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<pre>

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Letters of Robert Burns, by Robert Burns
#3 in our series by Robert Burns

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Title: The Letters of Robert Burns

Author: Robert Burns

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</pre>

<h2>BURNS'S LETTERS.</h2>

<h1>THE LETTERS OF ROBERT BURNS,</h1>

<h2>SELECTED AND ARRANGED,</h2>

<h2>WITH AN INTRODUCTION,</h2>

<h2>Y J. LOGIE ROBERTSON, M.A.</h2>

<p><br>
</p>

<hr width="100%">
<blockquote><i>"You shall write whatever comes first,&mdash;what you
see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you
dislike; trifles, bagatelles, nonsense, or, to fill up a corner,
e'en put down a laugh at full length"</i>&mdash;Burns.

<p><i>"My life reminded me of a ruined temple: what strength,
what proportion in some parts! what unsightly gaps, what
prostrate ruin in others!"</i>&mdash;Burns.</p>

<hr width="100%">
</blockquote>

<h3><a name="tgen1"></a><a href="#gen1">GENERAL
CORRESPONDENCE</a></h3>

<table summary="" width="100%">
<tr>
<td>To Ellison or Alison Begbie (?)

<p>To Ellison Begbie</p>

<p>To Ellison Begbie</p>

<p>To Ellison Begbie</p>

<p>To Ellison Begbie</p>

<p>To his Father</p>

<p>To Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., of Ballochmyle</p>

<p>To Mr. John Murdoch, schoolmaster, Staples Inn Buildings,
London</p>

<p>To his Cousin, Mr. James Burness, writer, Montrose</p>

<p>To Mr. James Burness, writer, Montrose</p>

<p>To Mr. James Burness, writer, Montrose</p>

<p>To Thomas Orr, Park, Kirkoswald</p>

<p>To Miss Margaret Kennedy</p>

<p>To Miss&mdash;&mdash;, Ayrshire</p>

<p>To Mr. John Richmond, law clerk, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mr. James Smith, shopkeeper, Mauchline</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Muir, wine merchant, Kilmarnock</p>

<p>To Mr. John Ballantine, banker, Ayr</p>

<p>To Mr. M'Whinnie, writer, Ayr</p>

<p>To John Arnot, Esquire, of Dalquatswood</p>

<p>To Mr. David Brice, shoemaker, Glasgow</p>

<p>To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mr. John Richmond</p>

<p>To Mr. John Kennedy</p>

<p>To his Cousin, Mr. James Burness, writer, Montrose</p>

<p>To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Aikin, writer, Ayr</p>

<p>To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline; inclosing him verses on dining
with Lord Daer</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop</p>

<p>To Miss Alexander</p>

<p>In the Name of the Nine. <i>Amen</i></p>

<p>To James Dalrymple, Esquire, Orangefield</p>

<p>To Sir. John Whitefoord</p>

<p>To Mr. Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline</p>

<p>To Mr. John Ballantine, banker, at one time Provost of Ayr</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Muir</p>

<p>To Mr. William Chambers, writer, Ayr</p>

<p>To the Earl of Eglinton</p>

<p>To Mr. John Ballantine</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Dr. Moore</p>

<p>To the Rev. G. Lawrie, Newmilns, near Kilmarnock</p>
</td>
<td>To the Earl of Buchan

<p>To Mr. James Candlish, student in physic, Glasgow College</p>

<p>To Mr. Peter Stuart, Editor of "The Star," London</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Dr. Moore</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. William Nicol, classical master, High School,
Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mr. William Nicol</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Ainslie</p>

<p>To Mr. James Smith, Linlithgow, formerly of Mauchline</p>

<p>To Mr. John Richmond</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Ainslie</p>

<p>To Dr. Moore</p>

<p>To Mr. Archibald Lawrie</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Muir, Kilmarnock</p>

<p>To Mr. Gavin Hamilton</p>

<p>To Mr. Walker, Blair of Athole</p>

<p>To his Brother, Mr. Gilbert Burns, Mossgiel</p>

<p>To Mr. Patrick Miller, Dalswinton</p>

<p>To Rev. John Skinner</p>

<p>To Miss Margaret Chalmers, Harvieston</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop House, Stewarton</p>

<p>To Mr. James Hoy, Gordon Castle</p>

<p>To the Earl of Glencairn</p>

<p>To Miss Chalmers</p>

<p>To Miss Chalmers</p>

<p>To Miss Chalmers</p>

<p>To Mr. Richard Brown, Irvine</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To the Rev. John Skinner</p>

<p>To Mrs. Rose, of Kilravock</p>

<p>To Richard Brown, Greenock</p>

<p>To Mr. William Cruikshank</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Ainslie</p>

<p>To Mr. Richard Brown</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Muir</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. William Nicol (perhaps)</p>

<p>To Miss Chalmers</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>

<h3><a name="tclar"></a><a href="#clarinda">THE CLARINDA
LETTERS</a></h3>

<h3><a name="tgen2"></a><a href="#gen2">GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE
(RESUMED)&mdash;</a></h3>

<table summary="" width="100%">
<tr>
<td>To Mr. Gavin Hamilton

<p>To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S., Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. James Smith, Avon Printfield, Linlithgow</p>

<p>To Professor Dugald Stewart</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. Samuel Brown, Kirkoswald</p>

<p>To Mr. James Johnson, engraver, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Ainslie</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop, at Mr. Dunlop's, Haddington</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Ainslie</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Ainslie</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. Beugo, engraver, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Graham, of Fintry</p>

<p>To his Wife, at Mauchline.</p>

<p>To Miss Chalmers, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mr. Morison, wright, Mauchline</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. Peter Hill</p>

<p>To the Editor of the "Star"</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop, at Moreham Mains</p>

<p>To Dr. Blacklock</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. John Tennant</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Dr. Moore, London</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Ainslie</p>

<p>To Professor Dugald Stewart</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Cleghorn, Saughton Mills</p>

<p>To Bishop Geddes, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mr. James Burness</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To, Mrs. M'Lehose (formerly Clarinda)</p>

<p>To Dr. Moore</p>

<p>To his Brother, Mr. William Burns</p>

<p>To Mr. Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mrs. M'Murdo, Drumlanrig</p>

<p>To Mr. Cunningham</p>

<p>To Mr. Richard Brown</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Ainslie</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Miss Helen Maria Williams</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Graham, of Fintry.</p>

<p>To David Sillar, merchant, Irvine.</p>

<p>To Mr. John Logan, of Knock Shinriock</p>

<p>To Mr. Peter Stuart, editor, London</p>

<p>To his Brother, William Burns, saddler, Newcastle-on-Tyne</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Captain Riddel, Friars Carse</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Ainslie, W.S.</p>

<p>To Mr. Richard Brown, Port-Glasgow</p>

<p>To Mr. R. Graham, of Fintry</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Lady Winifred M. Constable</p>

<p>To Mr. Charles K. Sharpe, of Hoddam</p>

<p>To his Brother, Gilbert Burns, Mossgiel</p>

<p>To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S.</p>
</td>
<td>To Mrs. Dunlop

<p>To Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mr. W. Nicol</p>

<p>To Mr. Cunningham, writer, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mr. Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Dr. John Moore, London</p>

<p>To Mr. Murdoch, teacher of French, London</p>

<p>To Mr. Cunningham</p>

<p>To Mr. Crauford Tait, W.S., Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S.</p>

<p>To Mr. Peter Hill</p>

<p>To Dr. Moore</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To the Rev. Arch. Alison</p>

<p>To the Rev. G. Haird</p>

<p>To Mr. Cunningharn, writer, Edinburgh</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. Cunningham</p>

<p>To Mr. Thomas Sloan</p>

<p>To Mr. Ainslie</p>

<p>To Miss Davies</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. William Smellie, printer</p>

<p>To Mr. William Nicol</p>

<p>To Mr. Francis Grose, F.S.A</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. Cunningham</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. R. Graham, Fintry</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. Robert Graham, of Fintry</p>

<p>To Mr. Alex. Cunningham, W.S., Edinbiugh</p>

<p>To Mr. Cunningham</p>

<p>To Miss Benson, York, afterwards Mrs. Basil Montagu</p>

<p>To Mr. John Francis Erskine, of Mar</p>

<p>To Miss M'Murdo, Drumlanrig</p>

<p>To John M'Murdo, Esq., Drumlanrig</p>

<p>To Mrs. Riddel</p>

<p>To Mrs. Riddel</p>

<p>To Mrs. Riddel</p>

<p>To Mrs. Riddel</p>

<p>To Mr. Cunningham</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. James Johnson</p>

<p>To Mr. Peter Hill, Jun., of Dalswinton</p>

<p>To Mrs. Riddel</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop, in London</p>

<p>To the Hon. The Provost, etc., of Dumfries</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr James Johnson</p>

<p>To Mr. Cunningham</p>

<p>To Mr. Gilbert Burns</p>

<p>To Mrs. Burns</p>

<p>To Mrs. Dunlop</p>

<p>To Mr. James Burness, writer, Montrose</p>

<p>To his Father-in-law, James Armour, mason, Mauchline</p>
</td>
</tr>
</table>

<h3><a name="tthom"></a><a href="#thoms">THE THOMSON
LETTERS</a></h3>

<hr width="100%">
<h2>BURNS'S LETTERS.</h2>

It is not perhaps generally known that the prose of Burns exceeds
in quantity his verse. The world remembers him as a poet, and
forgets or overlooks his letters. His place among the poets has
never been denied&mdash;it is in the first rank; nor is he lowest,
though little remembered, among letter-writers. His letters gave
Jeffrey a higher opinion of him as a man than did his poetry,
though on both alike the critic saw the seal and impress of
genius. Dugald Stewart thought his letters objects of wonder
scarcely less than his poetry. And Robertson, comparing his prose
with his verse, thought the former the more extraordinary of the
two. In the popular view of his genius there is, however, no
denying the fact that his poetry has eclipsed his prose.

<p>His prose consists mostly of letters, but it also includes a
noble fragment of autobiography; three journals of observations
made at Mossgiel, Edinburgh, and Ellisland respectively; two
itineraries, the one of his border tour, the other of his tour in
the Highlands; and historical notes to two collections of
Scottish songs. A full enumeration of his prose productions would
take account also of his masonic minutes, his inscriptions, a
rather curious business paper drawn up by the poet-exciseman in
prosecution of a smuggler, and of course his various prefaces,
notably the dedication of his poems to the members of the
Caledonian Hunt.</p>

<p>His letters, however, far exceed the sum of his other-prose
writings. Close upon five hundred and forty have already been
published. These are not all the letters he ever wrote. Where,
for example, is the literary correspondence in which he engaged
so enthusiastically with his Kirkoswald schoolfellows? "Though I
had not three farthings' worth of business in the world, yet
every post brought me as many letters as if I had been a
broad-plodding son of daybook and ledger." Where are the letters
which brought to the ploughman at Lochlie such a constant and
copious stream of replies? The circumstances of his position will
explain why they perished: he was then "a youth and all unknown
to fame." It is even doubtful if the five hundred and forty
published letters include all the letters of Burns that now
exist. Scarcely a year passes but some epistolary scrap in the
well-known handwriting is unearthed and ceremoniously added to
the previous sum total, And yet, notwithstanding losses past or
within recall, it is probable that we have long had the whole of
Burns's most characteristic letters. It was inevitable that these
should be preserved and published. His fame was so rooted in the
popular regard in his lifetime, that a characteristic letter from
his hand was sure to be received as something singularly
precious. It must not be forgotten, however, that Burns's
personality was so intense as to colour the smallest fragment of
his correspondence, and it is on this account desirable that
every note he penned that yet remains unpublished should be
produced. It might give no new feature to our conception of his
character; but it would help the shading&mdash;which, in the
portraiture of any person, must chiefly be furnished by the minor
and more commonplace actions of his everyday life.</p>

<p>The correspondence of Burns, as we have it, commences,
presumably, near the close of his twenty-second year, and extends
to all but exactly the middle of his thirty-eighth. The dates are
a day somewhere at the end of 1780, and Monday, 18th July 1796.
Between these limits lies the printed correspondence of sixteen
years. The sum total of this correspondence allows about
thirty-four letters to each year, but the actual distribution is
very unequal, ranging from the minimum, in 1782, of one, a
masonic letter addressed to Sir John Whitefoord of Ballochmyle,
to the maximum number of ninety-two, in 1788, the great year of
the Clarinda episode. It is in 1786, the year of the publication
of his first volume at Kilmarnock, the year of his literary
birth, that his correspondence first becomes heavy. It rises at a
leap from two letters in the preceding year to as many as
forty-four. The phenomenal increase is partly explained by the
success of his poems. He became a man that was worth the knowing,
whose correspondence was worth preserving. The six years of his
published correspondence previous to the discovery of his genius
in 1786 are represented by only fourteen letters in all. But in
those years his letters, though both numerous and prized above
the common, were not considered as likely to be of future
interest, and were therefore suffered to live or die as chance
might determine. They mostly perished, the recipients thinking it
hardly worth their while to be sae nice wi' Robin as to preserve
them.</p>

<p>After the recognition of his power in 1786, the record of his
preserved letters shews, for the ten years of his literary life,
several fluctuations which admit of easy explanation. Commencing
with 1787, the numbers are:&mdash;78, 92, 54, 33, 44, 31, 66, 30, 27,
24. The first of these years was totally severed from rural
occupations, or business of any kind, if we except the
publication of the first Edinburgh edition of his poems. It was a
complete holiday year to him. He was either resident in
Edinburgh, studying men and manners, or touring about the
country, visiting those places which history, song, or scenery
had made famous. Wherever he was, his fame brought him the
acquaintance of a great many new people. His leisure and the
novelty of his situation afforded him both opportunity and
subject for an extensive correspondence. For a large part of the
next year, 1788, he was similarly circumstanced, and the number
of his letters was exceptionally increased by his entanglement
with Mrs. M'Lehose. To her alone, in less than three months of
this year, he wrote at least thirty-six letters,&mdash;considerably
over one-third of the entire epistolary produce of the year. In
1789 we find the number of his letters fall to fifty-four. This
was, perhaps, the happiest year of his life. He was now
comfortably established as a farmer in a home of his own, busied
with healthy rural work, and finding in the happy fireside clime
which he was making for wife and weans "the true pathos and
sublime" of human duty. He has still, however, time and
inclination to write on the average one letter a week. For each
of the next three years the average number is thirty-six. In 1793
the number suddenly goes up to sixty-six: the increase is due to
the heartiness with which he took up the scheme of George Thomson
to popularise and perpetuate the best old Scottish airs by
fitting them with words worthy of their merits. He wrote, in this
year, twenty-six letters in support of the scheme.</p>

<p>There is a sad falling off in Burns's ordinary correspondence
in the last three years of his life. The amount of it scarcely
touches twenty letters per year. Even the correspondence with
Thomson, though on a subject so dear to the heart of Burns,
rousing at once both his patriotism and his poetry, sinks to
about ten letters per year, and is irregular at that. Burns was
losing hope and health, and caring less and less for the world's
favour and the world's friendships. He had lost largely in
self-respect as well as in the respect of friends. The loss gave
him little heart to write.</p>

<p>Burns's correspondents, as far as we know them, numbered over
a hundred and fifty persons. The number is large and significant.
Neither Gray, nor Cowper, nor Byron commanded so wide a circle.
They had not the far-reaching sympathies of Burns. They were all
more or less fastidious in their choice of correspondents. Burns,
on the contrary, was as catholic, or as careless, in his
friendships as his own <i>C&aelig;sar</i>&mdash;who</p>

<blockquote>"Wad spend an hour caressin'<br>
Ev'n wi' a tinkler gipsy's messan."</blockquote>

He moved freely up and down the whole social scale, blind to the
imaginary distinctions of blood and title and the extrinsic
differences of wealth, seeing true superiority in an honest manly
heart, and bearing himself wherever he found it as an equal and a
brother. His correspondents were of every social grade&mdash;peers and
peasants; of every intellectual attainment&mdash;philosophers like
Dugald Stewart, and simple swains like Thomas Orr; and of almost
every variety of calling, from professional men of recognised
eminence to obscure shopkeepers, cottars, and tradesmen. They
include servant-girls, gentlewomen, and ladies of titled rank;
country schoolmasters and college professors; men of law of all
degrees, from poor John Richmond, a plain law-clerk with a
lodging in the Lawnmarket, to the Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean
of the Faculty; farmers, small and large; lairds, large and
small; shoemakers and shopkeepers; ministers, bankers, and
doctors; printers, booksellers, editors; knights, earls&mdash;nay, a
duke; factors and wine-merchants; army officers, and officers of
Excise. His female correspondents were women of superior
intelligence and accomplishments. They can lay claim to a large
proportion of his letters. Mrs. McLehose takes forty-eight; Mrs.
Dunlop, forty-two; Maria Riddell, eighteen; Peggy Chalmers,
eleven. These four ladies received among them rather more than
one-fourth of the whole of his published correspondence. No four
of his male correspondents can be accredited with so many, even
though George Thomson for his individual share claims fifty-six.

<p>It is rather remarkable that so few of the letters are
addressed to his own relatives. His cousin, James Burness of
Montrose, and his own younger brother William receive, indeed,
ten and eight respectively; but to his other brother Gilbert,
with whom he was on the most affectionate and confidential terms,
there fall but three; to his wife only two; one to his father;
and none to either his sisters or his mother. A maternal uncle,
Samuel Brown, is favoured with one&mdash;if, indeed, the old man was
not scandalised with it&mdash;and there are two to James Armour, mason
in Mauchline, his somewhat stony-hearted father-in-law.</p>

<p>Burns's letters exhibit quite as much variety of mood&mdash;seldom,
of course, so picturesquely conveyed&mdash;as his poems. He is, in
promiscuous alternation, refined, gross, sentimental, serious,
humorous, indignant, repentant, dignified, vulgar, tender, manly,
sceptical, reverential, rakish, pathetic, sympathetic, satirical,
playful, pitiably self-abased, mysteriously self-exalted. His
letters are confessions and revelations. They are as sincerely
and spontaneously autobiographical of his inner life as the
sacred lyrics of David the Hebrew. They were indited with as much
free fearless abandonment. The advice he gave to young Andrew to
keep something to himsel', not to be told even to a bosom crony,
was a maxim of worldly prudence which he himself did not
practice. He did not "reck his own rede." And, though that habit
of unguarded expression brought upon him the wrath and revenge of
the Philistines, and kept him in material poverty all his days,
yet, prompted as it always was by sincerity, and nearly always by
absolute truth, it has made the manhood of to-day richer,
stronger, and nobler. The world to-day has all the more the
courage of its opinions that Burns exercised as a right the
freedom of sincere and enlightened speech&mdash;and suffered for his
bravery.</p>

<p>The subjects of his letters are numerous, and, to a pretty
large extent, of much the same sort as the subjects of his poems.
Often, indeed, you have the anticipation of an image or a
sentiment which his poetry has made familiar. You have a glimpse
of green buds which afterwards unfold into fragrance and colour.
This is an interesting connection, of which one or two examples
may be given. So early as 1781 he wrote to Alison Begbie&mdash;"Once
you are convinced I am sincere, I am perfectly certain you have
too much goodness and humanity to allow an honest man to languish
in suspense only because he loves you too well." Alison Begbie
becomes Mary Morison, and the sentiment, so elegantly turned in
prose for her, is thus melodiously transmuted for the lady-loves
of all languishing lovers&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>"O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace<br>
Wha for thy sake would gladly dee,<br>
Or canst thou break that heart of his<br>
Wha's only faut is loving thee?

<p>If love for love thou wiltna gie,<br>
At least be pity on me shown:<br>
A thocht ungentle canna be<br>
The thocht o' Mary Morison!"</p>
</blockquote>

Again, in the first month of 1783 he writes to Murdoch, the
schoolmaster&mdash;"I am quite indolent about those great concerns
that set the bustling busy sons of care agog; and if I have
wherewith to answer for the present hour, I am very easy with
regard to anything further. Even the last worst shift of the
unfortunate and wretched does not greatly terrify me." Just one
year later this sentiment was sent current in the well-known
stanza concluding&mdash;

<blockquote>"But, Davie lad, ne'er fash your head<br>
Though we hae little gear;<br>
We're fit to win our daily bread<br>
As lang's we're hale an' fier;<br>
Mair speer na, nor fear na;<br>
Auld age ne'er mind a fig,<br>
The last o't, the warst o't,<br>
Is only for to beg!"</blockquote>

Again, in the letter last referred to occurs the passage&mdash;"I am a
strict economist, not indeed for the sake of the money, but one
of the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride, and
I scorn to fear the face of any man living. Above everything I
abhor as hell the idea of sneaking into a corner to avoid a dun."
This is metrically rendered, in May 1786, in the following
lines:&mdash;

<blockquote>"To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,<br>
Assiduous wait upon her,<br>
And gather gear by every wile<br>
That's justified by honour:&mdash;<br>
Not for to hide it in a hedge,<br>
Nor for a train attendant,<br>
But for the glorious privilege<br>
Of being independent."</blockquote>

It would be easy to multiply examples: he is jostled in his
letters by market-men before he is "hog-shouthered and jundied"
by them in his verse; and the legends of Alloway Kirk are
narrated in a letter to Grose before the immortal tale of Tam
o'Shanter is woven for <i>The Antiquities of Scotland</i>.

<p>There is nothing morbid or narrow in Burns's letters. They are
frank and healthy. You can spend a day over them, and feel at the
end of it as if you had been wandering at large through the
freedom of nature. They seem to have been written in the open
air. The first condition necessary to an appreciative
understanding of them is to concern yourself with the sentiment.
And, indeed, the strength and sincerity of the sentiment
by-and-by draw you away to oblivion of the style, however much it
may at first strike you as redundant and affected. They are not
the letters of a literary man. They have nothing suggestive of
the studious chamber and the midnight lamp. There is often a
narrowness of idea in the merely literary man which limits his
auditory to men of his peculiar pattern. To this narrowness
Burns, with all his faults of style, was a stranger. His letters
are the utterances of a man who refused to be imprisoned in any
single department of human thought. He was no specialist, pinned
to one standpoint, and making the width of the world commensurate
with the narrowness of his own horizon. He moved about, he looked
abroad; he had no pet subject, no restricted field of study;
nature and human nature in their multitudinous phases and many
retreats were his range, and he expressed his views as freely and
vigorously as he took them.</p>

<p>The general tone of the letters is high. The subject is not
seldom of supreme interest. Questions are discussed which are
rarely discussed in ordinary correspondence. The writer rises
above creeds and formularies and arbitrarily established rule. He
speculates on a theology beyond the bounds of Calvinism, on a
philosophy of the soul above the dialectics of the schoolmen, on
a morality at variance with conventional law. He interrogates the
intuitions of the mind and the intimations of nature in order
that, if possible, he may learn something of the soul's origin,
destiny, and supremest duty. But let us hear himself:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><i>(a)</i> "I have ever looked on mankind in the lump
to be nothing better    than a foolish, head-strong, credulous,
unthinking mob; and their universal belief has ever had extremely
little weight with me.... I am drawn by conviction like a Man,
not by a halter like an Ass."

<p><i>(b)</i> "<i>'On Earth Discord! A gloomy Heaven above
opening its jealous gates to the nineteen-thousandth part of the
tithe of mankind! And below an inexorable Hell expanding its
leviathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals!'</i> O doctrine
comfortable and healing to the weary wounded soul of man! Ye sons
and daughters of affliction, to whom day brings no pleasure and
night yields no rest, be comforted! 'Tis one to but nineteen
hundred housand that your situation will mend in this world, and
'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the dogmas of theology,
that you will be damned eternally in the world to come."</p>

<p><i>(c)</i> "A pillar that bears us up amid the wreck of
misfortune and   misery is to be found in those feelings and
sentiments which, however    the sceptic may deny or the
enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and
component parts of the human soul; those; <i>senses of the
mind</i>, if I may be allowed the expression, which link us to
the awful obscure realities of an all-powerful and equally
beneficent God and a world-to-come beyond death and the
grave."</p>

<p><i>(d)</i> "Can it be possible that when I resign this frail,
feverish being I shall still find myself in conscious
existence?... Shall I yet be warm in life, seeing and seen,
enjoying and enjoyed? Ye venerable Sages and holy Flamens, is
there probability in your conjectures, truth in your stories, of
another world beyond death, or are they all alike baseless
visions and fabricated fables? If there is another life, it must
only be for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and the
humane; what a flattering idea then is a world to come! Would to
God I as firmly believed it as I ardently wish it!... Jesus
Christ, thou amiablest of characters! I trust thou art no
impostor.... I trust that in Thee shall all the families of the
earth be blessed."</p>

<p><i>(e)</i> "From the seeming nature of the human mind, as well
as from the evident imperfections in the administration of
affairs, in both the natural and moral worlds, there must be a
retributive scene of existence beyond the grave."</p>

<p><i>(f)</i> "I never hear the loud solitary whistle of the
curlew in a summer's noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop
of grey plover in an autumn morning, without feeling an elevation
of soul like the enthusiasm of Devotion or Poetry. Tell me, my
dear friend, to what can this be owing? Are we a piece of
machinery, that, like the &AElig;olian harp, passive, takes the
impression of the passing accident? Or do these workings argue
something within us above the trodden clod?"</p>

<p><i>(g)</i> "Gracious Heaven! why this disparity between our
wishes and our powers? Why is the most generous wish to make
others blest, impotent and ineffectual?... Out upon the world!
say I, that its affairs are administered so ill."</p>

<p><i>(h)</i> "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&mdash;these I had set down as irrefragable orthodox truths."<a
name="FNanchorA"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_A">[a]</a></sup></p>

<p><i>(i)</i> "O, I could curse circumstances, and the coarse tie
of human laws which keeps fast what common-sense would loose, and
which bars that happiness it cannot give&mdash;happiness which
otherwise love and honour would warrant!"</p>

<p><i>(j)</i> "If there is no man on earth to whom your heart and
affections are justly due, it may savour of imprudence, but never
of criminality, to bestow that heart and those affections where
you please. The God of love meant and made those delicious
attachments to be bestowed on somebody."</p>
</blockquote>

The inequalities of fortune, the pleasures of friendship, the
miseries of poverty, the glories of independence, the privileges
of wealth allied to generosity, the sin of ingratitude, and
similar topics, are continually recurring to prove the elevation
at which his spirit usually soared and surveyed mankind. It has
been charged against him<a name="FNanchorB"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_B">[b]</a></sup> that these subjects were not the food
of his daily contemplation, but were lugged into his letters for
the sake of effect, and that their clumsy introduction was
frequently apologised for by the complaint that the writer had
nothing else to write about. The frequent apologies here spoken
of will be hard to find, and the critic's only reason for
advancing the charge, for which he would fain find support in the
fancied apologies of Burns, is that many of the letters "relate
neither to facts nor feelings peculiarly connected with the
author or his correspondent." This only means that a very large
proportion of Burns's letters are not like the letters of
ordinary men, and therefore do not satisfy the critic's idea or
definition of a letter. They treat of themes that are not
specially <i>&agrave; propos</i> of passing events, and therefore
they are forced and affected. Few are likely to be imposed upon
by such shallow reasoning. Another critic<a name=
"FNanchorC"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_C">[c]</a></sup> avers
that "while Burns says nothing of difficulties at all, he yet
leaves an admirable letter, out of nothing, in your hands!" We
may pit the one critic against the other, and so leave them,
while we peruse the letters, and form an opinion for ourselves.

<p>While both the verse and the prose of Burns are revelations,
his letters reveal more than his poems the failings and frailties
of the man. His poems, taken altogether, shew him at his best, as
we wish to&mdash;and as we mainly do&mdash;remember him; a man to be loved,
admired, even envied, and by no means pitied, for his soul,
though often vexed with the irritations incidental to an obscure
and toiling lot, has a strength and buoyancy which readily raise
it to divine altitudes, where it might well be content to see and
smile at the petty class distinctions and the paltry social
tyranny from which those irritations chiefly spring. His letters,
on the other hand, present him to us less frequently on those
commanding altitudes. He is oftener careful and concerned about
many things, groping occasionally in the world's ways for the
world's gifts, and handicapped in the struggle for them by a
contemptuous and half-hearted adoption of the world's methods of
winning them.</p>

<p>The same personality that stands forth in the poems is
everywhere present in all essential features in the letters. We
have in the latter the same view of life, present and future; the
same fierce contentment with honest poverty; the same aggressive
independency of manhood; the same patriotism, susceptibility to
female loveliness, love of sociality, undaunted likes and
dislikes. The humour is the same, though often too elaborately
expressed.<a name="FNanchorD"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_D">[d]</a></sup> In one important respect, however,
his letters fail to reflect that image of him which his poetry
presents. It is remarkable that his descriptions of rural nature,
and one might add of rustic life, so full and plentiful in his
verse, are so few and slight in his letters. He seems to have
reserved these descriptions for his verse.</p>

<p>The best, because the most genuine, biography of Burns is
furnished by his own writings. His letters will, if carefully
studied, disprove many of the positions taken up so confidently
by would-be interpreters of his history. It is not the purpose of
this discursive paper to take up the details of the Clarinda
episode; but philandering is scarcely the word by which to
describe the mutual relations of the lovers. As for Mrs.
M'Lehose, the severest thing that can with justice be said
against her is that, if she maintained her virtue, she endangered
her reputation. One remarkable position taken up by a recent
writer<a name="FNanchorE"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_E">[e]</a></sup> on the subject of Burns's amours is,
that he never really loved any woman, and least of all Jean
Armour. The letters would rather warrant the converse of his
statement. They go to prove that while Burns's affections were
more than oriental in their strength and liberality, they were
especially centred upon Jean. He felt "a miserable blank in his
heart with want of her;" "a rooted attachment for her;" "had no
reason on her part to rue his marriage with her;" and "never saw
where he could have made it better." If Burns was never really in
love, it is more than probable that the whole world has been
mistaking some other passion for it. It is this same writer who
in one breath speaks of Burns philandering with Clarinda, and yet
declaring his attachment to her in the best songs he ever wrote.
Another error which the letters should correct is the belief
expressed in some quarters that Burns was no longer capable of
producing poetry after his fatal residence in Edinburgh. It was,
as a matter of fact, subsequent to his residence in Edinburgh
that he wrote the poems for which he is now, and for which he
will be longest, famous&mdash;namely, his songs. The writer already
referred to compares the composition of these songs to the
carving of cherry-stones. They were, he says in effect, the
amusement of a man who could do nothing better in literature! The
world has agreed that they are the best things Burns has done;
and rates him for their sake in the highest rank of its poets.
The truth is that Burns came to Ellisland with numerous schemes
of future poetical work, vigorous hopes of carrying some of them,
and an inspiration and faculty of utterance unimpaired. It was in
Dumfriesshire that he composed the most tenderly and melodiously
seraphic of his lyrics&mdash;"To Mary in Heaven" and "Highland Mary;"
the most powerful and popular of his narrative poems&mdash;"Tam O'
Shanter;" the first of all patriotic odes&mdash;"Bruce's Address to
his Army"; and the noblest manifesto of the rights and hopes of
manhood&mdash;"A Man's a Man for a' that."</p>

<p>With one word on his style as a prose-writer this short paper
must close. The most diverse opinions have been uttered on the
subject. The critics trip up each other with charming
independency. To Jeffrey they seemed to be "all composed as
exercises and for display." Carlyle declared that they were
written "for the most part with singular force and even
gracefulness," and that when Burns wrote "to trusted friends on
real interests, his style became simple, vigorous, expressive,
sometimes even beautiful." Dr. Waddell prefers him to Cowper and
Byron as a letter-writer. Scott, while allowing passages of great
eloquence, found in the letters "strong marks of affectation,
with a tincture of pedantry." Taine thinks "Burns brought
ridicule on himself by imitating the men of the academy and the
court." Lockhart thought, with Walker, that "he accommodated his
style to the tastes" of his correspondents. And so on.</p>

<p>It is worth while to learn from Burns himself what he thought
of his talent for prose-composition. And in the first place it is
to be noted that he practised prose-composition before he took to
poetry. At sixteen he was carrying on an extensive literary
correspondence, which was virtually a competition in
essay-writing. He kept copies of the letters he liked best, and
was flattered to find that he was superior to his correspondents.
He studied the essayists of Queen Anne's time, and formed his
style upon theirs, and that of their most distinguished
followers. Steele, Addison, Swift, Sterne, and Mackenzie were his
models. He liked their rounded sentences, and caught their
conventional phrases. He found delight in imitating them. He
volunteered his services with the pen on behalf of his
fellow-swains. He became the "Complete Letter-Writer" of his
parish, and was proud of his function and his faculty. He was
aware of his "abilities at a billet-doux." To the very last he
had a high opinion of himself as a writer of letters. He speaks
of one letter being in his "very best manner;" and of waiting for
an hour of inspiration to write another that should be as good.
He retained copies of about thirty of his longer letters, and had
them bound for preservation.</p>

<p>The most serious, almost the only charge brought against the
prose style of Burns is the charge of affectation more or less
occasional. All the earlier critics make it or imply it, and with
such an apparent show of proof that it has generally been
believed. Later critics, while unable to deny the feature of his
style which so looks like affectation, have explained it to such
good effect as to make it appear a beauty; they have asked us to
regard it as the happy result of a sympathetic mind adapting
itself to the object of its address. This looks very like blaming
Burns's correspondents for the badness of his style. There is
some truth in the explanation, putting it even so extremely. But
when this allowance is made, there still remains a wide and
well-marked difference between his use of English prose and his
mastery of Scottish verse. The latter is complete&mdash;it is the
mastery of an originator of style. The former, on the other hand,
is the attainment of a clever pupil when the sentiment is
commonplace; when it is deep and vehement, it is often, in the
language of Carlyle, "the effort of a man to express something
which he has no organ fit for expressing." Common people, to whom
niceties of style are unknown, and who read primarily or
exclusively for the sake of the matter, perceive nothing of this
affectation, and think scarcely less highly of Burns's letters
than they do of his poetry.</p>

<h3>J. LOGIE ROBERTSON.</h3>

<h3>7 LOCKHARTON TERRACE, SLATEFORD, EDINBURGH.</h3>

<p><br>
<a name="Footnote_A"></a><a href="#FNanchorA">[a]</a> This is
really the exposure of an absurdity.<br>
<a name="Footnote_B"></a><a href="#FNanchorB">[b]</a> By
Jeffrey.<br>
<a name="Footnote_C"></a><a href="#FNanchorC">[c]</a> Dr. Hately
Waddell.<br>
<a name="Footnote_D"></a><a href="#FNanchorD">[d]</a> See, for
example, the <i>Cheese</i> Letter to Peter Hill, or the
<i>Snail's-horns</i> Letter to Mrs. Dunlop.<br>
<a name="Footnote_E"></a><a href="#FNanchorE">[e]</a> Mr. R. L.
Stevenson.</p>

<hr width="100%">
<h2><a name="gen1"></a><a href="#tgen1">GENERAL
CORRESPONDENCE</a>.</h2>

<h3>LETTERS</h3>

<h4>I.&mdash;To ELLISON OR ALISON BEGBIE (?)<a name=
"FNanchor1"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_1">[1]</a></sup></h4>

What you may think of this letter when you see the name that
subscribes it I cannot know; and perhaps I ought to make a long
preface of apologies for the freedom I am going to take; but as
my heart means no offence, but, on the contrary, is rather too
warmly interested in your favour,&mdash;for that reason I hope you
will forgive me when I tell you that I most sincerely and
affectionately love you. I am a stranger in these matters, A&mdash;-,
as I assure you that you are the first woman to whom I ever made
such a declaration; so I declare I am at a loss how to proceed.

<p>I have more than once come into your company with a resolution
to say what I have just now told you; but my resolution always
failed me, and even now my heart trembles for the consequence of
what I have said. I hope, my dear A&mdash;&mdash;, you will not despise me
because I am ignorant of the flattering arts of courtship: I hope
my inexperience of the work will plead for me. I can only say I
sincerely love you, and there is nothing on earth I so ardently
wish for, or that could possibly give me so much happiness, as
one day to see you mine.</p>

<p>I think you cannot doubt my sincerity, as I am sure that
whenever I see you my very looks betray me: and when once you are
convinced I am sincere, I am perfectly certain you have too much
goodness and humanity to allow an honest man to languish in
suspense only because he loves you too well. And I am certain
that in such a state of anxiety as I myself at present feel, an
absolute denial would be a much preferable state.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor1">[1]</a> The
original MS. of the foregoing letter is the property of John
Adam, Esquire, Greenock, and the letter was first published in
1878. If it is a genuine love-letter, and not a mere exercise in
love-letter writing, it was probably the first of the short
series to Alison Begbie, who is supposed to have been the
daughter of a small farmer, and who has been identified with the
Mary Morison of the well-known lyric. The sentiment of the last
paragraph of the letter agrees with the sentiment of the last
stanza of the song.</p>

<hr>
<h4>II.-To ELLISON BEGBIE.</h4>

[LOCHLIE, 1780.]

<p>MY DEAR E.,&mdash;I do not remember, in the course of your
acquaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the
ordinary way of falling in love, amongst people in our station in
life; I do not mean the persons who proceed in the way of
bargain, but those whose affection is really placed on the
person.</p>

<p>Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover
myself, yet, as I have some opportunities of observing the
conduct of others who are much better skilled in the affair of
courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to lucky chance,
more than to good management, that there are not more unhappy
marriages than usually are.</p>

<p>It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of
the females, and customary for him to keep them company when
occasion serves; some one of them is more agreeable to him than
the rest; there is something, he knows not what, pleases him, he
knows not how, in her company. This I take to be what is called
love with the greater part of us; and I must own, my dear E., it
is a hard game such a one as you have to play when you meet with
such a lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and yet though
you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at
farthest in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make
him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot.
I am aware that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure of
seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me
that the passion I have professed for you is perhaps one of those
transient flashes I have been describing; but I hope, my dear E.,
you will do me the justice to believe me, when I assure you that
the love I have for you is founded on the sacred principles of
virtue and honour, and by consequence so long as you continue
possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired my
passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe me,
my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the marriage
state happy. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as
they please, and a warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits,
may make them feel something like what they describe; but sure I
am the nobler faculties of the mind with kindred feelings of the
heart can only be the foundation of friendship, and it has always
been my opinion that the married life was only friendship in a
more exalted degree.</p>

<p>If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it should
please Providence to spare us to the latest periods of life, I
can look forward and see that, even then, though bent down with
wrinkled age&mdash;even then, when all other worldly circumstances
will be indifferent to me, I will regard my E. with the tenderest
affection, and for this plain reason, because she is still
possessed of those noble qualities, improved to a much higher
degree, which first inspired my affection for her.<br>
O! happy state, when souls each other draw,<br>
Where love is liberty, and nature law.</p>

<p>I know, were I to speak in such a style to many a girl, who
thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would
think it ridiculous&mdash;but the language of the heart is, my dear
E., the only courtship I shall ever use to you.</p>

<p>When I look over what I have written, I am sensible it is
vastly different from the ordinary style of courtship&mdash;but I
shall make no apology&mdash;I know your good nature will excuse what
your good sense may see amiss.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>III.&mdash;TO ELLISON BEGBIE.</h4>

[LOCHLIE, 1780.]

<p>I verily believe, my dear E., that the pure genuine feelings
of love are as rare in the world as the pure genuine principles
of virtue and piety. This, I hope, will account for the uncommon
style of all my letters to you. By uncommon, I mean their being
written in such a serious manner, which, to tell you the truth,
has made me often afraid lest you should take me for some zealous
bigot, who conversed with his mistress as he would converse with
his minister. I don't know how it is, my dear; for though, except
your company, there is nothing on earth gives me so much pleasure
as writing to you, yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so
much talked of among lovers. I have often thought, that if a
well-grounded affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis
something extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E.
warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of
generosity, kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every dirty
spark of malice and envy, which are but too apt to infest me. I
grasp every creature in the arms of universal benevolence, and
equally participate in the pleasures of the happy, and sympathise
with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I
often look up to the Divine disposer of events with an eye of
gratitude for the blessing which I hope He intends to bestow on
me, in bestowing you. I sincerely wish that He may bless my
endeavours to make your life as comfortable and happy as
possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural
temper, and bettering the unkindly circumstances of my fortune.
This, my dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy of a
man, and, I will add, worthy of a Christian. The sordid
earth-worm may profess love to a woman's person, whilst, in
reality, his affection is centred in her pocket; and the slavish
drudge may go a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market, to choose
one who is stout and firm, and as we say of an old horse, one who
will be a good drudge and draw kindly. I disdain their dirty,
puny ideas. I would be heartily out of humour with myself, if I
thought I were capable of having so poor a notion of the sex,
which were designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor
devils! I don't envy them their happiness who have such notions.
For my part, I propose quite other pleasures with my dear
partner.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>IV.&mdash;TO ELLISON BEGBIE.</h4>

[LOCHLIE, 178l.]

<p>MY DEAR E.,&mdash;I have often thought it a peculiarly unlucky
circumstance in love, that though, in every other situation in
life, telling the truth is not only the safest, but actually by
far the easiest way of proceeding, a lover is never under greater
difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when
his passion is sincere, and his intentions are honourable. I do
not think that it is very difficult for a person of ordinary
capacity to talk of love and fondness which are not felt, and to
make vows of constancy and fidelity which are never intended to
be performed, if he be villain enough to practice such detestable
conduct; but to a man whose heart glows with the principles of
integrity and truth, and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable
person, uncommon refinement of sentiment, and purity of
manners&mdash;to such a one, in such circumstances, I can assure you,
my dear, from my own feelings at this present moment, courtship
is a task indeed. There is such a number of foreboding fears and
distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your
company, or when I sit down to write to you, that what to speak
or what to write, I am altogether at a loss.</p>

<p>There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and which I
shall invariably keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell you
the plain truth. There is something so mean and unmanly in the
arts of dissimulation and falsehood, that I am surprised they can
be used by any one in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous
love. No, my dear E., I shall never endeavour to gain your favour
by such detestable practices. If you will be so good and so
generous as to admit me for your partner, your companion, your
bosom friend through life, there is nothing on this side of
eternity shall give me greater transport; but I shall never think
of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and, I
will add, of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I
earnestly request of you, and it is this: that you would soon
either put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me
of my fears by a generous consent.</p>

<p>It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two
when convenient. I shall only add, further, that if behaviour,
regulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of
honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and
an earnest endeavour to promote your happiness; if these are
qualities you would wish in a friend, in a husband, I hope you
shall ever find them in your real friend and sincere lover.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>V.-To ELLISON BEGBOE.</h4>

[LOCHLIE, 1781.]

<p>I ought, in good manners, to have acknowledged the receipt of
your letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked with
the contents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts
so as to write you on the subject. I will not attempt to describe
what I felt on receiving your letter. I read it over and over,
again and again, and though it was in the politest language of
refusal, still it was peremptory; "you were sorry you could not
make me a return, but you wish me" what, without you, I never can
obtain, "you wish me all kind of happiness." It would be weak and
unmanly to say that without you I never can be happy; but sure I
am, that sharing life with you would have given it a relish,
that, wanting you, I can never taste.</p>

<p>Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior good
sense, do not so much strike me; these, possibly, in a few
instances may be met with in others; but that amiable goodness,
that tender feminine softness, that endearing sweetness of
disposition, with all the charming offspring of a warm feeling
heart&mdash;these I never again expect to meet with, in such a degree,
in this world. All these charming qualities, heightened by an
education much beyond anything I have ever met in any woman I
ever dared to approach, have made an impression on my heart that
I do not think the world can ever efface. My imagination has
fondly flattered myself with a wish, I dare not say it ever
reached a hope, that possibly I might one day call you mine. I
had formed the most delightful images, and my fancy fondly
brooded over them; but now I am wretched for the loss of what I
really had no right to expect. I must now think no more of you as
a mistress; still I presume to ask to be admitted as a friend. As
such I wish to be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to
remove in a few days a little further off, and you, I suppose,
will soon leave this place, I wish to see or hear from you soon;
and if an expression should perhaps escape me, rather too warm
for friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear Miss&mdash;,
(pardon me the dear expression for once) R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>VI.&mdash;TO HIS FATHER.</h4>

IRVINE, <i>December 27,</i> 1781.

<p>HONOURED SIR,&mdash;I have purposely delayed writing in the hope
that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on New Year's day;
but work comes so hard upon us that I do not choose to be absent
on that account, as well as for some other little reasons which I
shall tell you at meeting. My health is nearly the same as when
you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and on the
whole I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very
slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my
mind that I dare neither review my past wants nor look forward
into futurity; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast
produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes,
indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little
lightened, I glimmer a little into futurity; but my principal,
and indeed my only pleasurable, employment, is looking backwards
and forwards in a moral and religious way; I am quite transported
at the thought, that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an
eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasiness, and disquietudes
of this weary life; for I assure you I am heartily tired of it;
and, if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly
and gladly resign it.<br>
The soul, uneasy, and confin'd at home,<br>
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.</p>

<p>It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th,
and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelation<a name=
"FNanchor2"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_2">[2]</a></sup> than
with any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would
not exchange the whole noble enthusiasm with which they inspire
me, for all that this world has to offer. As for this world, I
despair of ever making a figure in it I am not formed for the
bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never
again be capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am
altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee
that poverty and obscurity probably await me, and I am in some
measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet them. I have but
just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the
lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too
much neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have
been remembered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful
respects to my mother, and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir;
and with wishing you a merry New-year's day, I shall conclude.&mdash;I
am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNESS.</p>

<p>P. S.&mdash;My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow till I
get more.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor2">[2] </a>
"Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day
and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall
dwell among them.</p>

<p>They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither
shall the sun light on them, nor any heat.</p>

<p>For the Lamb, which is in the midst of the throne, shall feed
them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and
God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."</p>

<hr>
<h4>VII.&mdash;To SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART., OF BALLOCHMYLE.<a name=
"FNanchor3"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_3">[3]</a></sup></h4>

SIR,&mdash;We who subscribe this are both members of St. James's
Lodge, Tarbolton, and one of us in the office of warden, and as
we have the honour of having you for master of our lodge we hope
you will excuse this freedom, as you are the proper person to
whom we ought to apply. We look on our Mason Lodge to be a
serious matter, both with respect to the character of masonry
itself, and likewise as it is a charitable society. This last,
indeed, does not interest you further than a benevolent heart is
interested in the welfare of its fellow-creatures; but to us,
sir, who are of the lower order of mankind, to have a fund in
view on which we may with certainty depend to be kept from want,
should we be in circumstances of distress, or old age&mdash;this is a
matter of high importance.

<p>We are sorry to observe that our lodge's affairs with respect
to its finances have for a good while been in a wretched
situation. We have considerable sums in bills which lie by
without being paid, or put in execution, and many of our members
never mind their yearly dues, or anything else belonging to the
lodge. And since the separation<a name="FNanchor4"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_4">[4]</a></sup> from St. David's we are not sure
even of our existence as a lodge. There has been a dispute before
the Grand Lodge, but how decided, or if decided at all, we know
not.</p>

<p>For these and other reasons we humbly beg the favour of you,
as soon as convenient, to call a meeting, and let us consider on
some means to retrieve our wretched affairs.&mdash;We are, etc.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor3">[3]</a> The MS.
of the foregoing joint letter in Burns's  handwriting belongs to
John Adam, Esquire, Greenock, and the letter was first published
in 1878. Burns was first admitted in St. David's (Tarbolton)
Lodge in July, 1781. At the separation preferred to he became a
member of the new lodge, St. James's, of which, two years
afterwards, he was depute-master.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor4">[4] </a> It was
in June, 1782.</p>

<hr>
<h4>VIII.&mdash;To MR. JOHN MURDOCH, SCHOOL-MASTER, STAPLES INN
BUILDINGS, LONDON.</h4>

LOCHLIE, <i>15th January</i>, 1783.

