieved by their respective evacuations.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCV.


TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

[To Alexander Cunningham the poet generally communicated his favourite
compositions. ]

_Ellisland, 23d January, 1791. _

Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear friend! As many of
the good things of this life, as is consistent with the usual mixture
of good and evil in the cup of being!

I have just finished a poem (Tam o' Shanter) which you will receive
enclosed. It is my first essay in the way of tales.

I have these several months been hammering at an elegy on the amiable
and accomplished Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no farther than
the following fragment, on which please give me your strictures. In
all kinds of poetic composition, I set great store by your opinion;
but in sentimental verses, in the poetry of the heart, no Roman
Catholic ever set more value on the infallibility of the Holy Father
than I do on yours.

I mean the introductory couplets as text verses.

ELEGY

ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO.

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize
As Burnet lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.

Let me hear from you soon.

Adieu!

R. B.

* * * * *




CCVI.


TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ.

["I have seldom in my life," says Lord Woodhouselee, "tasted a higher
enjoyment from any work of genius than I received from Tam o'
Shanter. "]

_Ellisland, February, 1791. _

SIR,

Nothing less than the unfortunate accident I have met with, could have
prevented my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His own
favourite poem, and that an essay in the walk of the muses entirely
new to him, where consequently his hopes and fears were on the most
anxious alarm for his success in the attempt; to have that poem so
much applauded by one of the first judges, was the most delicious
vibration that ever thrilled along the heart-strings of a poor poet.
However, Providence, to keep up the proper proportion of evil with the
good, which it seems is necessary in this sublunary state, thought
proper to check my exultation by a very serious misfortune. A day or
two after I received your letter, my horse came down with me and broke
my right arm. As this is the first service my arm has done me since
its disaster, I find myself unable to do more than just in general
terms thank you for this additional instance of your patronage and
friendship. As to the faults you detected in the piece, they are truly
there: one of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall cut out;
as to the falling off in the catastrophe, for the reason you justly
adduce, it cannot easily be remedied. Your approbation, Sir, has given
me such additional spirits to persevere in this species of poetic
composition, that I am already revolving two or three stories in my
fancy. If I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind of
embodied form, it will give me additional opportunity of assuring you
how much I have the honour to be, &c.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCVII.


TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[The elegy on the beautiful Miss Burnet, of Monboddo, was laboured
zealously by Burns, but it never reached the excellence of some of his
other compositions. ]

_Ellisland, 7th Feb. 1791. _

When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, not from my horse, but with my
horse, I have been a cripple some time, and that this is the first day
my arm and hand have been able to serve me in writing; you will allow
that it is too good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful silence. I
am now getting better, and am able to rhyme a little, which implies
some tolerable ease, as I cannot think that the most poetic genius is
able to compose on the rack.

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you my having an idea of
composing an elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo. I had the
honour of being pretty well acquainted with her, and have seldom felt
so much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when I heard that so
amiable and accomplished a piece of God's work was no more. I have, as
yet, gone no farther than the following fragment, of which please let
me have your opinion. You know that elegy is a subject so much
exhausted, that any new idea on the business is not to be expected:
'tis well if we can place an old idea in a new light. How far I have
succeeded as to this last, you will judge from what follows. I have
proceeded no further.

Your kind letter, with your kind _remembrance_ of your godson, came
safe. This last, Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. As to the
little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the finest boy I have for a
long time seen. He is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox and
measles over, has cut several teeth, and never had a grain of doctor's
drugs in his bowels.

I am truly happy to hear that the "little floweret" is blooming so
fresh and fair, and that the "mother plant" is rather recovering her
drooping head. Soon and well may her "cruel wounds" be healed. I have
written thus far with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a little
abler you shall hear farther from,

Madam, yours,

R. B.

* * * * *




CCVIII.


TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON.