<p>DEAR SIR,&mdash;As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter
without putting you to that expense which any production of mine
would but ill repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that
I have not forgotten, or ever will forget, the many obligations I
lie under to your kindness and friendship.</p>

<p>I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has been
the result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a
masterly teacher; and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with
such a recital as you would be pleased with;&mdash;but that is what I
am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear
of vicious habits; and in this respect, I hope, my conduct will
not disgrace the education I have gotten; but as a man of the
world, I am most miserably deficient. One would have thought
that, bred as I have been, under a father who has figured pretty
well as <i>un homme des affaires</i>, I might have been what the
world calls a pushing active fellow; but to tell you the truth,
Sir, there is hardly anything more my reverse. I seem to be one
sent into the world to see and observe; and I very easily
compound with the knave who tricks me of my money, if there be
anything original about him which shows me human nature in a
different light from anything I have seen before. In short, the
joy of my heart is to "study men, their manners, and their ways;"
and for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other
consideration. I am quite indolent about those great concerns
that set the bustling, busy sons of care agog; and if I have to
answer for the present hour, I am very easy with regard to
anything further. Even the last, worst shift of the unfortunate
and the wretched<a name="FNanchor5"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_5">[5]</a></sup>does not much terrify me: I know that
even then my talent for what countryfolks call "a sensible
crack," when once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would procure
me so much esteem that even then&mdash;I would learn to be happy.
However, I am under no apprehensions about that; for though
indolent, yet so far as an extremely delicate constitution
permits, I am not lazy; and in many things, especially in tavern
matters, I am a strict economist; not, indeed, for the sake of
the money; but one of the principal parts in my composition is a
kind of pride of stomach; and I scorn to fear the face of any man
living: above every thing, I abhor as hell the idea of sneaking
in a corner to avoid a dun&mdash;possibly some pitiful sordid wretch,
whom in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone,
that endears economy to me.<a name="FNanchor6"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_6">[6]</a></sup></p>

<p>In the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My
favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone,
particularly his <i>Elegies;</i> Thomson; <i>Man of
Feeling,</i>&mdash;a book I prize next to the Bible; <i>Man of the
World</i>; Sterne, especially his <i>Sentimental Journey</i>;
Macpherson's <i>Ossian</i>, etc.;&mdash;these are the glorious models
after which I endeavour to form my conduct, and 'tis
incongruous&mdash;'tis absurd to suppose that the man whose mind glows
with sentiments lighted up at their sacred flame&mdash;the man whose
heart distends with benevolence to all the human race&mdash;he "who
can soar above this little scene of things"&mdash;can he descend to
mind the paltry concerns about which the terrae-filial race fret,
and fume, and vex themselves! O, how the glorious triumph swells
my heart! I forget that I am a poor insignificant devil,
unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and markets,
when I happen to be in them reading a page or two of mankind, and
"catching the manners living as they rise," whilst the men of
business jostle me on every side as an idle incumbrance in their
way. But, I daresay, I have by this time tired your patience; so
I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Murdoch&mdash;not my
compliments, for that is a mere commonplace story; but my
warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare; and accept the same for
yourself, from,&mdash;Dear Sir, yours, etc.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor5">[5]</a>"The last
o't, the warst o't,<br>
           Is only for to beg."</p>

<blockquote>&mdash;<i>First Epistle to Davie.</i></blockquote>

<a name="Footnote_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor6">[6]</a>"For the
glorious privilege <br>
        Of being independent."

<blockquote>&mdash;<i>Epistle to a Young Friend.</i></blockquote>

<hr>
<h4>IX.&mdash;To HIS COUSIN, MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE.</h4>

LOCHLIE, <i>21st June, 1783.</i>

<p>DEAR SIR,&mdash;My father received your favour of the both current,
and as he has been for some months very poorly in health, and is
in his own opinion (and, indeed, in almost every body's else) in
a dying condition, he has only, with great difficulty, written a
few farewell lines to each of his brothers-in-law. For this
melancholy reason, I now hold the pen for him to thank you for
your kind letter, and to assure you, Sir, that it shall not be my
fault if my father's correspondence in the north die with him. My
brother writes to John Caird,<a name="FNanchor6"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_6">[6]</a></sup> and to him I must refer you for
the news of our family.</p>

<p>I shall only trouble you with a few particulars relative to
the wretched state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly
high; oatmeal 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be got even at
that price. We have indeed been pretty well supplied with
quantities of white peas from England and elsewhere, but that
resource is likely to fail us, and what will become of us then,
particularly the very poorest sort, Heaven only knows. This
country, till of late, was flourishing incredibly in the
manufacture of silk, lawn, and carpet-weaving; and we are still
carrying on a good deal in that way, but much reduced from what
it was. We had also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now
entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a starving condition on
account of it. Farming is also at a very low ebb with us. Our
lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and barren; and our
land-holders, full of ideas of farming gathered from the English
and the Lothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, make no
allowance for the odds of the quality of land, and consequently
stretch us much beyond what in the event we will be found able to
pay. We are also much at a loss for want of proper methods in our
improvements of farming. Necessity compels us to leave our old
schemes, and few of us have opportunities of being well informed
in new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate
beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate
conclusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very
fast. Even in higher life, a couple of Ayrshire noblemen, and the
major part of our knights and squires, are all insolvent. A
miserable job of a Douglas, Heron &amp; Co.'s bank, which no
doubt you have heard of, has undone numbers of them; and
imitating English and French, and other foreign luxuries and
fopperies, has ruined as many more. There is a great trade of
smuggling carried on along our coasts, which, however destructive
to the interests of the kingdom at large, certainly enriches this
corner of it, but too often at the expense of our morals.
However, it enables individuals to make, at least for a time, a
splendid appearance; but Fortune, as is usual with her when she
is uncommonly lavish of her favours, is generally even with them
at last; and happy were it for numbers of them if she would leave
them no worse than when she found them.</p>

<p>My mother sends you a small present of a cheese; 'tis but a
very little one, as our last year's stock is sold off; but if you
could fix on any correspondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would
send you a proper one in the season. Mrs. Black promises to take
the cheese under her care so far, and then to send it to you by
the Stirling carrier.</p>

<p>I shall conclude this long letter with assuring you that I
shall be very happy to hear from you, or any of our friends in
your country, when opportunity serves.</p>

<p>My father sends you, probably for the last time in this world,
his warmest wishes for your welfare and happiness; and my mother
and the rest of the family desire to inclose their kind
compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, and the rest of your family,
along with those of, dear Sir, your affectionate cousin,</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor6">[6]</a> The
writer's uncle.</p>

<hr>
<h4>X.-To MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE.</h4>

LOCHLIE, 17th Feb. 1784.

<p>DEAR COUSIN,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>I hope my father's friends in your country will not let their
connection in this place die with him. For my part I shall ever
with pleasure&mdash;with pride, acknowledge my connection with those
who were allied by the ties of blood and friendship to a man
whose memory I shall ever honour and revere.</p>

<p>I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will not neglect any
opportunity of letting me hear from you, which will very much
oblige,&mdash;My dear Cousin, yours sincerely,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNESS.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XI.&mdash;To MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, <i>3rd August</i> 1784.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;I ought in gratitude to have acknowledged the
receipt of your last kind letter before this time, but, without
troubling you with any apology, I shall proceed to inform you
that our family are all in good health at present, and we were
very happy with the unexpected favour of John Caird's<a name=
"FNanchor6A"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_6A">[6a]</a></sup>
company for nearly two weeks, and I must say it of him that he is
one of the most agreeable, facetious, warm-hearted lads I was
ever acquainted with.</p>

<p>We have been surprised with one of the most extraordinary
phenomena in the moral world, which, I dare say, has 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 moral sin. I
am personally acquainted with most of them, and I can assure you
the above mentioned are facts.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 inconsistent absurdities, will meet with abetters
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.</p>

<p>I expect to hear from you soon, and I beg you will remember me
to all friends, and believe me to be, my dear Sir, your
affectionate cousin,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNESS.</p>

<p>P.S.&mdash;Direct to me at Mossgiel, parish of Mauchline, near
Kilmarnock.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_6A"></a><a href="#FNanchor6A">[6a]</a>
Probably John Caird, junior, as the father would be over sixty if
he was about his wife's age, and she, Elspat Burnes, was born, we
know, in 1725.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XII.&mdash;TO THOMAS ORR, PARK, KIRKOSWALD.</h4>

DEAR THOMAS,&mdash;I am much obliged to you for your last letter,
though I assure you the contents of it gave me no manner of
concern. I am presently so cursedly taken in with an affair of
gallantry that I am very glad Peggy<a name=
"FNanchor7"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_7">[7]</a></sup> is off
my hand, as I am at present embarrassed enough<a name=
"FNanchor7A"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_7A">[7a]</a></sup>
without her. I don't choose to enter into particulars in writing,
but never was a poor rakish rascal in a more pitiful taking. I
should be glad to see you to tell you the affair.&mdash;Meanwhile I am
your friend, ROBERT BURNESS.

<p>MOSSGAVIL, 11<i>th Nov</i>. 1784.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor7">[7]</a> Peggy
Thomson.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_7A"></a><a href="#FNanchor7A">[7a] </a>
Birth of his illegitimate child by Elizabeth Paton, once a
servant with his father at Lochlie.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XIII.-TO MISS MARGARET KENNEDY.<a name=
"FNanchor8"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_8">[8]</a></sup></h4>

[<i>A young lady of seventeen, when this letter was addressed to
her, and on a visit to Mrs. Gavin Hamilton at Mauchline.</i>]

<p>[<i>Probably Autumn</i>, 1785.]</p>

<p>MADAM,&mdash;Permit me to present you with the enclosed song as a
small though grateful tribute for the honour of your
acquaintance. I have in these verses attempted some faint sketch
of your portrait in the unembellished simple manner of
descriptive truth. Flattery I leave to your lovers whose
exaggerating fancies may make them imagine you are still nearer
perfection than you really are.</p>

<p>Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most forcibly the powers of
beauty,&mdash;as, if they are really poets of nature's making, their
feelings must be finer and their taste more delicate than most of
the world. In the cheerful bloom of spring, or the pensive
mildness of autumn, the grandeur of summer, or the hoary majesty
of winter, the poet feels a charm unknown to the most of his
species. Even the sight of a fine flower, or the company of a
fine woman (by far the finest part of God's works below), has
sensations for the poetic heart that the herd of men are
strangers to. On this last account, Madam, I am, as in many other
things, indebted to Mr. Hamilton's kindness in introducing me to
you. Your lovers may view you with a wish&mdash;I look on you with
pleasure; their hearts in your presence may glow with
desire&mdash;mine rises with admiration.</p>

<p>That the arrows of misfortune, however they should, as
incident to humanity, glance a slight wound, may never reach your
heart; that the snares of villainy may never beset you in the
road of life; that innocence may hand you by the path of honour
to the dwelling of peace&mdash;is the sincere wish of him who has the
honour to be, etc. R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor8">[8]</a> Niece of
Sir Andrew Cathcait, of Carleton. A melancholy interest attaches
to her subsequent history. Burns's prayers for her  happiness
were unavailing.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XIV.&mdash;TO MISS &mdash;&mdash;, AYRSHIRE.<a name="FNanchor9"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_9">[9]</a></sup></h4>

[1785.]

<p>MY DEAR COUNTRYWOMAN,&mdash;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's Poems,
which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them I will forward
them by you; if not, you must apologise for me.</p>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor9">[9]</a> Lady
unidentified.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XV.&mdash;TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, LAW CLERK, EDINBURGH.<a name=
"FNanchor10"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_10">[10]</a></sup></h4>

MOSSGIEL, <i>Feb. 17th</i>, 1786.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;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 Cottar's Saturday Night;" "An Address to the
Devil," etc. I have likewise completed my poem on the "Dogs," but
have not shown it to the world. My chief patron now is Mr. Aikin,
in Ayr, who is pleased to express great approbation of my works.
Be so good as send me Fergusson<a name="FNanchor11"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_11">[11]</a></sup>, by Connell, 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&mdash;news that I am sure you cannot guess, but I shall give
you the particulars another time. I am extremely happy with
Smith;<a name="FNanchor11A"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_11A">[11a]</a></sup>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 Connell. If you
would act your part as a friend, I am sure neither good nor bad
fortune should estrange or alter me. Excuse haste, as I got yours
but yesterday.&mdash;I am, my dear Sir, yours, ROBERT BURNESS.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor10">[10]</a> Three
months before this letter was written Richmond was a clerk in the
office of Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer, Mauchline.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor11">[11]</a>
Fergusson's <i>Poems</i>.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_11A"></a><a href="#FNanchor11A">[11a]</a>
Keeper of a haberdashery store in Mauchline.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XVI.-TO MR. JAMES SMITH<a name="FNanchor12"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_12">[12]</a></sup>, SHOPKEEPER, MAUCHLINE.</h4>

[<i>Spring of</i> 1786.]

<p>... Against two things I am fixed as fate,&mdash;staying at home,
and owning her conjugally. The first, by Heaven, I will not
do!&mdash;the last, by Hell, I will never do! A good God bless you,
and make you happy up to the warmest weeping wish of parting
friendship! ... If you see Jean tell her I will meet her, so help
me God in my hour of need! R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor12">[12]</a> The
confidant of his amour with Jean Armour, daughter of James
Armour, mason, Mauchline. Notwithstanding the blustering
threat&mdash;for which Smith was probably more than half
responsible&mdash;Burns was afterwards content to "own bonny Jean
conjugally."</p>

<hr>
<h4>XVII.&mdash;TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, WINE MERCHANT, KlLMARNOCK.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, 20<i>th March</i>, 1786.

<p>DEAR SIR,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>I here inclose you my "Scotch Drink," and "may the deil follow
with a blessing for your edification." I hope, sometime 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, ROBERT BURNESS.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XVIII.&mdash;To MR. JOHN BALLANTINE, BANKER, AYR. (?)</h4>

[<i>April</i> 1786.]

<p>HONOURED SIR,&mdash;My proposals<a name="FNanchor12A"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_12A">[12a]</a></sup> 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 any body, I enclose you half a sheet of
them. I must consult you, first opportunity, on the propriety of
sending my <i>quondam</i> friend, Mr. Aiken,<a name=
"12c"></a><sup><a href="#12ct">[12b]</a></sup> 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.
<i>Apropos</i>, old Mr. Armour prevailed with him to mutilate
that unlucky paper<a name="FNanchor12B"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_12B">[12c]</a></sup> 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 cut out of the
paper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with the
news. Perdition seize her falsehood! ROBERT BURNS.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_12A"></a><a href="#FNanchor12A">[12a]</a>
Proposals for publishing his Scottish Poems by subscription.</p>

<p><a name="t12c"></a><a href="#12c">[12b]</a>Writer in Ayr.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_12B"></a><a href="#FNanchor12B">[12c]</a>
The written acknowledgment of his marriage which Burns gave to
Jean. She, influenced by her father, consented to destroy it.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XIX.&mdash;TO MR. M'WHINNIE, WRITER, AYR.</h4>

[MOSSGIEL, 17<i>th April</i> 1786.]

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your prayers He
looks forward with fear<a name="FNanchor13"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_13">[13]</a></sup> and trembling to that, to him,
important moment which stamps the die with&mdash;with&mdash;with, perhaps,
the eternal disgrace of, my dear Sir, your humble, afflicted,
tormented, ROBERT BURNS.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor13">[13]</a> Cp.
"Something cries <i>Hoolie! I rede ye, honest man, tak tent,
ye'll show your folly!</i>"</p>

<hr>
<h4>XX.&mdash;TO JOHN ARNOT, ESQUIRE, OF DALQUATSWOOD.</h4>

[<i>April</i> 1786.]

<p>SIR,&mdash;I have long wished for some kind of claim to the honour
of your acquaintance, and since it is out of my power to make
that claim by the least service of mine to you, I shall do it by
asking a friendly office of you to me.&mdash;I should be much hurt,
Sir, if any one should view my poor Parnassian Pegasus in the
light of a spur-galled Hack, and think that I wish to make a
shilling or two by him. I spurn the thought.</p>

<blockquote>It may do, maun do, Sir, wi' them who<br>
Maun please the great-folk for a wame-fou;<br>
For me, sae laigh I needna boo<br>
For, Lord be thankit! I can ploo;<br>
And, when I downa yoke a naig,<br>
Then, Lord be thankit! I can beg.</blockquote>

You will then, I hope, Sir, forgive my troubling you with the
enclosed,<a name="FNanchor14"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_14">[14]</a></sup> and spare a poor heart-crushed
devil a world of apologies&mdash;a business he is very unfit for at
any time, but at present, widowed as he is of every woman-giving
comfort, he is utterly incapable of. Sad and grievous of late,
Sir, has been my tribulation, and many and piercing my sorrows;
and, had it not been for the loss the world would have sustained
in losing so great a poet, I had ere now done as a much wiser
man, the famous Achitophel of long-headed memory, did before me,
when he "went home and set his house in order." I have lost, Sir,
that dearest earthly treasure, that greatest blessing here below,
that last, best gift which completed Adam's happiness in the
garden of bliss; I have lost, I have lost&mdash;my trembling hand
refuses its office, the frighted ink recoils up the quill,&mdash;I
have lost a, a, a wife. <br>
Fairest of God's creation, last and best, <br>
Now art thou lost!

<p>You have doubtless, Sir, heard my story, heard it with all its
exaggerations; but as my actions, and my motives for action, are
peculiarly like myself and that is peculiarly like nobody else, I
shall just beg a leisure moment and a spare tear of you until I
tell my own story my own way.</p>

<p>I have been all my life, Sir, one of the rueful-looking,
long-visaged sons of disappointment. A damned star has always
kept my zenith, and shed its hateful influence in the emphatic
curse of the prophet&mdash;"And behold whatsoever he doth, it shall
not prosper!" I rarely hit where I aim, and if I want anything, I
am almost sure never to find it where I seek it. For instance, if
my penknife is needed, I pull out twenty things&mdash;a plough-wedge,
a horse nail, an old letter, or a tattered rhyme, in short,
everything but my penknife; and that, at last, after a painful,
fruitless search, will be found in the unsuspected corner of an
unsuspected pocket, as if on purpose thrust out of the way.
Still, Sir, I long had a wishing eye to that inestimable
blessing, a wife.</p>

<p>... A young fellow, after a few idle commonplace stories from
a gentleman in black ... no one durst say black was his eye;
while I ... only wanting that ceremony, am made a Sunday's
laughing-stock, and abused like a pickpocket. I was well aware,
though, that if my ill-starred fortune got the least hint of my
connubial wish, my scheme would go to nothing. To prevent this I
determined to take my measures with such thought and
fore-thought, such cautions and precautions, that all the
malignant planets in the hemisphere should be unable to blight my
designs .... Heaven and Earth! must I remember? my damned star
wheeled about to the zenith, by whose baleful rays Fortune took
the alarm.<a name="FNanchor15A"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_15A">[15a]</a></sup> ... In short, Pharaoh at the Red
Sea, Darius at Arbela, Pompey at Pharsalia, Edward at
Bannockburn, Charles at Pultoway, Burgoyne at Saratoga&mdash;no
prince, potentate, or commander of ancient or modern unfortunate
memory ever got a more shameful or more total defeat. How I bore
this can only be conceived. All powers of recital labour far, far
behind. There is a pretty large portion of Bedlam in the
composition of a poet at any time; but on this occasion I was
nine parts and nine tenths, out of ten, stark staring mad. At
first I was fixed in stuporific insensibility, silent, sullen,
staring like Lot's wife besaltified in the plains of Gomorrha.
But my second paroxysm chiefly beggars description. The rifted
northern ocean, when returning suns dissolve the chains of
winter, and loosening precipices of long-accumulated ice tempest
with hideous crash the foaming deep,&mdash;images like these may give
some faint shadow of what was the situation of my bosom. My
chained faculties broke loose; my maddening passions, roused to
tenfold fury, bore over their banks with impetuous, resistless
force, carrying every check and principle before them. Counsel
was an unheeded call to the passing hurricane; Reason a screaming
elk in the vortex of Malstrom; and Religion a feebly-struggling
beaver down the roarings of Niagara. I reprobated the first
moment of my existence; execrated Adam's folly-infatuated wish
for that goodly-looking but poison-breathing gift which had
ruined him and undone me; and called on the womb of uncreated
night to close over me and all my sorrows.</p>

<p>A storm naturally overblows itself. My spent passions
gradually sunk into a lurid calm; and by degrees I have subsided
into the time-settled sorrow of the sable-widower, who, wiping
away the decent tear, lifts up his grief-worn eye to look-for
another wife.</p>

<blockquote>Such is the state of man; to-day he buds<br>
His tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms<br>
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;<br>
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,<br>
And nips his root, and then he falls as I do.<a name=
"FNanchor15"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_15">[15]</a></sup></blockquote>

Such, Sir, has been the fatal era of my life. And it came to pass
that when I looked for sweet, behold bitter; and for light,
behold darkness.

<p>But this is not all: already the holy beagles begin to snuff
the scent, and I expect every moment to see them cast off, and
hear them after me in full cry; but as I am an old fox, I shall
give them dodging and doubling for it, and by and by I intend to
earth among the mountains of Jamaica.</p>

<p>I am so struck, on a review, with the impertinent length of
this letter, that I shall not increase it with one single word of
apology, but abruptly conclude with assuring you that I am, Sir,
yours and misery's most humble servant.<br>
  ROBERT BURNS.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor14">[14]</a>
Proposals for publishing.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor15">[15]</a>
Misquoted from Shakspeare's <i>Henry VIII</i>.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_15A"></a><a href="#FNanchor15A">[15a]</a>
Reference to the rejection of his acknowledgment of marriage.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXI.&mdash;To MR. DAVID BRICE, SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, <i>June</i> 12<i>th</i>, 1786.

<p>DEAR BRICE,&mdash;I received your message by G. Paterson, and as I
am not very <i>throng</i> 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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print;
and to-morrow my work goes to the press. I expect it will be a
volume of about two hundred pages&mdash;it is just the last foolish
action I intend to do, and then turn a wise man as fast as
possible.&mdash;Believe me to be, dear Brice, your friend and
well-wisher. R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXII.&mdash;To MR. JOHN RICHMOND, EDINBURGH.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, 9<i>th July</i> 1786.

<p>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.</p>

<p>No news worth anything; only godly Bryan was in the
inquisition yesterday, and half the countryside as witnesses
against him. He still stands out steady and denying; but proof
was led yesternight of circumstances highly suspicious, almost
<i>de facto</i>; one of the servant girls made oath that she upon
a time rashly entered into the house, to speak in your cant, "in
the hour of cause."</p>

<p>I have waited on Armour since her return home; not from 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 that penitence that might have been expected. However,
the priest,<a name="FNanchor15A"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_15A">[15a]</a></sup> 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.<a name=
"FNanchor16"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_16">[16]</a></sup></p>

<p>I am going to put on sackcloth and ashes this day. I am
indulged so far as to appear in my own seat. <i>Peccavi, pater,
miserere mei</i>. My book will be ready in a fortnight. If you
have any subscribers, return them by Connell. The Lord stand with
the righteous; amen, amen. R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_15A"></a><a href="#FNanchor15A">[15a]</a>
Rev. Mr. Auld&mdash;Daddie Auld.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor16">[16]</a> This
accordingly he did.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXIII&mdash;To MR. JOHN RICHMOND.</h4>

OLD ROME FOREST,<a name="FNanchor17"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_17">[17]</a></sup> 30<i>th July</i> 1786.

<p>MY DEAR RICHMOND,&mdash;My hour is now come&mdash;you and I will never
meet in Britain more. I have orders, within three weeks at
farthest, to repair aboard the <i>Nancy</i>, Captain Smith, from
Clyde to Jamaica, and to 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&mdash;exiled, abandoned, forlorn.
I can write no more&mdash;let me hear from you by the return of the
coach. I will write you ere I go.&mdash;I am, dear Sir, yours, here
and hereafter, R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor17">[17]</a> In
the neighbourhood of Kilmarnock. Here he had deposited his
travelling chest in the house of a relative.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXIV.-To MR. JOHN KENNEDY.</h4>

KILMARNOCK, <i>August</i> 1786.

<p>MY DEAR SIR&mdash;Your truly facetious epistle of the 3rd instant
gave me much entertainment. I was only sorry I had not the
pleasure of seeing you as I passed your way; but we shall bring
up all our lee way on Wednesday, the 16th current, when I hope to
have it in my power to call on you, and take a kind, very
probably a last adieu, before I go for Jamaica; and I expect
orders to repair to Greenock every day. I have at last made my
public appearance, and am solemnly inaugurated into the numerous
class.<a name="FNanchor18"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_18">[18]</a></sup> Could I have got a carrier, you
should have got a score of vouchers for my authorship; but, now
you have them, let them speak for themselves.&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>Farewell, dear friend! may guid luck hit you,<br>
And 'mang her favourites admit you,<br>
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you,<br>
May nane believe him,<br>
And ony Deil that thinks to get you,<br>
Good LORD, deceive him,</blockquote>

R.B.

<p><a name="Footnote_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor18">[18]</a> The
Kilmarnock Edition of his poems was published on 31st July.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXV.&mdash;To HIS COUSIN, MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER,
MONTROSE.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, <i>Tuesday Noon</i>, 26<i>th Sept.</i> 1786.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;I this moment receive yours&mdash;receive it with the
honest hospitable warmth of a friend's welcome. Whatever comes
from you always wakens up the better blood about my heart, which
your kind little recollections of my parental friend carries as
far as it will go. 'Tis there that man is blest! 'Tis there, my
friend, man feels a consciousness of something within him above
the trodden clod! The grateful reverence to the hoary earthly
authors of his being, the burning glow when he clasps the woman
of his soul to his bosom, the tender yearnings of heart for the
little angels to whom he has given existence&mdash;these Nature has
poured in milky streams about the human heart; and the man who
never rouses them to action by the inspiring influences of their
proper objects loses by far the most pleasurable part of his
existence.</p>

<p>My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till
after harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time indeed,
if I do not comply with your friendly invitation. When it will be
I don't know, but if I can make my wish good I will endeavour to
drop you a line some time before. My best compliments to Mrs.
Burness; I should be equally mortified should I drop in when she
is abroad, but of that, I suppose, there is little chance. What I
have wrote, heaven knows. I have not time to review it, so accept
of it in the beaten way of friendship. With the ordinary phrase,
and perhaps rather more than the ordinary sincerity, I am, dear
Sir, ever yours, R. B.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXVI.-To MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR.<a name=
"FNanchor19"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_19">[19]</a></sup></h4>

[<i>Oct</i>. 1786.?]

<p>MADAM,&mdash;The hurry of my preparations for going abroad has
hindered me from performing my promise so soon as I intended. I
have here sent you a parcel of songs, etc., which never made
their appearance, except to a friend or two at most. Perhaps some
of them may be no great entertainment to you, but of that I am
far from being an adequate judge. The song to the time of
"Ettrick Banks"<a name="FNanchor20"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_20">[20]</a></sup> you will easily see the impropriety
of exposing much even in manuscript. I think, myself, it has some
merit, both as a tolerable description of one of nature's
sweetest scenes, a July evening, and as one of the finest pieces
of nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know anything of,
an amiable, beautiful young woman; but I have no common friend to
procure me that permission, without which I would not dare to
spread the copy.</p>

<p>I am quite aware, Madam, what task the world would assign me
in this letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great
condescend to take notice of him, should heap the altar with the
incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, their own great and
godlike qualities and actions, should be recounted with the most
exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a task for which I am
altogether unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying pride of heart,
I know nothing of your connections in life, and have no access to
where your real character is to be found&mdash;the company of your
compeers: and more, I am afraid that even the most refined
adulation is by no means the road to your good opinion.</p>

<p>One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful
pleasure remember&mdash;the reception I got when I had the honour of
waiting on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness,
but I know a good deal of benevolence of temper and goodness of
heart. Surely did those in exalted stations know how happy they
could make some classes of their inferiors by condescension and
affability, they would never stand so high, measuring out with
every look the height of their elevation, but condescend as
sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor19">[19]</a> Mrs.
Stewart, of Stair, was the first person of note to discover in
the Ayrshire ploughman a genius of the first order.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor20">[20]</a> The
Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXVII.&mdash;TO MR. ROBERT AIKIN, WRITER, AYR.</h4>

[<i>Oct</i>. 1786.?]

<p>SIR,&mdash;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 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 richer! an epocha
which, I think, will arrive at the payment of the British
national debt.</p>

<p>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. Ballantine, 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 grateful
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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 gaiety 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&mdash;the feelings of a father. This, in the
present mood I am in, overbalances everything that can be laid in
the scale against it.</p>

<p>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!&mdash;thou Almighty God! who has
lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with
immortality!&mdash;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!</p>

<p>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&mdash;-</p>

<p>To tell the truth, I have little reason for this last
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,
unfit 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<hr width="100%">
<h4>XXVIII.&mdash;TO DR. MACKENZIE, MAUCHLINE; INCLOSING HIM VERSES ON
DINING WITH LORD DAER.</h4>

<i>Wednesday Morning</i> [1<i>st Nov</i>. 1786].

<p>DEAR SIR,&mdash;I never spent an afternoon among great folks with
half that pleasure as when, in company with you, I had the honour
of paying my devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the
professor<a name="FNanchor21"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_21">[21]</a></sup> I would be delighted to see him
perform acts of kindness and friendship, though I were not the
object; he does it with such a grace. I think his character,
divided into ten parts, stands thus,&mdash;four parts Socrates&mdash;four
parts Nathaniel&mdash;and two parts Shakespeare's Brutus.</p>

<p>The following verses were really extempore, but a little
corrected since. They may entertain you a little with the help of
that partiality with which you are so good as to favour the
performances of, dear Sir, your very humble servant, R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor21">[21]</a>
Dugald Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University
of Edinburgh.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXIX.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.</h4>

<i>Nov</i>. 1786.

<p>MADAM,&mdash;I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I
was so much honoured with your order for my copies, and
incomparably more by the handsome compliments you are pleased to
pay my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there is not
any class of mankind so feelingly alive to the titillations of
applause as the sons of Parnassus; nor is it easy to conceive how
the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those, whose
character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour
him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted
with me, Madam, you could not have touched my darling heart-chord
more sweetly, than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your
illustrious ancestor, the saviour of his country.<br>
  Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!<br>
 </p>

<p>The first book I met with in my early years which I perused
with pleasure was <i>The Life of Hannibal</i>; the next was
<i>The History of Sir William Wallace</i>: for several of my
early years I had few other authors; and many a solitary hour
have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to
shed a tear over their glorious, but unfortunate stories. In
those boyish days I remember, in particular, being struck with
that part of Wallace's story, where these lines occur&mdash;<br>
"Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late,<br>
To make a silent and a safe retreat."</p>

<p>I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life
allowed, and walked half-a-dozen of miles to pay my respects to
the Leglen wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim
did to Loretto; and as I explored every den and dell where I
could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect
(for even then I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish
to be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to his
merits. R. B.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXX.&mdash;TO MISS ALEXANDER.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, 18<i>th Nov</i>. 1786.

<p>MADAM,&mdash;Poets are such <i>outr&eacute;</i> beings, so much the
children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the
world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of
propriety than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I mention
this as an apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has
taken with you in the inclosed poem, which he begs leave to
present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of
the theme, I am not the proper judge: but it is the best my
abilities can produce; and what to a good heart will, perhaps, be
a superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent.</p>

<p>The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare
say, Madam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely
noticed the poetic <i>reveur</i> as he wandered by you. I had
roved out as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of my muse,
on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gaiety of the
vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the distant western
hills; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the
verdant-spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic
heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their
harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and
frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their
little songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said I
to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your
harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights
to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the
property nature gives you&mdash;your dearest comforts, your helpless
nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way,
what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its
welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle,
or the withering eastern blast? Such was the scene, and such the
hour, when, in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of the
fairest pieces of nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic
landscape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted,
who hold commerce with aerial beings! Had Calumny and Villainy
taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with
such an object.</p>

<p>What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised
plain dull historic prose into metaphor and measure.</p>

<p>The inclosed song was the work of my return; and perhaps it
but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a
scene.&mdash;I have the honour to be, Madam, your most obedient and
very humble servant,</p>

<p>R. B.</p>

<p>P.S.&mdash;Well, Mr. Burns, and <i>did</i> the lady give you the
desired permission? No; she was too fine a lady to <i>notice</i>
so plain a compliment. As to her great brothers, whom I have
since met in life on more equal terms<a name=
"FNanchor22"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_22">[22]</a></sup> of
respectability&mdash;why should I quarrel with their want of attention
to me? When fate swore that their purses should be full, nature
was equally positive that their heads should be empty. Men of
their fashion were surely incapable of being unpolite? Ye canna
mak a silk-purse o' a sow's lug.</p>

<p>R. B., 1792.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor22">[22]</a> As
Depute Master of St. James's Lodge, Burns admitted Claude
Alexander, Esq., of Ballochmyle, an honorary member, in July
1789.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXI.&mdash;IN THE NAME OF THE NINE.</h4>

<i>Amen</i>.

<p>WE, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing
date the twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini one thousand
seven hundred and fifty-nine,<a name="FNanchor23"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_23">[23]</a></sup> Poet Laureat, and
Bard-in-Chief, in and over the districts and countries of Kyle,
Cunningham, and Carrick, of old extent,&mdash;To our trusty and
well-beloved William Chalmers and John M'Adam, students and
practitioners in the ancient and mysterious science of
confounding right and wrong.</p>

<p>RIGHT TRUSTY,&mdash;Be it known unto you, That whereas in the
course of our care and watchings over the order and police of all
and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and vendors of poesy;
bards, poets, poetasters, rhymers, jinglers, songsters,
ballad-singers, etc., etc., etc., etc., male and female&mdash;We have
discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, and wicked song or
ballad, a copy whereof we have here inclosed; Our Will therefore
is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint the most execrable individual
of that most execrable species known by the appellation, phrase,
and nickname of The Deil's Yell Nowte,<a name=
"FNanchor24"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_24">[24]</a></sup> and
after having caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye
shall, at noontide of the day, put into the said wretch's
merciless hands the said copy of the said nefarious and wicked
song, to be consumed by fire in presence of all beholders, in
abhorrence of, and terrorem to, all such compositions and
composers. And this in no wise leave ye undone, but have it
executed in every point as this our mandate bears, before the
twenty-fourth current, when in person We hope to applaud your
faithfulness and zeal.</p>

<p>Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of November, Anno Domini
one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six. God save the Bard!</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor23">[23]</a> His
birthday.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor24">[24]</a> Old
bachelors</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXII.&mdash;TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ., ORANGEFIELD.</h4>

[30<i>th Nov</i>. 1786.]

<p>DEAR SIR,&mdash;I suppose the devil is so elated with his success
with you, that he is determined by a <i>coup de main</i> to
complete his purposes on you all at once, in making you a poet. I
broke open the letter you sent me; hummed over the rhymes; and as
I saw they were extempore, said to myself, they were very well;
but when I saw at the bottom a name that I shall ever value with
grateful respect, "I gapit wide, but naething spak." I was nearly
as much struck as the friends of Job, of affliction-bearing
memory, when they sat down with him seven days and seven nights,
and spake not a word.</p>

<p>I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon as my
wonder-scared imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed
its functions, I cast about what this mania of yours might
portend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch of possibility;
and several events, great in their magnitude, and important in
their consequences, occurred to my fancy. The downfall of the
conclave, or the crushing of the Cork rumps; a ducal coronet to
Lord George Gordon, and the protestant interest; or St Peter's
keys to .....</p>

<p>You want to know how I come on. I am just in <i>statu quo</i>,
or, not to insult a gentleman with my Latin, in "auld use and
wont." The noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day,
and interested himself in my concerns, with a goodness like that
benevolent Being whose image he so richly bears. He is a stronger
proof of the immortality of the soul than any that philosophy
ever produced. A mind like his can never die. Let the worshipful
squire H. L., or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their primitive
nothing. At best, they are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only
one of them strongly tinged with bituminous particles and
sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as the heroic
swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence,
shall look on with princely eye at "the war of elements, the
wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds." R. B.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXIII.-To SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD.</h4>

EDINBURGH, 1<i>st Dec</i>. 1786.

<p>SIR,&mdash;Mr. McKenzie in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy
friend, has informed me how much you are pleased to interest
yourself in my fate as a man, and&mdash;what to me is incomparably
dearer-my fame as a poet. I have, Sir, in one or two instances,
been patronised by those of your character in life, when I was
introduced to their notice by social friends to them, and
honoured acquaintances to me; but you are the first gentleman in
the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart has
interested him for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master
enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay
to inquire, whether formal duty bade or cold propriety disallowed
my thanking you in this manner, as I am convinced, from the light
in which you kindly view me, that you will do me the justice to
believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of the needy sharping
author, fastening on those in upper life who honour him with a
little notice of him or his works. Indeed, the situation of poets
is generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure,
palliate that prostitution of heart and talents they have at
times been guilty of. I do not think that prodigality is, by any
means, a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a
careless, indolent inattention to economy is almost inseparable
from it; then there must be in the heart of every bard of
nature's making a certain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind
of pride, which will ever keep him out of the way of those
windfalls of fortune, which frequently light on hardy impudence
and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more
helpless state than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the
world, and whose character as a scholar gives him some
pretensions to the <i>politesse</i> of life, yet is as poor as I
am. For my part, I thank heaven my star has been kinder: learning
never elevated my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an
independent fortune at the plough-tail.</p>

<p>I was surprised to hear<a name="FNanchor25"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_25">[25]</a></sup> that any one who pretended in the
least to the manners of the gentleman should be so foolish, or
worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I am,
and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle with that late most
unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. With a tear of gratitude I
thank you, Sir, for the warmth with which you interposd in behalf
of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently the sport of
whim, caprice, and passion; but reverence to God, and integrity
to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. I have no
return, Sir, to make you for your goodness, but one&mdash;a return
which I am persuaded will not be unacceptable&mdash;the honest warm
wishes of a grateful heart for your happiness, and every one of
that lovely flock who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever
Calumny aims the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be by to
ward the blow! R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor25">[25]</a> From
Dr. Mackenzie, Burns's friend, and medical attendant of the
family of Sir John.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXIV.&mdash;To MR, GAVIN HAMILTON, MAUCHLINE.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>Dec</i>. 7<i>th</i>, 1786,

<p>HONOURED SIR,&mdash;I have paid every attention to your commands,
but can only say what perhaps you will have heard before this
reach you, that Muirkirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W.S.,
but for whom I know not; Mauchlands, Haugh Miln, etc., by a
Frederick Fotheringham, supposed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and
Adam-hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's folks. This is so
imperfect an account, and will be so late ere it reach you, that
were it not to discharge my conscience I would not trouble you
with it; but after all my diligence I could make it no sooner nor
better.</p>

<p>For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent
as Thomas &agrave; Kempis or John Bunyan; and you may expect
henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events
in the poor Robin's and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the black
Monday and the battle of Bothwell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and
the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their
wing; and by all probability I shall soon be the tenth worthy,
and the eighth wise man of the world. Through my lord's
influence, it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian Hunt,
that they universally, one and all, subscribe for the second
edition. My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall
have some of them next post. I have met in Mr. Dalrymple, of
Orangefield, what Solomon emphatically calls, "a friend that
sticketh closer than a brother." The warmth with which he
interests himself in my affairs is of the same enthusiastic kind
which you, Mr. Aikin, and the few patrons that took notice of my
earlier poetic days, showed for the poor unlucky devil of a
poet.</p>

<p>I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy in my poetic
prayers, but you both in prose and verse.</p>

<blockquote>May cauld ne'er catch you, but a hap,<br>
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap!</blockquote>

Amen!

<p>R. B.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXV.&mdash;To MR. JOHN BALLANTINE, BANKER, AT ONE TIME PROVOST OF
AYR.</h4>

EDINBURGH, 13<i>th December</i> 1786.

<p>MY HONOURED FRIEND,&mdash;I would not write you till I could have
it in my power to give you some account of myself and my matters,
which, by the by, is often no easy task. I arrived here on
Tuesday was se'nnight<a name="FNanchor26"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_26">[26]</a></sup>, and have suffered ever since I
came to town with a miserable headache and stomach complaint, but
am now a good deal better. I have found a worthy warm friend in
Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord
Glencairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me I shall
remember when time shall be no more. By his interest it is passed
in the "Caledonian Hunt," and entered in their books, that they
are to take each a copy of the second edition, for which they are
to pay one guinea. I have been introduced to a good many of the
<i>noblesse</i>, but my avowed patrons and patrones es are, the
Duchess of Gordon&mdash;the Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord and
Lady Betty<a name="FNanchor27"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_27">[27]</a></sup>&mdash;the Dean of Faculty&mdash;Sir John
Whitefoord. I have likewise warm friends among the literati;
Professors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie&mdash;the Man of Feeling.
An unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire bard with Mr.
Sibbald, which I got. I since have discovered my generous unknown
friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk;
and drank a glass of claret with him, by invitation, at his own
house yesternight. I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my
book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I will send a
subscription bill or two, next post; when I intend writing my
first kind patron, Mr. Aikin. I saw his son to-day, and he is
very well.</p>

<p>Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned friends, put me in the
periodical paper called the <i>Lounger</i>,<a name=
"FNanchor28"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_28">[28]</a></sup> a
copy of which I here enclose you. I was, Sir, when I was first
honoured with your notice, too obscure; now I tremble lest I
should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the glare of
polite and learned observation.</p>

<p>I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, write you an
account of my every step; and better health and more spirits may
enable me to make it something better than this stupid
matter-of-fact epistle.&mdash;I have the honour to be, good Sir, your
ever grateful humble servant, R. B.</p>

<p>If any of my friends write me, my direction is care of Mr.
Creech, Bookseller.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor26">[26]</a> A
mistake for "a fortnight."</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor27">[27]</a>
Cunningham</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor28">[28]</a> The
paper here alluded to was written by Mackenzie, the celebrated
author of <i>The Man of Feeling</i>.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXVI.&mdash;TO MR. ROBERT MUIR.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>Dec</i>. 20<i>th</i>, 1786.

<p>MY DEAR FRIEND,&mdash;I have just time for the carrier, to tell you
that I received your letter, of which I shall say no more but
what a lass of my acquaintance said of her bastard wean; she said
she "didna ken wha was the father exactly, but she suspected it
was some o' thae bonny blackguard smugglers, for it was like
them." So I only say, your obliging epistle was like you. I
enclose you a parcel of subscription bills. Your affair of sixty
copies is also like you; but it would not be like me to
comply.</p>

<p>Your friend's notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head
of sketching it in some future epistle to you. My compliments to
Charles and Mr. Parker. R. B.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXVII.&mdash;TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, WRITER, AYR.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>Dec</i>. 27<i>th</i>, 1786.

<p>MY DEAR FRIEND,&mdash;I confess I have sinned the sin for which
there is hardly any forgiveness&mdash;ingratitude to friendship, in
not writing you sooner; but of all men living, I had intended to
have sent you an entertaining letter; and by all the plodding,
stupid powers, that in nodding conceited majesty preside over the
dull routine of business&mdash;a heavily-solemn oath this!&mdash;I am and
have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a
letter of humour, as to write a commentary on the Revelation of
St. John the Divine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos by
the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and brother to
Titus, both emperors of Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and
raised the second or third persecution, I forget which, against
the Christians, and after throwing the said apostle John, brother
to the apostle James, commonly called James the Greater, to
distinguish him from another James, who was on some account or
other known by the name of James the Less&mdash;after throwing him
into a cauldron of boiling oil from which he was miraculously
preserved, he banished the poor son of Zebedee to a desert island
in the Archipelago where he was gifted with the second sight, and
saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since I came to Edinburgh;
which, a circumstance not uncommon in story-telling, brings me
back to where I set out.</p>

<p>To make you some amends for what, before you reach this
paragraph, you will have suffered, I enclose you two poems I have
carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck.</p>

<p>One blank in the address to Edinburgh&mdash;"Fair B&mdash;&mdash;," is
heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I
have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been
anything nearly like her in all the combinations of beauty,
grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton's
Eve on the first day of her existence.</p>

<p>My direction is&mdash;care of Andrew Bruce, merchant, Bridge
Street. R. B.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXVIII.&mdash;To THE EARL OF EGLINGTON.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>January</i> 1787.

<p>MY LORD,&mdash;As I have but slender pretensions to philosophy, I
cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citizen of the world, but
have all those national prejudices, which I believe glow
peculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely
anything to which I am so fully alive as the honour and welfare
of my country; and as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than
singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the
veriest shades of life; but never did a heart pant more ardently
than mine to be distinguished; though till very lately I looked
in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is easy then to
guess how much I was gratified with the countenance and
approbation of one of my country's most illustrious sons, when
Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday on the part of your lordship.
Your munificence, my lord, certainly deserves my very grateful
acknowledgments; but your patronage is a bounty peculiarly suited
to my feelings. I am not master enough of the etiquette of life
to know, whether there be not some impropriety in troubling your
lordship with my thanks, but my heart whispered me to do it. From
the emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude I
hope I am incapable of; and mercenary servility, I trust, I shall
ever have so much honest pride as to detest. R. B.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXIX.&mdash;TO MR. JOHN BALLANTINE.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>Jan</i>. 14<i>th</i> 1787.

<p>MY HONOURED FRIEND,&mdash;It gives me a secret comfort to observe
in myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw's Skate,
"past redemption;" for I have still this favourable symptom of
grace, that when my conscience, as in the case of this letter,
tells me I am leaving something undone that I ought to do, it
teases me eternally till I do it.</p>

<p>I am still "dark as was Chaos" in respect to futurity. My
generous friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, has been talking with me
about a lease of some farm or other in an estate called
Dalswinton, which he has lately bought near Dumfries. Some
life-rented embittering recollections whisper me that I will be
happier anywhere than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is
no judge of land; and though I daresay he means to favour me, yet
he may give me, in his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may
ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I return, and have
promised to meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in May.</p>

<p>I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the Most Worshipful
Grand Master Chartres, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland
visited. The meeting was numerous and elegant; all the different
lodges about town were present, in all their pomp. The Grand
Master, who presided with great solemnity and honour to himself
as a gentleman and mason, among other general toasts gave
"Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, Brother Burns," which rung
through the whole assembly with multiplied honours and repeated
acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I was
downright thunderstruck, and, trembling in every nerve, made the
best return in my power. Just as I had finished, some of the
grand officers said so loud that I could hear with a most
comforting accent, "Very well, indeed!" which set me something to
rights again.</p>

<p>I have just now had a visit from my landlady,<a name=
"FNanchor29"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_29">[29]</a></sup> who
is a staid, sober, piously-disposed, vice-abhorring widow, coming
on her climacteric; she is at present in great tribulation
respecting some daughters of Belial who are on the floor
immediately above. My landlady, who, as I have said, is a
flesh-disciplining godly matron, firmly believes her husband is
in heaven; and, having been very happy with him on earth, she
vigorously and perseveringly practises such of the most
distinguished Christian virtues as attending church, railing
against vice, etc., that she may be qualified to meet him in that
happy place where the ungodly shall never enter. This, no doubt,
requires some strong exertions of self-denial in a hale,
well-kept widow of forty-five; and as our floors are low and
ill-plastered, we can easily distinguish our laughter-loving,
night-rejoicing neighbours when they are eating, drinking,
singing, etc. My worthy landlady tosses sleepless and unquiet,
"looking for rest and finding none," the whole night. Just now
she told me&mdash;though by-the-by she is sometimes dubious that I
am, in her own phrase, "but a rough an' roun' Christian,"&mdash;that
"we should not be uneasy or envious because the wicked enjoy the
good things of this life, for the jades would one day lie in
hell," etc., etc.</p>

<p>I have to-day corrected my 152nd page. My best good wishes to
Mr. Aikin.&mdash;I am ever, dear Sir, your much indebted humble
servant, R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor29">[29]</a> Mrs.
Carfrae, Baxter's Close, Lawnmarket, Edinburgh, according to John
Richmond, law clerk.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XL.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

EDINBURGH, 15<i>th January</i> 1787.