[Alison was much gratified it is said, with this recognition of the
principles laid down in his ingenious and popular work. ]

_Ellisland, near Dumfries, 14th Feb. 1791. _

SIR,

You must by this time have set me down as one of the most ungrateful
of men. You did me the honour to present me with a book, which does
honour to science and the intellectual powers of man, and I have not
even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you
yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as I was by your telling me
that you wished to have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual
enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity is one of the sins that
most easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder over the
performance with the look-out of a critic, and to draw up forsooth a
deep learned digest of strictures on a composition, of which, in fact,
until I read the book, I did not even know the first principles. I
own, Sir, that at first glance, several of your propositions startled
me as paradoxical. That the martial clangour of a trumpet had
something in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the
twingle twangle of a jew's-harp: that the delicate flexure of a
rose-twig, when the half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of the
dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant than the upright stub
of a burdock; and that from something innate and independent of all
associations of ideas;--these I had set down as irrefragable, orthodox
truths, until perusing your book shook my faith. --In short, Sir,
except Euclid's Elements of Geometry, which I made a shift to unravel
by my father's fire-side, in the winter evening of the first season I
held the plough, I never read a book which gave me such a quantum of
information, and added so much to my stock of ideas, as your "Essays
on the Principles of Taste. " One thing, Sir, you must forgive my
mentioning as an uncommon merit in the work, I mean the language. To
clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds something like
a contradiction in terms; but you have convinced me that they are
quite compatible.

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition. The one
in print[198] is my first essay in the way of telling a tale.

I am, Sir, &c.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 198: Tam O' Shanter]

* * * * *




[Illustration: A NAVAL BATTLE. ]

CCIX.


TO DR. MOORE.

[Moore admired but moderately the beautiful ballad on Queen Mary, and
the Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson: Tam o' Shanter he thought full
of poetical beauties. --He again regrets that he writes in the language
of Scotland. ]

_Ellisland, 20th February, 1791. _

I do not know, Sir, whether you are a subscriber to _Grose's
Antiquities of Scotland. _ If you are, the enclosed poem will not be
altogether new to you. Captain Grose did me the favour to send me a
dozen copies of the proof sheet, of which this is one. Should you have
read the piece before, still this will answer the principal end I have
in view: it will give me another opportunity of thanking you for all
your goodness to the rustic bard; and also of showing you, that the
abilities you have been pleased to commend and patronize are still
employed in the way you wish.

The _Elegy on Captain Henderson_, is a tribute to the memory of a man
I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman
Catholics; they can be of service to their friends after they have
passed that bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of avail.
Whether, after all, either the one or the other be of any real service
to the dead, is, I fear, very problematical; but I am sure they are
highly gratifying to the living: and as a very orthodox text, I forget
where in scripture, says, "whatsoever is not of faith is sin;" so say
I, whatsoever is not detrimental to society, and is of positive
enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all good things, and ought to be
received and enjoyed by his creatures with thankful delight. As almost
all my religious tenets originate from my heart, I am wonderfully
pleased with the idea, that I can still keep up a tender intercourse
with the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly beloved mistress,
who is gone to the world of spirits.

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with _Percy's
Reliques of English Poetry. _ By the way, how much is every honest
heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you
for your glorious story of Buchanan and Targe! 'Twas an unequivocal
proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory. I
should have been mortified to the ground if you had not.

I have just read over, once more of many times, your _Zeluco. _ I
marked with my pencil, as I went along, every passage that pleased me
particularly above the rest; and one or two, I think, which with
humble deference, I am disposed to think unequal to the merits of the
book. I have sometimes thought to transcribe these marked passages, or
at least so much of them as to point where they are, and send them to
you. Original strokes that strongly depict the human heart, is your
and Fielding's province beyond any other novelist I have ever perused.
Richardson indeed might perhaps be excepted; but unhappily, _dramatis
personae_ are beings of another world; and however they may captivate
the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever,
in proportion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our
riper years.
As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer before
the Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself ranked on the
list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet employed as such, but in
a few years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority.
I have had an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn; the
patron from whom all my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent of
my grateful attachment to him, which was indeed so strong that it
pervaded my very soul, and was entwined with the thread of my
existence: so soon as the prince's friends had got in (and every dog
you know has his day), my getting forward in the excise would have
been an easier business than otherwise it will be. Though this was a
consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live and
rhyme as I am: and as to my boys, poor little fellows! if I cannot
place them on as high an elevation in life, as I could wish, I shall,
if I am favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to see that
period, fix them on as broad and independent a basis as possible.
Among the many wise adages which have been treasured up by our
Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best, _Better be the head o'
the commonalty, than the tail o' the gentry. _