<p>MADAM,&mdash;Yours of the 9th current, which I am this moment
honoured with, is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I
will tell you the real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a
fib&mdash;I wished to have written to Dr. Moore before I wrote to you;
but, though every day since I received yours of December 30th,
the idea, the wish to write to him has constantly pressed on my
thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set about it. I know his
fame and character, and I am one of "the sons of little men." To
write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's order,
would be disgracing the little character I have; and to write the
author of <i>The View of Society and Manners</i> a letter of
sentiment&mdash;I declare every artery runs cold at the thought. I
shall try, however, to write to him to-morrow or next day. His
kind interposition on my behalf I have already experienced, as a
gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of Lord
Eglinton, with ten guineas, by way of subscription, for two
copies of my next edition.</p>

<p>The word you object to in the mention I have made of my
glorious countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed
borrowed from Thomson; but it does not strike me as an improper
epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on your finding fault with
it, and applied for the opinion of some of the literati here, who
honour me with their critical strictures, and they all allowed it
to be proper. The song you ask I cannot recollect, and I have not
a copy of it. I have not composed anything on the great Wallace,
except what you have seen in print; and the inclosed, which I
will print in this edition.<a name="FNanchor30"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_30">[30]</a></sup> You will see I have mentioned some
others of the name. When I composed my "Vision," long ago, I had
attempted a description of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas
are a part as it originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to
be able to do justice to the merits of the "saviour of his
country," which sooner or later I shall at least attempt.</p>

<p>You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as
a poet; alas! Madam, I know myself and the world too well. I do
not mean any airs of affected modesty; I am willing to believe
that my abilities deserve some notice; but in a most enlightened,
informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been the study of
men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of
polite learning, polite books, and polite company&mdash;to be dragged
forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with
all my imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude unpolished
ideas on my head&mdash;I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemble when I
tell you I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of a poet in
my obscure situation, without any of those advantages which are
reckoned necessary for that character, at least at this time of
day, has raised a partial tide of public notice which has borne
me to a height, where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my
abilities are inadequate to support me; and too surely do I see
that time when the same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps,
as far below the mark of truth. I do not say this in the
ridiculous affectation of self-abasement and modesty. I have
studied myself, and know what ground I occupy; and however a
friend or the world may differ from me in that particular, I
stand for my own opinion, in silent resolve, with all the
tenaciousness of property. I mention this to you once for all to
disburthen my mind, and I do not wish to hear or say more about
it. But<br>
  When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes,<br>
 </p>

<p>you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at
the highest I stood unintoxicated, with the inebriating cup in my
hand, looking forward with rueful resolve to the hastening time,
when the blow of Calumny should dash it to the ground, with all
the eagerness of vengeful triumph.</p>

<p>Your patronising me and interesting yourself in my fame and
character as a poet, I rejoice in; it exalts me in my own idea;
and whether you can or cannot aid me in my subscription is a
trifle. Has a paltry subscription-bill any charms to the heart of
a bard, compared with the patronage of the descendant of the
immortal Wallace? R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor30">[30]</a>
Stanza in the "Vision," beginning, "By stately tower or palace
fair," and ending with the first Duan.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XLI&mdash;TO DR. MOORE.<a name="FNanchor31"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_31">[31]</a></sup></h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>Jan.</i> 1787.

<p>SIR,&mdash;Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me extracts of
letters she has had from you, where you do the rustic bard the
honour of noticing him and his works. Those who have felt the
anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can only know what
pleasure it gives to be noticed in such a manner, by judges of
the first character. Your criticisms, Sir, I receive with
reverence: only I am sorry they mostly came too late: a peccant
passage or two that I would certainly have altered, were gone to
the press.</p>

<p>The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater part
of those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial dream.
For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish
is, to please my compeers, the inmates of the hamlet, while
ever-changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished
and understood. I am very willing to admit that I have some
poetical abilities; and as few, if any, writers, either moral or
poetical, are intimately acquainted with the classes of mankind
among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men and
manners in a different phasis from what is common, which may
assist originality of thought. Still I know very well the novelty
of my character has by far the greatest share in the learned and
polite notice I have lately had; and in a language where Pope and
Churchill have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray drawn the
tear; where Thomson and Beattie have painted the landscape, and
Lyttelton and Collins described the heart, I am not vain enough
to hope for distinguished poetic fame. R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor31">[31]</a>
Father of the hero of Coru&ntilde;a, and author of <i>Zeluco</i>,
etc.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XLII.&mdash;To THE REV. G. LAWRIE, NEWMILNS, NEAR KILMARNOCK.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>Feb</i>. 5<i>th</i>, 1787.

<p>REVEREND AND DEAR SIR,&mdash;When I look at the date of your kind
letter, my heart reproaches me severely with ingratitude in
neglecting so long to answer it. I will not trouble you with any
account, by way of apology, of my hurried life and distracted
attention: do me the justice to believe that my delay by no means
proceeded from want of respect. I feel, and ever shall feel for
you, the mingled sentiments of esteem for a friend and reverence
for a father.</p>

<p>I thank you, Sir, with all my soul, for your friendly hints,
though I do not need them so much as my friends are apt to
imagine. You are dazzled with newspaper accounts and distant
reports; but, in reality, I have no great temptation to be
intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. Novelty may attract the
attention of mankind awhile; to it I owe my present <i>eclat</i>;
but I see the time not far distant when the popular tide which
has borne me to a height of which I am, perhaps, unworthy, shall
recede with silent celerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand,
to descend at my leisure to my former station. I do not say this
in the affectation of modesty; I see the consequence is
unavoidable, and am prepared for it. I had been at a good deal of
pains to form a just, impartial estimate of my intellectual
powers before I came here: I have not added, since I came to
Edinburgh, anything to the account; and I trust I shall take
every atom of it back to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed
early years.</p>

<p>In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I have found what I
would have expected in our friend, a clear head and an excellent
heart.</p>

<p>By far the most agreeable hours I spend in Edinburgh must be
placed to the account of Miss Lawrie and her pianoforte. I cannot
help repeating to you and Mrs. Lawrie a compliment that Mr.
Mackenzie, the celebrated "Man of Feeling," paid to Miss Lawrie,
the other night, at the concert. I had come in at the interlude,
and sat down by him till I saw Miss Lawrie in a seat not very far
distant, and went up to pay my respects to her. On my return to
Mr. Mackenzie he asked me who she was; I told him 'twas the
daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the west country. He
returned, there were something very striking, to his idea, in her
appearance. On my desiring to know what it was, he was pleased to
say, "She has a great deal of the elegance of a well-bred lady
about her, with all the sweet simplicity of a country girl."</p>

<p>My compliments to all the happy inmates of St. Margaret's.&mdash;I
am, my dear Sir, yours, most gratefully,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNS.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XLIII.-To THE EARL OF BUCHAN.<a name="FNanchor32"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_32">[32]</a></sup></h4>

MY LORD,&mdash;The honour your lordship has done me, by your notice
and advice in yours of the 1st instant, I shall ever gratefully
remember:&mdash;<br>
Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, <br>
They best can give it who deserve it most.

<p>Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart, when you
advise me to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes.
I wish for nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrimage
through my native country; to sit and muse on those once
hard-contended fields, where Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody
lion borne through broken ranks to victory and fame; and,
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless names in song.
But, my lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic reveries, a
long-visaged, dry moral-looking phantom strides across my
imagination, and pronounces these emphatic words:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>"I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, I do not
come to open the ill-closed wounds of your follies and
misfortunes, merely to give you pain: I wish through these wounds
to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. I will not mention how
many of my salutary advices you have despised: I have given you
line upon line and precept upon precept; and while I was chalking
out to you the straight way to wealth and character, with
audacious effrontery you have zigzagged across the path,
contemning me to my face; you know the consequences. It is not
yet three months since home was so hot for you, that you were on
the wing for the western shore of the Atlantic, not to make a
fortune, but to hide your misfortune.

<p>"Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in your power to
return to the situation of your forefathers, will you follow
these will-o'-wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you
once more to the brink of ruin? I grant that the utmost ground
you can occupy is but half a step from the veriest poverty; but
still it is half a step from it. If all that I can urge be
ineffectual, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, let the
call of pride prevail with you. You know how you feel at the iron
gripe of ruthless oppression: you know how you bear the galling
sneer of contumelious greatness. I hold you out the conveniences,
the comforts of life, independence and character, on the one
hand; I tender you servility, dependence, and wretchedness on the
other. I will not insult your understanding by bidding you make a
choice."</p>
</blockquote>

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble
station, and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way at the
plough-tail. Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my
heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in which I boast my
birth, and gratitude to those her distinguished sons, who have
honoured me so much with their patronage and approbation, shall,
while stealing through my humble shades, ever distend my bosom,
and at times, as now, draw forth the swelling tear.

<p>R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor32">[32]</a> The
Earl of Buchan was the very pink of parsimonious
patrons.&mdash;MOTHERWELL.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XLIV.&mdash;TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH,<a name="FNanchor33"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_33">[33]</a></sup>STUDENT IN PHYSIC, GLASGOW
COLLEGE.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>March</i> 21<i>st</i>, 1787.

<p>MY EVER DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE,&mdash;I was equally surprised and
pleased at your letter, though I dare say you will think, by my
delaying so long to write to you, that I am so drowned in the
intovirarion of good fortune as to be indifferent to old, and
once dear connections. The truth is, I was determined to write a
good letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as
Bayes says, <i>all that</i>. I thought of it, and thought of it,
and, by my soul, I could not; and, lest you should mistake the
cause of my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't give
yourself credit, though, that the strength of your logic scares
me; the truth is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at all.
You have shown me one thing which was to be demonstrated: that
strong pride of reasoning, with a little affectation of
singularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I likewise, since
you and I were first acquainted, in the pride of despising old
women's stories, ventured in "the daring path Spinosa trod;" but
experience of the weakness, not the strength of human powers,
made me glad to grasp at revealed religion.</p>

<p>I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, "the old man with
his deeds," as when we were sporting about the "Lady Thorn." I
shall be four weeks here yet at least: and so I shall expect to
hear from you; welcome sense, welcome nonsense.&mdash;I am, with the
warmest sincerity, R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor33">[33]</a> Mr.
Candlish married Miss Smith, one of the six <i>belles</i> of
Mauchline. Their son was the Rev. Dr. Candlish, of Free St.
George's Church, Edinburgh.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XLV.&mdash;TO MR. PETER STUART, EDITOR OF "THE STAR," LONDON.</h4>

EDINBURGH, 1787.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;You may think, and too justly, that I am a
selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received so many repeated
instances of kindness from you, and yet never putting pen to
paper to say thank you; but if you knew what a devil of a life my
conscience has led me on that account, your good heart would
think yourself too much avenged. By the by, there is nothing in
the whole frame of man which seems to be so unaccountable as that
thing called conscience. Had the troublesome yelping cur powers
efficient to prevent a mischief, he might be of use; out at the
beginning of the business, his feeble efforts are, to the
workings of passion, as the infant frosts of an autumnal morning
to the unclouded fervour of the rising sun; and no sooner are the
tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, than amidst the bitter
native consequences of folly in the very vortex of our horrors,
up starts conscience, and harrows us with the feelings of the
damned.</p>

<p>I have inclosed you, by way of expiation, some verse and
prose, that, if they merit a place in your truly entertaining
miscellany, you are welcome to. The prose extract is literally as
Mr. Sprott sent it me.</p>

<p>The inscription on the stone is as follows:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>"HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET,<br>
Born, September 5th, 1751&mdash;Died, 16th October 1774.

<p>No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,<br>
'No storied urn nor animated bust;'<br>
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way<br>
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust."</p>
</blockquote>

On the other side of the stone is as follows:&mdash;

<blockquote> "By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns,
who erected this stone, this burial place is to remain for ever
sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson."</blockquote>

<hr>
<h4>XLVI&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>March</i> 22<i>nd</i>, 1787.

<p>MADAM,&mdash;I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very
little while ago, I had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of
my own bosom; now I am distinguished, patronised, befriended by
you. Your friendly advices&mdash;I will not give them the cold name of
criticisms&mdash;I receive with reverence. I have made some small
alterations in what I before had printed. I have the advice of
some very judicious friends among the literati here, but with
them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of
thinking for myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I owe
more than to any man, does me the honour of giving me his
strictures; his hints, with respect to impropriety or indelicacy,
I follow implicitly.</p>

<p>You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects;
there I can give you no light. It is all</p>

<blockquote>Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun<br>
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams<br>
Athwart the gloom profound.</blockquote>

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my highest pride; to
continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish
scenes and Scottish story are the themes I could wish to sing. I
have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with
the routine of business, for which Heaven knows I am unfit
enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia; to sit
on the fields of her battles; to wander on the romantic banks of
her rivers; and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins,
once the honoured abodes of her heroes.

<p>But these are all Utopian thoughts: I have dallied long enough
with life; 'tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged
mother to care for: and some other bosom ties perhaps equally
tender. Where the individual only suffers by the consequences of
his own thoughtlessness, indolence, or folly, he may be
excusable; nay, shining abilities, and some of the nobler
virtues, may half sanctify a heedless character; but where God
and nature have intrusted the welfare of others to his care;
where the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must
be far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom
these connections will not rouse to exertion.</p>

<p>I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred
pounds by my authorship;<a name="FNanchor34"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_34">[34]</a></sup> with that sum I intend, so far as I
may be said to have any intention, to return to my old
acquaintance, the plough; and, if I can meet with a lease by
which I can live, to commence farmer. I do not intend to give up
poetry; being bred to labour, secures me independence, and the
muses are my chief, sometimes have been my only enjoyment. If my
practice second my resolution, I shall have principally at heart
the serious business of life; but while following my plough, or
building up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance to that
dear, that only feature of my character, which gave me the notice
of my country, and the patronage of a Wallace.</p>

<p>Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the bard, his
situation, and his views, native as they are in his own bosom. R.
B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor34">[34]</a> The
proceeds amounted to more&mdash;some &pound;500 or so.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XLVII&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

EDINBURGH, 15<i>th April</i> 1787.

<p>MADAM,&mdash;There is an affectation of gratitude which I dislike.
The periods of Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide a
selfish heart. For my part, Madam, I trust I have too much pride
for servility, and too little prudence for selfishness. I have
this moment broken open your letter, but</p>

<blockquote>Rude am I in speech,<br>
And therefore little can I grace my cause<br>
In speaking for myself&mdash;</blockquote>

so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and hunted
figures. I shall just lay my hand on my heart and say, I hope I
shall ever have the truest, the warmest sense of your goodness.

<p>I come abroad, in print, for certain on Wednesday. Your orders
I shall punctually attend to; only, by the way, I must tell you
that I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss Williams's
copies, through the medium of Commissioner Cochrane in this
place, but that we can settle when I have the honour of waiting
on you.</p>

<p>Dr. Smith<a name="FNanchor35"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_35">[35]</a></sup> was just gone to London the morning
before I received your letter to him. R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor35">[35]</a> Adam
Smith, the celebrated author of <i>The Wealth of Nations</i>.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XLVIII.&mdash;TO DR. MOORE.</h4>

EDINBURGH, 23<i>rd April</i> 1787.

<p>I received the books, and sent the one you mentioned to Mrs.
Dunlop. I am ill skilled in beating the coverts of imagination
for metaphors of gratitude. I thank you, Sir, for the honour you
have done me and to my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be
highly pleased with your book, is what I have in common with the
world; but to regard these volumes as a mark of the author's
friendly esteem, is a still more supreme gratification.</p>

<p>I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight,
and after a few pilgrimages over some of the classic ground of
Caledonia, Cowden Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, etc., I shall
return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit
them. I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I
am afraid they are all of too tender a construction to bear
carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the
fashionable, the polite, I have no equivalent to offer; and I am
afraid my meteor appearance will by no means entitle me to a
settled correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent
lights of genius and literature.</p>

<p>My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. If once this
tangent flight of mine were over, and I were returned to my
wonted leisurely motion in my old circle, I may probably
endeavour to return her poetic compliment in kind. R. B.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XLIX.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

EDINBURGH, 30<i>th April</i> 1787.

<p>&mdash;Your criticisms, Madam, I understand very well, and could
have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your
guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my
superiors, have so flattered those who possessed the adventitious
qualities of wealth and power, that I am determined to flatter no
created being, either in prose or verse.</p>

<p>I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, etc., as,
all these respective gentry do by my bardship. I know what I may
expect from the world, by-and-bye&mdash;illiberal abuse, and perhaps
contemptuous neglect.</p>

<p>I am happy, Madam, that some of my own favourite pieces are
distinguished by your particular approbation. For my "dream,"<a
name="FNanchor36"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_36">[36]</a></sup>
which has unfortunately incurred your loyal displeasure, I hope,
in four weeks, or less, to have the honour of appearing, at
Dunlop, in its defence in person. R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor36">[36]</a> The
well-known poem, beginning, "Guid morning to your Majesty." Mrs.
Dunlop had recommended its omission, in the second edition, on
the score of prudence.</p>

<hr>
<h4>L&mdash;To MR. WILLIAM NICOL, CLASSICAL MASTER, HIGH SCHOOL,
EDINBURGH.</h4>

CARLISLE, <i>June</i> 1, 1787.

<p>KIND, HONEST-HEARTED WILLIE.&mdash;I'm sitten down here, after
seven-and-forty miles' ridin', e'en as forjesket and forniaw'd as
a forfoughten cock, to gie ye some notion o' my land lowper-like
stravaguin sin the sorrowfu' hour that I sheuk hands and parted
wi' auld Reekie.</p>

<p>My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huchyall'd up hill and
down brae, in Scotland and England, as teugh and birnie as a very
deil wi' me. It's true, she's as poor's a sang-maker and as
hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers when she taks the gate, first
like a lady's gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle;
but she's a yauld, poutherie Girran for a' that, and has a
stomack like Willie Stalker's meere that wad hae disgeested
tumbler-wheels, for she'll whip me aff her five stimparts o' the
best aits at a down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. When ance
her ring-banes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly
soupl'd, she beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the
tightest. I could wager her price to a thretty pennies, that for
twa or three wooks ridin' at fifty miles a day, the deil-stickit
a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on
her tail.</p>

<p>I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dunbar to Selcraig, and
hae forgather'd wi' mony a guid fallow, and mony a weelfar'd
hizzie. I met wi' twa dink quines in particlar, ane o' them a
sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and bonnie; the tither was
a clean-shankit, straught, tight, weel-far'd winch, as blythe's a
lintwhite on a flowerie thorn, and as sweet and modest's a new
blawn plumrose in a hazle shaw. They were baith bred to mainers
by the beuk, and onie ane o' them had as muckle smeddum and
rumblegumtion as the half o' some presbyteries that you and I
baith ken.<br>
</p>

<hr width="35%">
<p>I was gaun to write ye a lang pystle, but, Gude forgie me, I
gat mysel sae notouriously fou the day after kail-time that I can
hardly stoiter but and ben.</p>

<p>My best respecks to the guidwife and a' our common friens,
especiall Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o'
Jock's Lodge.<a name="FNanchor37"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_37">[37]</a></sup></p>

<p>I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and
the branks bide hale.</p>

<p>Gude be wi' you, Willie! Amen!</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor37">[37]</a> Louis
Cauvin, teacher of French.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LI.-To MR. WILLIAM NICOL.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, <i>June</i> l8, 1787.

<p>My dear friend,&mdash;I am now arrived safe in my native country,
after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the pleasure to find all
my friends well. I breakfasted with your greyheaded, reverend
friend, Mr. Smith; and was highly pleased, both with the cordial
welcome he gave me, and his most excellent appearance and
sterling good sense.</p>

<p>I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, and am to meet him
again in August. From my view of the lands, and his reception of
my bardship, my hopes in that business are rather mended; but
still they are but slender.</p>

<p>I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks&mdash;Mr. Burnside, the
clergyman, in particular, is a man whom I shall ever gratefully
remember; and his wife, Gude forgie me! I had almost broke the
tenth commandment on her account. Simplicity, elegance, good
sense, sweetness of disposition, good humour, kind hospitality,
are the constituents of her manner and heart; in short&mdash;but if I
say one word more about her, I shall be directly in love with
her.</p>

<p>I never, my friend, thought mankind very capable of anything
generous; but the stateliness of the patricians in Edinburgh, and
the servility of my plebeian brethren (who, perhaps, formerly
eyed me askance) since I returned home, have nearly put me out of
conceit altogether with my species. I have bought a pocket Milton
which I carry perpetually about with me, in order to study the
sentiments&mdash;the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding
independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of
hardship in that great personage, SATAN. 'Tis true, I have just
now a little cash; but I am afraid the star that hitherto has
shed its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my zenith; that
noxious planet, so baneful in its influence to the rhyming
tribe&mdash;I much dread it is not yet beneath my horizon. Misfortune
dodges the path of human life; the poetic mind finds itself
miserably deranged in, and unfit for the walks of business; add
to all, that thoughtless follies and hare-brained whims, like so
many <i>ignes fatui</i>, eternally diverging from the right line
of sober discretion, sparkle with step-bewitching blaze in the
idly-gazing eyes of the poor heedless Bard, till, pop, "he falls
like Lucifer, never to hope again." God grant this may be an
unreal picture with respect to me! but should it not, I have very
little dependence on mankind. I will close my letter with this
tribute my heart bids me pay you&mdash;the many ties of acquaintance
and friendship which I have, or think I have in life, I have felt
along the lines, and damn them, they are almost all of them of
such frail contexture, that I am sure they would not stand the
breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune; but from you, my
ever dear Sir, I look with confidence for the Apostolic love that
shall wait on me "through good report and bad report"&mdash;the love
which Solomon emphatically says "is strong as death." My
compliments to Mrs. Nicol and all the circle of our common
friends.</p>

<p>P.S.&mdash;I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter end of
July.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LII.-To MR. ROBERT AINSLIE</h4>

.<a name="FNanchor38"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_38">[38]</a></sup>

<p>ARROCHAR, 28<i>th June</i> 1787.</p>

<p>My dear sir,&mdash;I write this on my tour through a country where
savage streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread
with savage flocks, which sparingly support as savage
inhabitants. My last stage was Inverary&mdash;to-morrow night's stage
Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have answered your kind letter, but
you know I am a man of many sins. R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor38">[38]</a> A young
writer in Edinburgh.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LIII.&mdash;TO MR. JAMES SMITH, LINLITHGOW, FORMERLY OF
MAUCHLINE</h4>

<i>June 30th</i>, 1787.

<p>MY DEAR FRIEND,&mdash;On our return, at a Highland gentleman's
hospitable mansion, we fell in with a merry party, and danced
till the ladies left us, at three in the morning. Our dancing was
none of the French or English insipid formal movements; the
ladies sung Scotch songs like angels, at intervals; then we flew
at <i>Bab at the Bowster</i>, <i>Tullochgorum</i>, <i>Loch Erroch
Side</i>,<a name="FNanchor39"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_39">[39]</a></sup> etc., like midges sporting in the
mottie sun, or craws prognosticating a storm in a hairst day.
When the dear lasses left us, we ranged round the bowl till the
good-fellow hour of six; except a few minutes that we went out to
pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the
towering top of Benlomond. We all kneeled; our worthy landlord's
son held the bowl; each man a full glass in his hand; and I, as
priest, repeated some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's
prophecies, I suppose. After a small refreshment of the gifts of
Somnus, we proceeded to spend the day on Lochlomond, and reached
Dumbarton in the evening. We dined at another good fellow's
house, and, consequently, pushed the bottle; when we went out to
mount our horses we found ourselves "No vera fou but gaylie yet."
My two friends and I rode soberly down the Loch side, till by
came a Highlandman at the gallop, on a tolerably good horse, but
which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We
scorned to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we started,
whip and spur. My companions, though seemingly gaily mounted,
fell sadly astern; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the
Rosinante family, she strained past the Highlandman in spite of
all his efforts with the hair halter: just as I was passing him,
Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me to mar my
progress, when down came his horse, and threw his rider's
breekless a&mdash;&mdash; in a clipt hedge; and down came Jenny Geddes over
all, and my hardship between her and the Highlandman's horse.
Jenny Geddes trode over me with such cautious reverence, that
matters were not so bad as might well have been expected; so I
came off with a few cuts and bruises, and a thorough resolution
to be a pattern of sobriety for the future.</p>

<p>I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious
business of life. I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making,
raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall somewhere have a
farm soon. I was going to say, a wife too; but that must never be
my blessed lot. I am but a younger son of the house of Parnassus,
and like other younger sons of great families, I may intrigue, if
I choose to run all risks, but must not marry.</p>

<p>I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, the principal one
indeed, of my former happiness; that eternal propensity I always
had to fall in love. My heart no more glows with feverish
rapture. I have no paradisiacal evening interviews, stolen from
the restless cares and prying inhabitants of this weary world. I
have only &mdash;&mdash;. This last is one of your distant acquaintances,
has a fine figure, and elegant manners; and in the train of some
great folks whom you know, has seen the politest quarters in
Europe. I do like her a deal; but what piques me is her conduct
at the commencement of our acquaintance. I frequently visited her
when I was in &mdash;&mdash;, and after passing regularly the intermediate
degrees between the distant formal bow and the familiar grasp
round the waist, I ventured, in my careless way, to talk of
friendship in rather ambiguous terms; and after her return to
&mdash;&mdash;, I wrote to her in the same style. Miss, construing my words
farther, I suppose, than even I intended, flew off in a tangent
of female dignity and reserve, like a mounting lark in an April
morning; and wrote me an answer which measured me out very
completely what an immense way I had to travel before I could
reach the climate of her favour. But I am an old hawk at the
sport, and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as
brought my bird from her aerial towerings, pop down at my foot,
like Corporal Trim's hat.</p>

<p>As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and all my wise
sayings, and why my mare was called Jenny Geddes, they shall be
recorded in a few weeks hence at Linlithgow, in the chronicles of
your memory, by</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor39">[39]</a> Scotch
tunes.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LIV.-To MR. JOHN RICHMOND.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, 7th <i>July</i> 1787.

<p>MY DEAR RICHMOND,-I am all impatience to hear of your fate
since the old confounder of right and wrong has turned you out of
place, by his journey to answer his indictment at the bar of the
other world. He will find the practice of the court so different
from the practice in which he has for so many years been
thoroughly hackneyed, that his friends, if he had any connections
truly of that kind, which I rather doubt, may well tremble for
his sake. His chicane, his left-handed wisdom, which stood so
firmly by him, to such good purpose, here, like other accomplices
in robbery and plunder, will, now the piratical business is
blown, in all probability turn king's evidences, and then the
devil's bagpiper will touch him off "Bundle and go!"</p>

<p>If he has left you any legacy, I beg your pardon for all this;
if not, I know you will swear to every word I said about him.</p>

<p>I have lately been rambling over by Dumbarton and Inverary,
and running a drunken race on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild
Highlandman; his horse, which had never known the ornaments of
iron or leather, zig-zagged across before my old spavin'd hunter,
whose name is Jenny Geddes, and down came the Highlandman, horse
and all, and down came Jenny and my bardship; so I have got such
a skinful of bruises and wounds, that I shall be at least four
weeks before I dare venture on my journey to Edinburgh.</p>

<p>Not one new thing under the sun has happened in Mauchline
since you left it. I hope this will find you as comfortably
situated as formerly, or, if heaven pleases, more so; but, at all
events, I trust you will let me know of course how matters stand
with you, well or ill. 'Tis but poor consolation to tell the
world when matters go wrong; but you know very well your
connection and mine stands on a different footing.&mdash;I am ever, my
dear friend, yours,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LV.&mdash;TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, <i>23rd July</i> 1787.

<p>MY DEAR AINSLIE,-There is one thing for which I set great
store by you as a friend, and it is this, that I have not a
friend upon earth, besides yourself, to whom I can talk nonsense
without forfeiting some degree of his esteem. Now, to one like
me, who never cares for speaking anything else but nonsense, such
a friend as you is an invaluable treasure. I was never a rogue,
but have been a fool all my life; and, in spite of all my
endeavours, I see now plainly that I shall never be wise. Now it
rejoices my heart to have met with such a fellow as you, who,
though you are not just such a hopeless fool as I, yet I trust
you will never listen so much to temptation as to grow so very
wise that you will in the least disrespect an honest fellow
because he is a fool. In short, I have set you down as the staff
of my old age, when the whole list of my friends will, after a
decent share of pity, have forgot me.<br>
Though in the morn comes sturt and strife,<br>
Yet joy may come at noon;<br>
And I hope to live a merry, merry life<br>
When a' thir days are done.</p>

<p>Write me soon, were it but a few lines, just to tell me how
that good, sagacious man your father is,&mdash;that kind, dainty body
your mother,&mdash;that strapping chiel your brother Douglas-and my
friend Rachel, who is as far before Rachel of old, as she was
before her blear-eyed sister Leah.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LVI-To DR. MOORE.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 2nd August 1787.

<p>SIR,-For some months past I have been rambling over the
country, but I am now confined with some lingering complaints,
originating, as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a
little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to
give you a history of myself. My name has made some little noise
in this country; you have done me the honour to interest yourself
very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful account of what
character of a man I am, and how I came by that character, may
perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give you an honest
narrative, though I know it will be often at my own expense; for
I assure you, Sir, I have, like Solomon, whose character,
excepting in the trifling affair of wisdom, I sometimes think I
resemble,&mdash;I have, I say, like him, turned my eyes to behold
madness and folly, and like him, too, frequently shaken hands
with their intoxicating friendship. After you have perused these
pages, should you think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg
leave to tell you, that the poor author wrote them under some
twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion that he
was doing what he ought not to do: a predicament he has more than
once been in before.</p>

<p>I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that
character which the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a
gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in the
herald's office; and, looking through that granary of honours, I
there found almost every name in the kingdom; but for me,<br>
My ancient but ignoble blood<br>
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood.</p>

<p>Gules, purpure, argent, etc., quite disowned me.</p>

<p>My father was in the north of Scotland the son of a farmer,
and was thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large, where,
afier many years' wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a
pretty large quantity of observation and experience, to which I
am indebted for most of my little pretensions to wisdom. I have
met with few who understood men, their manners, and their ways,
equal to him; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, and headlong,
ungovernable irascibility are disqualifying circumstances;
consequently, I was born a very poor man's son. For the first six
or seven years of my life, my father was gardener to a worthy
gentleman of small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had he
continued in that station, I must have marched off to be one of
the little underlings about a farm house; but it was his dearest
wish and prayer to have it in his power to keep his children
under his own eye, till they could discern between good and evil;
so, with the assistance of his generous master, my father
ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those years, I was by
no means a favourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a
retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition,
and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I say idiot piety, because I was
then but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some
thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar; and by the time
I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives,
verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed
much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for
her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose,
the largest collection in the country of tales and songs
concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks,
spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths,
apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and
other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry, but
had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in
my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look out in
suspicious places; and though nobody can be more sceptical than I
am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to
shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition that I
recollect taking pleasure in was "The Vision of Mirza," and a
hymn of Addison's, beginning, "How are thy servants blest, O
Lord!" I particularly remember one half-stanza which was music to
my boyish ear&mdash;<br>
"For though on dreadful whirls we hung<br>
High on the broken wave&mdash;"</p>

<p>I met with these pieces in Manson's English Collection, one of
my school-books. The first two books I ever read in private, and
which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read since,
were the <i>Life of Hannibal</i>, and the <i>History of Sir
William Wallace</i>. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn,
that I used to strut in rapture up and down after the recruiting
drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier;
while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my
veins which will boil along there, till the flood-gates of life
shut in eternal rest.</p>

<p>Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country
half mad, and I, ambitious of shining in conversation parties on
Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, etc., used a few years
afterwards to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and
indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry of heresy against me,
which has not ceased to this hour.</p>

<p>My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to me. My social
disposition, when not checked by some modifications of spirited
pride, was like our catechism definition of infinitude, without
bounds or limits. I formed several connections with other
younkers, who possessed superior advantages; the youngling actors
who were busy in the rehearsal of parts, in which they were
shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, alas! I was
destined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at this
green stage that our young gentry have a just sense of the
immense distance between them and their ragged play-fellows. It
takes a few dashes into the world, to give the young great man
that proper, decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor,
insignificant, stupid devils, the mechanics and peasantry around
him, who were, perhaps, born in the same village. My young
superiors never insulted the clouterly appearance of my
plough-boy carcase, the two extremes of which were often exposed
to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. They would give me
stray volumes of books; among them, even then, I could pick up
some observations; and one, whose heart, I am sure, not even the
"Munny Begum" scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French.
Parting with these my young friends and benefactors, as they
occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was often to
me a sore affliction; but I was soon called to more serious
evils. My father's generous master died; the farm proved a
ruinous bargain; and to clench the misfortune, we fell into the
hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in
my tale of "Twa Dogs." My father was advanced in life when he
married; I was the eldest of seven children, and he, worn out by
early hardships, was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was
soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was a freedom in his
lease in two years more, and to weather these two years, we
retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly: I was a dexterous
ploughman for my age; and the next eldest to me was a brother
(Gilbert), who could drive a plough very well, and help me to
thrash the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, have viewed these
scenes with some satisfaction, but so did not I; my indignation
yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's insolent
threatening letters, which used to set us all in tears.</p>

<p>This kind of life&mdash;the cheerless gloom of a hermit with the
unceasing moil of a galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth
year; a little before which period I first committed the sin of
rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and woman
together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth
autumn, my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than
myself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her
justice in that language, but you know the Scottish idiom: she
was a "bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass." In short, she, altogether
unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion,
which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and
book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our
dearest blessing here below! How she caught the contagion I
cannot tell; you medical people talk much of infection from
breathing the same air, the touch, etc.; but I never expressly
said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so
much to loiter behind with her, when returning in the evening
from our labours; why the tones of her voice made my
heart-strings thrill like an Aeolian harp; and particularly why
my pulse beat such a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered
over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings and
thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, she sung
sweetly; and it was her favourite reel to which I attempted
giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as
to imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed
by men who had Greek and Latin; but my girl sung a song which was
said to be composed by a small country laird's son, on one of his
father's maids, with whom he was in love; and I saw no reason why
I might not rhyme as well as he; for, excepting that he could
smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the moorlands,
he had no more scholar-craft than myself.</p>

<p>Thus with me began love and poetry; which at times have been
my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my
highest enjoyment. My father struggled on till he reached the
freedom in his lease, when he entered on a larger farm, about ten
miles farther in the country. The nature of the bargain he made
was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands at the
commencement of his lease, otherwise the affair would have been
impracticable. For four years we lived comfortably here, but a
difference commencing between him and his landlord as to terms,
after three years tossing and whirling in the vortex of
litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors of a jail,
by a consumption, which, after two years' promises, kindly
stepped in, and carried him away, to where the wicked cease from
troubling, and where the weary are at rest!</p>

<p>It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my
little story is most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this
period, perhaps the most ungainly awkward boy in the parish&mdash;no
<i>solitaire</i> was less acquainted with the ways of the world.
What I knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon's and
Guthrie's Geographical Grammars; and the ideas I had formed of
modern manners, of literature, and criticism, I got from the
<i>Spectator</i>. These, with Pope's Works, some Plays of
Shakespeare, Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, <i>The
Pantheon</i>, Locke's <i>Essay on the Human Understanding</i>,
Stackhouse's <i>History of the Bible</i>, Justice's <i>British
Gardener's Directory</i>, Boyle's <i>Lectures</i>, Allan
Ramsays's Works, Taylor's <i>Scripture Doctrine of Original
Sin</i>, <i>A Select Collection of English Songs</i>, and
Hervey's <i>Meditations</i>, had formed the whole of my reading.
The collection of songs was my <i>vade mecum</i>. I pored over
them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse
by verse; carefully noting the true tender, or sublime, from
affectation and fustian. I am convinced I owe to this practice
much of my critic-craft, such as it is.</p>

<p>In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, I went to
a country dancing-school. My father had an unaccountable
antipathy against these meetings, and my going was, what to this
moment I repent, in opposition to his wishes. My father, as I
said before, was subject to strong passions; from that instance
of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike to me, which, I
believe, was one cause of the dissipation which marked my
succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the
strictness, and sobriety, and regularity of presbyterian country
life; for though the will-o'-wisp meteors of thoughtless whim
were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety
and virtue kept me for several years afterwards within the line
of innocence. The great misfortune of my life was to want an aim.
I had felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they were the
blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the walls of his cave. I
saw my father's situation entailed on me perpetual labour. The
only two openings by which I could enter the temple of fortune
were the gate of niggardly economy, or the path of little
chicaning bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture
I never could squeeze myself into it&mdash;the last I always
hated&mdash;there was contamination in the very entrance! Thus
abandoned of aim or view in life, with a strong appetite for
sociability, as well from native hilarity as from a pride of
observation and remark; a constitutional melancholy or
hypochondriasm that made me fly solitude; add to these incentives
to social life, my reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain
wild logical talent, and a strength of thought something like the
rudiments of good sense; and it will not seem surprising that I
was generally a welcome guest where I visited, or any great
wonder that always, where two or three met together, there was I
among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was
<i>un penchant &agrave; l'adorable moiti&eacute; du genre
humain</i>. My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally
lighted up by some goddess or other; and, as in every other
warfare in this world, my fortune was various; sometimes I was
received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a
repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no
competitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance; and as I
never cared further for my labours than while I was in actual
exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. A
country lad seldom carries on a love adventure without an
assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid
dexterity that recommended me as a proper second on these
occasions; and I dare say I felt as much pleasure in being in the
secret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did
statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe.
The very goose-feather in my hand seems to know instinctively the
well-worn path of my imagination, the favourite theme of my song,
and is with difficulty restrained from giving you a couple of
paragraphs on the love-adventures of my compeers, the humble
inmates of the farm-house and cottage; but the grave sons of
science, ambition, or avarice, baptise these things by the name
of follies. To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty they
are matters of the most serious nature: to them the ardent hope,
the stolen interview, the tender farewell, are the greatest and
most delicious parts of their enjoyments.</p>

<p>Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration in
my mind and manners, was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a
smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted school, to
learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, etc., in which I made a
pretty good progress. But I made a greater progress in the
knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that time very
successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring
dissipation were, till this time, new to me: but I was no enemy
to social life. Here, though I learned to fill my glass, and to
mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high
hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a month which
is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming fillette, who
lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set
me off at a tangent from the spheres of my studies. I, however,
struggled on with my sines and cosines for a few days more; but
stepping into the garden one charming noon, to take the sun's
altitude, there I met my angel,<br>
Like Proserpine gathering flowers,<br>
Herself a fairer flower.</p>

<p>It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school.</p>

<p>The remaining week I staid I did nothing but craze the
faculties of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her; and the
two last nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a
mortal sin, the image of this modest and innocent girl had kept
me guiltless.</p>

<p>I returned home very considerably improved. My reading was
enlarged with the very important edition of Thomson's and
Shenstone's Works; I had seen human nature in a new phasis; and I
engaged several of my schoolfellows to keep up a literary
correspondence with me. This improved me in composition. I had
met with a collection of letters by the wits of Queen Anne's
reign, and I pored over them most devoutly. I kept copies of any
of my own letters that pleased me, and a comparison between them
and the composition of most of my correspondents flattered my
vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had not
three-farthings' worth of business in the world, yet almost every
post brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding
son of day-book and ledger.</p>

<p>My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third
year. <i>Vive l'amour, et vive la bagatelle</i>, were my sole
principles of action. The addition of two more authors to my
library gave me great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie&mdash;<i>Tristram
Shandy</i> and the <i>Man of Feeling</i> were my bosom
favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind, but it
was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. I had
usually half-a-dozen or more pieces on hand: I took up one or
other, as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed
the work as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once
lighted up, raged like so many devils, till they got vent in
rhyme; and then the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed
all into quiet! None of the rhymes of those days are in print,
except "Winter, a Dirge," the eldest of my printed pieces; "The
Death of Poor Maillie," "John Barleycorn," and songs first,
second, and third. Song second was the ebullition of that passion
which ended the forementioned school business.</p>

<p>My twenty-third year was to me an important era. Partly
through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing
something in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town
(Irvine), to learn his trade. This was an unlucky affair. My
partner was a scoundrel of the first water; and to finish the
whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to the New Year, the
shop took fire and burnt to ashes, and I was left, like a true
poet, not worth a sixpence.</p>

<p>I was obliged to give up this scheme; the clouds of misfortune
were gathering thick round my father's head; and, what was worst
of all, he was visibly far gone in a consumption; and, to crown
my distresses, a <i>belle fille</i>, whom I adored, and who had
pledged her soul to meet me in the field of matrimony, jilted me,
with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil
that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was my
constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree that
for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied
by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus&mdash;"Depart
from me, ye cursed."</p>

<p>From this adventure I learned something of a town life; but
the principal thing which gave my mind a turn was a friendship I
formed with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless
son of misfortune.<a name="FNanchor40"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_40">[40]</a></sup> He was the son of a simple
mechanic; but a great man in the neighbourhood taking him under
his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with a view of
bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was
ready to launch out into the world, the poor fellow, in despair,
went to sea; where, after a variety of good and ill fortune, a
little before I was acquainted with him he had been sent on shore
by an American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught,
stripped of everything. I cannot quit this poor fellow's story
without adding, that he is at this time master of a large
West-India-man belonging to the Thames.</p>

<p>His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every
manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm,
and of course strove to imitate him.</p>

<p>In some measure I succeeded; I had pride before, but he taught
it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was
vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was
the only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than myself where
woman was the presiding star; but he spoke of illicit love with
the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with
horror. Here his friendship did me a mischief, and the
consequence was, that soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote
the "Poet's Welcome." My reading only increased while in this
town by two stray volumes of <i>Pamela</i>, and one of
<i>Ferdinand Count Fathom</i>, which gave me some idea of novels.
Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, I had
given up; but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, I strung
anew my wildly-sounding lyre with emulating vigour. When my
father died, his all went among the hell-hounds that prowl in the
kennel of justice; but we made a shift to collect a little money
in the family amongst us, with which, to keep us together, my
brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted my
hair-brained imagination, as well as my social and amorous
madness; but in good sense, and every sober qualification, he was
far my superior.</p>

<p>I entered on this farm with a full resolution, "Come, go to, I
will be wise!" I read farming books; I calculated crops; I
attended markets; and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the
world, and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise man;
but the first year, from unfortunately buying bad seed, the
second from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This overset
all my wisdom, and I returned "like the dog to his vomit, and the
sow that was washed, to her wallowing in the mire."</p>

<p>I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker of
rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light was a
burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend
Calvinists, both of them <i>dramatis person&aelig;</i> in my
"Holy Fair". I had a notion myself that the piece had some merit;
but, to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend, who
was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess
who was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever.
With a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it
met with a roar of applause. "Holy Willie's Prayer" next made its
appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held
several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply
any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily for
me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point-blank shot
of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave
rise to my printed poem, "The Lament." This was a most melancholy
affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very
nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a
place among those who have lost the chart, and mistaken the
reckoning of rationality. I gave up my part of the farm to my
brother; in truth it was only nominally mine; and made what
little preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But before
leaving my native country for ever, I resolved to publish my
poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my
power; I thought they had merit; and it was a delicious idea that
I should be called a clever fellow, even though it should never
reach my ears&mdash;a poor negro-driver&mdash;or perhaps a victim to that
inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of spirits! I can truly
say, that, <i>pauvre inconnu</i> as I then was, I had pretty
nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at
this moment, when the public has decided in their favour. It ever
was my opinion that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational
and religious point of view, of which we see thousands daily
guilty, are owing to their ignorance of themselves. To know
myself, had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself
alone; I balanced myself with others; I watched every means of
information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man, and as a
poet; I studied assiduously Nature's design in my
formation&mdash;where the lights and shades in my character were
intended. I was pretty confident my poems would meet with some
applause; but at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would deafen
the voice of censure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes make
me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, of which I had
got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty. My vanity
was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public;
and besides, I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty
pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I was thinking of
indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As
soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price of wafting me to
the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship that
was to sail from the Clyde, for</p>

<p>Hungry ruin had me in the wind.</p>

<p>I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under
all the terrors of a jail; as some ill-advised people had
uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken
the last farewell of my few friends; my chest was on the road to
Greenock; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in
Caledonia&mdash;"The gloomy night is gathering fast," when a letter
from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine overthrew all my schemes,
by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. The doctor
belonged to a set of critics, for whose applause I had not dared
to hope. His opinion, that I would meet with encouragement in
Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so much, that away I
posted for that city, without a single acquaintance or a single
letter of introduction. The baneful star that had so long shed
its blasting influence in my zenith, for once made a revolution
to the nadir; and a kind Providence placed me under the patronage
of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. <i>Oubliez
moi, grand Dieu, si jamais je l'oublie</i>!</p>

<p>I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new world; I
mingled among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and
I was all attention to "catch" the characters, and "the manners
living as they rise."</p>

<p>You can now, Sir, form a pretty near guess of what sort of a
wight he is whom for some time you have honoured with your
correspondence. That whim and fancy, keen sensibility and riotous
passions, may still make him zigzag in his future path of life is
very probable; but come what will, I shall answer for him the
most determinate integrity and honour. And though his evil star
should again blaze in his meridian with tenfold more direful
influence, he may reluctantly tax friendship with pity, but with
no more.</p>

<p>My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams.<a name=
"FNanchor41"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_41">[41]</a></sup> The
very elegant and friendly letter she honoured me with a few days
ago I cannot answer at present, as my presence is required at
Edinburgh for a week or so, and I set off to-morrow.</p>

<p>I enclose you <i>Holy Willie</i> for the sake of giving you a
little further information of the affair than Mr. Creech<a name=
"FNanchor42"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_42">[42]</a></sup> could
do. An elegy I composed the other day on Sir James H. Blair, if
time allow, I will transcribe. The merit is just mediocre.</p>

<p>If you will oblige me so highly, and do me so much honour as
now and then to drop me a line, please direct to me at Mauchline.
With the most grateful respect, I have the honour to be, Sir,
your very humble servant, ROBERT BURNS.<a name=
"FNanchor43"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_43">[43]</a></sup></p>

<p><a name="Footnote_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor40">[40]</a>
Richard Brown.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor41">[41]</a> A
young poetical lady, though not a poetess.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor42">[42]</a> His
Edinburgh publisher; a bookseller, afterwards Lord Provost of the
city.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor43">[43]</a> The
foregoing biographical letter brings us down to Burns's 29th
year.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LVIL.&mdash;To MR. ARCHIBALD LAWRIE.<a name=
"FNanchor44"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_44">[44]</a></sup></h4>

EDINBURGH, 14<i>th August</i> 1787.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;Here am I. That is all I can tell you of that
unaccountable being, myself. What I am doing no mortal can tell;
what I am thinking, I myself cannot tell; what I am usually
saying is not worth telling. The clock is just striking&mdash;one,
two, three, four...twelve, forenoon; and here I sit in the attic
storey, the garret, with a friend on the right hand of my
standish, a friend whose kindness I shall largely experience at
the close of this line&mdash;there, thank you!&mdash;a friend, my dear
Lawrie, whose kindness often makes me blush&mdash;a friend who has
more of the milk of human kindness than all the human race put
together, and what is highly to his honour, peculiarly a friend
to the friendless as often as they come his way; in short, Sir,
he is wthout the least alloy a universal philanthropist, and his
much-beloved name is a bottle of good old Port!</p>

<p>In a week, if whim and weather serve, I set out for the north,
a tour to the Highlands.</p>

<p>I ate some Newhaven broth&mdash;in other words, boiled
mussels&mdash;with Mr. Farquharson's family t'other day. Now I see you
prick up your ears. They are all well, and mademoiselle is
particularly well. She begs her respects to you all&mdash;along with
which please present those of your humble servant. I can no more.
I have so high a veneration, or rather idolatrization, for the
clerical character, that even a little <i>futurum esse</i>
priestling, with his <i>penna penn&aelig;</i>, throws an awe over
my mind in his presence, and shortens my sentences into single
ideas.</p>

<p>Farewell, and believe me to be ever, my dear Sir, yours,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor44">[44]</a> Son, and
successor, to the minister of Loudon.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LVIII.&mdash;To MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMARNOCK.</h4>

STIRLING, 26<i>th August</i> 1787.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;I intended to have written you from Edinburgh,
and now write you from Stirling to make an excuse. Here am I, on
my way to Inverness, with a truly original, but very worthy man,
a Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the High-school in Edinburgh.
I left Auld Reekie yesterday morning, and have passed, besides
by-excursions, Linlithgow, Borrowstounness, Falkirk, and here am
I undoubtedly. This morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the
Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace; and two hours
ago I said a fervent prayer for old Caledonia over the hole in a
blue whinstone, where Robert de Bruce fixed his royal standard on
the banks of Bannockburn and just now, from Stirling Castle, I
have seen by the setting sun the glorious prospect of the
windings of Forth through the rich carse of Stirling, and
skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. The crops are very
strong, but so very late that there is no harvest except a ridge
or two perhaps in ten miles, all the way I have travelled from
Edinburgh.</p>

<p>I left Andrew Bruce<a name="FNanchor45"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_45">[45]</a></sup> and family all well. I will be at
least three weeks in making my tour, as I shall return by the
coast, and have many people to call for.</p>

<p>My best compliments to Charles, our dear kinsman and
fellow-saint; and Messrs. W. and H. Parkers. I hope Hughoc<a
name="FNanchor46"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_46">[46]</a></sup>
is going on and prospering with God and Miss M'Causlin.</p>

<p>If I could think on anything sprightly, I should let you hear
every other post; but a dull, matter-of-fact business like this
scrawl, the less and seldomer one writes the better.</p>

<p>Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, that I am and
ever shall be, my dear Sir, your obliged,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor45">[45]</a> A
shopkeeper on the North Bridge, Edinburgh.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor46">[46]</a> The
wee Hughoc mentioned in "Poor Maillie."</p>

<hr>
<h4>LIX.&mdash;TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON.</h4>

STIRLING, <i>28th August</i> 1787.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;Here am I on my way to Inverness. I have rambled
over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk and Stirling, and am
delighted with their appearance: richly waving crops of wheat,
barley, etc., but no harvest at all yet, except, in one or two
places, an old-wife's ridge. Yesterday morning I rode from this
town up the meandering Devon's banks, to pay my respects to some
Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, we made a party to
go and see the famous Caudron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the
Devon, about five miles above Harvieston; and after spending one
of the most pleasant days I ever had in my life, I returned to
Stirling in the evening. They are a family, Sir, though I had not
had any prior tie, though they had not been the brother and
sisters of a certain generous friend of mine, I would never
forget them. I am told you have not seen them these several
years, so you can have very little idea of what these young folks
are now. Your brother<a name="FNanchor47"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_47">[47]</a></sup> is as tall as you are, but slender
rather than otherwise; and I have the satisfaction to inform you
that he is getting the better of those consumptive symptoms which
I suppose you know were threatening him. His make, and
particularly his manner, resemble you, but he will have a still
finer face. (I put in the word still, to please Mrs. Hamilton.)
Good sense, modesty, and at the same time a just idea of that
respect that man owes to man, and has a right in his turn to
exact, are striking features in his character; and, what with me
is the Alpha and the Omega, he has a heart that might adorn the
breast of a poet! Grace has a good figure, and the look of health
and cheerfulness, but nothing else remarkable in her person. I
scarcely ever saw so striking a likeness as is between her and
your little Beenie; the mouth and chin particularly. She is
reserved at first; but as we grew better acquainted, I was
delighted with the native frankness of her manner, and the
sterling sense of her observation. Of Charlotte I cannot speak in
common terms of admiration: she is not only beautiful but lovely.
Her form is elegant; her features not regular, but they have the
smile of sweetness, and the settled complacency of good nature in
the highest degree; and her complexion, now that she has happily
recovered her wonted health, is equal to Miss Burnet's. After the
exercises of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr.
Donne's mistress:&mdash;<br>
Her pure and eloquent blood<br>
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,<br>
That one would almost say her body thought.</p>

<p>Her eyes are fascinating; at once expressive of good sense,
tenderness, and a noble mind.</p>

<p>I do not give you all this account, my good Sir, to flatter
you. I mean it to reproach you. Such relations the first peer in
the realm might own with pride; then why do you not keep up more
correspondence with these so amiable young folks? I had a
thousand questions to answer about you. I had to describe the
little ones with the minuteness of anatomy. They were highly
delighted when I told them that John<a name=
"FNanchor48"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_48">[48]</a></sup> was
so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and that Willie was going
on still very pretty; but I have it in commission to tell her
from them, that beauty is a poor silly bauble without she be
good. Miss Chalmers I had left in Edinburgh, but I had the
pleasure of meeting with Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie being
rather a little alarmingly ill of a sore throat somewhat marred
our enjoyment.</p>

<p>I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. My most respectful
compliments to Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Kennedy, and Doctor Mackenzie.
I shall probably write him from some stage or other.&mdash;I am ever;
Sir, yours most gratefully,</p>

<p>ROBT. BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor47">[47]</a>
Step-brother, more correctly.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor48">[48]</a> This
is the "Wee Curlie Johnnie" mentioned in Burns's <i>Dedication to
Gavin Hamilton, Esq.</i></p>

<hr>
<h4>LX.&mdash;To MR. WALKER, BLAIR OF ATHOLE.<a name=
"FNanchor49"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_49">[49]</a></sup></h4>

INVERNESS, <i>5th September</i> 1787.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;I have just time to write the foregoing,<a name=
"FNanchor50"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_50">[50]</a></sup> and
to tell you that it was (at least most part of it) the effusion
of an half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do not mean it was extempore,
for I have endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr. Nicol's
chat, and the jogging of the chaise, would allow. It eases my
heart a good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays
his debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to the noble family
of Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast; what I
owe of the last, so help me God in my hour of need! I shall never
forget.</p>

<p>The "little angel-band!" I declare I prayed for them very
sincerely today at the Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the
fine family-piece I saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly noble
duchess, with her smiling little seraph in her lap, at the head
of the table; the lovely "olive plants," as the Hebrew bard
finely says, round the happy mother; the beautiful Mrs. G&mdash;-; the
lovely, sweet Miss C., etc. I wish I had the powers of Guido to
do them justice! My Lord Duke's kind hospitality&mdash;markedly kind
indeed; Mr. Graham of Fintry's charms of conversation; Sir W.
Murray's friendship. In short, the recollection of all that
polite, agreeable company raises an honest glow in my bosom.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor49">[49]</a> Mr.
Walker was tutor to the children of the Duke of Athole. He
afterwards became Professor of Humanity in the University of
Glasgow.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor50">[50]</a> The
Humble Petition of Bruar Water.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXI.&mdash;To His BROTHER, MR. GILBERT BURNS, MOSSGIEL.</h4>

EDINBERG, 17<i>th September</i> 1787.