But I am got on a subject, which however interesting to me, is of no
manner of consequence to you; so I shall give you a short poem on the
other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the
honour to be,

Yours, &c.

R. B.

Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very young
lady, whom I had formerly characterized under the denomination of _The
Rose Bud. _ * * *

* * * * *




CCX.


TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

[Cunningham could tell a merry story, and sing a humorous song; nor
was he without a feeling for the deep sensibilities of his friend's
verse. ]

_Ellisland, 12th March, 1791. _

If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let me have them. For
my own part, a thing that I have just composed always appears through
a double portion of that partial medium in which an author will ever
view his own works. I believe in general, novelty has something in it
that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates and fumes
away like other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, as usual,
with an aching heart. A striking instance of this might be adduced,
in the revolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into
stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my
parish-priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you
another song of my late composition, which will appear perhaps in
Johnson's work, as well as the former.

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, _There'll never be peace 'till
Jamie comes hame. _ When political combustion ceases to be the object
of princes and patriots, it then you know becomes the lawful prey of
historians and poets.

By yon castle wa' at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came--
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot
imagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if by the
charms of your delightful voice, you would give my honest effusion to
"the memory of joys that are past," to the few friends whom you
indulge in that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I hear the
clock has intimated the near approach of

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. --

So good night to you! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams!
Apropos, how do you like this thought in a ballad, I have just now on
the tapis?

I look to the west when I gae to rest,
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be;
Far, far in the west is he I lo'e best,
The lad that is dear to my babie and me!

Good night, once more, and God bless you!

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXI.


TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL,

FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON.

[Cromek says that Alexander Dalzel introduced the poetry of Burns to
the notice of the Earl of Glencairn, who carried the Kilmarnock
edition with him to Edinburgh, and begged that the poet would let him
know what his views in the world were, that he might further them. ]

_Ellisland, 19th March, 1791. _

MY DEAR SIR,

I have taken the liberty to frank this letter to you, as it encloses
an idle poem of mine, which I send you; and God knows you may perhaps
pay dear enough for it if you read it through. Not that this is my own
opinion; but the author, by the time he has composed and corrected his
work, has quite pored away all his powers of critical discrimination.

I can easily guess from my own heart, what you have felt on a late
most melancholy event. God knows what I have suffered, at the loss of
my best friend, my first and dearest patron and benefactor; the man to
whom I owe all that I am and have! I am gone into mourning for him,
and with more sincerity of grief than I fear some will, who by
nature's ties ought to feel on the occasion.

I will be exceedingly obliged to you, indeed, to let me know the news
of the noble family, how the poor mother and the two sisters support
their loss. I had a packet of poetic bagatelles ready to send to Lady
Betty, when I saw the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the
same channel that the honoured REMAINS of my noble patron, are
designed to be brought to the family burial-place. Dare I trouble you
to let me know privately before the day of interment, that I may cross
the country, and steal among the crowd, to pay a tear to the last
sight of my ever revered benefactor? It will oblige me beyond
expression.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXII.


TO MRS. GRAHAM,

OF FINTRAY.