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;I arrived here safe yesterday evening after a
tour of twenty-two days, and travelling near six hundred miles,
windings included. My farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond
Inverness. I went through the heart of the Highlands by Crieff,
Taymouth, the famous seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay,
among cascades and druidical circles of stones, to Dunkeld, a
seat of the Duke of Athole; thence across Tay, and up one of his
tributary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the duke's
seats, where I had the honour of spending nearly two days with
his grace and family; thence many miles through a wild country
among cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens,
till I crossed Spey and went down the stream through Strathspey,
so famous in Scottish music; Badenoch, etc., till I reached Grant
Castle, where I spent half a day with Sir James Grant and family;
and then crossed the country for Fort George, but called by the
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth; there I saw the
identical bed in which tradition says king Duncan was murdered:
lastly, from Fort George to Inverness.</p>

<p>I returned by the coast through Nairn, Forres, and so on, to
Aberdeen, thence to Stonehive, where James Burness, from
Montrose, met me by appointment. I spent two days among our
relations, and found our aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and
hale old women. John Cairn, though born the same year with our
father, walks as vigorously as I can: they have had several
letters from his son in New York. William Brand is likewise a
stout old fellow; but further particulars I delay till I see you,
which will be in two or three weeks. The rest of my stages are
not worth rehearsing; warm as I was for Ossian's country, where I
had seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towns or
fertile carses? I slept at the famous Brodie of Brodie's one
night, and dined at Gordon Castle next day, with the Duke,
Duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause my old mare to meet
me, by means of John Ronald, at Glasgow; but you shall hear
farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty and many
compliments from the north to my mother; and my brotherly
compliments to the rest. I have been trying for a berth for
William,<a name="FNanchor51"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_51">[51]</a></sup> but am not likely to be successful.
Farewell. R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor51">[51]</a> Their
youngest brother, afterwards a journeyman saddler.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXII.&mdash;TO MR. PATRICK MILLER,<a name="FNanchor52"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_52">[52]</a></sup>DALSWINTON.</h4>

EDINBURGH, 20<i>th Oct</i>., 1787.

<p>SIR,&mdash;I was spending a few days at Sir William Murray's,
Ochtertyre, and did not get your obliging letter till to-day I
came to town. I was still more unlucky in catching a miserable
cold, for which the medical gentlemen have ordered me into close
confinement under pain of death&mdash;the severest of penalties. In
two or three days, if I get better, and if I hear at your
lodgings that you are still at Dalswinton, I will take a ride to
Dumfries directly. From something in your last, I would wish to
explain my idea of being your tenant. I want to be a farmer in a
small farm, about a plough-gang, in a pleasant country, under the
auspices of a good landlord. I have no foolish notion of being a
tenant on easier terms than another. To find a farm where one can
live at all is not easy&mdash;I only mean living soberly, like an
old-style farmer, and joining personal industry. The banks of the
Nith are as sweet poetic ground as any I ever saw; and besides,
Sir, 'tis but justice to the feelings of my own heart and the
opinion of my best friends, to say that I would wish to call you
landlord sooner than any landed gentleman I know. These are my
views and wishes; and in whatever way you think best to lay out
your farms I shall be happy to rent one of them. I shall
certainly be able to ride to Dalswinton about the middle of next
week, if I hear that you are not gone.&mdash;I have the honour to be,
Sir, your obliged humble servant,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor52">[52]</a> His
future landlord, at Ellisland.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXIII.-To REV. JOHN SKINNER.</h4>

Edinburgh, <i>October</i> 25<i>th</i>, 1787.

<p>Reverend and Venerable Sir,&mdash;Accept, in plain, dull prose, my
most sincere thanks for the best poetical compliment I ever
received. I assure you, Sir, as a poet, you have conjured up an
airy demon of vanity in my fancy, which the best abilities in
your other capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret, and while
I live I shall regret, that when I was in the north I had not the
pleasure of paying a younger brother's dutiful respect to the
author of the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw&mdash;"Tullochgorum's
my delight!" The world may think slightingly of the craft of
song-making if they please; but, as Job says&mdash;"O that mine
adversary had written a book!"&mdash;let them try. There is a certain
something in the old Scotch songs, a wild happiness of thought
and expression, which peculiarly marks them, not only from
English songs, but also from the modern efforts of song-wrights,
in our native manner and language. The only remains of this
enchantment, these spells of the imagination, rest with you. Our
true brother, Ross of Lochlee, was likewise "owre cannie"&mdash;a
"wild warlock"&mdash;but now he sings among the "sons of the
morning."</p>

<p>I have often wished, and will certainly endeavour, to form a
kind of common acquaintance among all the genuine sons of
Caledonian song. The world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, may
overlook most of us; but "reverence thyself." The world is not
our <i>peers</i> so we challenge the jury. We can lash that
world, and find ourselves a very great source of amusement and
happiness independent of that world.</p>

<p>There is a work<a name="FNanchor53"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_53">[53]</a></sup> going on in Edinburgh, just now,
which claims your best assistance. An engraver in this town has
set about collecting and publishing all the Scotch songs, with
the music, that can be found. Songs in the English language, if
by Scotchmen, are admitted, but the music must all be Scotch.
Drs. Beattie and Blacklock are lending a hand, and the first
musician in town presides over that department. I have been
absolutely crazed about it, collecting old stanzas, and every
information remaining respecting their origin, authors, etc.,
etc. This last is but a very fragment business; but at the end of
his second number&mdash;the first is already published&mdash;a small
account will be given of the authors, particularly to preserve
those of latter times. Your three songs, "Tullochgorum," "John of
Badenyon," and "Ewie wi' the crookit Horn," go in this second
number. I was determined, before I got your letter, to write you,
begging that you would let me know where the editions of these
pieces may be found as you would wish them to continue in future
times: and if you would be so kind to this undertaking as send
any songs, of your own or others, that you would think proper to
publish, your name will be inserted among the other authors.
"Nill ye, will ye," one-half of Scotland already give your songs
to other authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear from you; the
sooner the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three
weeks.&mdash;I am, with the warmest sincerity, Sir, your obliged
humble Servant, R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_53"></a><a href="#FNanchor53">[53]</a>
Johnson's <i>Musical Museum</i>.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXIV.&mdash;To Miss MARGARET CHALMERS, HARVIESTON. (AFTERWARDS
MRS. HAY, OF EDINBURGH.)</h4>

<i>Oct</i>. 26, 1787.

<p>I send Charlotte the first number of the songs; I would not
wait for the second number; I hate delays in little marks of
friendship, as I hate dissimulation in the language of the heart.
I am determined to pay Charlotte a poetic compliment, if I could
hit on some glorious old Scotch air, in number second.<a name=
"FNanchor54"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_54">[54]</a></sup> You
will see a small attempt on a shred of paper in the book; but
though Dr. Blacklock commended it very highly, I am not just
satisfied with it myself. I intend to make it a description of
some kind: the whining cant of love, except in real passion, and
by a masterly hand, is to me as insufferable as the preaching
cant of old Father Smeaton, whig-minister at Kilmaurs. Darts,
flames, cupids, loves, graces, and all that farrago, are just a
Mauchline&mdash;a senseless rabble.</p>

<p>I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old,
venerable author of "Tullochgorum," "John of Badenyon," etc. I
suppose you know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest
poetic compliment I ever got. I will send you a copy of it.</p>

<p>I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to wait on Mr. Miller
about his farms. Do tell that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may
give me credit for a little wisdom. "I, Wisdom, dwell with
Prudence." What a blessed fireside! How happy should I be to pass
a winter evening under their venerable roof! and smoke a pipe of
tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them! What solemn, lengthened,
laughter-quashing gravity of phiz! What sage remarks on the
good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indiscretion and folly!
And what frugal lessons, as we straitened the fireside circle, on
the uses of the poker and tongs!</p>

<p>Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remembered in the old way
to you. I used all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of
the hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to
urge her out to Harvieston, but all in vain. My rhetoric seems
quite to have lost its effect on the lovely half of mankind. I
have seen the day&mdash;but this is "a tale of other years." In my
conscience I believe that my heart has been so oft on fire that
it is absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with something like
the admiration with which I regard the starry sky in a frosty
December night. I admire the beauty of the Creator's workmanship;
I am charmed with the wild but graceful eccentricity of their
motions, and&mdash;wish them good-night. I mean this with respect to a
certain passion <i>dont j'at eu l'honneur d'etre un miserable
esclave</i>. As for friendship, you and Charlotte have given me
pleasure, permanent pleasure, "which the world cannot give, nor
take away," I hope, and which will outlast the heavens and the
earth.</p>

<p>R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_54"></a><a href="#FNanchor54">[54]</a> Of
the Scots <i>Musical Museum</i>.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXV.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP OF DUNLOP HOUSE, STEWARTON.</h4>

Edin., 4<i>th Nov</i>. 1787.

<p>Madam,&mdash; ... When you talk of correspondence and friendship to
me, you do me too much honour; but, as I shall soon be at my
wonted leisure and rural occupation, if any remark on what I have
read or seen, or any new rhyme that I may twist, be worth the
while ... you shall have it with all my heart and soul. It
requires no common exertion of good sense and philosophy in
persons of elevated rank to keep a friendship properly alive with
one much their inferior. Externals, things wholly extraneous of
the man, steal upon the hearts and judgments of almost, if not
altogether, all mankind; nor do I know more than one instance of
a man who fully regards all the world as a stage and all the men
and women merely players, and who (the dancing-school bow
excepted) only values these players, the <i>dramatis
person&aelig;</i> who build cities and who rear hedges, who
govern provinces or superintend flocks, <i>merely as they act
their parts</i>. For the honour of Ayrshire this man is Professor
Dugald Stewart of Catrine. To him I might perhaps add another
instance, a Popish bishop, Geddes of Edinburgh.... I ever could
ill endure those ... beasts of prey who foul the hallowed ground
of religion with their nocturnal prowlings; and if the
prosecution against my worthy friend, Dr. McGill, goes on, I
shall keep no measure with the savages, but fly at them with the
<i>faucons</i> of ridicule, or run them down with the bloodhounds
of satire as lawful game wherever I start them.</p>

<p>I expect to leave Edinburgh in eight or ten days, and shall
certainly do myself the honour of calling at Dunlop House as I
return to Ayrshire.&mdash;I have the honour to be, Madam, your obliged
humble Servant,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNS.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXVI.&mdash;To MR. JAMES HOY,<a name="FNanchor55"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_55">[55]</a></sup>GORDON CASTLE.</h4>

Edinburg, 6<i>th November</i> 1787.

<p>Dear Sir,&mdash;I would have wrote you immediately on receipt of
your kind letter, but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem
whispered to me that I ought to send you something by way of
return. When a poet owes anything, particularly when he is
indebted for good offices, the payment that usually recurs to
him&mdash;the only coin, indeed, in which he is probably
conversant&mdash;is rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the fly, as
directed, and begs me to inclose his most grateful thanks: my
return I intended should have been one or two poetic bagatelles
which the world have not seen, or, perhaps, for obvious seasons,
cannot see. These I shall send you before I leave Edinburgh. They
may make you laugh a little, which, on the whole, is no bad way
of spending one's precious hours and still more precious breath.
At any rate, they will be, though a small, yet a very sincere
mark of my respectful esteem for a gentleman whose farther
acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar obligation.</p>

<p>The Duke's song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms
me. There is I know not what of wild happiness of thought and
expression peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style,
of which his Grace, old venerable Skinner, the author of
"Tullochgorum," etc., and the late Ross, at Lochlee, of true
Scottish poetic memory, are the only modern instances that I
recollect, since Ramsay, with his contemporaries, and poor Bob
Fergusson, went to the world of deathless existence and truly
immortal song. The mob of mankind, that many-headed beast, would
laugh at so serious a speech about an old song; but, as Job says,
"O that mine adversary had written a book!" Those who think that
composing a Scotch song is a trifling business&mdash;let them
try.</p>

<p>I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper attention to the
Christian admonition, "Hide not your candle under a bushel," but
"let your light shine before men." I could name half-a-dozen
Dukes that I guess are a deal worse employed; nay, I question if
there are half-a-dozen better: perhaps there are not half that
scanty number whom Heaven has favoured with the tuneful, happy,
and, I will say, glorious gift.&mdash;I am, dear Sir, your obliged
humble servant, R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_55"></a><a href="#FNanchor55">[55]</a>
Librarian to the Duke of Gordon.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXVII.-To THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.</h4>

Edinburg, (<i>End of</i> 1787.)

<p>My Lord,&mdash;I know your lordship will disapprove of my ideas in
a request I am going to make to you; but I have weighed, long and
seriously weighed, my situation, my hopes, and turn of mind, and
am fully fixed to my scheme, if I can possibly effectuate it. I
wish to get into the Excise: I am told that your lordship's
interest will easily procure me the grant from the commissioners;
and your lordship's patronage and goodness, which have already
rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me
to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to
save the little tie of home that sheltered an aged mother, two
brothers, and three sisters from destruction. There, my lord, you
have bound me over to the highest gratitude.</p>

<p>My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, but I think he will
probably weather out the remaining seven years of it; and after
the assistance which I have given, and will give him, to keep the
family together, I think, by my guess, I shall have rather better
than two hundred pounds, and instead of seeking, what is almost
impossible at present to find, a farm that I can certainly live
by, with so small a stock, I shall lodge this sum in a
banking-house, a sacred deposit, excepting only the calls of
uncommon distress or necessitous old age.</p>

<p>These, my lord, are my views: I have resolved from the
maturest deliberation; and now I am fixed, I shall leave no stone
unturned to carry my resolve into execution. Your lordship's
patronage is the strength of my hopes; nor have I yet applied to
anybody else. Indeed my heart sinks within me at the idea of
applying to any other of the great who have honoured me with
their countenance. I am ill-qualified to dog the heels of
greatness with the impertinence of solicitation, and tremble
nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as the cold
denial; but to your lordship I have not only the honour, the
comfort, but the pleasure of being your lordship's much obliged
and deeply indebted humble servant,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXVIII&mdash;To Miss CHALMERS.</h4>

Edinburgh, <i>Nov</i>. 21, 1787.

<p>I have one vexatious fault to the kindly, welcome, well-filled
sheet which I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness&mdash;it contains
too much sense, sentiment, and good spelling. It is impossible
that even you two, whom, I declare to my God, I will give credit
for any degree of excellence the sex are capable of attaining-it
is impossible you can go on to correspond at that rate; so, like
those who, Shenstone says, retire because they have made a good
speech, I shall, after a few letters, hear no more of you. I
insist that you shall write whatever comes first&mdash;what you see,
what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike,
trifles, bagatelles, nonsense; or, to fill up a corner, e'en put
down a laugh at full length. Now, none of your polite hints about
flattery; I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have
any; though, thank heaven, I have found at last two girls who can
be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another,
without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss&mdash;A
LOVER.</p>

<p>Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting-places for my
soul in her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of
this world. God knows, I am ill-fitted for the struggle: I glory
in being a poet, and I want to be thought a wise man&mdash;I would
fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich. After all, I am afraid
I am a lost subject. "Some folk hae a hantle o' faults, and I'm
but a ne'er-do-well".</p>

<p><i>Afternoon</i>.&mdash;To close the melancholy reflections at the
end of last sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion, commonly
known in Carrick by the title of the "Wabster's grace":&mdash;<br>
Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we,<br>
Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we!<br>
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he!<br>
Up and to your looms, lads.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXIX.&mdash;TO MISS CHALMERS.</h4>

Edinburgh, <i>Dec</i>. 12, 1787.

<p>I am here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb
extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vieing with the
livid horror preceding a midnight thunderstorm. A drunken
coachman was the cause of the first, and incomparably the
lightest evil; misfortune, bodily constitution, hell, and myself
have formed a "quadruple alliance" to guarantee the other. I got
my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly better.</p>

<p>I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through
the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is really a
glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder today, and ordered him to
get me an octavo Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in
town, and bind it with all the elegance of his craft.</p>

<p>I would give my best song to my worst enemy&mdash;I mean the merit
of making it&mdash;to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic
creatures, and would pour oil and wine into my wounded
spirit.</p>

<p>I inclose you a proof copy of the "Banks of the Devon", which
present with my best wishes to Charlotte. The "Ochil Hills"<a
name="FNanchor56"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_56">[56]</a></sup>
you shall probably have next week for yourself. None of your fine
speeches!</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_56"></a><a href="#FNanchor56">[56]</a> The song
in honour of Miss Chalmers, beginning, "Where, braving angry
winter's storms".</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXX.&mdash;TO MISS CHALMERS.</h4>

Edinburgh, 19<i>th Dec</i>. 1787.

<p>I begin this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current,
which is not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul
is vastly clearer than when I wrote you last. For the first time,
yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It would do your heart
good to see my hardship, not on my poetic, but on my oaken
stilts; throwing my best leg with an air! and with as much
hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a May frog leaping across
the newly-harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed
earth, after the long-expected shower!</p>

<p>I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in
my path that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, poverty;
attended as he always is, by iron-fisted oppression, and leering
contempt; but I have sturdily withstood his buffetings many a
hard-laboured day already, and still my motto is&mdash;I DARE! My
worst enemy is <i>moi m&ecirc;me</i>. I lie so miserably open to
the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, light-armed,
well-mounted banditti, under the banners of imagination, whim,
caprice, and passion; and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of
wisdom, prudence, and forethought move so very, very slow, that I
am almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and, alas! frequent
defeat. There are just two creatures I would envy, a horse in his
wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some
of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish without
enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor fear.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXI.&mdash;TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, IRVINE.</h4>

Edinburgh, 30<i>th Dec</i>. 1787.

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;I have met with few things in life which have
given me more pleasure, than Fortune's kindness to you since
those days in which we met in the vale of misery; as I can
honestly say, that I never knew a man who more truly deserved it,
or to whom my heart more truly wished it. I have been much
indebted, since that time, to your story and sentiments for
steeling my mind against evils, of which I have had a pretty
decent share. My will-o'-wisp fate you know: do you recollect a
Sunday we spent together in Eglinton woods? You told me, on my
repeating some verses to you, that you wondered I could resist
the temptation of sending verses of such merit to a magazine. It
was from this remark I derived that idea of my own pieces, which
encouraged me to endeavour at the character of a poet. I am happy
to hear that you will be two or three months at home. As soon as
a bruised limb will permit me I shall return to Ayrshire, and we
shall meet; "and faith, I hope we'll not sit dumb, nor yet cast
out!"</p>

<p>I have much to tell you "of men, their manners, and their
ways," perhaps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be
remembered to Mrs. Brown. There, I doubt not, my dear friend, but
you have found substantial happiness. I expect to find you
something of an altered but not a different man; the wild, bold,
generous young fellow composed into the steady affectionate
husband, and the fond careful parent. For me, I am just the same
will-o'-wisp being I used to be. About the first and fourth
quarters of the moon, I generally set in for the trade wind of
wisdom; but about the full and change, I am the luckless victim
of mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. Almighty love still
reigns and revels in my bosom; and I am at this moment ready to
hang myself for a young Edinburgh widow,<a name=
"FNanchor57"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_57">[57]</a></sup>who
has wit and wisdom more murderously fatal than the assassinating
stiletto of the Sicilian bandit, or the poisoned arrow of the
savage African. My Highland dirk, that used to hang beside my
crutches, I have gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, the
key of which I cannot command, in case of spring-tide paroxysms.
My best compliments to our friend Allan. Adieu!</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_57"></a><a href="#FNanchor57">[57]</a> The
earliest allusion to Clarinda (Mrs. M'Lehose). Her husband was
alive, in the West Indies.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXII&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

Edinburg, <i>January</i> 21, 1788.

<p>After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across
the room. They have been six horrible weeks; anguish and low
spirits made me unfit to read, write, or think.</p>

<p>I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an
officer resigns a commission; for I would not take in any poor,
ignorant wretch by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private,
and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough; now I march to the
campaign, a starving cadet; a little more conspicuously
wretched.</p>

<p>I am ashamed of all this; for though I do want bravery for the
warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have
as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my
cowardice.</p>

<p>As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose,
about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh; and soon after
I shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop House. R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXIII.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>February</i> 12, 1788.

<p>Some things in your late letters hurt me&mdash;not that <i>you say
them</i>, but that <i>you mistake me</i>. Religion, my honoured
Madam, has not only been all my life my chief dependance, but my
dearest enjoyment. I have, indeed, been the luckless victim of
wayward follies; but, alas! I have ever been "more fool than
knave." A mathematician without religion is a probable character;
an irreligious poet is a monster.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXIV.&mdash;TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER.</h4>

EDINBURGH, 14<i>th February</i> 1788.

<p>Reverend and Dear Sir,&mdash;I have been a cripple now near three
months, though I am getting vastly better, and have been very
much hurried beside, or else I would have wrote you sooner. I
must beg your pardon for the epistle you sent me appearing in the
Magazine. I had given a copy or two to some of my intimate
friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the
publication of the Magazine. However, as it does great honour to
us both, you will forgive it.</p>

<p>The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last
is published to-day. I send you a copy, which I beg you will
accept as a mark of the veneration I have long had, and shall
ever have, for your character, and of the claim I make to your
continued acquaintance. Your songs appear in the third volume,
with your name in the index; as I assure you, Sir, I have heard
your "Tullochgorum," particularly among our west-country folks,
given to many different names, and most commonly to the immortal
author of "The Minstrel," who, indeed, never wrote any thing
superior to "Gie's a sang, Montgomery cried." Your brother<a
name="FNanchor58"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_58">[58]</a></sup>
has promised me your verses to the Marquis of Huntley's reel,
which certainly deserve a place in the collection. My kind host,
Mr. Cruikshank, of the High School here, and said to be one of
the best Latins in this age, begs me to make you his grateful
acknowledgments for the entertainment he has got in a Latin
publication of yours, that I borrowed for him from your
acquaintance and much-respected friend in this place, the Rev.
Dr. Webster. Mr. Cruikshank maintains that you write the best
Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, but shall
return in three weeks. Your song you mentioned in your last, to
the tune of "Dumbarton Drums," and the other, which you say was
done by a brother in trade of mine, a ploughman, I shall thank
you for a copy of each. I am ever, Reverend Sir, with the most
respectful esteem and sincere veneration, yours, R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_58"></a><a href="#FNanchor58">[58]</a>
Half-brother, James, a writer to the Signet.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXV.&mdash;TO MRS. ROSE, OF KILRAVOCK.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>February</i> 17<i>th</i>, 1788.

<p>MADAM,&mdash;You are much indebted to some indispensable business I
have had on my hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened such a
return for your obliging favour, as would have tired your
patience. It but poorly expresses my feelings to say, that I am
sensible of your kindness: it may be said of hearts such as yours
is, and such, I hope, mine is, much more justly than Addison
applies it,&mdash;</p>

<p>Some souls by instinct to each other turn.</p>

<p>There was something in my reception at Kilravock so different
from the cold, obsequious, dancing-school bow of politeness, that
it almost got into my head that friendship had occupied her
ground without the intermediate march of acquaintance. I wish I
could transcribe, or rather transfuse into language, the glow of
my heart when I read your letter. My ready fancy, with colours
more mellow than life itself, painted the beautifully wild
scenery of Kilravock&mdash;the venerable grandeur of the castle&mdash;the
spreading woods&mdash;the winding river, gladly leaving his unsightly,
heathy source, and lingering with apparent delight as he passes
the fairy walk at the bottom of the garden;&mdash;your late
distressful anxieties&mdash;your present enjoyments&mdash;your dear little
angel, the pride of your hopes;&mdash;my aged friend, venerable in
worth and years, whose loyalty and other virtues will strongly
entitle her to the support of the Almighty Spirit here, and His
peculiar favour in a happier state of existence. You cannot
imagine, Madam, how much such feelings delight me; they are my
dearest proofs of my own immortality. Should I never revisit the
north, as probably I never will, nor again see your hospitable
mansion, were I, some twenty years hence, to see your little
fellow's name making a proper figure in a newspaper paragraph, my
heart would bound with pleasure.</p>

<p>I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scottish songs, set
to their proper tunes; every air worth preserving is to be
included; among others I have given "Morag," and some few
Highland airs which pleased me most, a dress which will be more
generally known, though far, far inferior in real merit. As a
small mark of my grateful esteem, I beg leave to present you with
a copy of the work, as far as it is printed; the Man of Feeling,
that first of men, has promised to transmit it by the first
opportunity.</p>

<p>I beg to be remembered most respectfully to my venerable
friend, and to your little Highland chieftain. When you see the
"two fair spirits of the hill," at Kildrummie, tell them that I
have done myself the honour of setting myself down as one of
their admirers for at least twenty years to come, consequently
they must look upon me as an acquaintance for the same period;
but, as the Apostle Paul says, "this I ask of grace, not of
debt."&mdash;I have the honour to be, Madam, etc., ROBERT BURNS.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXVI-To RICHARD BROWN, GREENOCK.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, 24<i>th February</i> 1788.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;I cannot get the proper direction for my friend
in Jamaica, but the following will do:&mdash;To Mr, Jo. Hutchinson, at
Jo. Brownrigg's, Esq., care of Mr. Benjamin Henriquez, merchant,
Orange Street, Kingston. I arrived here, at my brother's, only
yesterday, after fighting my way through Paisley and Kilmarnock,
against those old powerful foes of mine, the devil, the world,
and the flesh&mdash;so terrible in the fields of dissipation. I have
met with few incidents in my life which gave me so much pleasure
as meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time of life beyond which
we cannot form a tie worth the name of friendship, "O youth!
enchanting stage, profusely blest." Life is a fairy scene: almost
all that deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure is only a
charming delusion; and in comes repining age, in all the gravity
of hoary wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the bewitching
phantom. When I think of life, I resolve to keep a strict
look-out in the course of economy, for the sake of worldly
convenience and independence of mind; to cultivate intimacy with
a few of the companions of youth, that they may be the friends of
age; never to refuse my liquorish humour a handful of the
sweetmeats of life, when they come not too dear; and, for
futurity,&mdash;<br>
The present moment is our ain,<br>
The neist we never saw!</p>

<p>How like you my philosophy? Give my best compliments to Mrs.
B., and believe me to be, my dear Sir, yours most truly, ROBERT
BURNS.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXVII.&mdash;To MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK.<a name=
"FNanchor59"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_59">[59]</a></sup></h4>

MAUCHLINE, <i>March</i> 3<i>rd</i>, 1788.

<p>My dear Sir,&mdash;Apologies for not writing are frequently like
apologies for not singing&mdash;the apology better than the song. I
have fought my way severely through the savage hospitality of
this country, the object of all hosts being to send every guest
drunk to bed if they can.</p>

<p>I executed your commission in Glasgow, and I hope the cocoa
came safe. 'Twas the same price and the very same kind as your
former parcel, for the gentleman recollected your buying there
perfectly well.</p>

<p>I Should return my thanks for your hospitality (I leave a
blank for the epithet, as I know none can do it justice) to a
poor, wayfaring bard, who was spent and almost overpowered
fighting with prosaic wickedness in high places; but I am afraid
lest you should burn the letter whenever you come to the passage,
so I pass over it in silence. I am just returned from visiting
Mr. Miller's farm. The friend whom I told you I would take with
me was highly pleased with the farm; and as he is, without
exception, the most intelligent farmer in the country, he has
staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans of life before me;
I shall balance them to the best of my judgment; and fix on the
most eligible. I have written Mr. Miller, and shall wait on him
when I come to town, which shall be the beginning or middle of
next week: I would be in sooner, but my unlucky knee is rather
worse, and I fear for some time will scarcely stand the fatigue
of my Excise instructions. I only mention these ideas to you,
and, indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I intend writing to
tomorrow, I will not write at all to Edinburgh till I return to
it. I would send my compliments to Mr. Nicol, but he would be
hurt if he knew I wrote to anybody and not to him; so I shall
only beg my best, kindest, kindest compliments to my worthy
hostess, and the sweet little rose-bud.</p>

<p>So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, either as an
Excise-officer, or as a farmer, I propose myself great pleasure
from a regular correspondence with the only man almost I ever
saw, who joined the most attentive prudence with the warmest
generosity.</p>

<p>I am much interested for that best of men, Mr. Wood; I hope he
is in better health and spirits than when I saw him last.&mdash;I am
ever, my dearest friend, your obliged, humble servant, R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_59"></a><a href="#FNanchor59">[59]</a> One of
the masters of the High School of Edinburgh.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXVIII.&mdash;To MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 3<i>rd March</i> 1788.

<p>MY DEAR FRIEND,&mdash;I am just returned from Mr. Miller's farm. My
old friend whom I took with me was highly pleased with the
bargain, and advised me to accept of it. He is the most
intelligent sensible farmer in the county, and his advice has
staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans before me; I shall
endeavour to balance them to the best of my judgment, and fix on
the most eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. Miller in the same
favourable disposition as when I saw him last, I shall, in all
probability, turn farmer.</p>

<p>I have been through sore tribulation and under much buffetting
of the wicked one, since I came to this country. Jean I found
banished, forlorn, destitute, and friendless; I have reconciled
her to her fate, and I have reconciled her to her mother.... I
swore her privately and solemnly never to attempt any claim on me
as a husband, even though anybody should persuade her she had
such a claim....</p>

<p>I shall be in Edinburgh middle of next week. My farming ideas
I shall keep private till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda
yesterday, and she tells me she has got no letter of mine but
one. Tell her that I wrote to her from Glasgow, from Kilmarnock,
from Mauchline, and yesterday from Cumnock as I returned from
Dumfries. Indeed she is the only person in Edinburgh I have
written to till this day. How are your soul and body putting
up?&mdash;a little like man and wife I suppose.&mdash;Your faithful
friend,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNS.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXIX.&mdash;To MR. RICHARD BROWN.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 7<i>th March</i> 1788.

<p>I have been out of the country, my dear friend, and have not
had an opportunity of writing till now, when, I am afraid, you
will be gone out of the country too. I have been looking at
farms, and, after all, perhaps I may settle in the character of a
farmer. I have got so vicious a bent to idleness, and have ever
been so little a man of business, that it will take no ordinary
effort to bring my mind properly into the routine: but you will
say a "great effort is worthy of you." I say so myself; and
butter up my vanity with all the stimulating compliments I can
think of. Men of grave, geometrical minds, the sons of "which was
to be demonstrated," may cry up reason as much as they please;
but I have always found an honest passion, or native instinct,
the truest auxiliary in the warfare of this world. Reason almost
always comes to me like an unlucky wife to a poor devil of a
husband, just in sufficient time to add her reproaches to his
other grievances.</p>

<p>I am gratified with your kind inquiries after Jean; as, after
all, I may say with Othello&mdash;<br>
Excellent wretch!<br>
Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee!</p>

<p>I go for Edinburgh on Monday.&mdash;Yours,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNS.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXX.&mdash;TO MR. ROBERT MUIR.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, 7<i>th March</i> 1788.

<p>DEAR SIR,&mdash;I have partly changed my ideas, my dear friend,
since I saw you. I took old Glenconner with me to Mr. Miller's
farm, and he was so pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer
to Mr. Miller, which, if he accepts, I shall sit down a plain
farmer, the happiest of lives when a man can live by it. In this
case I shall not stay in Edinburgh above a week. I set out on
Monday, and would have come by Kilmarnock; but there are several
small sums owing me for my first edition about Galston and
Newmilns, and I shall set off so early as to despatch my business
and reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I shall devote a
forenoon or two to make some kind of acknowledgment for all the
kindness I owe your friendship. Now that I hope to settle with
some credit and comfort at home, there was not any friendship or
friendly correspondence that promised me more pleasure than
yours; I hope I will not be disappointed. I trust the spring will
renew your shattered frame, and make your friends happy. You and
I have often agreed that life is no great blessing on the whole.
The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning age, is<br>
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun<br>
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams<br>
Athwart the gloom profound.</p>

<p>But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the
grave, the whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with
the clods of the valley, be it so; at least there is an end of
pain, care, woes, and wants. If that part of us called mind does
survive the apparent destruction of the man&mdash;away with old-wife
prejudices and tales. Every age and every nation has had a
different set of stories; and as the many are always weak, of
consequence they have often, perhaps always, been deceived. A man
conscious of having acted an honest part among his
fellow-creatures&mdash;even granting that he may have been the sport
at times of passions and instincts&mdash;he goes to a great unknown
Being, who could have no other end in giving him existence but to
make him happy, who gave him those passions and instincts, and
well knows their force.</p>

<p>These, my worthy friend, are my ideas; and I know they are not
far different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think for
himself, particularly in a case where all men are equally
interested, and where, indeed, all men are equally in the
dark.</p>

<p>Adieu, my dear Sir; God send us a cheerful meeting!</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXXI&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, 7<i>th March</i> 1788.

<p>MADAM,&mdash;The last paragraph in yours of the 30th February
affected me most; so I shall begin my answer where you ended your
letter. That I am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I do
confess; but I have taxed my recollection to no purpose to find
out when it was employed against you. I hate an ungenerous
sarcasm a great deal worse than I do the devil&mdash;at least as
Milton describes him; and though I may be rascally enough to be
sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in others. You,
my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light but you are
sure of being respectable&mdash;you can afford to pass by an occasion
to display your wit, because you may depend for fame on your
sense; or, if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on
the gratitude of many, and the esteem of all; but, God help us,
who are wits or witlings by profession, if we stand not for fame
there, we sink unsupported!</p>

<p>I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila. I may
say to the fair painter<a name="FNanchor60"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_60">[60]</a></sup> who does me so much honour, as Dr.
Beattie says to Ross, the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by
the by, I took the idea of Coila: ('tis a poem of Beattie's in
the Scottish dialect, which, perhaps, you have never seen):&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs,<br>
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs;<br>
Lang had she lien wi' beffs and flegs,<br>
Bumbaz'd and dizzie,<br>
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs,<br>
Wae's me, poor hizzie.</blockquote>

R.B. <br>
<a name="Footnote_60"></a><a href="#FNanchor60">[60]</a> One of
Mrs. Dunlop's daughters was painting a sketch from the "Coila of
the Vision".

<hr>
<h4>LXXXII&mdash;TO MR. WM. NICOL (PERHAPS).</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 7<i>th March</i> 1788.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;My life, since I saw you last, has been one
continued hurry; that savage hospitality which knocks a man down
with strong liquors, is the devil. I have a sore warfare in this
world; the devil, the world, and the flesh, are three formidable
foes. The first I generally try to fly from; the second, alas!
generally flies from me; but the third is my plague, worse than
the ten plagues of Egypt.</p>

<p>I have been looking over several farms in this country; one in
particular, in Nithsdale, pleased me so well, that if my offer to
the proprietor is accepted, I shall commence farmer at
Whit-Sunday. If farming do not appear eligible, I shall have
recourse to any other shift; but this to a friend.</p>

<p>I set out for Edinburgh on Monday morning; how long I stay
there is uncertain, but you will know so soon as I can inform you
myself. However I determine, poesy must be laid aside for some
time; my mind has been vitiated with idleness, and it will take a
good deal of effort to habituate it to the routine of
business.&mdash;I am, my dear Sir, yours sincerely, R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXXIII.&mdash;TO MISS CHALMERS.</h4>

EDINBURGH, <i>March</i> 14<i>th</i>, 1788.

<p>I know, my ever dear friend, that you will be pleased with the
news when I tell you I have at last taken a lease of a farm.
Yesternight I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton,
for the farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, between five
and six miles above Dumfries. I begin at Whit-Sunday to build a
house, drive lime, etc., and Heaven be my help! for it will take
a strong effort to bring my mind into the routine of business. I
have discharged all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, and
pleasures&mdash;a motley host! and have literally and strictly
retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I have
incorporated into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's
observation, "Where much is attempted, something is done."
Firmness, both in sufferance and exertion, is a character I would
wish to be thought to possess: and have always despised the
whining yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble resolve.</p>

<p>Poor Miss K.<a name="FNanchor61"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_61">[61]</a></sup> is ailing a good deal this winter,
and begged me to remember her to you the first time I wrote to
you. Surely woman, amiable woman, is often made in vain. Too
delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition; too noble
for the dirt of avarice, and even too gentle for the rage of
pleasure; formed, indeed, for, and highly susceptible of
enjoyment and rapture; but that enjoyment, alas! almost wholly at
the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupidity, or wickedness
of an animal at all times comparatively unfeeling, and often
brutal. R.B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_61"></a><a href="#FNanchor61">[61]</a> Miss
Kennedy, sister of Gavin Hamilton. She lived nearly half a
century after this.</p>

<hr>
<h2><a name="clarinda"></a><a href="#tclar">THE CLARINDA
LETTERS.</a></h2>

<h3>NOTE PREFATORY TO THE LETTERS TO CLARINDA</h3>

We have now arrived, in the history of Burns, as his general
correspondence reveals it, at the middle of March 1788. Before
the end of the month he had broken off from Clarinda, and shortly
afterwards he married Jean Armour. The correspondence with
Clarinda began in the last month of 1787, and ran its course in
three months. It is now necessary to go back to the commencement
of this correspondence, and to follow it down to its first
conclusion at the point to which his general correspondence has
brought us. It has been thought preferable to take it by itself.

<p>Clarinda's maiden name was Agnes Craig. She was the daughter
of Mr. Andrew Craig, who had been a surgeon in Glasgow. Lord
Craig of the Court of Session was her cousin. She was born in the
same year as Burns, but three months later. At the age of
seventeen she was married to Mr. James M'Lehose, a law agent in
Glasgow. Incompatibility of temper resulted in a separation of
the unhappy pair five years after their marriage. The lady went
home to her father, and on his death in 1782 removed to
Edinburgh, where she lived independently on a small annuity. Her
two sons lived with her. Her husband meanwhile went out to the
West Indies to push his fortune.</p>

<h3>LETTERS TO CLARINDA.</h3>

<h4>I.</h4>

<i>Thursday Evening</i> [<i>Dec</i>. 6<i>th</i>, 1787].

<p>MADAM,&mdash;I had set no small store by my tea-drinking tonight,
and have not often been so disappointed. Saturday evening I shall
embrace the opportunity with the greatest pleasure. I leave this
town this day se'ennight, and, probably, for a couple of
twelvemonths; but must ever regret that I so lately got an
acquaintance I shall ever highly esteem, and in whose welfare I
shall ever be warmly interested.</p>

<p>Our worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant way, rallied
me a good deal on my new acquaintance, and in the humour of her
ideas I wrote some lines, which I inclose you, as I think they
have a good deal of poetic merit: and Miss Nimmo tells me you are
not only a critic, but a poetess. Fiction, you know, is the
native region of poetry; and I hope you will pardon my vanity in
sending you the bagatelle as a tolerably off-hand
<i>jeu-d'esprit</i>. I have several poetic trifles, which I shall
gladly leave with Miss Nimmo, or you, if they were worth house
room; as there are scarcely two people on earth by whom it would
mortify me more to be forgotten, though at the distance of
ninescore miles.&mdash;I am, Madam, with the highest respect, your
very humble servant,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNS.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>II.</h4>

<i>Saturday Evening, Dec</i>. 8<i>th</i>, 1787.

<p>I can say with truth, Madam, that I never met with a person in
my life whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself.
To-night I was to have had that very great pleasure; I was
intoxicated with the idea, but an unlucky fall from a coach has
so bruised one of my knees, that I can't stir my leg; so if I
don't see you again, I shall not rest in my grave for chagrin. I
was vexed to the soul I had not seen you sooner; I determined to
cultivate your friendship with the enthusiasm of religion; but
thus has Fortune ever served me. I cannot bear the idea of
leaving Edinburgh without seeing you. I know not how to account
for it&mdash;I am strangely taken with some people, nor am I often
mistaken. You are a stranger to me; but I am an odd being: some
yet unnamed feelings, things, not principles, but better than
whims, carry me farther than boasted reason ever did a
philosopher. Farewell! every happiness be yours! ROBERT
BURNS.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>III.</h4>

<i>Dec</i>. 12, 1787.

<p>I stretch a point indeed, my dearest Madam, when I answer your
card on the rack of my present agony. Your friendship, Madam! By
heavens, I was never proud before. Your lines, I maintain it, are
poetry, and good poetry; mine were indeed partly fiction and
partly a friendship, which, had I been so blest as to have met
with you in time, might have led me&mdash;god of love only knows
where. Time is too short for ceremonies. I swear solemnly, in all
the tenor of my former oath, to remember you in all the pride and
warmth of friendship until I cease to be! To-morrow, and every
day till I see you, you shall hear from me. Farewell! May you
enjoy a better night's repose than I am likely to have. R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>IV.</h4>

<i>Thursday, Dec</i>. 20, 1787.

<p>Your last, my dear Madam, had the effect on me that Job's
situation had on his friends when they sat down seven days and
seven nights astonished and spake not a word. "Pay my addresses
to a married woman!" I started as if I had seen the ghost of him
I had injured. I recollected my expressions; some of them were
indeed in the law phrase "habit and repute," which is being half
guilty. I cannot possibly say, Madam, whether my heart might not
have gone astray a little; but I can declare upon the honour of a
poet that the vagrant has wandered unknown to me. I have a pretty
handsome troop of follies of my own, and, like some other
people's, they are but undisciplined blackguards; but the
luckless rascals have something like honour in them&mdash;they would
not do a dishonest thing.</p>

<p>To meet with an unfortunate woman, amiable and young, deserted
and widowed by those who were bound by every tie of duty, nature,
and gratitude to protect, comfort and cherish her; add to all,
when she is perhaps one of the first of lovely forms and noble
minds&mdash;the mind, too, that hits one's taste as the joys of Heaven
do a saint&mdash;should a faint idea, the natural child of
imagination, thoughtfully peep over the fence&mdash;were you, my
friend, to sit in judgment, and the poor, airy straggler brought
before you, trembling, self-condemned, with artless eyes, brimful
of contrition, looking wistfully on its judge&mdash;you could not, my
dear Madam, condemn the hapless wretch to death without benefit
of clergy? I won't tell you what reply my heart made to your
raillery of seven years, but I will give you what a brother of my
trade says on the same allusion:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>The patriarch to gain a wife,<br>
Chaste, beautiful, and young,<br>
Served fourteen years a painful life,<br>
And never thought it long.

<p>O were you to reward such cares,<br>
And life so long would stay,<br>
Not fourteen but four hundred years<br>
Would seem but as a day.<a name="FNanchor62"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_62">[62]</a></sup></p>
</blockquote>

I have written you this scrawl because I have nothing else to do,
and you may sit down and find fault with it, if you have no
better way of consuming your time. But finding fault with the
vagaries of a poet's fancy is much such another business as
Xerxes chastising the waves of Hellespont.

<p>My limb now allows me to sit in some peace: to walk I have yet
no prospect of, as I can't mark it to the ground.</p>

<p>I have just now looked over what I have written, and it is
such a chaos of nonsense that I daresay you will throw it into
the fire and call me an idle, stupid fellow; but, whatever you
may think of my brains, believe me to be, with the most sacred
respect and heart-felt esteem, my dear Madam, your humble
Servant, ROBT. BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_62"></a><a href="#FNanchor62">[62]</a> Tom
D'Urfey's Songs.</p>

<hr>
<h4>V.</h4>

<i>Friday Evening</i>, 28<i>th December</i> 1787.

<p>I beg your pardon, my dear "Clarinda," for the fragment scrawl
I sent you yesterday. I really do not know what I wrote. A
gentleman, for whose character, abilities, and critical knowledge
I have the highest veneration, called in just as I had begun the
second sentence, and I would not make the porter wait. I read to
my much-respected friend several of my own bagatelles, and, among
others, your lines, which I had copied out. He began some
criticisms on them as on the other pieces, when I informed him
they were the work of a young lady in this town, which, I assure
you, made him stare. My learned friend seriously protested that
he did not believe any young woman in Edinburgh was capable of
such lines; and if you know anything of Professor Gregory, you
will neither doubt of his abilities nor his sincerity. I do love
you, if possible, still better for having so fine a taste and
turn for poesy. I have again gone wrong in my usual unguarded
way, but you may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, or any
other tame Dutch expression you please in its place. I believe
there is no holding converse, or carrying on correspondence, with
an amiable woman, much less a <i>gloriously amiable fine
woman</i>, without some mixture of that delicious passion, whose
most devoted slave I have more than once had the honour of being.
But why be hurt or offended on that account? Can no honest man
have a prepossession for a fine woman, but he must run his head
against an intrigue? Take a little of the tender witchcraft of
love, and add to it the generous, the honourable sentiments of
manly friendship, and I know but <i>one</i> more delightful
morsel, which few, few in any rank ever taste. Such a composition
is like adding cream to strawberries; it not only gives the fruit
a more elegant richness, but has a deliciousness of its own.</p>

<p>I inclose you a few lines I composed on a late melancholy
occasion. I will not give above five or six copies of it in all,
and I should be hurt if any friend should give any copies without
my consent.</p>

<p>You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the idea of Arcadian
names in a commerce of this kind), how much store I have set by
the hopes of your future friendship. I do not know if you have a
just idea of my character, but I wish you to see me as <i>I
am</i>. I am, as most people of my trade are, a strange
Will-o'-Wisp being: the victim, too frequently, of much
imprudence and many follies. My great constituent elements are
<i>pride</i> and <i>passion</i>. The first I have endeavoured to
humanise into integrity and honour; the last makes me a devotee
to the warmest degree of enthusiasm, in love, religion, or
friendship&mdash;either of them, or all together, as I happen to be
inspired. 'Tis true, I never saw you but once; but how much
acquaintance did I form with you in that once? Do not think I
flatter you, or have a design upon you, Clarinda; I have too much
pride for the one, and too little cold contrivance for the other;
but of all God's creatures I ever could approach in the beaten
way of my acquaintance, you struck me with the deepest, the
strongest, the most permanent impression. I say the most
permanent, because I know myself well, and how far I can promise
either on my prepossessions or powers. Why are you unhappy? And
why are so many of our fellow-creatures, unworthy to belong to
the same species with you, blest with all they can wish? You have
a hand all benevolent to give-why were you denied the pleasure?
You have a heart formed&mdash;gloriously formed&mdash;for all the most
refined luxuries of love:-why was that heart ever wrung? O
Clarinda! shall we not meet in a state, some yet unknown state of
being, where the lavish hand of plenty shall minister to the
highest wish of benevolence; and where the chill north-wind of
prudence shall never blow over the flowery fields of enjoyment?
If we do not, man was made in vain! I deserved most of the
unhappy hours that have lingered over my head; they were the
wages of my labour: but what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell,
stole upon the confidence of unmistrusting busy Fate, and dashed
your cup of life with undeserved sorrow?</p>

<p>Let me know how long your stay will be out of town; I shall
count the hours till you inform me of your return. Cursed
<i>etiquette</i> forbids your seeing me just now; and so soon as
I can walk I must bid Edinburgh adieu. Lord! why was I born to
see misery which I cannot relieve, and to meet with friends whom
I cannot enjoy? I look back with the pang of unavailing avarice
on my loss in not knowing you sooner: all last winter, these
three months past, what luxury of intercourse have I not lost!
Perhaps, though,'twas better for my peace. You see I am either
above, or incapable of dissimulation. I believe it is want of
that particular genius. I despise design, because I want either
coolness or wisdom to be capable of it. I am interrupted. Adieu!
my dear Clarinda!</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>VI.</h4>

<i>Thursday, Jan</i>. 3, 1788.

<p>You are right, my dear Clarinda: a friendly correspondence
goes for nothing, except one writes his or her undisguised
sentiments. Yours please me for their instrinsic merit, as well
as because they are <i>yours</i>, which I assure you, is to me a
high recommendation. Your religious sentiments, Madam, I revere.
If you have, on some suspicious evidence, from some lying oracle,
learned that I despise or ridicule so sacredly important a matter
as real religion, you have, my Clarinda, much misconstrued your
friend. "I am not mad, most noble Festus!" Have you ever met a
perfect character? Do we not sometimes rather exchange faults,
than get rid of them? For instance, I am perhaps tired with, and
shocked at a life too much the prey of giddy inconsistencies and
thoughtless follies; by degrees I grow sober, prudent, and
statedly pious&mdash;I say statedly, because the most unaffected
devotion is not at all inconsistent with my first character&mdash;I
join the world in congratulating myself on the happy change. But
let me pry more narrowly into this affair. Have I, at bottom, any
thing of a sacred pride in these endowments and emendations? Have
I nothing of a presbyterian sourness, an hypocritical severity,
when I survey my less regular neighbours? In a word, have I
missed all those nameless and numberless modifications of
indistinct selfishness, which are so near our own eyes, that we
can scarcely bring them within the sphere of our vision, and
which the known spotless cambric of our character hides from the
ordinary observer?</p>

<p>My definition of worth is short; truth and humanity respecting
our fellow-creatures; reverence and humility in the presence of
that Being, my Creator and Preserver, and who, I have every
reason to believe, will one day be my Judge. The first part of my
definition is the creature of unbiassed instinct; the last is the
child of after reflection. Where I found these two essentials I
would gently note and slightly mention any attendant
flaws&mdash;flaws, the marks, the consequences of human nature.</p>

<p>I can easily enter into the sublime pleasures that your strong
imagination and keen sensibility must derive from religion,
particularly if a little in the shade of misfortune; but I own I
cannot, without a marked grudge, see Heaven totally engross so
amiable, so charming a woman, as my friend Clarinda; and should
be very well pleased at <i>a circumstance</i> that would put it
in the power of somebody (happy somebody!) to divide her
attention, with all the delicacy and tenderness of an earthly
attachment.</p>

<p>You will not easily persuade me that you have not a
grammatical knowledge of the English language. So far from being
inaccurate, you are elegant beyond any woman of my acquaintance,
except one,&mdash;whom I wish you knew.</p>

<p>Your last verses to me have so delighted me, that I have got
an excellent old Scots air that suits the measure, and you shall
see them in print in the Scots <i>Musical Museum</i>, a work
publishing by a friend of mine in this town. I want four stanzas,
you gave me but three, and one of them alluded to an expression
in my former letter; so I have taken your two first verses, with
a slight alteration in the second, and have added a third, but
you must help me to a fourth. Here they are; the latter half of
the first stanza would have been worthy of Sappho; I am in
raptures with it.</p>

<blockquote>Talk not of Love, it gives me pain,<br>
For Love has been my foe:<br>
He bound me with an iron chain,<br>
And sunk me deep in woe.

<p>But Friendship's pure and lasting joys<br>
My heart was formed to prove:<br>
There welcome, win and wear the prize,<br>
But never talk of Love.</p>

<p>Your friendship much can make me blest,<br>
O why that bliss destroy!<br>
[only]<br>
Why urge the odious one request,<br>
[will]<br>
You know I must deny.</p>
</blockquote>

The alteration in the second stanza is no improvement, but there
was a slight inaccuracy in your rhyme. The third I only offer to
your choice, and have left two words for your determination. The
air is "The banks of Spey," and is most beautiful.

<p>To-morrow evening I intend taking a chair, and paying a visit
at Park Place to a much-valued old friend.<a name=
"FNanchor63"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_63">[63]</a></sup> If I
could be sure of finding you at home (and I will send one of the
chairmen to call), I would spend from five to six o'clock with
you, as I go past. I cannot do more at this time, as I have
something on my hand that hurries me much. I propose giving you
the first call, my old friend the second, and Miss Nimmo as I
return home. Do not break any engagement for me, as I will spend
another evening with you at any rate before I leave town.</p>

<p>Do not tell me that you are pleased, when your friends inform
you of your faults. I am ignorant what they are; but I am sure
they must be such evanescent trifles, compared with your personal
and mental accomplishments, that I would despise the ungenerous
narrow soul, who would notice any shadow of imperfections you may
seem to have, any other way than in the most delicate agreeable
raillery. Coarse minds are not aware how much they injure the
keenly feeling tie of bosom friendship, when, in their foolish
officiousness, they mention what nobody cares for recollecting.
People of nice sensibility, and generous minds, have a certain
intrinsic dignity, that fires at being trifled with, or lowered,
or even too nearly approached.</p>

<p>You need make no apology for long letters; I am even with you.
Many happy new years to you, charming Clarinda! I can't
dissemble, were it to shun perdition. He who sees you as I have
done, and does not love you, deserves to be damn'd for his
stupidity! He who loves you, and would injure you, deserves to be
doubly damn'd for his villany! Adieu.</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.</p>

<p>P.S. What would you think of this for a fourth stanza?</p>

<blockquote>Your thought, if love must harbour there,<br>
Conceal it in that thought,<br>
Nor cause me from my bosom tear<br>
The very friend I sought.</blockquote>

<a name="Footnote_63"></a><a href="#FNanchor63">[63]</a> Probably
Mr. Nicol, who lived in Buccleuch Pend, a short distance from
Clarinda's residence.

<hr>
<h4>VII.</h4>

<i>Saturday Noon</i> [<i>5th January</i>].

<p>Some days, some nights, nay, some <i>hours</i>, like the "ten
righteous persons in Sodom," save the rest of the vapid,
tiresome, miserable months and years of life. One of these hours
my dear Clarinda blest me with yesternight.<br>
One well-spent hour,<br>
In such a tender circumstance for friends,<br>
Is better than an age of common time!<br>
THOMSON.</p>

<p>My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is his manly fortitude
in supporting what cannot be remedied&mdash;in short, the wild broken
fragments of a noble exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more by
saying he was a favourite hero of mine.</p>

<p>I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. Moore, giving an account
of my life: it is truth, every word of it; and will give you a
just idea of the man whom you have honoured with your friendship.
I am afraid you will hardly be able to make sense of so torn a
piece. Your verses I shall muse on, deliciously, as I gaze on
your image in my mind's eye, in my heart's core: they will be in
time enough for a week to come. I am truly happy your headache is
better. O, how can pain or evil be so daringly unfeeling, cruelly
savage, as to wound so noble a mind, so lovely a form!</p>

<p>My little fellow is all my namesake. Write me soon. My every,
strongest good wishes attend you, Clarinda!</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.</p>

<p>I know not what I have written&mdash;I am pestered with people
around me.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>VIII.</h4>

<i>Jan. 8, 1788, Tuesday Night.</i>

<p>I am delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm
for religion. Those of either sex, but particularly the female,
who are lukewarm in that most important of all things, "O my
soul, come not thou into their secrets!" I feel myself deeply
interested in your good opinion, and will lay before you the
outlines of my belief. He who is our Author and Preserver, and
will one day be our Judge, must be (not for his sake in the way
of duty, but from the native impulse of our hearts), the object
of our reverential awe and grateful adoration: He is Almighty and
all-bounteous, we are weak and dependent; hence prayer and every
other sort of devotion. "He is not willing that any should
perish, but that all should come to everlasting life;"
consequently it must be in every one's power to embrace his offer
of "everlasting life;" otherwise he could not, in justice,
condemn those who did not. A mind pervaded, actuated, and
governed by purity, truth, and charity, though it does not merit
heaven, yet is an absolute necessary prerequisite, without which
heaven can neither be obtained nor enjoyed; and, by divine
promise, such a mind shall never fail of attaining "everlasting
life;" hence the impure, the deceiving, and the uncharitable
extrude themselves from eternal bliss, by their unfitness for
enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put the immediate
administration of all this, for wise and good ends known to
himself, into the hands of Jesus Christ, a great personage, whose
relation to him we cannot comprehend, but whose relation to us is
a guide and Saviour; and who, except for our own obstinacy and
misconduct, will bring us all, through various ways, and by
various means, to bliss at last.</p>

<p>These are my tenets, my lovely friend; and which I think
cannot well be disputed. My creed is pretty nearly expressed in
the last clause of Jamie Dean's grace, an honest weaver in
Ayrshire,&mdash;"Lord, grant that we may lead a gude life; for a gude
life maks a gude end, at least it helps weel!"</p>

<p>I am flattered by the entertainment you tell me you have found
in my packet. You see me as I have been, you know me as I am, and
may guess at what I am likely to be. I too may say, "Talk not of
love," etc., for indeed he has "plunged me deep in woe!" Not that
I ever saw a woman who pleased unexceptionably, as my Clarinda
elegantly says, "in the companion, the friend, and the mistress."
<i>One</i> indeed I could except&mdash;<i>One</i>, before passion
threw its mists over my discernment, I knew&mdash;<i>the</i> first of
women! Her name is indelibly written in my heart's core&mdash;but I
dare not look in on it&mdash;a degree of agony would be the
consequence. Oh! thou perfidious, cruel, mischief-making demon,
who presidest over that frantic passion&mdash;thou mayest, thou dost
poison my peace, but thou shalt not taint my honour. I would not,
for a single moment, give an asylum to the most distant
imagination, that would shadow the faintest outline of a selfish
gratification, at the expense of her whose happiness is twisted
with the threads of my existence.&mdash;May she be as happy as she
deserves! and if my tenderest, faithfullest friendship, can add
to her bliss, I shall at least have one solid mine of enjoyment
in my bosom! <i>Don't guess at these ravings</i>!</p>

<p>I watched at our front window to-day, but was disappointed. It
has been a day of disappointments. I am just risen from a two
hours' bout after supper, with silly or sordid souls, who could
relish nothing in common with me but the Port.&mdash;<i>One!</i>&mdash;Tis
now "witching time of night;" and whatever is out of joint in the
foregoing scrawl, impute it to enchantments and spells; for I
can't look over it, but will seal it up directly, as I don't care
for to-morrow's criticisms on it.</p>

<p>You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda; may good angels
attend and guard you as constantly and faithfully as my good
wishes do.<br>
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,<br>
Shot forth peculiar graces.</p>

<p>John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest than I expect on my
own pillow to-night! O for a little of the cart-horse part of
human nature! Good night, my dearest Clarinda!</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>IX</h4>

<i>Thursday Noon</i>, 10<i>th January</i> 1788.

<p>I am certain I saw you, Clarinda; but you don't look to the
proper storey for a poet's lodging&mdash;<br>
  Where speculation roosted near the sky.</p>

<p>I could almost have thrown myself over for vexation. Why
didn't you look higher? It has spoiled my peace for this day. To
be so near my charming Clarinda; to miss her look while it was
searching for me&mdash;I am sure the soul is capable of disease, for
mine has convulsed itself into an inflammatory fever.</p>

<p>You have converted me, Clarinda. (I shall love that name while
I live: there is heavenly music in it.) Booth and Amelia I know
well.<a name="FNanchor64"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_64">[64]</a></sup> Your sentiments on that subject, as
they are on every subject, are just and noble. "To be feelingly
alive to kindness, and to unkindness," is a charming female
character.</p>

<p>What I said in my last letter, the powers of fuddling
sociality only know for me. By yours, I understand my good star
has been partly in my horizon, when I got wild in my reveries.
Had that evil planet, which has almost all my life shed its
baleful rays on my devoted head, been, as usual, in my zenith, I
had certainly blabbed something that would have pointed out to
you the dear object of my tenderest friendship, and, in spite of
me, something more. Had that fatal information escaped me, and it
was merely chance, or kind stars, that it did not, I had been
undone!</p>

<p>You would never have written me, except perhaps <i>once</i>
more! O, I could curse circumstances, and the coarse tie of human
laws, which keeps fast what common sense would loose, and which
bars that happiness itself cannot give&mdash;happiness which
otherwise Love and Honour would warrant! But hold&mdash;I shall make
no more "hair-breadth 'scapes."</p>

<p>My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. My likings
are both strong and eternal. I told you I had but one male
friend: I have but two female. I should have a third, but she is
surrounded by the blandishments of flattery and courtship. The
name I register in my heart's core is <i>Peggy Chalmers</i>. Miss
Nimmo can tell you how divine she is. She is worthy of a place in
the same bosom with my Clarinda. That is the highest compliment I
can pay her.</p>

<p>Farewell, Clarinda! Remember</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
<a name="Footnote_64"></a><a href="#FNanchor64">[64]</a> See
Fielding's <i>Amelia</i>.</p>

<hr>
<h4>X.</h4>

<i>Saturday Morning</i>, 12<i>th January</i>.

<p>Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be welcome. You may
perhaps distrust me, when I say 'tis also my favourite topic; but
mine is the religion of the bosom. I hate the very idea of a
controversial divinity; as I firmly believe, that every honest
upright man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the Deity. If
your verses, as you seem to hint, contain censure, except you
want an occasion to break with me, don't send them. I have a
little infirmity in my disposition, that where I fondly love, or
highly esteem, I cannot bear reproach.</p>

<p>"Reverence thyself" is a sacred maxim, and I wish to cherish
it. I think I told you Lord Bolingbroke's saying to
Swift&mdash;"Adieu, dear Swift, with all thy faults I love thee
entirely; make an effort to love me with all mine." A glorious
sentiment, and without which there can be no friendship! I do
highly, very highly, esteem you indeed, Clarinda&mdash;you merit it
all! Perhaps, too, I scorn dissimulation! I could fondly love
you: judge then what a maddening sting your reproach would be.
"O! I have sins to <i>Heaven</i> but none to <i>you!</i>" With
what pleasure would I meet you to-day, but I cannot walk to meet
the fly. I hope to be able to see you on <i>foot</i> about the
middle of next week.</p>

<p>I am interrupted&mdash;perhaps you are not sorry for it, you will
tell me&mdash;but I won't anticipate blame. O Clarinda! did you know
how dear to me is your look of kindness, your smile of
approbation! you would not, either in prose or verse, risk a
censorious remark.<br>
Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow,<br>
That tends to make one worthy man my foe!</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XI.</h4>

<i>Saturday</i>, <i>Jan</i>. 12, 1788.

<p>You talk of weeping, Clarinda! Some involuntary drops wet your
lines as I read them. <i>Offend me</i>, my dearest angel! You
cannot offend me, you never offended me! If you had ever given me
the least shadow of offence so pardon me, God, as I forgive
Clarinda! I have read yours again; it has blotted my paper.
Though I find your letter has agitated me into a violent
headache, I shall take a chair and be with you about eight. A
friend is to be with us to tea on my account, which hinders me
from coming sooner. Forgive, my dearest Clarinda, my unguarded
expressions. For Heaven's sake, forgive me, or I shall never be
able to bear my own mind. Your unhappy Sylvander.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XII.</h4>

<i>Monday Evening</i>, 11 <i>o'clock</i>, 14<i>th January</i>.

<p>Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda? To-day I expected it;
and before supper when a letter to me was announced, my heart
danced with rapture: but behold, 'twas some fool, who had taken
it into his head to turn poet, and made me an offering of the
first-fruits of his nonsense. "It is not poetry, but prose run
mad." Did I ever repeat to you an epigram I made on a Mr.
Elphinstone,<a name="FNanchor65"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_65">[65]</a></sup> who has given a translation of
Martial, a famous Latin poet? The poetry of Elphinstone can only
equal his prose notes. I was sitting in a merchant's shop of my
acquaintance, waiting somebody; he put Elphinstone into my hand,
and asked my opinion of it; I begged leave to write it on a blank
leaf, which I did,&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>  TO MR. ELPHINSTONE.<br>
O thou, whom poesy abhors!<br>
Whom prose has turned out of doors!<br>
Heardst thou yon groan? proceed no further!<br>
'Twas laurel'd Martial calling murther!</blockquote>

I am determined to see you, if at all possible, on Saturday
evening. Next week I must sing&mdash;

<blockquote>The night is my departing night,<br>
The morn's the day I maun awa;<br>
There's neither friend nor foe o' mine<br>
But wishes that I were awa!<br>
What I hae done for lack o' wit,<br>
I never, never can reca';<br>
I hope ye're a' my friends as yet,<br>
Gude night, and joy be wi' you a'!</blockquote>

If I could see you sooner, I would be so much the happier; but I
would not purchase the <i>dearest gratification</i> on earth, if
it must be at your expense in worldly censure, far less inward
peace!

<p>I shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling whole sheets of
incoherence. The only <i>unity</i> (a sad word with poets and
critics!) in my ideas, is CLARINDA. There my heart "reigns and
revels."</p>

<blockquote>What art thou, Love? whence are those charms,<br>
That thus thou bear'st an universal rule?<br>
For thee the soldier quits his arms,<br>
The king turns slave, the wise man fool.<br>
In vain we chase thee from the field,<br>
And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke:<br>
Next tide of blood, alas! we yield;<br>
And all those high resolves are broke!</blockquote>

I like to have quotations for every occasion They give one's
ideas so pat, and save one the trouble of finding expression
adequate to one's feelings. I think it is one of the greatest
pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes,
cares, joys, loves, etc., an embodied form in verse, which, to
me, is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says finely of his Muse&mdash;

<blockquote>Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe;<br>
Thou foundst me poor at first, and keep'st me so.</blockquote>

My limb has been so well to-day, that I have gone up and down
stairs often without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once
again on my own legs to dinner. It is only next street.&mdash;Adieu.
Sylvander.

<p><a name="Footnote_65"></a><a href="#FNanchor65">[65]</a> A
native of Edinburgh, and a schoolmaster in London. He  was a
friend of Samuel Johnson</p>

<hr>
<h4>XIII.</h4>

<i>Tuesday Evening</i>, <i>Jan</i>. 15.

<p>That you have faults, my Clarinda, I never doubted; but I knew
not where they existed, and Saturday night made me more in the
dark than ever. O Clarinda! why will you wound my soul, by
hinting that last night must have lessened my opinion of you?
True, I was "behind the scenes with you;" but what did I see? A
bosom glowing with honour and benevolence; a mind ennobled by
genius, informed and refined by education and reflection, and
exalted by native religion, genuine as in the climes of heaven: a
heart formed for all the glorious meltings of friendship, love,
and pity. These I saw&mdash;I saw the noblest immortal soul creation
ever showed me.</p>

<p>I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter; and am vexed
that you are complaining. I have not caught you so far wrong as
in your idea, that the commerce you have with <i>one</i> friend
hurts you, if you cannot tell every tittle of it to
<i>another</i>. Why have so injurious a suspicion of a good God,
Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the sacred
inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Religion! can be
anything else than an object of His divine approbation.</p>

<p>I have mentioned in some of my former scrawls, Saturday
evening next. Do allow me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my
angel! how soon must we part! and when can we meet again! I look
forward on the horrid interval with tearful eyes! What have I
lost by not knowing you sooner. I fear, I fear my acquaintance
with you is too short, to make that <i>lasting</i> impression on
your heart I could wish.</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XIV.</h4>

<i>Saturday Morning</i>, 19<i>th Jan</i>

<p>There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling
chords of Love and Friendship give such delight, as in the
pensive hours of what our favourite Thomson calls, "philosophic
melancholy." The sportive insects, who bask in the sunshine of
prosperity; or the worms that luxuriantly crawl amid their ample
wealth of earth, they need no Clarinda: they would despise
Sylvander&mdash;if they durst. The family of Misfortune, a numerous
group of brothers and sisters! they need a resting place to their
souls: unnoticed, often condemned by the world&mdash;in some degree,
perhaps, condemned by themselves, they feel the full enjoyment of
ardent love, delicate tender endearments, mutual esteem and
mutual reliance.</p>

<p>In this light I have often admired religion. In proportion as
we are wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of
a compassionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly
dear.</p>

<blockquote>  '<i>Tis this</i>, my friend, that streaks our
morning bright;<br>
  '<i>Tis this</i> that gilds the horrors of our
night.'</blockquote>

I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely
says, "the dark postern of time long elaps'd;" and, you will
easily guess,'twas a rueful prospect. What a tissue of
thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! My life reminded me of a
ruined temple; what strength, what proportion in some parts! what
unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruin in others! I kneeled down
before the Father of mercies, and said, "Father, I have sinned
against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be
called thy son!" I rose, eased and strengthened. I despise the
superstition of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a man. "The
future," said I to myself, "is still before me;" there let me

<blockquote>on reason build resolve,<br>
That column of true majesty in man!</blockquote>

"I have difficulties many to encounter," said I; "but they are
not absolutely insuperable; and where is firmness of mind shown
but in exertion? mere declamation is bombast rant." Besides,
wherever I am, or in whatever situation I may be&mdash;

<blockquote>'Tis nought to me:<br>
Since God is ever present, ever felt,<br>
In the void waste as in the city full;<br>
And where He vital breathes, there must be joy!</blockquote>

<i>Saturday night&mdash;half after Ten</i>.

<p>What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this time yesternight! My
ever dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul; but you have
refined, you have exalted it; you have given it a stronger sense
for virtue, and a stronger relish for piety. Clarinda, first of
your sex, if ever I am the veriest wretch on earth to forget you,
if ever your lovely image is effaced from my soul,</p>

<blockquote>May I be lost, no eye to weep my end;<br>
And find no earth that's base enough to bury me!</blockquote>

What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the every-day
children of the world! 'tis the unmeaning toying of the
younglings of the fields and forests; but where Sentiment and
Fancy unite their sweets, where Taste and Delicacy refine, where
Wit adds the flavour, and Good Sense gives strength and spirit to
all, what a delicious draught is the hour of tender endearment!
Beauty and Grace, in the arms of Truth and Honour, in all the
luxury of mutual love.

<p>Clarinda, have you ever seen the picture realised? Not in all
its very richest colouring.</p>

<p>Last night, Clarinda, but for one slight shade, was the
glorious picture.</p>

<blockquote>Innocence<br>
Look'd gaily smiling on; while rosy Pleasure<br>
Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath,<br>
And pour'd her cup luxuriant; mantling high,<br>
The sparkling heavenly vintage, Love and Bliss!</blockquote>

Clarinda, when a poet and poetess of Nature's making, two of
Nature's noblest productions! when they drink together of the
same cup of Love and Bliss&mdash;attempt not, ye coarser stuff of
human nature, profanely to measure enjoyment ye never can know!
Good night, my dear Clarinda!

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XV</h4>

<i>Sunday Night</i>, 20<i>th January</i>.

<p>The impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an old
indisposition, to make me good for nothing to-day. The paper has
lain before me all this evening, to write to my dear Clarinda,
but&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>  Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to
waves.</blockquote>

I cursed them in my soul; they sacrilegiously disturbed my
meditations on her who holds my heart. What a creature is man! A
little alarm last night and to-day, that I am mortal, has made
such a revolution on my spirits! There is no philosophy, no
divinity, comes half so home to the mind. I have no idea of
courage that braves heaven. 'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary
hero in bedlam. I can no more, Clarinda; I can scarcely hold up
my head; but I am happy you do not know it, you would be so
uneasy.

<p>SYLVANDER.</p>

<p><i>Monday Morning</i>.</p>

<p>I am, my lovely friend, much better this morning on the whole;
but I have a horrid languor on my spirits.</p>

<blockquote>Sick of the world, and all its joys,<br>
My soul in pining sadness mourns;<br>
Dark scenes of woe my mind employs,<br>
The past and present in their turns.</blockquote>

Have you ever met with a saying of the great, and like wise good
Mr. Locke, author of the famous <i>Essay on the Human
Understanding</i>? He wrote a letter to a friend, directing it,
"not to be delivered till after my decease;" it ended thus&mdash;"I
know you loved me when living, and will preserve my memory now I
am dead. All the use to be made of it is, that this life affords
no solid satisfaction, but in the consciousness of having done
well, and the hopes of another life. Adieu! I leave my best
wishes with you. J. LOCKE."

<p>Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life? I think I
may. Thou Almighty Preserver of men! thy friendship, which
hitherto I have too much neglected, to secure it shall, all the
future days and nights of my life, be my steady care! The idea of
my Clarinda follows&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise,<br>
Where, mix'd with God's, her lov'd idea lies.</blockquote>

But I fear that inconstancy, the consequent imperfection of human
weakness. Shall I meet with a friendship that defies years of
absence, and the chances and changes of fortune? Perhaps "such
things are;" <i>one honest</i> man<a name=
"FNanchor65A"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_65A">[65a]</a></sup> I
have great hopes from that way: but who, except a romance writer,
would think on a <i>love</i> that could promise for life, in
spite of distance, absence, chance, and change; and that, too,
with slender hopes of fruition? For my own part, I can say to
myself in both requisitions, "Thou art the man!" I dare, in cool
resolve I dare, declare myself that friend, and that lover. If
womankind is capable of such things, Clarinda is. I trust that
she is; and I feel I shall be miserable if she is not. There is
not one virtue which gives worth, or one sentiment which does
honour to the sex, that she does not possess superior to any
woman I ever saw; her exalted mind, aided a little perhaps by her
situation, is, I think, capable of that nobly-romantic
love-enthusiasm.

<p>May I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel? The next
Wednesday again will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us both. I
tremble for censorious remark, for your sake, but, in
extraordinary cases, may not usual and useful precaution be a
little dispensed with? Three evenings, three swift-winged
evenings, with pinions of down, are all the past; I dare not
calculate the future. I shall call at Miss Nimmo's to-morrow
evening;'twill be a farewell call.</p>

<p>I have wrote out my last sheet of paper, so I am reduced to my
last half-sheet. What a strange mysterious faculty is that thing
called imagination! We have no ideas almost at all of another
world; but I have often amused myself with visionary schemes of
what happiness might be enjoyed by small alterations&mdash;alterations
that we can fully enter into, in this present state of existence.
For instance, suppose you and I, just as we are at present; the
same reasoning powers, sentiments, and even desires; the same
fond curiosity for knowledge and remarking observation in our
minds; and imagine our bodies free from pain, and the necessary
supplies for the wants of nature at all times, and easily, within
our reach: imagine further, that we were set free from the laws
of gravitation, which bind us to this globe, and could at
pleasure fly, without inconvenience, through all the yet
unconjectured bounds of creation, what a life of bliss would we
lead, in our mutual pursuit of virtue and knowledge, and our
mutual enjoyment of friendship and love!</p>

<p>I see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a
voluptuous Mahometan; but I am certain I would be a happy
creature, beyond anything we call bliss here below; nay, it would
be a paradise congenial to you too. Don't you see us, hand in
hand, or rather, my arm about your lovely waist, making our
remarks on Sirius, the nearest of the fixed stars; or surveying a
comet, flaming innoxious by us, as we just now would mark the
passing pomp of a travelling monarch; or in a shady bower of
Mercury or Venus, dedicating the hour to love, in mutual
converse, relying honour, and revelling endearment, whilst the
most exalted strains of poesy and harmony would be the ready
spontaneous language of our souls! Devotion is the favourite
employment of your heart; so it is of mine: what incentives then
to, and powers for reverence, 'gratitude, faith, and hope, in all
the fervours of adoration and praise to that Being, whose
unsearchable wisdom, power, and goodness, so pervaded, so
inspired every sense and feeling! By this time, I daresay, you
will be blessing the neglect of the maid that leaves me destitute
of paper!</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
<a name="Footnote_65A"></a><a href="#FNanchor65A">[65a]</a>
Alluding to Captain Brown.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XVI.</h4>

[<i>Monday</i>, 21<i>st Jan</i>. 1788.]

<p>... I am a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. Clarinda,
if ever you forget Sylvander, may you be happy, but he will be
miserable. O what a fool I am in love! What an extraordinary
prodigal of affection! Why are your sex called the tender sex,
when I have never met with one who can repay me in passion? They
are either not so rich in love as I am, or they are niggards
where I am lavish.</p>

<p>O Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my ways! Thou seest me
here, the hapless wreck of tides and tempests in my own bosom: do
Thou direct to Thyself that ardent love for which I have so often
sought a return in vain from my fellow-creatures! If Thy goodness
has yet such a gift in store for me as an equal return of
affection from her who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than life,
do Thou bless and hallow our bond of love and friendship; watch
over us in all our outgoings and incomings for good: and may the
tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as the
thread of man's immortal life!...</p>

<p>I am just going to take your "Blackbird,"<a name=
"FNanchor66"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_66">[66]</a></sup> the
sweetest, I am sure, that ever sung, and prune its wings a
little.</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
<a name="Footnote_66"></a><a href="#FNanchor66">[66]</a> Her
verses, "To a Blackbird Singing."</p>

<hr>
<h4>XVII.</h4>

<i>Thursday Morning</i>, 24<i>th January.</i>

<p>Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain.</p>

<p>I have been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, who, for
native genius, poignant wit, strength of mind, generous sincerity
of soul, and the sweetest female tenderness, is without a peer,
and whose personal charms have few, very very few parallels,
among her sex; why, or how she should fall to the blessed lot of
a poor <i>hairum scairum</i> poet, whom Fortune had kept for her
particular use, to wreak her temper on whenever she was in ill
humour. One time I conjectured, that as Fortune is the most
capricious jade ever known, she may have taken, not a fit of
remorse, but a paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor devil out of
the mire, where he had so often and so conveniently served her as
a stepping stone, and given him the most glorious boon she ever
had in her gift, merely for the maggot's sake, to see how his
fool head and his fool heart will bear it. At other times I was
vain enough to think, that Nature, who has a great deal to say
with Fortune, had given the coquettish goddess some such hint as,
"Here is a paragon of female excellence, whose equal, in all my
former compositions, I never was lucky enough to hit on, and
despair of ever doing so again; you have cast her rather in the
shades of life; there is a certain Poet of my making; among your
frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this masterpiece
of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind, which no
woman, of any age, ever more deserved, and which few rhymsters of
this age are better able to confer."</p>

<p><i>Evening</i>, 9 <i>o'clock.</i></p>

<p>I am here, absolutely unfit to finish my letter&mdash;pretty hearty
after a bowl, which has been constantly plied since dinner till
this moment. I have been with Mr. Schetki, the musician, and he
has set it <a name="t66a"></a><a href="#66a">[66a]</a>&mdash;See
Poems. finely.&mdash;&mdash;I have no distinct ideas of anything, but that
I have drunk your health twice to-night, and that you are all my
soul holds dear in this world.</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.</p>

<p> <a name="66a"></a><a href="#t66a">[66a]</a> "Clarinda,
Mistress of my Soul, etc."&mdash;See Poems.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XVIII.</h4>

[<i>Friday, Jan</i>. 25.]

<p>Clarinda, my life, you have wounded my soul. Can I think of
your being unhappy, even though it be not described in your
pathetic elegance of language, without being miserable? Clarinda,
can I bear to be told from you that you "will not see me
to-morrow night"&mdash;that you "wish the hour of parting were come?"
Do not let us impose on ourselves by sounds. If in the moment of
tender endearment I perhaps trespassed against the letter of
decorum's law I appeal even to you whether I ever sinned in the
very least degree against the spirit of her strictest statute.
But why, my love, talk to me in such strong terms?&mdash;every word of
which cuts me to the very soul. You know a hint, the slightest
signification of your wish is to me a sacred command. Be
reconciled, my angel, to your God, yourself, and me: and I pledge
you Sylvander's honour&mdash;an oath I daresay you will trust without
reserve&mdash;that you shall never more have reason to complain of his
conduct. Now, my love, do not wound our next meeting with any
averted looks or restrained caresses. I have marked the line of
conduct, a line I know exactly to your taste, and which I will
inviolably keep; but do not you shew the least inclination to
make boundaries. Seeming distrust where you know you may confide
is a cruel sin against sensibility. "Delicacy, you know, it was,
which won me to you at once&mdash;take care you do not loosen the
dearest, most sacred tie that unites us." Clarinda, I would not
have stung <i>your</i> soul, I would not have bruised <i>your</i>
spirit, as that harsh, crucifying <i>"Take Care"</i> did
mine&mdash;no, not to have gained Heaven! Let me again appeal to your
dear self, if Sylvander, even when he seemingly half-transgressed
the laws of decorum, if he did not shew more chastened trembling,
faltering delicacy than the many of the world do in keeping these
laws?</p>

<p>O Love and Sensibility, ye have conspired against my peace! I
love to madness and I feel to torture! Clarinda, how can I
forgive myself that I have ever touched a single chord in your
bosom with pain! Would I do it willingly? Would any
consideration, any gratification make me do so? Oh, did you love
like me, you would not, you could not, deny or put off a meeting
with the man who adores you&mdash;who would die a thousand deaths
before he would injure you; and who must soon bid you a long
farewell!</p>

<p>I had proposed bringing my bosom friend, Mr. Ainslie,
to-morrow evening at his strong request to see you, as he has
only time to stay with us about ten minutes for an engagement.
But I shall hear from you&mdash;this afternoon, for mercy's sake! for
till I hear from you I am wretched. O Clarinda, the tie that
binds me to thee is intwisted, incorporated with my dearest
threads of life!</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XIX.</h4>

[<i>Sat</i>., 26 <i>Jan</i>.]

<p>I was on the way, <i>my Love</i>, to meet you (I never do
things by halves), when I got your card. Mr. Ainslie goes out of
town to-morrow morning, to see a brother of his who is newly
arrived from France. I am determined that he and I shall call on
you together; so, look you, lest I should never see to-morrow, we
will call on you to-night; Mary and you may put off tea till
about seven; at which time, in the Galloway phrase, "an the beast
be to the fore, and the branks bide hale," expect the humblest of
your humble servants, and his dearest friend. We propose staying
only half-an-hour, "for ought we ken." I could suffer the lash of
misery eleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be composed
of hours like yesternight. You are the soul of my enjoyment: all
else is of the stuff of stocks and stones.</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XX.</h4>

<i>Sunday Noon, Jan</i>. 27<i>th</i>.

<p>I have almost given up the excise idea. I have been just now
to wait on a great person, Miss&mdash;&mdash;'s friend, &mdash;&mdash;. Why will
great people not only deafen us with the din of their equipage,
and dazzle us with their fastidious pomp, but they must also be
so very dictatorially wise? I have been questioned like a child
about my matters, and blamed and schooled for my inscription on
Stirling window. Come Clarinda-Come! curse me Jacob, and come
defy me Israel!</p>

<p><i>Sunday Night</i>.</p>

<p>I have been with Miss Nimmo; she is indeed a good soul, as my
Clarinda finely says. She has reconciled me in a good measure to
the world with her friendly prattle.</p>

<p>Schetki has sent me the song set to a fine air of his
composing. I have called the song "Clarinda." I have carried it
about in my pocket and hummed it over all day.</p>

<p><i>Monday Morning</i>.</p>

<p>If my prayers have any weight in heaven, this morning looks in
on you and finds you in the arms of Peace, except where it is
charmingly interrupted by the ardours of devotion. I find so much
serenity of soul, so much positive pleasure, so much fearless
daring toward the world when I warm in devotion, or feel the
glorious sensation of a consciousness of Almighty friendship,
that I am sure I shall soon be an honest enthusiast.<br>
How are Thy Servants blest, O Lord,<br>
How sure is their defence!</p>

<p>I am, my dear madam, yours, SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXI.</h4>

<i>Tuesday Morning</i>, 29<i>th January</i>.

<p>I cannot go out to-day, my dearest love, without sending you
half a line, by way of a sin-offering; but, believe me, 'twas the
sin of ignorance. Could you think that I <i>intended</i> to hurt
you by any thing I said yesternight? Nature has been too kind to
you for your happiness, your delicacy, your sensibility. O why
should such glorious qualifications be the fruitful source of
woe! You have "murdered sleep" to me last night. I went to bed,
impressed with an idea that you were unhappy; and every start I
closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such scenes of romantic
misery, that I would almost be persuaded you were not well this
morning.<br>
If I unweeting have offended,<br>
Impute it not.<br>
But while we live<br>
But one short hour perhaps, between us two,<br>
Let there be peace.</p>

<p>If Mary is not gone by this reaches you, give her my best
compliments. She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of the
noblest love.</p>

<p>I send you a poem to read, till I call on you this night,
which will be about nine. I wish I could procure some potent
spell, some fairy charm, that would protect from injury, or
restore to rest that bosom-chord, "tremblingly alive all o'er,"
on which hangs your peace of mind. I thought, vainly, I fear,
thought that the devotion of love&mdash;love strong as even you can
feel&mdash;love guarded, invulnerably guarded, by all the purity of
virtue, and all the pride of honour; I thought such a love would
make you happy&mdash;shall I be mistaken? I can no more for
hurry.</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXII.</h4>

<i>Sunday Morning</i>, 3<i>rd February</i>.

<p>I have just been before the throne of my God, Clarinda;
according to my association of ideas, my sentiments of love and
friendship, I next devote myself to you. Yesternight I was
happy&mdash;happiness "that the world cannot give." I kindle at the
recollection; but it is a flame where innocence looks smiling on,
and honour stands by, a sacred guard. Your heart, your fondest
wishes, your dearest thoughts, these are yours to bestow; your
person is unapproachable by the laws of your country; and he
loves not as I do, who would make you miserable.</p>

<p>You are an angel, Clarinda; you are surely no mortal that "the
earth owns." To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is to me
far more exquisite bliss than the dearest favours that the
fairest of the sex, yourself excepted, can bestow.</p>

<p><i>Sunday Evening</i>.</p>

<p>You are the constant companion of my thoughts. How wretched is
the condition of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, and
trembling under the idea of dreaded vengeance! and what a placid
calm, what a charming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom the
kind feelings of friendship and the fond throes of love! Out upon
the tempest of anger, the acrimonious gall of fretful impatience,
the sullen frost of louring resentment, or the corroding poison
of withered envy! They eat up the immortal part of man! If they
spent their fury only on the unfortunate objects of them, it
would be something in their favour; but these miserable passions,
like traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master.</p>

<p>Thou Almighty Author of peace, and goodness, and love! do thou
give me the social heart that kindly tastes of every man's cup!
Is it a draught of joy?&mdash;warm and open my heart to share it with
cordial unenvying rejoicing! Is it the bitter potion of
sorrow?&mdash;melt my heart with sincerely sympathetic woe! Above all,
do thou give me the manly mind that resolutely exemplifies, in
life and manners, those sentiments which I would wish to be
thought to possess! The friend of my soul&mdash;there may I never
deviate from the firmest fidelity and most active kindness!
Clarinda, the dear object of my fondest love; there may the most
sacred inviolate honour, the most faithful kindling constancy,
ever watch and animate my every thought and imagination!</p>

<p>Did you ever meet with the following lines spoken of Religion,
your darling topic?&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><i>'Tis this</i>, my friend, that streaks our morning
bright;<br>
<i>'Tis this</i> that gilds the horrors of our night;<br>
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few,<br>
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue;<br>
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart,<br>
Disarms affliction, or repels its dart:<br>
Within the breast bids purest rapture rise,<br>
Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies.<a name=
"FNanchor67"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_67">[67]</a></sup></blockquote>

I met with these verses very early in life, and was so delighted
with them that I have them by me, copied at school.

<p>Good night and sound rest, my dearest Clarinda!</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
<a name="Footnote_67"></a><a href="#FNanchor67">[67]</a> From
Hervey's <i>Meditations</i>.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXIII.</h4>

<i>Thursday Night, Feb</i>. 7, 1788.

<p>It is perhaps rather wrong to speak highly to a friend of his
letter; it is apt to lay one under a little restraint in their
future letters, and restraint is the death of a friendly epistle.
But there is one passage in your last charming letter, Thomson or
Shenstone never exceeded nor often came up to. I shall certainly
steal it, and set it in some future poetic production, and get
immortal fame by it. 'Tis when you bid the Scenes of Nature
remind me of Clarinda. Can I forget you, Clarinda? I would detest
myself as a tasteless, unfeeling, insipid, infamous blockhead! I
have loved women of ordinary merit whom I could have loved for
ever. You are the first, the only unexceptionable individual of
the beauteous sex that I ever met with: and never woman more
entirely possessed my soul. I know myself, and how far I can
depend on passions, well. It has been my peculiar study.</p>

<p>I thank you for going to Myers.<a name=
"FNanchor68"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_68">[68]</a></sup> Urge
him, for necessity calls, to have it done by the middle of next
week, Wednesday at latest. I want it for a breast-pin, to wear
next my heart. I propose to keep sacred set times, to wander in
the woods and wilds for meditation on you. Then, and only then,
your lovely image shall be produced to the day, with a reverence
akin to devotion....</p>

<p>To-morrow night shall not be the last. Good-night! I am
perfectly stupid, as I supped late yesternight.</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
<a name="Footnote_68"></a><a href="#FNanchor68">[68]</a>
Miniature painter.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXIV.</h4>

<i>Wednesday, 13th February</i>.

<p>My ever dearest Clarinda,&mdash;I make a numerous dinner party wait
me, while I read yours and write this. Do not require that I
should cease to love you, to adore you in my soul&mdash;'tis to me
impossible&mdash;your peace and happiness are to me dearer than my
soul: name the terms on which you wish to see me, to correspond
with me, and you have them&mdash;I must love, pine, mourn, and adore
in secret&mdash;this you must not deny me; you will ever be to me<br>
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,<br>
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart!</p>

<p>I have not patience to read the puritanic scrawl. Damn'd
sophistry! Ye heavens! thou God of nature! thou Redeemer of
mankind! ye look down with approving eyes on a passion inspired
by the purest flame, and guarded by truth, delicacy, and honour;
but the half-inch soul of an unfeeling, cold-blooded, pitiful
presbyterian bigot,<a name="FNanchor69"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_69">[69]</a></sup> cannot forgive anything above his
dungeon bosom and foggy head.</p>

<p>Farewell; I'll be with you to-morrow evening&mdash;and be at rest
in your mind&mdash;I will be yours in the way you think most to your
happiness! I dare not proceed&mdash;I love, and will love you, and
will with joyous confidence approach the throne of the Almighty
Judge of men, with your dear idea, and will despise the scum of
sentiment, and the mist of sophistry. SYLVANDER.<br>
<a name="Footnote_69"></a><a href="#FNanchor69">[69]</a> Rev. Mr.
Kemp, Clarinda's spiritual adviser.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXV.</h4>

<i>Wednesday Midnight [Feb. 13].</i>

<p>MADAM,-After a wretched day I am preparing for a sleepless
night. I am going to address myself to the Almighty Witness of my
actions, some time, perhaps very soon, my Almighty Judge. I am
not going to be the advocate of passion: be Thou my inspirer and
testimony, O God, as I plead the cause of truth!</p>

<p>I have read over your friend's<a name="FNanchor70"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_70">[70]</a></sup> haughty dictatorial letter:
you are answerable only to your God in such a matter. Who gave
any fellow-creature of yours (one incapable of being your judge
because not your peer) a right to catechise, scold, undervalue,
abuse, and insult&mdash;wantonly and inhumanly to insult you thus? I
do not even <i>wish</i> to deceive you, Madam. The Searcher of
hearts is my witness how dear you are to me; but though it were
possible you could be still dearer to me, I would not even kiss
your hand at the expense of your conscience. Away with
declamation! let us appeal to the bar of commonsense. It is not
mouthing everything sacred; it is not vague ranting assertions;
it is not assuming, haughtily and insultingly, the dictatorial
language of a Roman pontiff, that must dissolve a union like
ours. Tell me, Madam&mdash;Are you under the least shadow of an
obligation to bestow your love, tenderness, caresses, affections,
heart and soul, on Mr. M'Lehose, the man who has repeatedly,
habitually, and barbarously broken through every tie of duty,
nature, and gratitude to you? The laws of your country, indeed,
for the most useful reasons of policy and sound government, have
made your person inviolate; but, are your heart and affections
bound to one who gives not the least return of either to you? You
cannot do it: it is not in the nature of things: the common
feelings of humanity forbid it. Have you then a heart and
affections which are no man's right? You have. It would be absurd
to suppose the contrary. Tell me then, in the name of
common-sense, can it be wrong, is such a supposition compatible
with the plainest ideas of right and wrong, that it is improper
to bestow the heart and these affections on another&mdash;while that
bestowing is not in the smallest degree hurtful to your duty to
God, to your children, to yourself, or to society at large?</p>

<p>This is the great test; the consequences: let us see them. In
a widowed, forlorn, lonely condition, with a bosom glowing with
love and tenderness, yet so delicately situated that you cannot
indulge these nobler feelings.... [<i>cetera desunt</i>.]</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_70"></a><a href="#FNanchor70">[70]</a> Rev.
Mr. Kemp.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXVI.</h4>

<i>Thurs., 14 Feb</i>.