[Mrs. Graham, of Fintray, felt both as a lady and a Scottish one, the
tender Lament of the fair and unfortunate princess, which this letter
contained. ]

_Ellisland, 1791. _

MADAM,

Whether it is that the story of our Mary Queen of Scots has a peculiar
effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the enclosed
ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know not; but it
has pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good while past; on
that account I enclose it particularly to you. It is true, the purity
of my motives may be suspected. I am already deeply indebted to Mr.
Graham's goodness; and what, _in the usual ways of men_, is of
infinitely greater importance, Mr. G. can do me service of the utmost
importance in time to come. I was born a poor dog; and however I may
occasionally pick a better bone than I used to do, I know I must live
and die poor: but I will indulge the flattering faith that my poetry
will considerably outlive my poverty; and without any fustian
affectation of spirit, I can promise and affirm, that it must be no
ordinary craving of the latter shall ever make me do anything
injurious to the honest fame of the former. Whatever may be my
failings, for failings are a part of human nature, may they ever be
those of a generous heart, and an independent mind! It is no fault of
mine that I was born to dependence; nor is it Mr. Graham's chiefest
praise that he can command influence; but it is his merit to bestow,
not only with the kindness of a brother, but with the politeness of a
gentleman; and I trust it shall be mine, to receive with thankfulness,
and remember with undiminished gratitude.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXIII.


TO MRS. GRAHAM,

OF FINTRAY.

[The following letter was written on the blank leaf of a new edition
of his poems, presented by the poet, to one whom he regarded, and
justly, as a patroness. ]

It is probable, Madam, that this page may be read, when the hand that
now writes it shall be mouldering in the dust: may it then bear
witness, that I present you these volumes as a tribute of gratitude,
on my part ardent and sincere, as your and Mr. Graham's goodness to me
has been generous and noble! May every child of yours, in the hour of
need, find such a friend as I shall teach every child of mine, that
their father found in you.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXIV.


TO THE REV. G. BAIRD.

[It was proposed to publish a new edition of the poems of Michael
Bruce, by subscription, and give the profits to his mother, a woman
eighty years old, and poor and helpless, and Burns was asked for a
poem to give a new impulse to the publication. ]

_Ellisland, 1791. _

REVEREND SIR,

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a hesitating style on
the business of poor Bruce? Don't I know, and have I not felt, the
many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh is heir to? You shall
have your choice of all the unpublished poems I have; and had your
letter had my direction, so as to have reached me sooner (it only came
to my hand this moment), I should have directly put you out of
suspense on the subject. I only ask, that some prefatory advertisement
in the book, as well as the subscription bills, may bear, that the
publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not
put it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate,
that I clubbed a share in the work from mercenary motives. Nor need
you give me credit for any remarkable generosity in my part of the
business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, and
backslidings (anybody but myself might perhaps give some of them a
worse appellation), that by way of some balance, however trifling, in
the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very limited
power to a fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a
little the vista of retrospection.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXV.


TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[Francis Wallace Burns, the godson of Mrs. Dunlop, to whom this letter
refers, died at the age of fourteen--he was a fine and a promising
youth. ]

_Ellisland, 11th April, 1791. _

I am once more able, my honoured friend, to return you, with my own
hand, thanks for the many instances of your friendship, and
particularly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster, that my evil
genius had in store for me. However, life is chequered--joy and
sorrow--for on Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a present of
a fine boy; rather stouter, but not so handsome as your godson was at
his time of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake to be my _chef
d'oeuvre_ in that species of manufacture, as I look on Tam o'
Shanter to be my standard performance in the poetical line. 'Tis
true, both the one and the other discover a spice of roguish waggery,
that might perhaps be as well spared; but then they also show, in my
opinion, a force of genius and a finishing polish that I despair of
ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and laid as lustily
about her to-day at breakfast, as a reaper from the corn-ridge. That
is the peculiar privilege and blessing of our hale, sprightly damsels,
that are bred among the _hay and heather. _ We cannot hope for that
highly polished mind, that charming delicacy of soul, which is found
among the female world in the more elevated stations of life, and
which is certainly by far the most bewitching charm in the famous
cestus of Venus. It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that where
it can be had in its native heavenly purity, unstained by some one or
other of the many shades of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or
other of the many species of caprice, I declare to Heaven, I should
think it cheaply purchased at the expense of every other earthly good!
But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, extremely rare in any
station and rank of life, and totally denied to such a humble one as
mine, we meaner mortals must put up with the next rank of female
excellence--as fine a figure and face we can produce as any rank of
life whatever; rustic, native grace; unaffected modesty, and unsullied
purity; nature's mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste; a simplicity
of soul, unsuspicious of, because unacquainted with, the crooked ways
of a selfish, interested, disingenuous world; and the dearest charm of
all the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition, and a generous
warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part, and ardently glowing
with a more than equal return; these, with a healthy frame, a sound,
vigorous constitution, which your higher ranks can scarcely ever hope
to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman in my humble walk of life.