<p>"I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan!" I have
suffered, Clarinda, from your letter. My soul was in arms at the
sad perusal; I dreaded that I had acted wrong. If I have robbed
you of a friend,<a name="FNanchor71"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_71">[71]</a></sup> God forgive me!</p>

<p>But, Clarinda, be comforted: let me raise the tone of our
feelings a little higher and bolder. A fellow-creature who leaves
us, who spurns us without a just cause, though once our bosom
friend&mdash;up with a little honest pride&mdash;let them go! How shall I
comfort you, who am the cause of the injury? Can I wish that I
had never seen you, that we had never met? No! I never will. But
have I thrown you friendless? There is almost distraction in that
thought.</p>

<p>Father of mercies! against Thee often have I sinned: through
Thy grace I will endeavour to do so no more! She who, Thou
knowest, is dearer to me than myself, pour Thou the balm of peace
into her past wounds, and hedge her about with Thy peculiar care,
all her future days and nights. Strengthen her tender noble mind,
firmly to suffer, and magnanimously to bear! Make me worthy of
that friendship she honours me with. May my attachment to her be
pure as devotion, and lasting as immortal life! O Almighty
Goodness, hear me! Be to her at all times, particularly in the
hour of distress or trial, a Friend and Comforter, a Guide and
Guard.</p>

<blockquote>How are Thy servants blest, O Lord,<br>
How sure is their defence!<br>
Eternal Wisdom is their guide,<br>
Their help, Omnipotence!</blockquote>

Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done you! Tonight I shall
be with you; as indeed I shall be ill at ease till I see you.

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
<a name="Footnote_71"></a><a href="#FNanchor71">[71]</a> Her
minister.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXVII.</h4>

<i>Thursday, 14th Feb., Two o'clock</i>.

<p>I just now received your first letter of yesterday, by the
careless negligence of the penny-post. Clarinda, matters are
grown very serious with us; then seriously hear me, and hear me,
Heaven&mdash;I met you, my dear Nancy, by far the first of womankind,
at least to me; I esteemed, I loved you at first sight; the
longer I am acquainted with you the more innate amiableness and
worth I discover in you. You have suffered a loss, I confess, for
my sake: but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest friendship; if
every endeavour to be worthy of your friendship; if a love,
strong as the ties of nature, and holy as the duties of
religion&mdash;if all these can make anything like a compensation for
the evil I have occasioned you, if they be worth your acceptance,
or can in the least add to your enjoyment&mdash;so help Sylvander, ye
Powers above, in his hour of need, as he freely gives these all
to Clarinda!</p>

<p>I esteem you, I love you as a friend; I admire you, I love you
as a woman, beyond any one in all the circle of creation; I know
I shall continue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you,
nay, to pray for myself for your sake.</p>

<p>Expect me at eight. And believe me to be ever, my dearest
Madam, yours most entirely, SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXVIII.</h4>

<i>February 15th, 1788</i>.

<p>When matters, my love, are desperate, we must put on a
desperate face&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>On reason build resolve,<br>
That column of true majesty in man.</blockquote>

Or, as the same author finely says in another place&mdash;

<blockquote>Let thy soul spring up,<br>
And lay strong hold for help on Him that made thee.</blockquote>

I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be discouraged at all this.
Look forward; in a few weeks I shall be somewhere or other out of
the possibility of seeing you: till then I shall write you often,
but visit you seldom. Your fame, your welfare, your happiness are
dearer to me than any gratification whatever. Be comforted, my
love! the present moment is the worst; the lenient hand of Time
is daily and hourly either lightening the burden, or making us
insensible to the weight. None of these friends, I mean Mr.&mdash;&mdash;
and the other gentleman, can hurt your worldly support; and for
their friendship, in a little time you will learn to be easy,
and, by and by, to be happy without it. A decent means of
livelihood in the world, an approving God, a peaceful conscience,
and one firm, trusty friend&mdash;can anybody that has these be said
to be unhappy? These are yours.

<p>To-morrow evening I shall be with you about eight; probably
for the last time till I return to Edinburgh. In the meantime,
should any of these two unlucky friends question you respecting
me, whether I am the man, I do not think they are entitled to any
information. As to their jealousy and spying, I despise them.
&mdash;Adieu, my dearest Madam!</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXIX.</h4>

GLASGOW, <i>Monday Evening, 9 o'clock, 18th Feb. 1788.</i>

<p>The attraction of love, I find, is in an inverse proportion to
the attraction of the Newtonian philosophy. In the system of Sir
Isaac, the nearer objects are to one another, the stronger is the
attractive force; in my system, every mile-stone that marked my
progress from Clarinda, awakened a keener pang of attachment to
her. How do you feel, my love? Is your heart ill at ease? I fear
it.&mdash;God forbid that these persecutors should harass that peace,
which is more precious to me than my own. Be assured I shall ever
think of you, muse on you, and, in my moments of devotion, pray
for you. The hour that you are not in all my thoughts&mdash;"be that
hour darkness! let the shadows of death cover it! let it not be
numbered in the hours of the day!"<br>
When I forget the darling theme,<br>
Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no more!<br>
And, dead to joy, forget, my heart, to beat!</p>

<p>I have just met with my old friend, the ship captain;<a name=
"FNanchor72"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_72">[72]</a></sup> guess
my pleasure&mdash;to meet you could alone have given me more. My
brother William, too, the young saddler, has come to Glasgow to
meet me; and here are we three spending the evening.</p>

<p>I arrived here too late to write by post; but I'll wrap half a
dozen sheets of blank paper together, and send it by the fly,
under the name of a parcel. You shall hear from me next post
town. I would write you a long letter, but for the present
circumstance of my friend.</p>

<p>Adieu, my Clarinda! I am just going to propose your health by
way of grace-drink. SYLVANDER.<br>
<a name="Footnote_72"></a><a href="#FNanchor72">[72]</a> Richard
Brown, whom he first knew at Irvine.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXX.</h4>

CUMNOCK, <i>2nd March</i> 1788.

<p>I hope, and am certain, that my generous Clarinda<a name=
"FNanchor73"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_73">[73]</a></sup> will
not think my silence, for now a long week, has been in any decree
owing to my forgetfulness. I have been tossed about through the
country ever since I wrote you; and am here, returning from
Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the post office of the place, with
just so long time as my horse eats his corn, to write you. I have
been hurried with business and dissipation almost equal to the
insidious decree of the Persian monarch's mandate, when he
forbade asking petition of God or man for forty days. Had the
venerable prophet been as throng as I, he had not broken the
decree, at least not thrice a day.</p>

<p>I am thinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A worthy
intelligent farmer, my father's friend and my own, has been with
me on the spot: he thinks the bargain practicable. I am myself,
on a more serious review of the lands, much better pleased with
them. I won't mention this in writing to any body but you and
Ainslie. Don't accuse me of being fickle: I have the two plans of
life before me, and I wish to adopt the one most likely to
procure me independence. I shall be in Edinburgh next week. I
long to see you: your image is omnipresent to me; nay, I am
convinced I would soon idolatrise it most seriously; so much do
absence and memory improve the medium through which one sees the
much-loved object. To-night, at the sacred hour of eight, I
expect to meet you&mdash;at the Throne of Grace. I hope, as I go home
tonight, to find a letter from you at the post office in
Mauchline. I have just once seen that dear hand since I left
Edinburgh&mdash;a letter indeed which much affected me. Tell me, first
of womankind! will my warmest attachment, my sincerest
friendship, my correspondence, will they be any compensation for
the sacrifices you make for my sake! If they will, they are
yours. If I settle on the farm I propose, I am just a day and a
half's ride from Edinburgh. We will meet&mdash;don't you say,
"perhaps too often!"</p>

<p>Farewell, my fair, my charming Poetess! May all good things
ever attend you! I am ever, my dearest Madam, yours,
SYLVANDER.<br>
<a name="Footnote_73"></a><a href="#FNanchor73">[73]</a> The
letter about the 23rd of February seems to be wanting.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXI.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 6 <i>Mar</i>.

<p>I own myself guilty, Clarinda; I should have written you last
week; but when you recollect, my dearest Madam, that yours of
this night's post is only the third I have got from you, and that
this is the fifth or sixth I have sent to you, you will not
reproach me, with a good grace, for unkindness. I have always
some kind of idea, not to sit down to write a letter except I
have time and possession of my faculties, so as to do some
justice to my letter; which at present is rarely my situation.
For instance, yesterday I dined at a friend's at some distance;
the savage hospitality of this country spent me the most part of
the night over the nauseous potion in the bowl: this
day&mdash;sick&mdash;headache&mdash;low spirits&mdash;miserable&mdash;fasting, except for
a draught of water or small beer: now eight o'clock at
night&mdash;only able to crawl ten minutes walk into Mauchline to wait
the post, in the pleasurable hope of hearing from the mistress of
my soul.</p>

<p>But, truce with all this! When I sit down to write to you, all
is harmony and peace. A hundred times a day do I figure you,
before your taper, your book, or work laid aside, as I get within
the room. How happy have I been! and how little of that scantling
portion of time, called the life of man, is sacred to happiness!
much less transport!</p>

<blockquote>I could moralise to-night like a death's head.<br>
O what is life, that thoughtless wish of all!<br>
A drop of honey in a draught of gall.</blockquote>

Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the
wheels of life, than the thoughtless career we run in the hour of
health. "None saith, where is God, my Maker, that giveth songs in
the night; who teacheth us more knowledge than the beasts of the
field, and more understanding than the fowls of the air."

<p>Give me, my Maker, to remember thee! Give me to act up to the
dignity of my nature! Give me to feel "another's woe;" and
continue with me that dear-loved friend that feels with mine!</p>

<p>The dignified and dignifying consciousness of an honest man,
and the well-grounded trust in approving Heaven, are two most
substantial foundations of happiness.</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXII</h4>

.MOSSGIEL, <i>7th March</i> 1788.

<p>Clarinda, I have been so stung with your reproach for
unkindness, a sin so unlike me, a sin I detest more than a breach
of the whole Decalogue, fifth, sixth, seventh and ninth articles
excepted, that I believe I shall not rest in my grave about it,
if I die before I see you. You have often allowed me the head to
judge, and the heart to feel, the influence of female
excellence.</p>

<p>Was it not blasphemy, then, against your own charms, and
against my feelings, to suppose that a short fortnight could
abate my passion? You, my love, may have your cares and anxieties
to disturb you, but they are the usual recurrences of life; your
future views are fixed, and your mind in a settled routine. Could
not you, my ever dearest Madam, make a little allowance for a
man, after long absence, paying a short visit to a country full
of friends, relations, and early intimates? Cannot you guess, my
Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what anxious forebodings,
hopes and fears, must crowd the breast of the man of keen
sensibility, when no less is on the tapis than his aim, his
employment, his very existence, through future life!</p>

<p>Now that, not my apology, but my defence is made, I feel my
soul respire more easily. I know you will go along with me in my
justification&mdash;would to Heaven you could in my adoption too! I
mean an adoption beneath the stars&mdash;an adoption where I might
revel in the immediate beams of</p>

<blockquote>Her, the bright sun of all her sex.</blockquote>

I would not have you, my dear Madam, so much hurt at Miss Nimmo's
coldness. 'Tis placing yourself below her, an honour she by no
means deserves. We ought, when we wish to be economists in
happiness&mdash;we ought, in the first place, to fix the standard of
our own character; and when, on full examination, we know where
we stand, and how much ground we occupy, let us contend for it as
property; and those who seem to doubt, or deny us what is justly
ours, let us either pity their prejudices, or despise their
judgment. I know, my dear, you will say this is self-conceit; but
I call it self-knowledge. The one is theoverweening opinion of a
fool, who fancies himself to be what he wishes himself to be
thought; the other is the honest justice that a man of sense, who
has thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself. Without
this standard, this column in our own mind, we are perpetually at
the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay,
the very weakness and wickedness of our fellow-creatures.

<p>I urge this, my dear, both to confirm myself in the doctrine,
which, I assure you, I sometimes need; and because I know that
this causes you often much disquiet. To return to Miss Nimmo: she
is most certainly a worthy soul, and equalled by very, very few,
in goodness of heart. But can she boast more goodness of heart
than Clarinda? Not even prejudice will dare to say so. For
penetration and discernment, Clarinda sees far beyond her: to
wit, Miss Nimmo dare make no pretence; to Clarinda's wit,
scarcely any of her sex dare make pretence. Personal charms, it
would be ridiculous to run the parallel. And for conduct in life,
Miss Nimmo was never called out, either much to do or to suffer;
Clarinda has been both; and has performed her part, where Miss
Nimmo would have sunk at the bare idea.</p>

<p>Away, then, with these disquietudes! Let us pray with the
honest weaver of Kilbarchan&mdash;"Lord, send us a gude conceit o'
oursel!" Or, in the words of the auld sang,</p>

<blockquote>Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again,<br>
And I'll never mind any such foes.

<p>There is an error in the commerce of intimacy<a name=
"FNanchor74"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_74">[74]</a></sup>
...</p>
</blockquote>

way of exchange, have not an equivalent to give us; and, what is
still worse, have no idea of the value of our goods. Happy is our
lot indeed, when we meet with an honest merchant, who is
qualified to deal with us on our own terms; but that is a rarity.
With almost everybody we must pocket our pearls, less or more,
and learn in the old Scotch phrase&mdash;"To gie sic like as we get."
For this reason one should try to erect a kind of bank or
store-house in one's own mind; or, as the Psalmist says, "We
should commune with our own hearts, and be still." This is
exactly [MS. dilapidated.] <br>
<a name="Footnote_74"></a><a href="#FNanchor74">[74]</a> The MS.
is so worn as to be indecipherable.

<hr>
<h4>XXXIII.</h4>

EDINBURGH, 18<i>th March</i> 1788.

<p>I am just hurrying away to wait on the great man, Clarinda;
but I have more respect on my own peace and happiness than to set
out without waiting on you; for my imagination, like a child's
favourite bird, will fondly flutter along with this scrawl till
it perch on your bosom I thank you for all the happiness of
yesterday&mdash;the walk delightful, the evening rapture. Do not be
uneasy today, Clarinda. I am in rather better spirits today,
though I had but an indifferent night. Care, anxiety, sat on my
spirits. All the cheerfulness of this morning is the fruit of
some serious, important ideas that lie, in their realities,
beyond the dark and narrow house. The Father of mercies be with
you, Clarinda. Every good thing attend you!</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXXIV.</h4>

<i>Friday</i> 9 [<i>p.m</i>., 21<i>st March</i> 1788].

<p>I am just now come in, and have read your letters. The first
thing I did was to thank the Divine Disposer of events that he
has had such happiness in store for me as the connexion I have
with you. Life, my Clarinda, is a weary, barren path; and woe be
to him or her that ventures on it alone! For me, I have my
dearest partner of my soul. Clarinda and I will make out our
pilgrimage together. Wherever I am, I shall constantly let her
know how I go on, what I observe in the world around me, and what
adventures I meet with. Would it please you, my love, to get
every week, or every fortnight at least, a packet of two or three
sheets of remarks, nonsense, news, rhymes and old songs? Will you
open with satisfaction and delight a letter from a man who loves
you, who has loved you, and who will love you to death, through
death, and for ever? O Clarinda! what do I owe to heaven for
blessing me with such a piece of exalted excellence as you! I
call over your idea, as a miser counts over his treasure. Tell
me, were you studious to please me last night? I am sure you did
it to transport.</p>

<p>How rich am I who have such a treasure as you! You know me;
you know how to make me happy, and you do it most effectually.
God bless you with "long life, long youth, long pleasure, and a
friend!" Tomorrow night, according to your own direction, I shall
watch the window&mdash;'tis the star that guides me to Paradise. The
great relish to all is that honour, that innocence, that Religion
are the witnesses and guarantees of our affection, Adieu,
Clarinda! I am going to remember you in my prayers.</p>

<p>SYLVANDER.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h2><a name="gen2"></a><a href="#tgen2">GENERAL
CORRESPONDENCE</a>.</h2>

<h3>LETTERS</h3>

. <br>
(<i>General Correspondence Resumed</i>.) <br>
<hr>
<h4>LXXXIV.&mdash;To MR. GAVIN HAMILTON.</h4>

[<i>April</i> 1788] MOSSGIEL, <i>Friday Morning</i>.

<p>The language of refusal is to me the most difficult language
on earth, and you are the man in the world, excepting one of
Right Hon. designation, to whom it gives me the greatest pain to
hold such language. My brother has already got money,<a name=
"FNanchor75"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_75">[75]</a></sup> and
shall want nothing in my power to enable him to fulfil his
engagement with you; but to be security on so large a scale, even
for a brother, is what I dare not do, except I were in such
circumstances of life as that the worst that might happen could
not greatly injure me.</p>

<p>I never wrote a letter which gave me so much pain in my life,
as I know the unhappy consequences:&mdash;I shall incur the
displeasure of a gentleman for whom I have the highest respect
and to whom I am deeply obliged.&mdash;I am etc.</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_75"></a><a href="#FNanchor75">[75]</a>
Altogether &pound;180. Gilbert is meant, and the business
referred to was renewal of lease of Mossgiel, the poet to be
cautioner.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXXV.&mdash;To MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, W.S., EDINBURGH.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 7<i>th April</i> 1788.

<p>I have not delayed so long to write you, my much respected
friend, because I thought no further of my promise. I have long
since given up that formal kind of correspondence where one sits
down irksomely to write a letter, because he is in duty bound to
do so.</p>

<p>I have been roving over the country, as the farm<a name=
"FNanchor76"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_76">[76]</a></sup> I
have taken is forty miles from this place, hiring servants and
preparing matters; but most of all, I am earnestly busy to bring
about a revolution in my own mind. As, till within these eighteen
months, I never was the wealthy master of ten guineas, my
knowledge of business is to learn. Add to this, my late scenes of
idleness and dissipation have enervated my mind to an alarming
degree. Skill in the sober science of life is my most serious,
and hourly study. I have dropped all conversation and all reading
(prose reading) but what tends in some way or other to my serious
aim. Except one worthy young fellow<a name=
"FNanchor77"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_77">[77]</a></sup> I
have not a single correspondent in Edinburgh. You have indeed
kindly made me an offer of that kind. The world of wits, the
<i>gens comme-il-faut</i>, which I lately left, and in which I
never again will intimately mix&mdash;from that port, Sir, I expect
your gazette, what the <i>beaux esprits</i> are saying, what they
are doing, and what they are singing. Any sober intelligence from
my sequestered life is all you have to expect from me. I have
scarcely made a single distich since I saw you. When I meet with
an old Scots air that has any facetious idea in its name, I have
a peculiar pleasure in following out that idea for a verse or
two.</p>

<p>I trust this will find you in better health than I did the
last time I called for you. A few lines from you, directed to me,
at Mauchline, were it but to let me know how you are, will settle
my mind a good deal. Now, never shun the idea of writing me
because, perhaps, you may be out of humour or spirits. I could
give you a hundred good consequences attending a dull letter;
one, for example, and the remaining ninety-nine some other
time&mdash;it will always serve to keep in countenance, my much
respected Sir, your obliged friend and humble servant, R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_76"></a><a href="#FNanchor76">[76]</a>
Ellisland, near Dumfries.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_77"></a><a href="#FNanchor77">[77]</a>
Robert Ainslie, W.S.</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXXVI.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 28<i>th April</i> 1788.

<p>MADAM,&mdash;Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, as I
assure you they make my heart ache with penitential pangs, even
though I was really not guilty. As I commence farming at
Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be pretty busy; but that
is not all. As I got the offer of the Excise business without
solicitation, and as it costs me only six months' attendance for
instructions, to entitle me to a commission&mdash;which commission
lies by me, and at any future period, on my simple petition, can
be resumed&mdash;I thought five-and-thirty pounds a-year was no bad
<i>dernier ressort</i> for a poor poet, if Fortune in her jade
tricks should kick him down from the little eminence to which she
has lately helped him up.</p>

<p>For this reason, I am at present attending these instructions,
to have them completed before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I
prepared with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the Mount,
and came to my brother's on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday;
but for some nights preceding I had slept in an apartment, where
the force of the winds and rains was only mitigated by being
sifted through numberless apertures in the windows, walls, etc.
In consequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday,
unable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a
violent cold.</p>

<p>You see, Madam, the truth of the French maxim, <i>le vrai
n'est pas toujours le vrai-semblable;</i> your last was so full
of expostulation, and was something so like the language of an
offended friend, that I began to tremble for a correspondence,
which I had with grateful pleasure set down as one of the
greatest enjoyments of my future life.</p>

<p>Your books have delighted me; Virgil, Dryden, and Tasso were
all equally strangers to me; but of this more at large in my
next. R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXXVII.&mdash;To MR. JAMES SMITH, AVON PRINTFIELD,
LINLITHGOW.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, <i>April</i> 28<i>th</i>, 1788.

<p>Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir! Look on this as the
opening of a correspondence, like the opening of a twenty-four
gun battery!</p>

<p>There is no understanding a man properly, without knowing
something of his previous ideas; that is to say, if the man has
any ideas; for I know many who, in the animal-muster, pass for
men, that are the scanty masters of only one idea on any given
subject, and by far the greatest part of your acquaintances and
mine can barely boast of ideas, 1.25&mdash;1.5&mdash;1.75 (or some such
fractional matter); so to let you a little into the secrets of my
pericranium, there is, you must know, a certain clean-limbed,
handsome, bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, to whom I
have lately and privately given a matrimonial title to my
corpus.<br>
Bode a robe and wear it,<br>
Bode a pock and bear it,</p>

<p>says the wise old Scots adage! I hate to presage ill-luck; and
as my girl has been doubly kinder to me than even the best of
women usually are to their partners of our sex, in similar
circumstances, I reckon on twelve times a brace of children
against I celebrate my twelfth wedding-day: these twenty-four
will give me twenty-four gossipings, twenty-four christenings (I
mean one equal to two), and I hope, by the blessing of the God of
my fathers, to make them twenty-four dutiful children to their
parents, twenty-four useful members of society, and twenty-four
approved servants of their God....</p>

<p>"Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when she was stealing
sheep. You see what a lamp I have hung up to lighten your paths,
when you are idle enough to explore the combinations and
relations of my ideas. 'Tis now as plain as a pike-staff, why a
twenty-four gun battery was a metaphor I could readily
employ.</p>

<p>Now for business. I intend to present Mrs. Burns with a
printed shawl, an article of which I dare say you have variety:
'tis my first present to her since I have irrevocably called her
mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to get her the first
said present from an old and much-valued friend of hers and mine,
a trusty Trojan, on whose friendship I count myself possessed of
as a life-rent lease.</p>

<p>Look on this letter as a "beginning of sorrows;" I will write
you till your eyes ache reading nonsense.</p>

<p>Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designation) begs her best
compliments to you. R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXXVIII&mdash;To PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 3<i>rd May</i> 1788.

<p>SIR,&mdash;I enclose you one or two more of my bagatelles. If the
fervent wishes of honest gratitude have any influence with that
great unknown Being who frames the chain of causes and events,
prosperity and happiness will attend your visit to the Continent,
and return you safe to your native shore.</p>

<p>Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as my privilege to
acquaint you with my progress in my trade of rhymes; as I am sure
I could say it with truth, that, next to my little fame, and the
having it in my power to make life more comfortable to those whom
nature has made dear to me, I shall ever regard your countenance,
your patronage, your friendly good offices, as the most valued
consequence of my late success in life. R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>LXXXIX.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 4<i>th May</i> 1788.

<p>MADAM,&mdash;Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not know
whether the critics will agree with me, but the Georgics are to
me by far the best of Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing
entirely new to me, and has filled my head with a thousand
fancies of emulation; but, alas! when I read the Georgics, and
then survey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland pony,
drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to start for the
plate. I own I am disappointed in the AEneid. Faultless
correctness may please, and does highly please, the lettered
critic; but to that awful character T have not the most distant
pretensions. I do not know whether I do not hazard my pretensions
to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I think Virgil, in
many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had the Odyssey
by me, I could parallel many passages where Virgil has evidently
copied, but by no means improved, Homer. Nor can I think there is
anything of this owing to the translators; for, from everything I
have seen of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency of
language, Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso enough to form
an opinion: in some future letter you shall have my ideas of him;
though I am conscious my criticisms must be very inaccurate and
imperfect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my want of
learning most. R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XC.&mdash;To MR. SAMUEL BROWN, KIRKOSWALD.</h4>

MOSSGIEL, 4<i>th May</i> 1788.

<p>DEAR UNCLE,&mdash;This, I hope, will find you and your conjugal
yoke-fellow in your good old way. I am impatient to know if the
Ailsa<a name="FNanchor78"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_78">[78]</a></sup> fowling be commenced for this
season yet, as I want three or four stones of feathers, and I
hope you will bespeak them for me. It would be a vain attempt for
me to enumerate the various transactions I have been engaged in
since I saw you last; but this know&mdash;I engaged in a smuggling
trade, and no poor man ever experienced better returns, two for
one: but as freight and delivery have turned out so dear, I am
thinking of taking out a license and beginning in fair trade. I
have taken a farm, on the borders of the Nith, and in imitation
of the old patriarchs, get men-servants and maid-servants, and
flocks and herds, and beget sons and daughters.&mdash;Your obedient
nephew,</p>

<p>ROBERT BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_78"></a><a href="#FNanchor78">[78]</a> A
well-known rock in the Firth of Clyde, frequented by innumerable
sea-fowl.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XCI.&mdash;To MR. JAMES JOHNSON, ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 25<i>th May</i> 1788.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;I am really uneasy about that money which Mr.
Creech owes me per note in your hand, and I want it much at
present, as I am engaging in business pretty deeply both for
myself and my brother. A hundred guineas can be but a trifling
affair to him, and'tis a matter of most serious importance to
me.<a name="FNanchor79"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_79">[79]</a></sup> To-morrow I begin my operations as
a farmer, and so God speed the plough!</p>

<p>I am so enamoured of a certain girl.... To be serious, I found
I had a long and much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery
in my hands; and though pride and seeming justice were murderous
king's advocates on the one side, yet humanity, generosity, and
forgiveness were such powerful, such irresistible counsel on the
other, that a jury of all endearments and new attachments brought
in a unanimous verdict of <i>not guilty</i>. And the panel, be it
known unto all whom it concerns, is installed and instated into
all the rights, privileges, etc., that belong to the name, title,
and designation of wife.<br>
<a name="Footnote_79"></a><a href="#FNanchor79">[79]</a> Creech
paid the amount five days after the date of this letter.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XCII.&mdash;To MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, <i>May</i> 26<i>th</i>, 1788.

<p>MY DEAR FRIEND,&mdash;I am two kind letters in your debt; but I
have been from home, and horridly busy, buying and preparing for
my farming business, over and above the plague of my Excise
instructions, which this week will finish.</p>

<p>As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many future years'
correspondence between us, 'tis foolish to talk of excusing dull
epistles! a dull letter may be a very kind one. I have the
pleasure to tell you that I have been extremely fortunate in all
my buyings and bargainings hitherto, Mrs. Burns not excepted;
which title I now avow to the world. I am truly pleased with this
last affair. It has indeed added to my anxieties for futurity,
but it has given a stability to my mind and resolutions unknown
before; and the poor girl has the most sacred enthusiasm of
attachment to me, and has not a wish but to gratify my every idea
of her deportment. I am interrupted. Farewell! my dear Sir. R.
B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XCIII.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

27<i>th</i> <i>May</i> 1788.

<p>MADAM,&mdash;I have been torturing my philosophy to no purpose to
account for that kind partiality of yours, which has followed me,
in my return to the shade of life, with assiduous benevolence.
Often did I regret, in the fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp
appearance, that "here I had no continuing city;" and, but for
the consolation of a few solid guineas, could almost lament the
time that a momentary acquaintance with wealth and splendour put
me so much out of conceit with the sworn companions of my road
through life&mdash;insignificance and poverty.</p>

<p>There are few circumstances relating to the unequal
distribution of the good things of this life that give me more
vexation (I mean in what I see around me) than the importance the
opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, compared with
the very same things on the contracted scale of a cottage. Last
afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or two at a good
woman's fireside, where the planks that composed the floor were
decorated with a splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled with
silver and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there has been a
revolution among those creatures who, though in appearance
partakers, and equally noble partakers, of the same nature with
Madame, are from time to time&mdash;their nerves, their sinews, their
health, strength, wisdom, experience, genius, time, nay, a good
part of their very thoughts&mdash;sold for months and years, not only
to the necessities, the conveniences, but the caprices of the
important few. We talked of the insignificant creatures; nay,
notwithstanding their general stupidity and rascality, did some
of the poor devils the honour to commend them. But light be the
turf upon his breast who taught "Reverence thyself!" We looked
down on the unpolished wretches, their impertinent wives, and
clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the little dirty
ant-hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness
of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the wantonness of his
pride.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XCIV.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MR. DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 13<i>th June</i> 1788.

<blockquote>Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,<br>
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee;<br>
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain,<br>
And drags, at each remove, a lengthen'd chain.<br>
GOLDSMITH.</blockquote>

This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on
my farm. A solitary inmate of an old smoky spence; far from every
object I love, or by whom I am beloved; nor any acquaintance
older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride
on; while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult my awkward
ignorance and bashful inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere
native to my soul in the hour of care; consequently the dreary
objects seem larger than the life. Extreme sensibility, irritated
and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of misfortunes and
disappointments, at that period of my existence when the soul is
laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I
believe, the principal cause of this unhappy frame of mind.

<blockquote>The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?<br>
Or what need he regard his <i>single</i> woes?</blockquote>

Your surmise, Madam, is just: I am indeed a husband.

<p>I found a once much-loved and still much-loved female,
literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked
elements&mdash;but there is no sporting with a fellow-creature's
happiness or misery.... The most placid good-nature and sweetness
of disposition; a warm heart, gratefully devoted with all its
powers to love me; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness,
set off to the best advantage by a more than common handsome
figure&mdash;these, I think, in a woman may make a good wife though
she should never have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old
and New Testaments, nor have danced in a brighter assembly than a
penny pay wedding.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XCV.-TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>June 14th</i>, 1788.

<p>This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, that I have
sojourned in these regions; and during these three days you have
occupied more of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding: in
Ayrshire I have several variations of friendship's compass, here
it points invariably to the pole. My farm gives me a good many
uncouth cares and anxieties, but I hate the language of
complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, says well&mdash;"Why
should a living man complain?"</p>

<p>I have lately been much mortified with contemplating an
unlucky imperfection in the very framing and construction of my
soul; namely, a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs in
hitting the scent of craft or design in my fellow-creatures. I do
not mean any compliment to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the
defect is in consequence of the unsuspicious simplicity of
conscious truth and honour: I take it to be, in some way or
other, an imperfection in the mental sight; or, metaphor apart,
some modification of dulness. In two or three instances lately, I
have been most shamefully out.</p>

<p>I have all along, hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred
to arms among the light horse&mdash;the piquet-guards of fancy; a kind
of hussars and Highlanders of the brain; but I am firmly resolved
to sell out of these giddy battalions, who have no ideas of a
battle but fighting the foe, or of a siege but storming the town.
Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave
squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of
plodding contrivance.</p>

<p>What books are you reading, or what is the subject of your
thoughts, besides the great studies of your profession? You said
something about religion in your last. I don't exactly remember
what it was, as the letter is in Ayrshire; but I thought it not
only prettily said, but nobly thought. You will make a noble
fellow if once you were married. I make no reservation of your
being well-married; you have so much sense, and knowledge of
human nature, that though you may not realise perhaps the ideas
of romance, yet you will never be ill-married.</p>

<p>Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation
respecting provision for a family of children, I am decidedly of
opinion that the step I have taken is vastly for my happiness.<a
name="FNanchor80"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_80">[80]</a></sup>
As it is, I look to the Excise scheme as a certainty of
maintenance; a maintenance!&mdash;luxury to what either Mrs. Burns or
I were born to. Adieu.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_80"></a><a href="#FNanchor80">[80]</a> This
alludes to his marriage.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XCVI.-TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>30th June</i> 1788.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;I just now received your brief epistle; and, to
take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long
sheet of writing-paper, and have begun at the top of the page,
intending to scribble on to the very last corner.</p>

<p>I am vexed at that affair of the ..., but dare not enlarge on
the subject until you send me your direction, as I suppose that
will be altered on your late master and friend's death.<a name=
"FNanchor81"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_81">[81]</a></sup> I am
concerned for the old fellow's exit, only as I fear it may be to
your disadvantage in any respect&mdash;for an old man's dying, except
he have been a very benevolent character, or in some particular
situation of life that the welfare of the poor or the helpless
depended on him, I think it an event of the most trifling moment
to the world. Man is naturally a kind, benevolent animal, but he
is dropped into such a needy situation here in this vexatious
world, and has such a hungry, growling, multiplying pack of
necessities, appetites, passions, and desires about him, ready to
devour him for want of other food, that in fact he must lay aside
his cares for others that he may look properly to himself. You
have been imposed upon in paying Mr. Miers for the profile of a
Mr. H. I did not mention it in my letter to you, nor did I ever
give Mr. Miers any such order. I have no objection to lose the
money, but I will not have any such profile in my possession.</p>

<p>I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I mentioned only 15s.
to him, I will rather inclose you a guinea-note. I have it not,
indeed, to spare here, as I am only a sojourner in a strange land
in this place; but in a day or two I return to Mauchline, and
there I have the bank-notes through the house like salt
permits.</p>

<p>There is a great degree of folly in talking unnecessarily of
one's private affairs. I have just now been interrupted by one of
my new neighbours, who has made himself absolutely contemptible
in my eyes, by his silly, garrulous pruriency. I know it has been
a fault of my own, too; but from this moment I abjure it as I
would the service of hell! Your poets, spendthrifts, and other
fools of that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack their jokes on
prudence; but'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. Still,
imprudence respecting money matters is much more pardonable than
imprudence respecting character, I have no objection to prefer
prodigality to avarice, in some few instances; but I appeal to
your observation if you have not met, and often met, with the
same disingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity, and
disintegritive depravity of principle, in the hackneyed victims
of profusion, as in the unfeeling children of parsimony. I have
every possible reverence for the much talked-of world beyond the
grave, and I wish that which piety believes, and virtue deserves,
may be all matter of fact. But in things belonging to, and
terminating in this present scene of existence, man has serious
and interesting business on hand. Whether a man shall shake hands
with welcome in the distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink
from contempt in the abject corner of insignificance: whether he
shall wanton under the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself
in the comfortable latitude of easy convenience, or starve in the
arctic circle of dreary poverty; whether he shall rise in the
manly consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a
galling load of regret and remorse&mdash;these are alternatives of
the last moment.</p>

<p>You see how I preach. You used occasionally to sermonise too;
I wish you would, in charity, favour me with a sheet full in your
own way. I admire the close of a letter Lord Bolingbroke writes
to Dean Swift:&mdash;"Adieu, dear Swift! with all thy faults I love
thee entirely: make an effort to love me with all mine!" Humble
servant, and all that trumpery, is now such a prostituted
business, that honest friendship, in her sincere way, must have
recourse to her primitive, simple&mdash;farewell!</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_81"></a><a href="#FNanchor81">[81]</a> Samuel
Mitchelson, W.S., with whom young Ainslie served his
apprenticeship.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XCVII&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, <i>July</i> 10<i>th</i>, 1788.

<p>MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,&mdash;Yours of the 24th June is before me.
I found it, as well as another valued friend&mdash;my wife, waiting to
welcome me to Ayrshire: I met both with the sincerest
pleasure.</p>

<p>When I write you, Madam, I do not sit down to answer every
paragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful
Commons of Great Britain in Parliament assembled, answering a
speech from the best of kings! I express myself in the fulness of
my heart, and may, perhaps, be guilty of neglecting some of your
kind inquiries; but not from your very odd reason, that I do not
read your letters. All your epistles, for several months, have
cost me nothing except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a
deep-felt sentiment of veneration.</p>

<p>When Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found herself "as women wish to
be who love their lords," as I loved her nearly to distraction,
we took steps for a private marriage. Her parents got the hint;
and not only forbade me her company and their house, but, on my
rumoured West Indian voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail,
till I should find security in my about-to-be paternal relation.
You know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my
<i>&eacute;clatant</i> return to Mauchline, I was made very
welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray
her; and, as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh,
she was turned, literally turned, out of doors, and I wrote to a
friend to shelter her till my return, when our marriage was
declared. Her happiness or misery were in my hands, and who could
trifle with such a deposit?</p>

<p>To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger. My
preservative against the first is the most thorough consciousness
of her sentiments of honour and her attachment to me; my antidote
against the last is my long and deep-rooted affection for her. I
can easily <i>fancy</i> a more agreeable companion for my journey
of life; but, upon my honour, I have never <i>seen</i> the
individual instance.</p>

<p>In household matters, of aptness to learn and activity to
execute, she is eminently mistress; and during my absence in
Nithsdale, she is regularly and constantly apprentice to my
mother and sisters in their dairy, and other rural business.</p>

<p>The muses must not be offended when I tell them, the concerns
of my wife and family will, in my mind, always take the
<i>pas</i>; but I assure them their ladyships will ever come next
in place.</p>

<p>You are right that a bachelor state would have insured me more
friends; but, from a cause you will easily guess, conscious peace
in the enjoyment of my own mind, and unmistrusting confidence in
approaching my God, would seldom have been of the number.</p>

<p>Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner
for life who could have entered into my favourite studies,
relished my favourite authors, etc., without probably entailing
on me at the same time expensive living, fantastic caprice,
perhaps apish affectation, with all the other blessed
boarding-school acquirements, which (<i>pardonnez moi</i>,
<i>Madame</i>) are sometimes to be found among females of the
upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the
would-be gentry.<a name="FNanchor82"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_82">[82]</a></sup></p>

<p>I like your way in your churchyard lucubrations. Thoughts that
are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either
respecting health, place, or company, have often a strength, and
always an originality, that would in vain be looked for in
fancied circumstances, and studied paragraphs. For me, I have
often thought of keeping a letter, in progression by me, to send
you when the sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, I must
tell you, my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind is
my pruriency of writing to you at large. A page of post is on
such a dis-social, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it;
and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner,
are a monstrous tax in a close correspondence. R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_82"></a><a href="#FNanchor82">[82]</a> In
Burns's private memoranda are these words:&mdash;"I am more and more
pleased with the step I took respecting my Jean. A wife's head is
immaterial compared with her heart; and Virtue's (for wisdom,
what poet pretends to it?) 'ways are ways of pleasantness, and
all her paths are peace.'"</p>

<hr>
<h4>XCVIII.&mdash;To MR. PETER HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH.</h4>

MY DEAR HILL,&mdash;I shall say nothing to your mad present&mdash;you have
so long and often been of important service to me, and I suppose
you mean to go on conferring obligations until I shall not be
able to lift up my face before you. In the meantime, as Sir Roger
de Coverley, because it happened to be a cold day in which he
made his will, ordered his servants great-coats for mourning, so,
because I have been this week plagued with an indigestion, I have
sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese.<a name=
"FNanchor83"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_83">[83]</a></sup>

<p>Indigestion is the devil: nay, 'tis the devil and all. It
besets a man in every one of his senses. I lose my appetite at
the sight of successful knavery, and sicken to loathing at the
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. When the
hollow-hearted wretch takes me by the hand, the feeling spoils my
dinner; the proud man's wine so offends my palate that it chokes
me in the gullet; and the <i>pulvilised</i>, feathered, pert
coxcomb, is so disgustful in my nostril that my stomach
turns.</p>

<p>If ever you have any of these disagreeable sensations, let me
prescribe for you patience, and a bit of my cheese. I know that
you are no niggard of your good things among your friends, and
some of them are in much need of a slice. There, in my eye, is
our friend Smellie; a man positively of the first abilities and
greatest strength of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and
keenest wits that I have ever met with; when you see him, as,
alas! he too is smarting at the pinch of distressful
circumstances, aggravated by the sneer of contumelious
greatness&mdash;a bit of my cheese alone will not cure him, but if you
add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd a magnum of bright
Oporto, you will see his sorrows vanish like the morning mist
before the summer sun.</p>

<p>Candlish, the earliest friend, except my only brother, that I
have on earth, and one of the worthiest fellows that ever any man
called by the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese would
help to rid him of some of his superabundant modesty, you would
do well to give it him.</p>

<p>David,<a name="FNanchor84"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_84">[84]</a></sup> with his <i>Courant</i>, comes,
too, across my recollection, and I beg you will help him largely
from the said ewe-milk cheese, to enable him to digest those
bedaubing paragraphs with which he is eternally larding the lean
characters of certain great men in a certain great town. I grant
you the periods are very well turned; so, a fresh egg is a very
good thing, but when thrown at a man in a pillory, it does not at
all improve his figure, not to mention the irreparable loss of
the egg.</p>

<p>My facetious friend Dunbar, I would wish also to be a
partaker: not to digest his spleen, for that he laughs off, but
to digest his last night's wine at the last field-day of the
Crochallan corps.<a name="FNanchor85"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_85">[85]</a></sup></p>

<p>Among our common friends I must not forget one of the dearest
of them&mdash;Cunningham. The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of
a world unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, I know
sticks in his stomach, and if you can help him to anything that
will make him a little easier on that score, it will be very
obliging.</p>

<p>As to honest John Sommerville, he is such a contented, happy
man, that I know not what can annoy him, except, perhaps, he may
not have got the better of a parcel oif modest anecdotes which a
certain poet gave him one night at supper, the last time the said
poet was in town.</p>

<p>Though I have mentioned so many men of law, I shall have
nothing to do with them professedly&mdash;the faculty are beyond my
prescription. As to their clients, that is another thing; God
knows they have much to digest!</p>

<p>The clergy I pass by; their profundity of erudition, and their
liberality of sentiment, their total want of pride, and their
detestation of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to
place them far, far above either my praise or censure.</p>

<p>I was going to mention a man of worth, whom I have the honour
to call friend&mdash;the Laird of Craigdarroch; but I have spoken to
the landlord of the King's Arms Inn here, to have at the next
county meeting a large ewe-milk cheese on the table, for the
benefit of the Dumfriesshire Whigs, to enable them to digest the
Duke of Queensberry's late political conduct.</p>

<p>I have just this moment an opportunity of a private hand to
Edinburgh, as perhaps you would not digest double postage.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_83"></a><a href="#FNanchor83">[83]</a> In
return for some valuable books.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_84"></a><a href="#FNanchor84">[84]</a>
Printer of the <i>Edinburgh Evening Courant</i>.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_85"></a><a href="#FNanchor85">[85]</a> A
club of boon companions.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XCIX.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, <i>August</i> 2<i>nd</i>, 1788.

<p>HONOURED MADAM,&mdash;Your kind letter welcomed me, yesternight, to
Ayrshire. I am, indeed, seriously angry with you at the quantum
of your luckpenny; but, vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help
laughing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for the missed
napkin.</p>

<p>I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction
there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a
post-office once in a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am
scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have little acquaintance
in the neighbourhood. Besides, I am now very busy on my farm,
building a dwelling-house; as at present I am almost an
evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce "where to lay my
head."</p>

<p>There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my
eyes. "The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger
intermeddleth not therewith." The repository of these "sorrows of
the heart" is a kind of <i>sanctum sanctorum</i>: and'tis only a
chosen friend, and that, too, at particular, sacred times, who
dares enter into them:&mdash;<br>
Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords<br>
That nature finest strung.</p>

<p>You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author.
Instead of entering on this subject farther, I shall transcribe
you a few lines I wrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentleman
in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the only favour
the muses have conferred on me in that country.<a name=
"FNanchor86"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_86">[86]</a></sup></p>

<p>Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the
production of yesterday as I jogged through the wild hills of New
Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or something like them, in an
epistle I am going to write to the gentleman on whose friendship
my Excise hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fintray, one of the
worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, not only of this
country, but, I will dare to say it, of this age. The following
are just the first crude thoughts "unhousel'd, unanointed,
unanneal'd:"<a name="FNanchor87"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_87">[87]</a></sup>&mdash;</p>

<p>Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of
Anthony's writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow I you vex
me much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in
Ayrshire ten days from this date. I have just room for an old
Roman FAREWELL.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_86"></a><a href="#FNanchor86">[86]</a> Lines
written in Friar's Carse Hermitage.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_87"></a><a href="#FNanchor87">[87]</a> First
Epistle to Robert Graham.</p>

<hr>
<h4>C.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 16<i>th August</i> 1788.

<p>I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an
elegiac epistle; and want only genius to make it quite
Shenstonian:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn?<br>
Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky?</blockquote>

My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange country&mdash;gloomy
conjectures in the dark vista of futurity&mdash;consciousness of my
own inability for the struggle of the world&mdash;my broadened mark to
misfortune in a wife and children;&mdash;I could indulge these
reflections, till my humour should ferment into the most acid
chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life.

<p>To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to
write to you; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the
most sovereign balm for my wounded spirit.</p>

<p>I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's to dinner, for the first time.
My reception was quite to my mind: from the lady of the house
quite flattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two,
<i>impromptu</i>. She repeated one or two to the admiration of
all present. My suffrage as a professional man was expected: I
for once went agonising over the belly of my conscience. Pardon
me, ye, my adored household gods, independence of spirit, and
integrity of soul! In the course of conversation, <i>Johnsorfs
Musical Museum</i>, a collection of Scottish songs with the
music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord,
beginning</p>

<blockquote>Raving winds around her blowing.</blockquote>

The air was much admired: the lady of the house asked me whose
were the words. "Mine, Madam&mdash;they are indeed my very best
verses;" she took not the smallest notice of them! The old
Scottish proverb says well, "King's caff is better than ither
folks' corn." I was going to make a New Testament quotation about
"casting pearls," but that would be too virulent, for the lady is
actually a woman of sense and taste.

<p>After all that has been said on the other side of the
question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of
the selected few, favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are
tuned to gladness amidst riches and honours, and prudence and
wisdom. I speak of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose
sinews, whose days are sold to the minions of fortune.</p>

<p>If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you
a stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called "The Life and Age of
Man;" beginning thus:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>'Twas in the sixteenth hundred year<br>
Of God and fifty-three<br>
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear,<br>
As writings testifie.</blockquote>

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a while in
her girlish years; the good old man, for such he was, was long
blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to
sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song
of "The Life and Age of Man."

<p>It is this way of thinking; it is these melancholy truths,
that make religion so precious to the poor, miserable children of
men. If it is a mere phantom, existing only in the heated
imagination of enthusiasm,</p>

<p>What truth on earth so precious as the lie?</p>

<p>My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but
the necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophisings
the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned from earth; the soul
affianced to her God; the correspondence fixed with heaven; the
pious supplication and devout thanksgiving, constant as the
vicissitudes of even and morn; who thinks to meet with these in
the court, the palace, in the glare of public life? No; to find
them in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must
search among the obscure recesses of disappointment, affliction,
poverty, and distress.</p>

<p>I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more than pleased with the
length of my letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of next week:
and it quickens my pace to think that there will be a letter from
you waiting me there. I must be here again very soon for my
harvest.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CI.&mdash;To MR. BEUGO, ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 9<i>th Sept.</i> 1788.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;There is not in Edinburgh above the number of
the graces whose letters would have given so much pleasure as
yours of the 3rd instant, which only reached me yesternight.</p>

<p>I am here on my farm, busy with my harvest; but for all that
most pleasurable part of life called SOCIAL COMMUNICATION, I am
here at the very elbow of existence. The only things that are to
be found in this country, in any degree of perfection, are
stupidity and canting. Prose they only know in graces, prayers,
etc., and the value of these they estimate, as they do their
plaiding webs, by the ell! As for the muses, they have as much an
idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet. For my old, capricious, but
good-natured hussy of a muse,</p>

<blockquote>By banks of Nith I sat and wept<br>
When Coila I thought on,<br>
In midst thereof I hung my harp<br>
The willow trees upon.</blockquote>

I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my "darling
Jean," and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across
my becobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife
throws her hand across the spokes of her spinning-wheel.

<p>I will send you the "Fortunate Shepherdess" as soon as I
return to Ayrshire, for there I keep it with other precious
treasure. I shall send it by a careful hand, as I would not for
anything it should be mislaid or lost. I do not wish to serve you
from any benevolence, or other grave Christian virtue; 'tis
purely a selfish gratification of my own feelings whenever I
think of you.</p>

<p>If your better functions would give you leisure to write me, I
should be extremely happy; that is to say, if you neither keep
nor look for a regular correspondence. I hate the idea of being
obliged to write a letter. I sometimes write a friend twice a
week; at other times once a quarter.</p>

<p>I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in making the author
you mention place a map of Iceland, instead of his portrait,
before his works; 'twas a glorious idea.</p>

<p>Could you conveniently do me one thing?&mdash;whenever you finish
any head, I should like to have a proof copy of it. I might tell
you a long story about your fine genius; but, as what everybody
knows cannot have escaped you, I shall not say one syllable about
it.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CII.&mdash;To MR. ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRAY.</h4>

SIR,&mdash;When I had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole
House, I did not think so soon of asking a favour of you. When
Lear, in Shakespeare, asked Old Kent why he wished to be in his
service, he answers, "Because you have that in your face which I
would fain call master." For some such reason, Sir, do I now
solicit your patronage. You know, I dare say, of an application I
lately made to your Board to be admitted an officer of the
Excise. I have, according to form, been examined by a supervisor,
and today I gave in his certificate, with a request for an order
for instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I
shall but too much need a patronising friend. Propriety of
conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I
dare engage for; but with anything like business, except manual
labour, I am totally unacquainted.

<p>I had intended to have closed my late appearance on the stage
of life in the character of a country farmer; but, after
discharging some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could only
fight for existence in that miserable manner, which I have lived
to see throw a venerable parent into the jaws of a jail, whence
death, the poor man's last and often best friend, rescued
him.</p>

<p>I know, Sir, that to need your goodness, is to have a claim on
it; may I, therefore, beg your patronage to forward me in this
affair, till I be appointed to a division, where, by the help of
rigid economy, I will try to support that independence so dear to
my soul, but which has been too often so distant from my
situation.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CII.&mdash;To His WIFE, AT MAUCHLINE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>Friday</i>, 12<i>th Sep.</i> 1788.

<p>MY DEAR LOVE,&mdash;I received your kind letter with a pleasure
which no letter but one from you could have given me. I dreamed
of you the whole night last; but alas! I fear it will be three
weeks yet ere I can hope for the happiness of seeing you. My
harvest is going on. I have some to cut down still, but I put in
two stacks to-day, so I'm as tired as a dog.</p>

<p>You might get one of Gilbert's sweet-milk cheeses, and send it
to.... On second thoughts I believe you had best get the half of
Gilbert's web of table linen and make it up; though I think it
damnable dear, but it is no outlaid money to us, you know. I have
just now consulted my old landlady about table linen, and she
thinks I may have the best for two shillings a yard; so, after
all, let it alone till I return; and some day soon I will be in
Dumfries and ask the price there. I expect your new gowns will be
very forward or ready to make, against I be home to get the
<i>baiveridge.<a name="FNanchor88"></a></i><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_88">[88]</a></sup></p>

<p>I have written my long-thought-on letter to Mr. Graham, the
Commissioner of Excise; and have sent a sheetful of poetry
besides.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_88"></a><a href="#FNanchor88">[88]</a> On
her first appearance in public in a new dress a young woman was
subject to this tax, if claimed by the young man who happened
first to meet her.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CIV.&mdash;To Miss CHALMERS, EDINBURGH.</h4>

ELLISLAND, NEAR DUMFRIES, <i>Sept</i>. 16<i>th</i>, 1788.

<p>Where are you? and how are you? and is Lady Mackenzie
recovering her health? for I have had but one solitary letter
from you. I will not think you have forgot me, Madam and, for my
part,</p>

<blockquote>When thee, Jerusalem, I forget,<br>
Skill part from my right hand!</blockquote>

"My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea."
I do not make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among its
fellows-rolling through the crowd without bearing away any mark
or impression, except where they hit in hostile collision.

<p>I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather; and
as you and your sister once did me the honour of interesting
yourselves much <i>&agrave; l' egard de moi</i>, I sit down to
beg the continuation of your goodness. I can truly say that, all
the exterior of life apart, I never saw two whose esteem
flattered the nobler feelings of my soul&mdash;I will not say more,
but so much, as Lady Mackenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I think of
you&mdash;hearts the best, minds the noblest of human
kind&mdash;unfortunate even in the shades of life&mdash;when I think I have
met with you, and have lived more of real life with you in eight
days than I can do with almost anybody I meet with in eight
years&mdash;when I think on the improbability of meeting you in this
world again&mdash;I could sit down and cry like a child! If ever you
honoured me with a place in your esteem, I trust I can now plead
more desert. I am secure against that crushing grip of iron
poverty, which, alas! is less or more fatal to the native worth
and purity of, I fear, the noblest souls; and a late important
step in my life has kindly taken me out of the way of those
ungrateful iniquities, which, however overlooked in fashionable
licence, or varnished in fashionable phrase, are indeed but
lighter and deeper shades of villainy.</p>

<p>Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I married "my Jean."
This was not in consequence of the attachment of romance,
perhaps; but I had a long and much-loved fellow-creature's
happiness or misery in my determination, and I durst not trifle
with so important a deposit. Nor have I any cause to repent it.
If I have not got polite tattle, modish manners, and fashionable
dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with the multiform curse
of boarding-school affectation; and I have got the handsomest
figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the
kindest heart in the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as
her creed, that I am <i>le plus bel esprit, et le plus
honn&ecirc;te homme</i> in the universe; although she scarcely
ever in her life, except the Scriptures of the old and New
Testament, and the Psalms of David in metre, spent five minutes
together on either prose or verse. I must except also from this
last a certain late publication of Scots poems, which she has
perused very devoutly; and all the ballads in the country, as she
has (O the partial lover! you will cry) the finest "wood note
wild" I ever heard. I am the more particular in this lady's
character, as I know she will henceforth have the honour of a
share in your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am
building my house; for this hovel that I shelter in, while
occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that blows, and
every shower that falls; and I am only preserved from being
chilled to death, by being suffocated with smoke. I do not find
my farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect, but I believe, in
time, it may be a saving bargain. You will be pleased to hear
that I have laid aside the idle <i>&eacute;clat</i>, and bind
every day after my reapers.</p>

<p>To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going
down, in a losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my
Excise instructions, and have my commission in my pocket for any
emergency of fortune. If I could set all before your view,
whatever disrespect you, in common with the world, have for this
business, I know you would approve of my idea.</p>

<p>I will make no apology, dear Madam, for this egotistic detail;
I know you and your sister will be interested in every
circumstance of it. What signify the silly, idle gew-gaws of
wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness! When fellow-partakers
of the same nature fear the same God, have the same benevolence
of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at
everything dishonest, and the same scorn at everything
unworthy&mdash;if they are not in the dependence of absolute beggary,
in the name of common sense, are they not equals? And if the
bias, the instinctive bias of their souls run the same way, why
may they not be friends?</p>

<p>When I may have an opportunity of sending you this, Heaven
only knows. Shenstone says, "When one is confined idle within
doors by bad weather, the best antidote against <i>ennui</i> is
to read the letters of, or write to, one's friends;" in that case
then, if the weather continues thus, I may scrawl you half a
quire.</p>

<p>I very lately&mdash;to wit, since harvest began&mdash;wrote a poem, not
in imitation, but in the manner of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is
only a short essay, just to try the strength of my Muse's pinion
in that way. I will send you a copy of it, when once I have heard
from you. I have likewise been laying the foundation of some
pretty large poetic works; how the superstructure will come on, I
leave to that great maker and marrer of projects, time. Johnson's
collection of Scots songs is going on in the third volume; and,
of consequence, finds me a consumpt for a great deal of idle
metre. One of the most tolerable things I have done in that way,
is two stanzas I made to an air a musical gentleman of my
acquaintance composed for the anniversary of his wedding-day,
which happens on the seventh of November. Take it as
follows:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>The day returns&mdash;my bosom burns&mdash;<br>
The blissful day we twa did meet, etc.</blockquote>

I shall give over this letter for shame. If I should be seized
with a scribbling fit, before this goes away, I shall make it
another letter; and then you may allow your patience a week's
respite between the two. I have not room for more than the old,
kind, hearty farewell! <br>
<hr>
<p>To make some amends, <i>mes ch&egrave;res Mesdames</i>, for
dragging you on to this second sheet; and to relieve a little the
tiresomeness of my unstudied and uncorrectible prose, I shall
transcribe you some of my late poetic bagatelles; though I have,
these eight or ten months, done very little that way. One day, in
a hermitage on the banks of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my
neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a key at pleasure, I
wrote as follows; supposing myself the sequestered, venerable
inhabitant of the lonely mansion.</p>

<blockquote>LINES WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE.

<p>Thou whom chance may hither lead,<br>
Be thou clad in russet weed, etc.</p>
</blockquote>

R. B. <br>
<hr>
<h4>CV.&mdash;To MR. MORISON, WRIGHT, MAUCHLINE.</h4>

Ellisland, <i>September</i> 22<i>nd</i> 1788.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;Necessity obliges me to go into my new house,
even before it be plastered. I will inhabit the one end until the
other is finished. About three weeks more, I think, will at
farthest be my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this present
house. If ever you wish to deserve the blessing of him that was
ready to perish; if ever you were in a situation that a little
kindness would have rescued you from many evils; if ever you hope
to find rest in future states of untried being-get these matters
of mine ready.<a name="FNanchor89"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_89">[89]</a></sup> My servant will be out in the
beginning of next week for the clock. My compliments to Mrs.
Morison. &mdash;I am, after all my tribulation, Dear Sir, yours,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_89"></a><a href="#FNanchor89">[89]</a> The
letter refers to chairs and other articles of furniture which the
Poet had ordered.</p>

<hr size="0" width="100%">
<h4>CVI.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.</h4>

Mauchline, 27<i>th Sept</i>. 1788.

<p>I have received twins, dear Madam, more than once; but
scarcely ever with more pleasure than when I received yours of
the 12th instant. To make myself understood; I had wrote to Mr.
Graham, enclosing my poem addressed to him, and the same post
which favoured me with yours brought me an answer from him. It
was dated the very day he had received mine; and I am quite at a
loss to say whether it was most polite or kind.</p>

<p>Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are truly the work
of a friend. They are not the blasting depredations of a
canker-toothed, caterpillar critic; nor are they the fair
statement of cold impartiality, balancing with unfeeling
exactitude the <i>pro</i> and <i>con</i> of an author's merits;
they are the judicious observations of animated friendship,
selecting the beauties of the piece. I am just arrived from
Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was on horseback this
morning by three o'clock; for between my wife and my farm is just
forty-six miles. As I jogged on in the dark, I was taken with a
poetic fit, as follows:</p>

<p>"Mrs. Ferguson of Craigdarroch's lamentation for the death of
her son; an uncommonly promising youth of eighteen or nineteen
years of age:&mdash;<br>
Fate gave the word&mdash;the arrow sped,<br>
And pierced my darling's heart,"(i&gt;etc.)</p>

<p>You will not send me your poetic rambles, but, you see, I am
no niggard of mine. I am sure your impromptus give me double
pleasure; what falls from your pen can neither be unentertaining
in itself, nor indifferent to me.</p>

<p>The one fault you found is just: but I cannot please myself in
an emendation.</p>

<p>What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent! You
interested me much in your young couple.</p>

<p>I would not take my folio paper for this epistle, and now I
repent it. I am so jaded with my dirty long journey, that I was
afraid to drawl into the essence of dulness with anything larger
than a quarto, and so I must leave out another rhyme of this
morning's manufacture.</p>

<p>I will pay the sapientipotent George most cheerfully, to hear
from you ere I leave Ayrshire. R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CVII&mdash;To MR. PETER HILL.</h4>

Mauchline, 1<i>st October</i> 1788.

<p>I have been here in this country about three days, and all
that time my chief reading has been the "Address to Lochlomond"
you were so obliging as to send to me. Were I impanneled one of
the author's jury, to determine his criminality respecting the
sin of poesy, my verdict should be "Guilty! A poet of nature's
making!" It is an excellent method for improvement, and what I
believe every poet does, to place some favourite classic author
in his walks of study and composition before him as a model.
Though your author had not mentioned the name, I could have, at
half a glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my
brother-poet forgive me if I venture to hint that his imitation
of that immortal bard is, in two or three places, rather more
servile than such a genius as his required:&mdash;<i>e.g.</i><br>
To soothe the maddening passions all to peace.<br>
ADDRESS.<br>
To soothe the throbbing passions into peace.<br>
THOMSON.</p>

<p>I think the "Address" is in simplicity, harmony, and elegance
of versification, fully equal to the "Seasons." Like Thomson,
too, he has looked into nature for himself: you meet with no
copied description. One particular criticism I made at first
reading; in no one instance has he said too much. He never flags
in his progress, but, like a true poet of nature's making,
kindles in his course. His beginning is simple and modest, as if
distrustful of the strength of his passion; only, I do not
altogether like&mdash;<br>
Truth,<br>
The soul of every song that's nobly great.</p>

<p>Fiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly great.
Perhaps I am wrong: this may be but a prose criticism. Is not the
phrase, in line 7, page 6, "Great lake," too much vulgarised by
every-day language for so sublime a poem?</p>

<p>Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song,</p>

<p>is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a comparison with
other lakes is at once harmonious and poetic. Every reader's
ideas must sweep the</p>

<p>Winding margin of a hundred miles.</p>

<p>The perspective that follows mountains blue&mdash;the imprisoned
billows beating in vain&mdash;the wooded isles&mdash;the digression on the
yew-tree&mdash;"Benlomond's lofty, cloud-envelop'd head," etc., are
beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject which has been often
tried, yet our poet, in his grand picture, has interjected a
circumstance, so far as I know, entirely original in<br>
the gloom<br>
Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire.</p>

<p>In his preface to the Storm, "the glens how dark between," is
noble highland landscape! The "rain ploughing the red mould,"
too, is beautifully fancied. "Benlomond's lofty, pathless top,"
is a good expression; and the surrounding view from it is truly
great: the<br>
silver mist,<br>
Beneath the beaming sun,</p>

<p>is well described; and here he has contrived to enliven his
poem with a little of that passion which bids fair, I think, to
usurp the modern muses altogether. I know not how far this
episode is a beauty on the whole, but the swain's wish to carry
"some faint idea of the vision bright," to entertain her "partial
listening ear," is a pretty thought. But, in my opinion, the most
beautiful passages in the whole poem are the fowls crowding, in
wintry frosts, to Lochlomond's "hospitable flood;" their wheeling
round; their lighting, mixing, diving, etc.; and the glorious
description of the sportsman. This last is equal to anything in
the "Seasons." The idea of "the floating tribes distant seen, far
glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he is obliged to
leave them, is a noble ray of poetic genius.</p>

<p>The "howling winds," the "hideous roar" of "the white
cascades," are all in the same style.</p>

<p>I forget that while I am thus holding forth, with the heedless
warmth of an enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I
must, however, mention that the last verse of the sixteenth page
is one of the most elegant compliments I have ever seen. I must
likewise notice that beautiful paragraph beginning "The gleaming
lake," etc. I dare not go into the particular beauties of the
last two paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, and truly
Ossianic. I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl. I
had no idea of it when I began&mdash;I should like to know who the
author is; but, whoever he be, please present him with my
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has afforded me.<a name=
"FNanchor90"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_90">[90]</a></sup></p>

<p>A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books,
<i>Letters on the Religion essential to Man</i>, a book you sent
me before; and <i>The World Unmasked, or the Philosopher the
greatest Cheat</i>. Send me them by the first opportunity. The
Bible you sent me is truly elegant; I only wish it had been in
two volumes. R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_90"></a><a href="#FNanchor90">[90]</a> The
poem, entitled "An Address to Lochlomond," is said to have been
written by one of the masters of the High School of
Edinburgh.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CVIIL&mdash;To THE EDITOR OF THE "STAR".</h4>

<i>November</i> 8<i>th</i>, 1788.

<p>Sir,&mdash;Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which some
of our philosophers and gloomy sectarians have branded our
nature&mdash;the principle of universal selfishness, the proneness to
all evil, they have given us&mdash;still, the detestation in which
inhumanity to the distressed, or insolence to the fallen, are
held by all mankind, shows that they are not natives of the human
heart. Even the unhappy partner of our kind who is undone, the
bitter consequence of his follies or his crimes&mdash;who but
sympathises with the miseries of this ruined profligate brother?
We forget the injuries, and feel for the man.</p>

<p>I went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, most cordially to
join in grateful acknowledgment to the AUTHOR OF ALL GOOD for the
consequent blessings of the glorious Revolution. To that
auspicious event we owe no less than our liberties, civil and
religious; to it we are likewise indebted for the present Royal
Family, the ruling features of whose administration have ever
been mildness to the subject, and tenderness of his rights.</p>

<p>Bred and educated in revolution principles, the principles of
reason and common sense, it could not be any silly political
prejudice which made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive manner
in which the reverend gentleman mentioned the House of Stuart,
and which, I am afraid, was too much the language of the day. We
may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from past evils,
without cruelly raking up the ashes of those whose misfortune it
was, perhaps as much as their crime, to be the authors of those
evils; and we may bless GOD for all His goodness to us as a
nation, without, at the same time, cursing a few ruined,
powerless exiles, who only harboured ideas, and made attempts,
that most of us would have done, had we been in their
situation.</p>

<p>"The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart" may be said with
propriety and justice, when compared with the present Royal
Family, and the sentiments of our days; but is there no allowance
to be made for the manners of the times? Were the royal
contemporaries of the Stuarts more attentive to their subjects'
rights? Might not the epithets of "bloody and tyrannical" be,
with at least equal justice, applied to the House of Tudor, of
York, or any other of their predecessors?</p>

<p>The simple state of the case, Sir, seems to be this:&mdash;At that
period, the science of government, the knowledge of the true
relation between king and subject, was, like other sciences and
other knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from dark ages of
ignorance and barbarity.</p>

<p>The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives which they knew
their predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their
contemporaries enjoying; but these prerogatives were inimical to
the happiness of a nation and the rights of subjects.</p>

<p>In this contest between prince and people, the consequence of
that light of science which had lately dawned over Europe, the
monarch of France, for example, was victorious over the
struggling liberties of his people: with us, luckily, the monarch
failed, and his unwarrantable pretensions fell a sacrifice to our
rights and happiness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom of
leading individuals, or to the justling of parties, I cannot
pretend to determine; but, likewise, happily for us, the kingly
power was shifted into another branch of the family, who, as they
owed the throne solely to the call of a free people, could claim
nothing inconsistent with the covenanted terms which placed them
there.</p>

<p>The Stuarts have been condemned and laughed at, for the folly
and impracticability of their attempts in 1715, and 1745. That
they failed, I bless GOD; but cannot join in the ridicule against
them. Who does not know that the abilities or defects of leaders
and commanders are often hidden, until put to the touchstone of
exigency; and that there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence
in particular accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, which
exalt us as heroes, or brand us as madmen, just as they are for
or against us?</p>

<p>Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsistent being:
who would believe, Sir, that in this our Augustan age of
liberality and refinement, while we seem so justly sensible and
jealous of our rights and liberties, and animated with such
indignation against the very memory of those who would have
subverted them&mdash;that a certain people under our national
protection should complain, not against our monarch and a few
favourite advisers, but against our WHOLE LEGISLATIVE BODY, for
similar oppression, and almost in the very same terms, as our
forefathers did of the House of Stuart! I will not, I cannot,
enter into the merits of the cause; but I dare say the American
Congress, in 1776, will be allowed to be as able and enlightened
as the English Convention was in 1688; and that their posterity
will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance from us, as
duly and sincerely, as we do ours from the oppressive measures of
the wrong-headed House of Stuart.</p>

<p>To conclude, Sir; let every man who has a tear for the many
miseries incident to humanity, feel for a family illustrious as
any in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic precedent; and let
every Briton (and particularly every Scotsman) who ever looked
with reverential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over
the fatal mistake of the Kings of his forefathers.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CIX.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, 13<i>th November</i> 1788.

<p>Madam,&mdash;I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop
yesterday. Men are said to flatter women because they are weak,
if it is so, poets must be weaker still; for Misses R. and K. and
Miss G. M'K., with their flattering attentions, and artful
compliments, absolutely turned my head. I own they did not lard
me over as many a poet does his patron, but they so intoxicated
me with their sly insinuations and delicate innuendos of
compliment, that if it had not been for a lucky recollection, how
much additional weight and lustre your good opinion and
friendship must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked
upon myself as a person of no small consequence. I dare not say
one word how much I was charmed with the Major's friendly
welcome, elegant manner, and acute remark, lest I should be
thought to balance my orientalisms of applause over-against the
finest heifer in Ayrshire, which he made me a present of to help
and adorn my farm-stock. As it was on hallow-day, I am determined
annually as that day returns, to decorate her horns with an ode
of gratitude to the family of Dunlop.</p>

<p>So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take the
first conveniency to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and
friendship, under the guarantee of the Major's hospitality. There
will soon be three score and ten miles of permanent distance
between us; and now that your friendship and friendly
correspondence is entwisted with the heart-strings of my
enjoyment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy day of "the
feast of reason and the flow of soul."</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CX.&mdash;TO DR. BLACKLOCK.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, <i>November</i> 15<i>th</i>, 1788.

<p>Reverend and dear Sir,&mdash;As I hear nothing of your motions, but
that you are, or were, out of town, I do not know where this may
find you, or whether it will find you at all. I wrote you a long
letter, dated from the land of matrimony, in June; but either it
had not found you, or, what I dread more, it found you or Mrs.
Blacklock in too precarious a state of health and spirits to take
notice of an idle packet.</p>

<p>I have done many little things for Johnson since I had the
pleasure of seeing you; and I have finished one piece, in the way
of Pope's "Moral Epistles;" but, from your silence, I have
everything to fear, so I have only sent you two melancholy
things, which I tremble to fear may too well suit the tone of
your present feelings.</p>

<p>In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to Nithsdale; till
then, my direction is at this place; after that period, it will
be at Ellisland, near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me,
were it but half a line, to let me know how you are, and where
you are. Can I be indifferent to the fate of a man to whom I owe
so much&mdash;a man whom I not only esteem, but venerate?</p>

<p>My warmest good wishes and most respectful compliments to Mrs.
Blacklock, and Miss Johnson, if she is with you.</p>

<p>I cannot conclude without telling you that I am more and more
pleased with the step I took respecting "my Jean." Two things,
from my happy experience, I set down as apophthegms in life,&mdash;a
wife's head is immaterial, compared with her heart; and "Virtue's
(for wisdom, what poet pretends to it?) ways are ways of
pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." Adieu!</p>

<p>R. B.<a name="FNanchor91"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_91">[91]</a></sup><br>
<a name="Footnote_91"></a><a href="#FNanchor91">[91]</a> Here
follow "The mother's lament for the loss of her son," and the
song beginning "The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the
hill."</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXI.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 17<i>th December</i> 1788.

<p>My dear honoured friend,&mdash;Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have
just read, makes me very unhappy. "Almost blind and wholly deaf"
are melancholy news of human nature; but when told of a
much-loved and honoured friend, they carry misery in the sound.
Goodness on your part, and gratitude on mine, began a tie which
has gradually entwisted itself among the dearest chords of my
bosom, and I tremble at the omens of your late and present ailing
habit and shattered health. You miscalculate matters widely, when
you forbid my waiting on you, lest it should hurt my worldly
concerns. My small scale of farming is exceedingly more simple
and easy than what you have lately seen at Moreham Mains. But, be
that as it may, the heart of the man and the fancy of the poet
are the two grand considerations for which I live: if miry ridges
and dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the functions
of my soul immortal, I had better been a rook or a magpie at
once, and then I should not have been plagued with any ideas
superior to breaking of clods and picking up grubs; not to
mention barn-door cocks of mallards, creatures with which I could
almost exchange lives at any time. If you continue so deaf, I am
afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to either of us; but if
I hear you are got so well again as to be able to relish
conversation, look you to it, Madam, for I will make my
threatenings good. I am to be at the New-year-day fair of Ayr,
and, by all that is sacred in the world, friend, I will come and
see you.</p>

<p>Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your old
schoolfellow and friend, was truly interesting. Out upon the ways
of the world! They spoil these "social offsprings of the heart."
Two veterans of the "men of the world" would have met with little
more heart-workings than two old hacks worn out on the road.
Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, "Auld lang syne," exceedingly
expressive? There is an old song and tune which has often
thrilled through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old
Scotch song. I shall give you the verses on the other sheet, as I
suppose Mr. Kerr<a name="FNanchor92"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_92">[92]</a></sup> will save you the postage.</p>

<p>Should auld acquaintance be forgot?</p>

<p>Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven-inspired poet
who composed this glorious fragment! There is more of the fire of
native genius in it than in half a dozen of modern English
Bacchanalians! Now I am on my hobbyhorse, I cannot help inserting
two other old stanzas, which please me mightily:&mdash;</p>

<p>Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, etc.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_92"></a><a href="#FNanchor92">[92]</a>
Postmaster in Edinburgh.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXII.&mdash;TO MR. JOHN TENNANT.</h4>

<i>December</i> 22<i>nd</i>, 1788.

<p>I yesterday tried my cask of whisky for the first time, and I
assure you it does you great credit. It will bear five waters,
strong: or six ordinary toddy. The whisky of this country is a
most rascally liquor; and, by consequence, only drunk by the most
rascally part of the inhabitants. I am persuaded, if you once get
a footing here, you might do a great deal of business, in the way
of consumpt; and should you commence distiller again, this is the
native barley country. I am ignorant if, in your present way of
dealing, you would think it worth your while to extend your
business so far as this country-side. I write you this on the
account of an accident, which I must take the merit of having
partly designed too. A neighbour of mine, a John Currie, miller,
in Carse Mill&mdash;a man who is, in a word, a very good man, even for
a &pound;500 bargain&mdash;he and his wife were in my house the time I
broke open the cask. They keep a country public-house and sell a
great deal of foreign spirits, but all along thought that whisky
would have degraded their house. They were perfectly astonished
at my whisky, both for its taste and strength; and, by their
desire, I write you to know if you could supply them with liquor
of an equal quality, and what price. Please write me by first
post, and direct to me at Ellisland, near Dumfries. If you could
take a jaunt this way yourself, I have a spare spoon, knife, and
fork, very much at your service. My compliments to Mrs. Tennant,
and all the good folks in Glenconnel and Barguharrie.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXIII.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>New-year-day Morning</i>, 1789.

<p>This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God
that I came under the Apostle James's description!&mdash;<i>the prayer
of a righteous man availeth much</i>. In that case, Madam, you
should welcome in a year full of blessings: everything that
obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment should be
removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste, should
be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I approve
of set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion,
for breaking in on that habituated routine of life and thought,
which is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or
even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little
superior to mere machinery.</p>

<p>This day; the first Sunday of May; a breezy blue-skyed noon
some time about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny
day about the end of autumn; these, time out of mind, have been
with me a kind of holiday.</p>

<p>I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the
<i>Spectator</i> "The Vision of Mirza," a piece that struck my
young fancy before I was capable of fixing an idea to a word of
three syllables: "On the fifth day of the moon, which, according
to the custom of my forefathers, I always <i>keep holy</i>, after
having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I
ascended the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of
the day in meditation and prayer."</p>

<p>We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or
structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming
caprices in them, that one should be particularly pleased with
this thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a different
cast, makes no extraordinary impression. I have some favourite
flowers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, the
hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the budding birch,
and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular
delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in
a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey
plovers, in an autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of
soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear
friend, to what can this be owing? Are we a piece of machinery,
which, like the &AElig;olian harp, passive, takes the impression
of the passing accident? Or do these workings argue something
within us above the trodden clod? I own myself partial to such
proofs of those awful and important realities&mdash;a God that made
all things&mdash;man's immaterial and immortal nature&mdash;and a world of
weal or woe beyond death and the grave.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXIV.-TO DR. MOORE, LONDON.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 4<i>th Jan.</i> 1789.

<p>Sir,&mdash;As often as I think of writing to you, which has been
three or four times every week these six months, it gives me
something so like the idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering
at a conversation with the Rhodian Colossus, that my mind
misgives me, and the affair always miscarries somewhere between
purpose and resolve. I have at last got some business with you,
and business letters are written by the style-book. I say my
business is with you, Sir, for you never had any with me, except
the business that benevolence has in the mansion of poverty.</p>

<p>The character and employment of a poet were formerly my
pleasure, but are now my pride. I know that a very great deal of
my late &eacute;clat was owing to the singularity of my
situation, and the honest prejudice of Scotsmen; but still, as I
said in the preface to my first edition, I do look upon myself as
having some pretensions from nature to the poetic character. I
have not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the Muses'
trade, is a gift bestowed by Him "who forms the secret bias of
the soul;" but I as firmly believe that <i>excellence</i> in the
profession is the fruit of industry, labour, attention, and
pains. At least I am resolved to try my doctrine by the test of
experience. Another appearance from the press I put off to a very
distant day, a day that may never arrive&mdash;but poesy I am
determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has given very
few, if any, of the profession, the talents of shining in every
species of composition. I shall try (for until trial it is
impossible to know) whether she has qualified me to shine in any
one. The worst of it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it
has been so often viewed and reviewed before the mental eye, that
one loses in a good measure the powers of critical
discrimination. Here the best criterion I know is a friend&mdash;not
only of abilities to judge, but with good-nature enough, like a
prudent teacher with a young learner, to praise perhaps a little
more than is exactly just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall into
that most deplorable of all poetic diseases&mdash;heart-breaking
despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already immensely indebted
to your goodness, ask the additional obligation of your being
that friend to me? I inclose you an essay of mine in a walk of
poesy to me entirely new; I mean the epistle addressed to R. G.,
Esq., or Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon
worth, to whom I lie under very great obligations. The story of
the poem, like most of my poems, is connected with my own story,
and to give you the one, I must give you something of the other.
I cannot boast of Mr. Creech's ingenuous fair dealing to me. He
kept me hanging about Edinburgh from the 7th August 1787 until
the 13th April 1788 before he would condescend to give a
statement of affairs; nor had I got it even then, but for an
angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his pride. "I could"
not a "tale," but a detail "unfold"; but what am I that should
speak against the Lord's anointed Bailie of Edinburgh?<a name=
"FNanchor93"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_93">[93]</a></sup></p>

<p>I believe I shall, in whole, &pound;100 copyright included,
clear about &pound;400, some little odds; and even part of this
depends upon what the gentleman has yet to settle with me. I give
you this information, because you did me the honour to interest
yourself much in my welfare. I give you this information, but I
give it to yourself only, for I am still much in the gentleman's
mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea I am sometimes
tempted to have of him&mdash;God forbid I should. A little time will
try, for in a month I shall go to town to wind up the business,
if possible.</p>

<p>To give the rest of my story in brief, I have married "my
Jean," and taken a farm; with the first step I have every day
more and more reason to be satisfied; with the last, it is rather
the reverse. I have a younger brother, who supports my aged
mother, another still younger brother, and three sisters, in a
farm. On my last return from Edinburgh it cost me about
&pound;180 to save them from ruin.</p>

<p>Not that I have lost so much&mdash;I only interposed between my
brother and his impending fate by the loan of so much. I give
myself no airs on this, for it was mere selfishness on my part; I
was conscious that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty
heavily charged, and I thought that throwing a little filial
piety and fraternal affection into the scale in my favour, might
help to smooth matters at the <i>grand reckoning</i>. There is
still one thing would make my circumstances quite easy&mdash;I have an
excise officer's commission, and I live in the midst of a country
division. My request to Mr. Graham, who is one of the
commissioners of excise, was, if in his power, to procure me that
division. If I were very sanguine, I might hope that some of my
great patrons might procure me a treasury warrant for supervisor,
surveyor-general, etc.</p>

<p>Thus, secure of a livelihood, "to thee, sweet poetry,
delightful maid,"<a name="FNanchor94"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_94">[94]</a></sup> I would consecrate my future
days.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_93"></a><a href="#FNanchor93">[93]</a> Creech;
remarkable for his reluctance to settle  accounts.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_94"></a><a href="#FNanchor94">[94]</a>
Goldsmith's "Deserted Village."</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXV.&mdash;TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>January</i> 6<i>th</i>, 1789.

<p>Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear Sir! May you
be comparatively happy, up to your comparative worth among the
sons of men; which wish would, I am sure, make you one of the
most blessed of the human race.</p>

<p>I do not know if passing a "Writer to the Signet" be a trial
of scientific merit, or a mere business of friends and interest.
However it be, let me quote you my two favourite passages, which,
though I have repeated them ten thousand times, still they rouse
my manhood and steel my resolution like inspiration.</p>

<blockquote>On Reason build resolve.<br>
That column of true majesty in man.

<p>YOUNG.</p>

<p>Hear, Alfred, hero of the slate,<br>
Thy genius heaven's high will declare;<br>
The triumph of the truly great,<br>
Is never, never to despair!<br>
Is never to despair!</p>

<p>MASQUE OF ALFRED.</p>
</blockquote>

I grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle for bread,
business, notice, and distinction, in common with hundreds. But
who are they? Men like yourself, and of that aggregate body your
compeers, seven-tenths of them come short of your advantages,
natural and accidental; while two of those that remain, either
neglect their parts, as flowers blooming in a desert, or misspend
their strength like a bull goring a bramble bush.

<p>But to change the theme: I am still catering for Johnson's
publication; and among others, I have brushed up the following
old favourite song a little, with a view to your worship. I have
only altered a word here and there; but if you like the humour of
it, we shall think of a stanza or two to add to it. R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXVI.&mdash;TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 20<i>th Jan</i>. 1789.

<p>Sir,&mdash;The inclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh, a few
days after I had the happiness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but
you were gone for the Continent. I have now added a few more of
my productions, those for which I am indebted to the Nithsdale
Muses. The piece inscribed to R. G., Esq., is a copy of verses I
sent Mr. Graham, of Fintry, accompanying a request for his
assistance in a matter to me of very great moment. To that
gentleman I am already doubly indebted; for deeds of kindness of
serious import to my dearest interests, done in a manner grateful
to the delicate feelings of sensibility. This poem is a species
of composition new to me, but I do not intend it shall be my last
essay of the kind, as you will see by the "Poet's Progress."
These fragments, if my design succeed, are but a small part of
the intended whole. I propose it shall be the work of my utmost
exertions, ripened by years; of course I do not wish it much
known. The fragment beginning "A little upright, pert, tart,"
etc., I have not shown to man living, till I now send it you. It
forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character,
which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of
lights. This particular part I send you merely as a sample of my
hand at portrait-sketching; but, lest idle conjecture should
pretend to point out the original, please to let it be for your
single, sole inspection.</p>

<p>Need I make any apology for this trouble, to a gentleman who
has treated me with such marked benevolence and peculiar
kindness; who has entered into my interests with so much zeal,
and on whose critical decisions I can so fully depend? A poet as
I am by trade, these decisions are to me of the last consequence.
My late transient acquaintance among some of the mere rank and
file of greatness, I resign with ease; but to the distinguished
champions of genius and learning, I shall be ever ambitious of
being known. The native genius and accurate discernment in Mr.
Stewart's critical strictures; the justness (iron justice, for he
has no bowels of compassion for a poor poetic sinner) of Dr.
Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy of Professor Dalzel's taste,
I shall ever revere.</p>

<p>I shall be in Edinburgh some time next month.&mdash;I have the
honour to be, Sir, your highly obliged, and very humble servant,
R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXVII.&mdash;TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN, SAUGHTON MILLS.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 23<i>rd Jan</i>. 1789.

<p>I must take shame and confusion of face to myself, my dear
friend and brother Farmer, that I have not written you much
sooner. The truth is I have been so tossed about between Ayrshire
and Nithsdale that, till now I have got my family here, I have
had time to think of nothing except now and then a stanza or so
as I rode along. Were it not for our gracious monarch's cursed
tax of postage I had sent you one or two pieces of some length
that I have lately done. I have no idea of the <i>Press</i>. I am
more able to support myself and family, though in a humble, yet
an independent way; and I mean, just at my leisure, to pay court
to the tuneful sisters in the hope that they may one day enable
me to carry on a work of some importance. The following are a few
verses which I wrote in a neighbouring gentleman's
<i>hermitage</i> to which he is so good as let me have a key.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXVIII.&mdash;To BISHOP GEDDES, EDINBURGH.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>3rd Feb</i>. 1789.

<p>VENERABLE FATHER,&mdash;As I am conscious that wherever I am, you
do me the honour to interest yourself in my welfare, it gives me
pleasure to inform you, that I am here at last, stationary in the
serious business of life, and have now not only the retired
leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to those great and
important questions,&mdash;what I am? where I am? and for what I am
destined.</p>

<p>In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there was ever
but one side on which I was habitually blameable, and there I
have secured myself in the way pointed out by nature and nature's
God. I was sensible that, to so helpless a creature as a poor
poet, a wife and family were incumbrances, which a species of
prudence would bid him shun; but when the alternative was, being
at eternal warfare with myself, on account of habitual follies,
to give them no worse name, which no general example, no
licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would, to me, ever
justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman
to have made another choice. Besides, I had in "my Jean" a long
and much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery among my
hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit?</p>

<p>In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself tolerably
secure: I have good hopes of my farm, but should they fail, I
have an excise commission, which, on my simple petition, will, at
any time, procure me bread. There is a certain stigma affixed to
the character of an excise officer, but I do not pretend to
borrow honour from my profession; and though the salary be
comparatively small, it is luxury to anything that the first
twenty-five years of my life taught me to expect.</p>

<p>Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, you may easily
guess, my reverend and much-honoured friend, that my
characteristical trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more
than ever an enthusiast to the Muses. I am determined to study
man and nature, and in that view incessantly; and to try if the
ripening and corrections of years can enable me to produce
something worth preserving.</p>

<p>You will see in your book, which I beg your pardon for
detaining so long, that I have been tuning my lyre on the banks
of Nith. Some large poetic plans that are floating in my
imagination, or partly put in execution, I shall impart to you
when I have the pleasure of meeting with you; which, if you are
then in Edinburgh, I shall have about the beginning of March.</p>

<p>That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which you were pleased to
honour me, you must still allow me to challenge; for, with
whatever unconcern I give up my transient connection with the
merely great, I cannot lose the patronising notice of the learned
and good without the bitterest regret.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXIX.&mdash;TO MR. JAMES BURNESS.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>9th Feb</i>. 1789.

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;Why I did not write to you long ago is what,
even on the rack, I could not answer. If you can in your mind
form an idea of indolence, dissipation, hurry, cares, change of
country, entering on untried scenes of life, all combined, you
will save me the trouble of a blushing apology. It could not be
want of regard for a man for whom I had a high esteem before I
knew him&mdash;an esteem which has much increased since I did know
him; and this caveat entered, I shall plead guilty to any other
indictment with which you shall please to charge me.</p>

<p>After I parted from you, for many months my life was one
continued scene of dissipation. Here at last I am become
stationary, and have taken a farm and&mdash;a wife.</p>

<p>The farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, a large river
that runs by Dumfries, and falls into the Solway frith. I have
gotten a lease of my farm as long as I please; but how it may
turn out is just a guess, and it is yet to improve and inclose,
etc.; however, I have good hopes of my bargain on the whole.</p>

<p>My wife is my Jean, with whose story you are partly
acquainted. I found I had a much-loved fellow-creature's
happiness or misery among my hands, and I durst not trifle with
so sacred a deposit. Indeed, I have not any reason to repent the
step I have taken, as I have attached myself to a very good wife,
and have shaken myself loose of every bad failing.</p>

<p>I have found my book a very profitable business, and with the
profits of it I have begun life pretty decently. Should fortune
not favour me in farming, as I have no great faith in her fickle
ladyship, I have provided myself in another resource, which,
however some folks may affect to despise it, is still a
comfortable shift in the day of misfortune. In the hey-day of my
fame, a gentleman, whose name at least I daresay you know, as his
estate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr. Graham, of Fintry, one of
the commissioners of Excise, offered me the commission of an
excise officer. I thought it prudent to accept the offer; and,
accordingly, I took my instructions, and have my commission by
me. Whether I may ever do duty, or be a penny the better for it,
is what I do not know; but I have the comfortable assurance that,
come whatever ill fate will, I can, on my simple petition to the
Excise Board, get into employ.</p>

<p>We have lost poor uncle Robert this winter. He has long been
very weak, and with very little alteration on him; he expired 3rd
January.</p>

<p>His son William has been with me this winter, and goes in May
to be an apprentice to a mason. His other son, the eldest, John,
comes to me I expect in summer. They are both remarkably stout
young fellows, and promise to do well. His only daughter, Fanny,
has been with me ever since her father's death, and I purpose
keeping her in my family till she is woman grown, and fit for
better service. She is one of the cleverest girls, and has one of
the most amiable dispositions I have ever seen.</p>

<p>All friends in this country and Ayrshire are well. Remember me
to all friends in the north. My wife joins me in compliments to
Mrs. B. and family.&mdash;I am ever, my dear cousin, yours
sincerely,</p>

<p>R. B.<a name="FNanchor95"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_95">[95]</a></sup><br>
<a name="Footnote_95"></a><a href="#FNanchor95">[95]</a> "Fanny
Burns, the Poet's relation, merited all the commendations he has
here bestowed. I remember her while she lived at Ellisland, and
better still as the wife of Adam Armour, the brother of bonnie
Jean."&mdash;CUNNINGHAM.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXX.-To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 4<i>th March</i> 1789.

<p>Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the capital.
To a man who has a home, however humble or remote&mdash;if that home
is like mine, the scene of domestic comfort&mdash;the bustle of
Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust.</p>

<blockquote>  Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate
you!</blockquote>

When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of
some gaping blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted
to exclaim&mdash;"What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had,
in some state of pre-existence, that he is ushered into this
state of being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches in
his puny fist, and I am kicked into the world, the sport of
folly, or the victim of pride?" I have read somewhere of a
monarch (in Spain I think it was) who was so out of humour with
the Ptolemean system of astronomy, that he said, had he been of
the Creator's council, he could have saved him a great deal of
labour and absurdity. I will not defend this blasphemous speech;
but often, as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp
of Princes Street, it has suggested itself to me, as an
improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in
proportion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world,
could have pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a
snail pushes out his horns, or as we draw out a perspective. This
trifling alteration, not to mention the prodigious saving it
would be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb-sinews of many
of his majesty's liege-subjects, in the way of tossing the head
and tip-toe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast advantage,
in enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow,
or making way to a great man, and that too within a second of the
precise spherical angle of reverence, or an inch of the
particular point of respectful distance, which the important
creature itself requires, as a measuring-glance at its towering
altitude would determine the affair like instinct.

<p>You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor Mylne's poem, which
he has addressed to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, but
it has one great fault&mdash;it is, by far, too long. Besides, my
success has encouraged such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to
crawl into public notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that
the very term Scottish Poetry borders on the burlesque. When I
write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him rather to try one of his
deceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigiously hurried with
my own matters, else I would have requested a perusal of all
Mylne's poetic performances, and would have offered his friends
my assistance in either selecting or correcting what would be
proper for the press. What it is that occupies me so much, and
perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, shall fill up a
paragraph in some future letter. In the meantime, allow me to
close this epistle with a few lines done by a friend of mine....
I give you them, that, as you have seen the original, you may
guess whether one or two alterations I have ventured to make in
them, be any real improvement.</p>

<blockquote>Like the fair plant that from our touch
withdraws,<br>
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause,<br>
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream,<br>
And all you are, my charming Rachel, seem.<br>
Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose,<br>
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows,<br>
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind,<br>
Your form shall be the image of your mind;<br>
Your manners shall so true your soul express,<br>
That all shall long to know the worth they guess;<br>
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love,<br>
And even sick'ning envy must approve.<a name=
"FNanchor96"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_96">[96]</a></sup></blockquote>

<p><br>
R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_96"></a><a href="#FNanchor96">[96]</a> These
lines are Mrs. Dunlop's own, addressed to her daughter.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXI.&mdash;TO MRS. M'LEHOSE (FORMERLY CLARINDA).</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>Mar. 9th</i>, 1789.

<p>Madam,&mdash;The letter you wrote me to Heron's carried its own
answer. You forbade me to write you unless I was willing to plead
guilty to a certain indictment you were pleased to bring against
me. As I am convinced of my own innocence, and, though conscious
of high imprudence and egregious folly, can lay my hand on my
breast and attest the rectitude of my heart, you will pardon me,
Madam, if I do not carry my complaisance so far as humbly to
acquiesce in the name of "Villain" merely out of compliment to
your opinion, much as I esteem your judgment and warmly as I
regard your worth.</p>

<p>I have already told you, and I again aver it, that, at the
time alluded to, I was not under the smallest moral tie to Mrs.
Burns; nor did I, nor could I, then know all the powerful
circumstances that omnipotent necessity was busy laying in wait
for me. When you call over the scenes that have passed between
us, you will survey the conduct of an honest man struggling
successfully with temptations the most powerful that ever beset
humanity, and preserving untainted honour in situations where the
austerest virtue would have forgiven a fall; situations that, I
will dare to say not a single individual of all his kind, even
with half his sensibility and passion, could have encountered
without ruin; and I leave you, Madam, to guess how such a man is
likely to digest an accusation of "perfidious treachery."<br>
</p>

<hr width="35%">
<p>When I shall have regained your good opinion, perhaps I may
venture to solicit your friendship; but, be that as it may, the
first of her sex I ever knew shall always be the object of my
warmest good wishes.</p>

<p>ROBT. BURNS.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXIL&mdash;TO DR. MOORE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>23rd March</i> 1789.

<p>Sir,&mdash;The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr.
Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neighbourhood, and a very
particular acquaintance of mine. As I have troubled him with this
packet, I must turn him over to your goodness, to recompense him
for it in a way in which he much needs your assistance, and where
you can effectually serve him. Mr. Nielson is on his way for
France, to wait on his Grace of Queensberry, on some little
business of a good deal of importance to him, and he wishes for
your instructions respecting the most eligible mode of
travelling, etc., for him, when he has crossed the channel. I
should not have dared to take this liberty with you, but that I
am told, by those who have the honour of your personal
acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotsman is a letter of
recommendation to you, and that to have it in your power to serve
such a character, gives you much pleasure.</p>

<p>The inclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of the late
Mrs. Oswald of Auchencruive. You probably knew her personally, an
honour of which I cannot boast; but I spent my early years in the
neighbourhood, and among her servants and tenants. I know that
she was detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. However, in
the particular part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath,
she was much less blameable. In January last, on my road to
Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Whigham's, in Sanquhar, the only
tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, and the grim
evening and howling wind were ushering in a night of snow and
drift. My horse and I were both much fatigued with the labours of
the day, and just as my friend the Bailie and I were bidding
defiance to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral
pageantry of the late great Mrs. Oswald, and poor I am forced to
brave all the horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my
horse, my young favourite horse, whom I had just christened
Pegasus, twelve miles farther on, through the wildest moors and
hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The powers of
poesy and prose sink under me, when I would describe what I felt.
Suffice it to say, that when a good fire at New Cumnock had so
far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the inclosed
ode.</p>

<p>I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr.
Creech; and I must own, that at last, he has been amicable and
fair with me.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXIII.&mdash;To HIS BROTHER, MR. WILLIAM BURNS.</h4>

ISLE, March 25th 1789.

<p>I have stolen from my corn-sowing this minute to write a line
to accompany your shirt and hat, for I can no more. Your sister
Nannie arrived yesternight, and begs to be remembered to you.
Write me every opportunity&mdash;never mind postage. My head, too, is
as addle as an egg this morning, with dining abroad yesterday. I
received yours by the mason. Forgive me this foolish looking
scrawl of an epistle.&mdash;I am ever, my dear William, yours,</p>

<p>R. B.</p>

<p>P.S.&mdash;If you are not then gone from Longtown, I'll write you a
long letter by this day se'ennight. If you should not succeed in
your tramps, don't be dejected, or take any rash step&mdash;return to
us in that case, and we will court Fortune's better humour.
Remember this, I charge you.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXIV.&mdash;To MR. HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>2nd April</i> 1789.