This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do let me
hear, by first post, how _cher petit Monsieur_ comes on with his
small-pox. May almighty goodness preserve and restore him!

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXVI.


TO ----.

[That his works found their way to the newspapers, need have
occasioned no surprise: the poet gave copies of his favorite pieces
freely to his friends, as soon as they were written: who, in their
turn, spread their fame among their acquaintances. ]

_Ellisland, 1791. _

DEAR SIR,

I am exceedingly to blame in not writing you long ago; but the truth
is, that I am the most indolent of all human beings; and when I
matriculate in the herald's office, I intend that my supporters shall
be two sloths, my crest a slow-worm, and the motto, "Deil tak the
foremost. " So much by way of apology for not thanking you sooner for
your kind execution of my commission.

I would have sent you the poem; but somehow or other it found its way
into the public papers, where you must have seen it.

I am ever, dear Sir,

Yours sincerely,

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXVII.


TO ----.

[This singular letter was sent by Burns, it is believed, to a critic,
who had taken him to task about obscure language, and imperfect
grammar. ]

_Ellisland, 1791. _

Thou eunuch of language: thou Englishman, who never was south the
Tweed: thou servile echo of fashionable barbarisms: thou quack,
vending the nostrums of empirical elocution: thou marriage-maker
between vowels and consonants, on the Gretna-green of caprice: thou
cobler, botching the flimsy socks of bombast oratory: thou blacksmith,
hammering the rivets of absurdity: thou butcher, imbruing thy hands in
the bowels of orthography: thou arch-heretic in pronunciation: thou
pitch-pipe of affected emphasis: thou carpenter, mortising the awkward
joints of jarring sentences: thou squeaking dissonance of cadence:
thou pimp of gender: thou Lion Herald to silly etymology: thou
antipode of grammar: thou executioner of construction: thou brood of
the speech-distracting builders of the Tower of Babel; thou lingual
confusion worse confounded: thou scape-gallows from the land of
syntax: thou scavenger of mood and tense: thou murderous accoucheur of
infant learning; thou _ignis fatuus_, misleading the steps of
benighted ignorance: thou pickle-herring in the puppet-show of
nonsense: thou faithful recorder of barbarous idiom: thou persecutor
of syllabication: thou baleful meteor, foretelling and facilitating
the rapid approach of Nox and Erebus.

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXVIII.


TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

[To Clarke, the Schoolmaster, Burns, it is said, addressed several
letters, which on his death were put into the fire by his widow,
because of their license of language. ]

_11th June, 1791. _

Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentleman
who waits on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, principal
schoolmaster there, and is at present suffering severely under the
persecution of one or two powerful individuals of his employers. He is
accused of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. God help
the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my friend
Clarke, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and
insists on lighting up the rays of science, in a fellow's head whose
skull is impervious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive
fracture with a cudgel: a fellow whom in fact it savours of impiety to
attempt making a scholar of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the
book of fate, at the almighty fiat of his Creator.

The patrons of Moffat-school are, the ministers, magistrates, and
town-council of Edinburgh, and as the business comes now before them,
let me beg my dearest friend to do everything in his power to serve
the interests of a man of genius and worth, and a man whom I
particularly respect and esteem. You know some good fellows among the
magistracy and council, but particularly you have much to say with a
reverend gentleman to whom you have the honour of being very nearly
related, and whom this country and age have had the honour to produce.
I need not name the historian of Charles V. I tell him through the
medium of his nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman who
will not disgrace even his patronage. I know the merits of the cause
thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is falling a sacrifice to
prejudiced ignorance.

God help the children of dependence! Hated and persecuted by their
enemies, and too often, alas! almost unexceptionably, received by
their friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin disguise of
cold civility and humiliating advice. O! to be a sturdy savage,
stalking in the pride of his independence, amid the solitary wilds of
his deserts; rather than in civilized life, helplessly to tremble for
a subsistence, precarious as the caprice of a fellow-creature! Every
man has his virtues, and no man is without his failings; and curse on
that privileged plain-dealing of friendship, which, in the hour of my
calamity, cannot reach forth the helping hand without at the same time
pointing out those failings, and apportioning them their share in
procuring my present distress. My friends, for such the world calls
ye, and such ye think yourselves to be, pass by my virtues if you
please, but do, also, spare my follies: the first will witness in my
breast for themselves, and the last will give pain enough to the
ingenuous mind without you. And since deviating more or less from the
paths of propriety and rectitude, must be incident to human nature, do
thou, Fortune, put it in my power, always from myself, and of myself,
to bear the consequence of those errors! I do not want to be
independent that I may sin, but I want to be independent in my
sinning.

To return in this rambling letter to the subject I set out with, let
me recommend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good
offices; his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will
merit the other. I long much to hear from you.

Adieu!

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXIX.


TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN.

[Lord Buchan printed this letter in his Essay on the Life of Thomson,
in 1792. His lordship invited Burns to leave his corn unreaped, walk
from Ellisland to Dryburgh, and help him to crown Thomson's bust with
bays, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of September. ]

_Ellisland, August 29th, 1791. _

MY LORD,

Language sinks under the ardour of my feelings when I would thank your
lordship for the honour you have done me in inviting me to make one at
the coronation of the bust of Thomson. In my first enthusiasm in
reading the card you did me the honour to write me, I overlooked
every obstacle, and determined to go; but I fear it will not be in my
power. A week or two's absence, in the very middle of my harvest, is
what I much doubt I dare not venture on. I once already made a
pilgrimage _up_ the whole course of the Tweed, and fondly would I take
the same delightful journey _down_ the windings of that delightful
stream.

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion: but who would write
after Collins? I read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and
despaired. --I got indeed to the length of three or four stanzas, in
the way of address to the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I
shall trouble your lordship with the subjoined copy of them, which, I
am afraid, will be but too convincing a proof how unequal I am to the
task. However, it affords me an opportunity of approaching your
lordship, and declaring how sincerely and gratefully I have the honour
to be, &c. ,

R. B.

* * * * *




CCXX.


TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN.

[Thomas Sloan was a west of Scotland man, and seems, though not much
in correspondence, to have been on intimate terms with Burns. ]

_Ellisland, Sept. 1, 1791. _

MY DEAR SLOAN,

Suspense is worse than disappointment, for that reason I hurry to tell
you that I just now learn that Mr. Ballantyne does not choose to
interfere more in the business. I am truly sorry for it, but cannot
help it.

You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will please to
recollect that you omitted one little necessary piece of
information;--your address.

However, you know equally well, my hurried life, indolent temper, and
strength of attachment. It must be a longer period than the longest
life "in the world's hale and undegenerate days," that will make me
forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at times,
but I will not part with such a treasure as that.

I can easily enter into the _embarras_ of your present situation. You
know my favourite quotation from Young--

---------------"On reason build RESOLVE!
That column of true majesty in man;"

and that other favourite one from Thomson's Alfred--

"What proves the hero truly GREAT,
Is never, never to despair. "

Or shall I quote you an author of your acquaintance?

"---- Whether DOING, SUFFERING, OR FORBEARING,
You may do miracles by--PERSEVERING. "

I have nothing new to tell you. The few friends we have are going on
in the old way. I sold my crop on this day se'ennight, and sold it
very well. A guinea an acre, on an average, above value. But such a
scene of drunkenness was hardly ever seen in this country.