<p>I will make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus (God forgive me for
murdering language!) that I have sat down to write you on this
vile paper.</p>

<p>It is economy, Sir; it is that cardinal virtue, prudence; so I
beg you will sit down, and either compose or borrow a panegyric.
If you are going to borrow, apply to<a name=
"FNanchor97"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_97">[97]</a></sup> ...
to compose, or rather to compound, something very clever on my
remarkable frugality; that I write to one of my most esteemed
friends on this wretched paper, which was originally intended for
the venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take dirty notes in
a miserable vault of an ale-cellar.</p>

<p>O Frugality! thou mother of ten thousand blessings&mdash;thou cook
of fat beef and dainty greens!&mdash;thou manufacturer of warm
Shetland hose, and comfortable surtouts!&mdash;thou old housewife,
darning thy decayed stockings with thy ancient spectacles on thy
aged nose!&mdash;lead me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up
those heights, and through those thickets, hitherto inaccessible,
and impervious to my anxious, weary feet:&mdash;not those Parnassian
crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame
are, breathless, clambering, hanging between heaven and hell; but
those glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient,
all-powerful deity, wealth, holds his immediate court of joy and
pleasures; where the sunny exposure of plenty, and the hot walls
of profusion, produce those blissful fruits of luxury, exotics in
this world, and natives of paradise!&mdash;Thou withered sibyl, my
sage conductress, usher me into thy refulgent, adored
presence!&mdash;The power, splendid and potent as he now is, was once
the puling nursling of thy faithful care and tender arms! Call me
thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the
god by the scenes of his infant years, no longer to repulse me as
a stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with his peculiar
countenance and protection! He daily bestows his great kindness
on the undeserving and the worthless&mdash;assure him that I bring
ample documents of meritorious demerits! Pledge yourself for me,
that, for the glorious cause of lucre, I will do anything, be
anything; but the horse-leech of private oppression, or the
vulture of public robbery!</p>

<p>But to descend from heroics.</p>

<p>I want a Shakespeare; I want likewise an English
dictionary,&mdash;Johnson's, I suppose, is best. In these and all my
prose commissions, the cheapest is always the best for me. There
is a small debt of honour that I owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in
Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, and your well-wisher. Please
give him, and urge him to take it, the first time you see him,
ten shillings worth of anything you have to sell, and place it to
my account.</p>

<p>The library scheme that I mentioned to you is already begun
under the direction of Captain Riddel. There is another in
emulation of it going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr.
Monteith of Closeburn, which will be on a greater scale than
ours. Captain Riddel gave his infant society a great many of his
old books, else I had written you on that subject; but, one of
these days, I shall trouble you with a commission for "The
Monkland Friendly Society," a copy of <i>The Spectator</i>,
<i>Mirror</i>, and <i>Lounger</i>, <i>Man of Feeling</i>, <i>Man
of the World</i>, <i>Guthrie's Geographical Grammar</i>, with
some religious pieces, will likely be our first order.</p>

<p>When I grow richer, I will write to you on gilt-post, to make
amends for this sheet. At present every guinea has a five guinea
errand with, my dear Sir, your faithful, poor, but honest
friend,</p>

<p>R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_97"></a><a href="#FNanchor97">[97]</a>
Creech? or Ramsay of <i>The Courant?</i><br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXV.&mdash;TO MRS. M'MURDO, DRUMLANRIG.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>2nd May</i> 1789.

<p>Madam,&mdash;I have finished the piece which had the happy fortune
to be honoured with your approbation; and never did little Miss,
with more sparkling pleasure, show her applauded sampler to
partial Mamma, than I now send my poem to you and Mr. M'Murdo,<a
name="FNanchor98"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_98">[98]</a></sup>
if he is returned to Drumlanrig. You cannot easily imagine what
thin-skinned animals&mdash;what sensitive plants poor poets are. How
do we shrink into the imbittered corner of self-abasement, when
neglected or condemned by those to whom we look up! and how do
we, in erect importance, add another cubit to our stature on
being noticed and applauded by those whom we honour and respect!
My late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can tell you, Madam, given me
a balloon waft up Parnassus, where, on my fancied elevation, I
regard my poetic self with no small degree of complacency. Surely
with all their sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful
creatures&mdash;I recollect your goodness to your humble guest&mdash;I see
Mr. M'Murdo adding to the politeness of the gentleman, the
kindness of a friend, and my heart swells as it would burst, with
warm emotions and ardent wishes! It may be it is not
gratitude&mdash;it may be a mixed sensation. That strange, shifting,
doubling animal, MAN, is so generally, at best, but a negative,
often a worthless creature, that we cannot see real goodness and
native worth, without feeling the bosom glow with sympathetic
approbation. With every sentiment of grateful respect, I have the
honour to be, Madam, your obliged and grateful humble
servant,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_98"></a><a href="#FNanchor98">[98]</a> The
piece beginning&mdash;There was a lass and she was fair.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXVI.&mdash;TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.</h4>

ELL ISLAND, 4<i>th May</i> 1789.

<p>My dear Sir,&mdash;Your <i>duty-free</i> favour of the 25th April I
received two days ago; I will not say I perused it with pleasure;
that is the cold compliment of ceremony; I perused it, Sir, with
delicious satisfaction;&mdash;in short, it is such a letter, that not
you, nor your friend, but the legislature, by express proviso in
their postage laws, should frank. A letter informed with the soul
of friendship is such an honour to human nature, that they should
order it free ingress and egress to and from their bags and
mails, as an encouragement and mark of distinction to
supereminent virtue.</p>

<p>I have just put the last hand to a little poem, which I think
will be something to your taste.<a name="FNanchor99"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_99">[99]</a></sup> One morning lately, as I was
out pretty early in the fields, sowing some grass seeds, I heard
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plantation, and presently
a poor little wounded hare came crippling by me. You will guess
my indignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at
this season, when all of them have young ones. Indeed there is
something in that business of destroying, for our sport,
individuals in the animal creation that do not injure us
materially, which I could never reconcile to my ideas of
virtue.</p>

<p>Let me know how you like my poem. I am doubtful whether it
would not be an improvement to keep out the last stanza but one
altogether.</p>

<p>Cruikshank is a glorious production of the author of man. You,
he, and the noble Colonel<a name="FNanchor100"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_100">[100]</a></sup> of the Crochallan Fencibles are
to me<br>
  Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart.</p>

<p>I have got a good mind to make verses on you all, to the tune
of "<i>Three guid fellows ayont the glen</i>"</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_99"></a><a href="#FNanchor99">[99]</a> See the
poem on the "Wounded Hare."</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_100"></a><a href="#FNanchor100">[100]</a>
That is, William Dunbar, W.S.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXVIL&mdash;TO MR. RICHARD BROWN.</h4>

MAUCHLINE, <i>21st May</i> 1789.

<p>My Dear Friend,&mdash;I was in the country by accident, and hearing
of your safe arrival, I could not resist the temptation of
wishing you joy on your return&mdash;wishing you would write to me
before you sail again&mdash;wishing that you would always set me down
as your bosom friend&mdash;wishing you long life and prosperity, and
that every good thing may attend you&mdash;wishing Mrs. Brown and your
little ones as free of the evils of this world as is consistent
with humanity&mdash;wishing you and she were to make two at the
ensuing lying-in, with which Mrs. B. threatens very soon to
favour me&mdash;wishing I had longer time to write to you at present;
and, finally, wishing that if there is to be another state of
existence, Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Burns, our little ones of both
families, and you and I, in some snug retreat, may make a jovial
party to all eternity!</p>

<p>My direction is at Ellisland, near Dumfries.&mdash;Yours,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXVIIL&mdash;To MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>8th June</i> 1789.

<p>MY DEAR FRIEND,&mdash;I am perfectly ashamed of myself when I look
at the date of your last. It is not that I forget the friend of
my heart and the companion of my peregrinations; but I have been
condemned to drudgery beyond sufferance, though not, thank God,
beyond redemption. I have had a collection of poems by a lady put
into my hands to prepare them for the press; which horrid task,
with sowing corn with my own hand, a parcel of masons, wrights,
plasterers, etc., to attend to, roaming on business through
Ayrshire&mdash;all this was against me, and the very first dreadful
article was of itself too much for me.</p>

<p>13th. I have not had a moment to spare from incessant toil
since the 8th. Life, my dear Sir, is a serious matter. You know
by experience that a man's individual self is a good deal, but
believe me, a wife and family of children, whenever you have the
honour to be a husband and a father, will show you that your
present and most anxious hours of solitude are spent on trifles.
The welfare of those who are very dear to us, whose only support,
hope, and stay we are&mdash;this, to a generous mind, is another sort
of more important object of care than any concerns whatever which
centre merely in the individual. On the other hand, let no young,
rakehelly dog among you, make a song of his pretended liberty and
freedom from care. If the relations we stand in to king, country,
kindred, and friends, be anything but the visionary fancies of
dreaming metaphysicians; if religion, virtue, magnanimity,
generosity, humanity and justice, be ought but empty sounds; then
the man who may be said to live only for others, for the beloved,
honourable female, whose tender faithful embrace endears life,
and for the helpless little innocents who are to be the men and
women, the worshippers of his God, the subjects of his king, and
the support, nay the very vital existence of his COUNTRY, in the
ensuing age;&mdash;compare such a man with any fellow whatever, who,
whether he bustle and push in business among labourers, clerks,
statesmen; or whether he roar and rant, and drink and sing in
taverns&mdash;a fellow over whose grave no one will breathe a single
heigh-ho, except from the cobweb-tie of what is called good
fellowship&mdash;who has no view nor aim but what terminates in
himself&mdash;if there be any grovelling earth-born wretch of our
species, a renegade to common sense, who would fain believe that
the noble creature, man, is no better than a sort of fungus,
generated out of nothing, nobody knows how, and soon dissipating
in nothing, nobody knows where; such a stupid beast, such a
crawling reptile, might balance the foregoing unexaggerated
comparison, but no one else would have the patience.</p>

<p>Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. <i>To make you
amends</i>, I shall send you soon, and more encouraging still,
without any postage, one or two rhymes of my later
manufacture.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXIX.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 21<i>st June</i> 1789.

<p>Dear Madam,&mdash;Will you take the effusions, the miserable
effusions of low spirits, just as they flow from their bitter
spring? I know not of any particular cause for this worst of all
my foes besetting me; but for some time my soul has been
beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil imaginations and
gloomy presages.</p>

<p><i>Monday Evening.</i></p>

<p>I have just heard Mr. Kilpatrick preach a sermon. He is a man
famous for his benevolence, and I revere him; but from such ideas
of my Creator, good Lord, deliver me! Religion, my honoured
friend, is surely a simple business, as it equally concerns the
ignorant and the learned, the poor and the rich. That there is an
incomprehensible Great Being, to whom I owe my existence, and
that He must be intimately acquainted with the operations and
progress of the internal machinery, and consequent outward
deportment of this creature which He has made; these are, I
think, self-evident propositions. That there is a real and
eternal distinction between virtue and vice, and consequently,
that I am an accountable creature; that from the seeming nature
of the human mind, as well as from the evident imperfection, nay,
positive injustice, in the administration of affairs, both in the
natural and moral worlds, there must be a retributive scene of
existence beyond the grave; must, I think, be allowed by every
one who will give himself a moment's reflection. I will go
farther, and affirm, that from the sublimity, excellence, and
purity of his doctrine and precepts, unparalleled by all the
aggregated wisdom and learning of many preceding ages, though, to
<i>appearance</i> he, himself, was the obscurest and most
illiterate of our species; therefore Jesus Christ was from
God.</p>

<p>Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness of
others, this is my criterion of goodness; and whatever injures
society at large, or any individual in it, this is my measure of
iniquity.</p>

<p>What think you, Madam, of my creed? I trust that I have said
nothing that will lessen me in the eye of one, whose good opinion
I value almost next to the approbation of my own mind.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXX.&mdash;TO MISS HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 1789.

<p>Madam,&mdash;Of the many problems in the nature of that wonderful
creature, man, this is one of the most extraordinary&mdash;that he
shall go on from day to day, from week to week, from month to
month, or perhaps from year to year, suffering a hundred times
more in an hour from the impotent consciousness of neglecting
what he ought to do, than the very doing of it would cost him. I
am deeply indebted to you, first, for a most elegant poetic
compliment; then for a polite, obliging letter; and, lastly, for
your excellent poem on the Slave Trade; and yet, wretch that I
am! though the debts were debts of honour, and the creditor a
lady, I have put off and put off even the very acknowledgment of
the obligation, until you must indeed be the very angel I take
you for, if you can forgive me.</p>

<p>Your poem I have read with the highest pleasure. I have a way
whenever I read a book&mdash;I mean a book in our own trade, Madam, a
poetic one, and when it is my own property&mdash;that I take a pencil
and mark at the ends of verses, or note on margins and odd paper,
little criticisms of approbation or disapprobation as I peruse
along. I will make no apology for presenting you with a few
unconnected thoughts that occurred to me in my repeated perusals
of your poem. I want to show you that I have honesty enough to
tell you what I take to be truths, even when they are not quite
on the side of approbation; and I do it in the firm faith that
you have equal greatness of mind to hear them with pleasure.
[Here follows a list of strictures.]</p>

<p>I had lately the honour of a letter from Dr. Moore, where he
tells me that he has sent me some books; they are not yet come to
hand, but I hear they are on the way.</p>

<p>Wishing you all success in your progress in the path of fame,
and that you may equally escape the danger of stumbling through
incautious speed, or losing ground through loitering neglect, I
am, etc.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXXI.&mdash;To MR. ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRY.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 31st <i>july</i> 1789.

<p>Sir,&mdash;The language of gratitude has been so prostituted by
servile adulation and designing flattery that I know not how to
express myself when I would acknowledge receipt of your last
letter. I beg and hope, ever-honoured "Friend of my life and
patron of my rhymes," that you will always give me credit for the
sincerest, chastest gratitude. I dare call the Searcher of hearts
and Author of all Goodness to witness how truly grateful I
am.</p>

<p>Mr. Mitchell<a name="FNanchor101"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_101">[101]</a></sup> did not wait my calling on him,
but sent me a kind letter, giving me a hint of the business; and
yesterday he entered with the most friendly ardour into my views
and interests. He seems to think, and from my private knowledge I
am certain he is right, that removing the officer who now does,
and for these many years has done, duty in the Division in the
middle of which I live, will be productive of at least no
disadvantage to the revenue, and may likewise be done without any
detriment to him. Should the Honourable Board [of Excise] think
so, and should they deem it eligible to appoint me to officiate
in his present place, I am then at the top of my wishes. The
emoluments in my office will enable me to carry on, and enjoy
those improvements on my farm, which but for this additional
assistance, I might in a year or two have abandoned. Should it be
judged improper to place me in this Division, I am deliberating
whether I had not better give up my farming altogether, and go
into the Excise whenever I can find employment. Now that the
salary is &pound;50 per annum, the Excise is surely a much
superior object to a farm, which, without some foreign
assistance, must for half a lease be a losing bargain. The worst
of it is&mdash;I know there are some respectable characters who do me
the honour to interest themselves in my welfare and behaviour,
and, as leaving the farm so soon may have an unsteady,
giddy-headed appearance, I had better perhaps lose a little money
than hazard their esteem.</p>

<p>You see, Sir, with what freedom I lay before you all my little
matters&mdash;little indeed to the world, but of the most important
magnitude to me.... Were it not for a very few of our kind, the
very existence of magnanimity, generosity, and all their kindred
virtues, would be as much a question with metaphysicians as the
existence of witchcraft. Perhaps the nature of man is not so much
to blame for this, as the situation in which by some miscarriage
or other he is placed in this world. The poor, naked, helpless
wretch, with such voracious appetites and such a famine of
provision for them, is under a cursed necessity of turning
selfish in his own defence. Except a few instances of original
scoundrelism, thorough-paced selfishness is always the work of
time. Indeed, in a little time, we generally grow so attentive to
ourselves and so regardless of others that I have often in poetic
frenzy looked on this world as one vast ocean, occupied and
commoved by innumerable vortices, each whirling round its centre.
These vortices are the children of men. The great design and, if
I may say so, merit of each particular vortex consists in how
widely it can extend the influence of its circle, and how much
floating trash it can suck in and absorb.</p>

<p>I know not why I have got into this preaching vein, except it
be to show you that it is not my ignorance but my knowledge of
mankind which makes me so much admire your goodness to me.</p>

<p>I shall return your books very soon. I only wish to give Dr.
Adam Smith one other perusal, which I will do in one or two
days.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_101"></a><a href="#FNanchor101">[101]</a> A
collector in the Excise.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXXIL&mdash;TO DAVID SILLAR, MERCHANT, IRVINE.<a name=
"FNanchor102"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_102">[102]</a></sup></h4>

ELLISLAND, 5 <i>Aug</i>. 1789.

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;I was half in thoughts not to have written to
you at all, by way of revenge for the two damn'd business letters
you sent me. I wanted to know all about your publications&mdash;your
news, your hopes, fears, etc., in commencing poet in print. In
short, I wanted you to write to Robin like his old acquaintance
Davie, and not in the style of Mr. Tare to Mr. Tret, as
thus:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Mr. Tret.&mdash;Sir,&mdash;This comes to advise you that fifteen
barrels of herrings were, by the blessing of God, shipped safe on
board the <i>Lovely Janet</i>, Q.D.C., Duncan Mac-Leerie, master,
etc."</p>

<p>I hear you have commenced married man&mdash;so much the better. I
know not whether the nine gipsies are jealous of my lucky, but
they are a good deal shyer since I could boast the important
relation of husband.</p>

<p>I have got about eleven subscribers for your book.... My best
compliments to Mrs. Sillar, and believe me to be, dear Davie,
ever yours,</p>

<p>ROBT. BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_102"></a><a href="#FNanchor102">[102]</a> This
letter was first published in 1879. The original is probably
lost, but a copy is to be found in the minute-book of the Irvine
Burns Club. Sillar was "Davie, a brother poet."</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXXIII.&mdash;TO MR. JOHN LOGAN, OF KNOCK SHINNOCK.</h4>

ELLISLAND, NEAR DUMFRIES, 7<i>th Aug</i>. 1789.

<p>Dear Sir,&mdash;I intended to have written you long ere now, and,
as I told you, I had gotten three stanzas on my way in a poetic
epistle to you; but that old enemy of all <i>good works</i>, the
Devil, threw me into a prosaic mire, and for the soul of me I
cannot get out of it. I dare not write you a long letter, as I am
going to intrude on your time with a long ballad. I have, as you
will shortly see, finished "The Kirk's Alarm;" but now that it is
done, and that I have laughed once or twice at the conceits in
some of the stanzas, I am determined not to let it get into the
public; so I send you this copy, the first that I have sent to
Ayrshire, except some few of the stanzas, which I wrote off in
embryo for Gavin Hamilton, under the express provision and
request that you will only read it to a few of us, and do not on
any account give, or permit to be taken, any copy of the ballad.
If I could be of any service to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, though
it should be at a much greater expense than irritating a few
bigoted priests, but I am afraid serving him in his present
<i>embarras</i> is a task too hard for me. I have enemies enow,
God knows, though I do not wantonly add to the number. Still, as
I think there is some merit in two or three of the thoughts, I
send it to you as a small, but sincere testimony how much, and
with what respectful esteem, I am, dear Sir, your obliged humble
servant</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXXIV.&mdash;TO MR. PETER STUART, EDITOR, LONDON.</h4>

<i>End of Aug</i>. 1789.

<p>My dear Sir,&mdash;The hurry of a farmer in this particular season,
and the indolence of a poet at all seasons, will, I hope, plead
my excuse for neglecting so long to answer your obliging letter
of the 5th August.</p>

<p>... When I received your letter I was transcribing for <i>The
Star</i> my letter to the magistrates of the Canongate of
Edinburgh, begging their permission to place a tombstone over
poor Fergusson. <a name="t112a"></a><sup><a href=
"#112a">[112a].</a></sup> Poor Fergusson! if there be a life
beyond the grave, which I trust there is; and if there be a good
God presiding over all nature, which I am sure there is, thou art
now enjoying existence in a glorious world where worth of heart
alone is distinction in the man; where riches, deprived of their
pleasure-purchasing powers, return to their native sordid matter;
where titles and honours are the disregarded reveries of an idle
dream; and where that heavy virtue, which is the negative
consequence of steady dulness, and those thoughtless though often
destructive follies, which are the unavoidable aberrations of
frail human nature, will be thrown into equal oblivion as if they
had never been!</p>

<p>R. B.</p>

<p><a name="112a"></a><a href="#t112a">[112a]:</a> A young
Scottish poet of undoubted ability who perished miserably in
Edinburgh at the age of twenty-four. He was the senior of Burns,
who greatly admired and mourned him, by about eight year<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXXV.&mdash;To HIS BROTHER, WILLIAM BURNS, SADDLER,
NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 14<i>th Aug</i>. 1789.

<p>My Dear William,&mdash;I received your letter, and am very happy to
hear that you have got settled for the winter. I enclose you the
two guinea-notes of the Bank of Scotland, which I hope will serve
your need. It is, indeed, not quite so convenient for me to spare
money as it once was, but I know your situation, and, I will say
it, in some respects your worth. I have no time to write at
present, but I beg you will endeavour to pluck up a <i>little</i>
more of the Man than you used to have. Remember my favourite
quotations:</p>

<blockquote>             On reason build resolve,<br>
  That pillar of true majesty in man.<a name=
"FNanchor103"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_103">[103]</a></sup></blockquote>

and

<blockquote>What proves the hero truly great,<br>
Is never, never to despair!<a name="FNanchor103A"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_103A">[103a]</a></sup></blockquote>

Your mother and sisters desire their compliments. A Dieu je vous
commende,

<p>ROBT. BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_103"></a><a href="#FNanchor103">[103]</a> From
Young.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_103A"></a><a href="#FNanchor103A">[103a]</a>
From Thomson.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXXVL&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>6th Sept</i>. 1789.

<p>Dear Madam,&mdash;I have mentioned, in my last, my appointment to
the Excise, and the birth of little Frank; who, by the bye, I
trust will be no discredit to the honourable name of Wallace, as
he has a fine manly countenance, and a figure that might do
credit to a liltle fellow two months older; and likewise an
excellent good temper, though when he pleases he has a pipe, only
not quite so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake blew as
a signal to take out the pin of Stirling bridge.</p>

<p>I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic,
from your poetess Miss. J. Little,<a name=
"FNanchor104"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_104">[104]</a></sup> a
very ingenious, but modest composition. I should have written her
as she requested, but for the hurry of this new business. I have
heard of her and her compositions in this country; and I am happy
to add, always to the honour of her character. The fact is, I
knew not well how to write to her: I should sit down to a sheet
of paper that I knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine-drawn
letter-writing; and, except when prompted by friendship or
gratitude, or, which happens extremely rarely, inspired by the
Muse (I know not her name) that presides over epistolary writing,
I sit down, when necessitated to write, as I would sit down to
beat hemp.</p>

<p>Some parts of your letter of the 2oth August struck me with
the most melancholy concern for the state of your mind at
present.</p>

<p>Would I could write you a letter of comfort, I would sit down
to it with as much pleasure as I would to write an epic poem of
my own composition that should equal the <i>Iliad!</i> Religion,
my dear friend, is the true comfort. A strong persuasion in a
future state of existence; a proposition so obviously probable,
that, setting revelation aside, every nation and people, so far
as investigation has reached, for at least near four thousand
years, have, in some mode or other, firmly believed it. In vain
would we reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a
very daring pitch; but, when I reflected that I was opposing the
most ardent wishes and the most darling hopes of good men, and
flying in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was
shocked at my own conduct.</p>

<p>I know not whether I have ever sent you the following lines;
or if you have ever seen them; but it is one of my favourite
quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my progress through
life, in the language of the book of Job,</p>

<p>Against the day of battle and of war&mdash;</p>

<p>spoken of religion:</p>

<blockquote>'Tis <i>this</i>, my friend, that streaks our morning
bright,<br>
'Tis <i>this</i> that gilds the horror of our night,<br>
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few;<br>
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue;<br>
Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart,<br>
Disarms affliction, or repels his dart;<br>
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise,<br>
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies.</blockquote>

I have been busy with <i>Zeluco</i>. The Doctor is so obliging as
to request my opinion of it; and I have been revolving in my mind
some kind of criticisms on novel-writing, but it is a depth
beyond my research. I shall, however, digest my thoughts on the
subject as well as I can. <i>Zeluco</i> is a most sterling
performance.

<p>Farewell! <i>A Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous commende!</i><br>
<a name="Footnote_104"></a><a href="#FNanchor104">[104]</a> A
maid servant at Loudon house.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXXVIL&mdash;To CAPTAIN RIDDEL, FRIARS CARSE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>16th October</i> 1789.

<p>Sir,&mdash;Big with the idea of this important day at Friars Carse,
I have watched the elements and skies, in the full persuasion
that they would announce it to the astonished world by some
phenomena of terrific portent. Yesternight until a very late
hour, did I wait with anxious horror for the appearance of some
comet firing half the sky, or aerial armies of sanguinary
Scandinavians, darting athwart the startled heavens, rapid as the
ragged lightning, and horrid as those convulsions of nature that
bury nations.</p>

<p>The elements, however, seem to take the matter very quietly;
they did not even usher in this morning with triple suns and a
shower of blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes<a name=
"FNanchor105"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_105">[105]</a></sup>
and the mighty claret-shed of the day. For me&mdash;as Thomson in his
Winter says of the storm&mdash;I shall "hear astonished, and
astonished sing"<br>
The WHISTLE and the man I sing,<br>
The man that won the whistle, etc.</p>

<p>To leave the heights of Parnassus and come to the humble vale
of prose. I have some misgivings that I take too much upon me,
when I request you to get your guest, Sir Robert Lawrie, to frank
the two inclosed covers for me, the one of them to Sir William
Cunningham, of Robertland, Bart., at Kilmarnock,&mdash;the other, to
Mr. Allan Masterton, Writing-Master, Edinburgh. The first has a
kindred claim on Sir Robert, as being a brother Baronet, and
likewise a keen Foxite; the other is one of the worthiest men in
the world, and a man of real genius; so, allow me to say, he has
a fraternal claim on you. I want them franked for to-morrow, as I
cannot get them to the post to-night. I shall send a servant
again for them in the evening. Wishing that your head may be
crowned with laurels to-night, and free from aches to-morrow, I
have the honour to be, Sir, your deeply indebted humble
Servant,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_105"></a><a href="#FNanchor105">[105]</a> Sir
Robert Lawrie of Maxwellton, the holder of the Whistle, Alexander
Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and Captain Riddel. <i>See</i> the
Poem. Burns was apparently absent.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXXVIII&mdash;To MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, W.S.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 1<i>st Nov</i>. 1789.

<p>My Dear Friend,&mdash;I had written you ere now, could I have
guessed where to find you, for I am sure you have more good sense
than to waste the precious days of vacation time in the dirt of
business and Edinburgh. Wherever you are, God bless you, and lead
you not into temptation, but deliver you from evil!</p>

<p>I do not know if I have informed you that I am now appointed
to an Excise division, in the middle of which my house and farm
lie. In this I was extremely lucky. Without ever having been an
expectant, as they call their journeymen excisemen, I was
directly planted down to all intents and purposes an officer of
Excise; there to flourish and bring forth fruits&mdash;worthy of
repentance.</p>

<p>You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant and
disagreeable circumstances in my business; but I am tired with
and disgusted at the language of complaint against the evils of
life. Human existence in the most favourable situations does not
abound with pleasures, and has its inconveniences and ills:
capricious foolish man mistakes these inconveniences and ills as
if they were the peculiar property of his particular situation;
and hence that eternal fickleness, that love of change, which has
ruined, and daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as well as many a
blockhead, and is almost, without exception, a constant source of
disappointment and misery.</p>

<p>I long to hear from you how you go on-not so much in business
as in life. Are you pretty well satisfied with your own
exertions, and tolerably at ease in your internal reflections?
'Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer, but beyond
comparison more to be a great character as a man. That you may be
both the one and the other is the earnest wish, and that you
<i>will</i> be both is the firm persuasion of, my dear Sir,
etc.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXXXIX.&mdash;To MR. RICHARD BROWN, PORT-GLASGOW.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>4th November</i> 1789.

<p>I have been so hurried, my ever dear friend, that though I got
both your letters, I have not been able to command an hour to
answer them as I wished; and even now, you are to look on this as
merely confessing debt, and craving days. Few things could have
given me so much pleasure as the news that you were once more
safe and sound on terra firma, and happy in that place where
happiness is alone to be found, in the fireside circle. May the
benevolent Director of all things peculiarly bless you in all
those endearing connections consequent on the tender and
venerable names of husband and father! I have indeed been
extremely lucky in getting an additional income of &pound;50
a-year, while, at the same time, the appointment will not cost me
above &pound;10 or &pound;12 per annum of expenses more than I
must have inevitably incurred. The worst circumstance is, that
the Excise division which I have got is so extensive, no less
than ten parishes to ride over; and it abounds besides with so
much business, that I can scarcely steal a spare moment. However,
labour endears rest, and both together are absolutely necessary
for the proper enjoyment of human existence. I cannot meet you
anywhere.</p>

<p>No less than an order from the Board of Excise, at Edinburgh,
is necessary before I can have so much time as to meet you in
Ayrshire. But do you come, and see me. We must have a social day,
and perhaps lengthen it out with half the night, before you go
again to sea. You are the earliest friend I now have on earth, my
brothers excepted; and is not that an endearing circumstance?
When you and I first met, we were at the green period of human
life. The twig would easily take a bent, but would as easily
return to its former state. You and I not only took a mutual
bent, but, by the melancholy, though strong influence of being
both of the family of the unfortunate, we were entwined with one
another in our growth towards advanced age; and blasted be the
sacrilegious hand that shall attempt to undo the union! You and I
must have one bumper to my favourite toast, "May the companions
of our youth be the friends of our old age!" Come and see me one
year; I shall see you at Port-Glasgow the next, and if we can
contrive to have a gossiping between our two bed-fellows, it will
be so much additional pleasure. Mrs. Burns joins me in kind
compliments to you and Mrs. Brown. Adieu!&mdash;I am ever, my dear
Sir, yours,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXL.&mdash;To MR. R. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY.</h4>

<i>9th December</i> 1789.

<p>Sir,&mdash;I have a good while had a wish to trouble you with a
letter, and had certainly done it long ere now, but for a
humiliating something that throws cold water on the resolution,
as if one should say, "You have found Mr. Graham a very powerful
and kind friend indeed, and that interest he is so kindly taking
in your concerns, you ought by everything in your power to keep
alive and cherish." Now, though since God has thought proper to
make one powerful and another helpless, the connection of obliger
and obliged is all fair; and though my being under your patronage
is to me highly honourable, yet, Sir, allow me to flatter myself
that,&mdash;as a poet and an honest man you first interested yourself
in my welfare, and principally as such still, you permit me to
approach you.</p>

<p>I have found the Excise business go on a great deal smoother
with me than I expected; owing a good deal to the generous
friendship of Mr. Mitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance
of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear
no labour. Nor do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to my
correspondence with the Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and I
believe to most of their acquaintance, like the visits of good
angels, are short and far between; but I meet them now and then
as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on
the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to inclose you a few
bagatelles, all of them the productions of my leisure thoughts in
my excise rides.</p>

<p>If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the antiquarian,
you will enter into any humour that is in the verses on him.
Perhaps you have seen them before, as I sent them to a London
newspaper. Though, I dare say, you have none of the
solemn-league-and-covenant fire, which shone so conspicuous in
Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you
must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and
his heretical book. God help him, poor man! Though he is one of
the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole
priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that
ambiguous term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous family are
in imminent danger of being thrown out to the mercy of the
winter-winds. The inclosed ballad on that business is, I confess,
too local, but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I
am convinced in my conscience that there are a good many heavy
stanzas in it too.<a name="FNanchor106"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_106">[106]</a></sup></p>

<p>The election ballad,<a name="FNanchor107"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_107">[107]</a></sup> as you will see, alludes to the
present canvass in our string of boroughs. I do not believe there
will be such a hard run match in the whole general election.</p>

<p>I am too little a man to have any political attachments; I am
deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for,
individuals of both parties; but a man<a name=
"FNanchor108"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_108">[108]</a></sup>
who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who is
only known to that country by the mischiefs he does in it, is a
character that one cannot speak of with patience.</p>

<p>Sir J. J. does "what man can do," but yet I doubt his
fate.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_106"></a><a href="#FNanchor106">[106]</a> The
Kirk's Alarm.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_107"></a><a href="#FNanchor107">[107]</a>
<i>The Five Carlines.</i></p>

<p><a name="Footnote_108"></a><a href="#FNanchor108">[108]</a>
Duke of Queensbury.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXLL&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>13th December</i> 1789.

<p>Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheetful of rhymes. Though
at present I am below the veriest prose, yet from you everything
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of a diseased nervous
system; a system, the state of which is most conducive to our
happiness&mdash;or the most productive of our misery. For now near
three weeks I have been so ill with a nervous headache, that I
have been obliged for a time to give up my excise-books, being
scare able to lift my head, much less to ride once a week over
ten muir parishes. What is man? To-day, in the luxuriance of
health, exulting in the enjoyment of existence; in a few days,
perhaps in a few hours, loaded with conscious painful being,
counting the tardy pace of the lingering moments by the
repercussions of anguish, and refusing or denied a comforter. Day
follows night, and night comes after day, only to curse him with
life which gives him no pleasure; and yet the awful, dark
termination of that life, is something at which he recoils.</p>

<blockquote>Tell us, ye dead; will none of you in pity<br>
Disclose the secret<br>
<i>What'tis you are, and we must shortly be?</i><br>
'Tis no matter:<br>
A little time will make us learn'd as you are.</blockquote>

<p><br>
Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail, feverish
being, I shall still find myself in conscious existence? When the
last gasp of agony has announced that I am no more to those that
knew me, and the few who loved me; when the cold, stiffened,
unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be the
prey of unsightly reptiles, and to become in time a trodden clod,
shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and
enjoyed? Ye venerable sages, and holy flamens, is there
probability in your conjectures, truth in your stories, of
another world beyond death; or are they all alike, baseless
visions, and fabricated fables? If there is another life, it must
be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and the
humane; what a flattering idea, then, is a world to come! Would
to God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it! There I
should meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many buffetings
of an evil world, against which he so long and so bravely
struggled. There should I meet the friend, the disinterested
friend of my early life; the man who rejoiced to see me, because
he loved me and could serve me. Muir, thy weaknesses were the
aberrations of human nature, but thy heart glowed with everything
generous, manly, and noble; and if ever emanation from the
All-good Being animated a human form, it was thine! There should
I, with speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, my
ever dear Mary! whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour,
constancy, and love.</p>

<blockquote>My Mary, dear departed shade!<br>
Where is thy place of heavenly rest?<br>
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?<br>
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?</blockquote>

<p><br>
Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters! I trust thou art no
impostor, and that thy revelation of blissful scenes of existence
beyond death and the grave, is not one of the many impositions
which time after time have been palmed on credulous mankind. I
trust that in thee "shall all the families of the earth be
blessed," by being yet connected together in a better world,
where every tie that bound heart to heart, in this state of
existence, shall be, far beyond our present conceptions, more
endearing.</p>

<p>I am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain,
that what are called nervous affections are in fact diseases of
the mind. I cannot reason, I cannot think; and but to you I would
not venture to write anything above an order to a cobbler. You
have felt too much of the ills of life not to sympathise with a
diseased wretch, who has impaired more than half of any faculties
he possessed. Your goodness will excuse this distracted scrawl,
which the writer dare scarcely read, and which he would throw
into the fire, were he able to write anything better, or indeed
anything at all.</p>

<p>Rumour told me something of a son of yours, who was returned
from the East or West Indies. If you have gotten news from James
or Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know; as I promise
you, on the sincerity of a man, who is weary of one world, and
anxious about another, that scarce anything could give me so much
pleasure as to hear of any good thing befalling my honoured
friend.</p>

<p>If you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in pity to LE
PAUVRE MISERABLE.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXLII.&mdash;To LADY WINIFRED M. CONSTABLE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 16th DECEMBER 1789.

<p>My Lady,&mdash;In vain have I from day to day expected to hear from
Mis. Young, as she promised me at Dalswinton that she would do me
the honour to introduce me at Tinwald; and it was impossible, not
from your Ladyship's accessibility, but from my own feelings,
that I could go alone. Lately, indeed, Mr. Maxwell, of Currachan,
in his usual goodness, offered to accompany me, when an unlucky
indisposition on my part hindered my embracing the opportunity.
To court the notice or the tables of the great, except where I
sometimes have had a little matter to ask of them, or more often
the pleasanter task of witnessing my gratitude to them, is what I
never have done, and I trust never shall do. But with your
Ladyship I have the honour to be connected by one of the
strongest and most endearing ties in the whole moral world.
Common sufferings, in a cause where even to be unfortunate is
glorious&mdash;the cause of heroic loyalty! Though my fathers had not
illustrious honours and vast properties to hazard in the contest,
though they left their humble cottages only to add so many units
more to the unnoted crowd that followed their leaders, yet what
they could they did, and what they had they lost; with unshaken
firmness and unconcealed political attachments, they shook hands
with Ruin for what they esteemed the cause of their king and
their country. This language and the inclosed verses are for your
Ladyship's eye alone. Poets are not very famous for their
prudence; but as I can do nothing for a cause which is now nearly
no more, I do not wish to hurt myself.&mdash;I have the honour to be,
my lady, your Ladyship's obliged and obedient humble servant.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXLIII.&mdash;To MR. CHARLES K. SHARPE, OF HODDAM.</h4>

<i>Under a fictitious Signature, inclosing a Ballad, 1790 or
1791.<a name="FNanchor109"></a></i><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_109">[109]</a></sup>

<p>It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank and fortune, and
I am a poor devil; you are a feather in the cap of society, and I
am a very hobnail in his shoes; yet I have the honour to belong
to the same family with you, and on that score I now address you.
You will perhaps suspect that I am going to claim affinity with
the ancient and honourable house of Kirkpatrick. No, no, Sir. I
cannot indeed be properly said to belong to any house, or even
any province or kingdom; as my mother, who for many years was
spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into this bad world,
aboard the packet-boat, somewhere between Donaghadee and
Portpatrick. By our common family, I mean, Sir, the family of the
Muses. I am a fiddler and a poet; and you, I am told, play an
exquisite violin, and have a standard taste in the belles
lettres. The other day, a brother catgut gave me a charming Scots
air of your composition. If I was pleased with the tune, I was in
raptures with the title you have given it, and, taking up the
idea, I have spun it into the three stanzas inclosed. Will you
allow me, Sir, to present you them, as the dearest offering that
a misbegotten son of poverty and rhyme has to give? I have a
longing to take you by the hand and unburden my heart by saying,
"Sir, I honour you as a man who supports the dignity of human
nature, amid an age when frivolity and avarice have, between
them, debased us below the brutes that perish!" But, alas, Sir!
to me you are unapproachable. It is true, the Muses baptised me
in Castalian streams; but the thoughtless gipsies forgot to give
me a name. As the sex have served many a good fellow, the Nine
have given me a great deal of pleasure; but, bewitching jades!
they have beggared me. Would they but spare me a little of their
cast-linen! Were it only to put it in my power to say, that I
have a shirt on my back! But the idle wenches, like Solomon's
lilies, "they toil not, neither do they spin;" so I must e'en
continue to tie my remnant of a cravat, like the hangman's rope,
round my naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep together
their many-coloured fragments. As to the affair of shoes, I have
given that up. My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, from town to
town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes too, are not what even
the hide of Job's behemoth could bear. The coat on my back is no
more: I shall not speak evil of the dead. It would be equally
unhandsome and ungrateful to find fault with my old surtout,
which so kindly supplies and conceals the want of that coat. My
hat, indeed, is a great favourite; and though I got it literally
for an old song, I would not exchange it for the best beaver in
Britain. I was, during several years, a kind of fac-totum servant
to a country clergyman, where I picked up a good many scraps of
learning, particularly&mdash;in some branches of the mathematics.
Whenever I feel inclined to rest myself on my way, I take my seat
under a hedge, laying my poetic wallet on the one side, and my
fiddle-case on the other, and placing my hat between my legs, I
can by means of its brim, or rather brims, go through the whole
doctrine of the Conic Sections. However, Sir, don't let me
mislead you, as if I would interest your pity. Fortune has so
much forsaken me, that she has taught me to live without her;
and, amid all my rags and poverty, I am as independent, and much
more happy than a monarch of the world. According to the
hackneyed metaphor, I value the several actors in the great drama
of life, simply as they act their parts. I can look on a
worthless fellow of a duke with unqualified contempt, and can
regard an honest scavenger with sincere respect. As you, Sir, go
through your role with such distinguished merit, permit me to
make one in the chorus of universal applause, and assure you that
with the highest respect, I have the honour to be, etc.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_109"></a><a href="#FNanchor109">[109]</a>
"Here Burns plays high Jacobite to that singular old curmudgeon,
Lady Constable. I imagine his Jacobitism, like my own, belonged
to the fancy rather than the reason."&mdash;Scott.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXLIV.&mdash;To HIS BROTHER, GILBERT BURNS, MOSSGIEL.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>11th January 1790</i>.

<p>Dear Brother,&mdash;I mean to take advantage of the frank, though I
have not in my present frame of mind much appetite for exertion
in writing. My nerves are in a cursed state. I feel that horrid
hypochondria pervading every atom of both body and soul. This
farm has undone my enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on
all hands. But let it go to hell! I'll fight it out and be off
with it.</p>

<p>We have gotten a set of very decent players here just now. I
have seen them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote
to me by the manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a
man of apparent worth. On New-year-day evening I gave him the
following prologue, which he spouted to his audience with
applause:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>  No song nor dance I bring from yon great city,
etc.</blockquote>

I can no more. If once I was clear of this curst farm, I should
respire more at ease. <br>
<hr>
<h4>CXLV.&mdash;To MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, W.S.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 14th Jan. 1790.

<p>Since we are here creatures of a day, since "a few summer
days, a few winter nights, and the life of man is at an end,"
why, my dear much esteemed Sir, should you and I let negligent
indolence, for I know it is nothing worse, step in between us and
bar the enjoyment of a mutual correspondence? We are not shapen
out of the common, heavy, methodical clod, the elemental stuff of
the plodding selfish race, the sons of Arithmetic and Prudence;
our feelings and hearts are not benumbed and poisoned by the
cursed influence of riches, which, whatever blessing they may be
in other respects, are no friends to the nobler qualities of the
heart; in the name of random sensibility, then, let never the
moon change on our silence any more. I have had a tract of bad
health the most part of this winter, else you had heard from me
long ere now. Thank heaven, I am now got so much better as to be
able to partake a little in the enjoyments of life.</p>

<p>Our friend, Cunningham, will perhaps have told you of my going
into the Excise. The truth is, I found it a very convenient
business to have &pound;50 per annum, nor have I yet felt any of
these mortifying circumstances in it that I was led to fear.</p>

<p><i>Feb. 2nd.</i>&mdash;I have not for sheer hurry of business been
able to spare five minutes to finish my letter. Besides my farm
business, I ride on my Excise matters at least two hundred miles
every week. I have not by any means given up the Muses. You will
see in the third volume of Johnson's Scots songs that I have
contributed my mite there.</p>

<p>But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up to you for paternal
protection are an important charge. I have already two fine
healthy stout little fellows, and I wish to throw some light upon
them. I have a thousand reveries and schemes about them, and
their future destiny. Not that I am an Utopian projector in these
things. I am resolved never to breed up a son of mine to any of
the learned professions. I know the value of independence; and
since I cannot give my sons an independent fortune, I shall give
them an independent line of life. What a chaos of hurry, chance,
and changes is this world, when one sits soberly down to reflect
on it! To a father, who himself knows the world, the thought that
he shall have sons to usher into it, must fill him with dread;
but if he have daughters, the prospect in a thoughtful moment is
apt to shock him.</p>

<p>I hope Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies are well. Do let
me forget that they are nieces of yours, and let me say that I
never saw a more interesting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life.
I am the fool of my feelings and attachments. I often take up a
volume of my Spenser to realise you to my imagination, <a name=
"t109a"></a><sup><a href="#109a">[109a]</a></sup>. and think over
the social scenes we have had together. God grant that there may
be another world more congenial for honest fellows beyond this; a
world where these rubs and plagues of absence, distance,
misfortunes, ill-health, etc., shall no more damp hilarity and
divide friendship. This I know is your throng season, but half a
page will much oblige, my dear Sir, yours sincerely,</p>

<p>R. B.</p>

<p><a name="109a"></a><a href="#t109a">[109a]</a> Mr. Dunbar had
made him a present of a Spenser's Poems<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXLVL.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>25th January 1790.</i>

<p>It has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have
not written to you, Madam, long ere now. My health is greatly
better, and I now begin once more to share in satisfaction and
enjoyment with the rest of my fellow-creatures.</p>

<p>Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your kind letters;
but why will you make me run the risk of being contemptible and
mercenary in my own eyes? When I pique myself on my independent
spirit, I hope it is neither poetic licence, nor poetic rant; and
I am so flattered with the honour you have done me in making me
your compeer in friendship and friendly correspondence, that I
cannot without pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded
of the real inequality between our situations.</p>

<p>Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam, in the good
news of Anthony. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow, in the
little I had of his acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his
fortunes.</p>

<p>Falconer, the unfortunate author of the "Shipwreck," which you
so much admire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful
catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and after
weathering many hard gales of fortune, he went to the bottom with
the <i>Aurora</i> frigate!</p>

<p>I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving him
birth; but he was the son of obscurity and mis'ortune.<a name=
"FNanchor110"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_110">[110]</a></sup> He
was one of those daring, adventurous spirits, which Scotland,
beyond any other country, is remarkable for producing. Little
does the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over the sweet
little leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter
wander, or what may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an old
Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity,
speaks feelingly to the heart:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>Little did my mother think,<br>
That day she cradled me,<br>
What land I was to travel in,<br>
Or what death I should dee!</blockquote>

<p><br>
Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit
of mine, and now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two
stanzas of another old simple ballad, which I am sure will please
you. The catastrophe of the piece is a poor ruined female,
lamenting her fate, She concludes with this pathetic wish:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd;<br>
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung!<br>
O that my cradle had never been rock'd;<br>
But that I had died when I was young!

<p>O that the grave it were my bed;<br>
My blankets were my winding sheet;<br>
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a';<br>
And O sad sound as I should sleep!</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
I do not remember in all my reading to have met with anything
more truly the language of misery than the exclamation in the
last line. Misery is like love; to speak its language truly, the
author must have felt it.</p>

<p>I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson
the small-pox. They are <i>rife</i> in the country, and I tremble
for his fate. By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his
looks and spirit. Every person who sees him, acknowledges him to
be the finest, handsomest child he has ever seen. I am myself
delighted with the manly swell of his little chest, and a certain
miniature dignity in the carriage of his head, and the glance of
his fine black eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of an
independent mind.</p>

<p>I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I
promise you poetry until you are tired of it, next time I have
the honour of assuring you how truly I am, etc.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_110"></a><a href="#FNanchor110">[110]</a> He
was of poor parentage, and a native of Edinburgh.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXLVII.&mdash;To MR. PETER HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>2nd Feb. 1790.</i>

<p>No! I will not say one word about apologies or excuses for not
writing&mdash;I am a poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop at
least 200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty
barrels, and where can I find time to write to, or importance to
interest anybody? The upbraidings of my conscience, nay, the
upbraidings of my wife, have persecuted me on your account these
two or three months past. I wish to God I was a great man, that
my correspondence might throw light upon you, to let the world
see what you really are: and then I would make your fortune,
without putting my hand in my pocket for you, which, like all
other great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as possible.
What are you doing, and how are you doing? Have you lately seen
any of my few friends? What has become of the borough reform, or
how is the fate of my poor namesake Mademoiselle Burns decided? O
man! but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dishonest
artifices, that beauteous form, and that once innocent and still
ingenuous mind, might have shone conspicuous and lovely in the
faithful wife, and the affectionate mother; and shall the
unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have no claim on thy
humanity!</p>

<p>I saw lately, in a review, some extracts from a new poem,
called the "Village Curate;" send it me. I want likewise a cheap
copy of <i>The World</i>. Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who does
me the honour to mention me so kindly in his works, please give
him my best thanks for the copy of his book.<a name=
"FNanchor111"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_111">[111]</a></sup>&mdash;I
shall write him, my first leisure hour. I like his poetry much,
but I think his style in prose quite astonishing.</p>

<p>Your book came safe, and I am going to trouble you with
farther commissions. I call it troubling you, because I want only
books; the cheapest way, the best; so you may have to hunt for
them in the evening auctions. I want Smollett's Works, for the
sake of his incomparable humour. I have already <i>Roderick
Random</i> and <i>Humphrey Clinker</i>;&mdash;<i>Peregrine
Pickle</i>, <i>Launcelot Greaves</i>, and <i>Ferdinand</i>,
<i>Count Fathom</i>, I still want; but, as I said, the veriest
ordinary copies will serve me. I am nice only in the appearance
of my poets. I forget the price of Cowper's <i>Poems</i>, but, I
believe, I must have them. I saw the other day, proposals for a
publication, entitled <i>Banks's New and Complete Christian
Family Bible</i>, printed for C. Cooke, Paternoster Row, London.
He promises at least to give in the work, I think it is three
hundred and odd engravings, to which he has put the names of the
first artists in London. You will know the character of the
performance, as some numbers of it are published, and if it is
really what it pretends to be, set me down as a subscriber, and
send me the published numbers.</p>

<p>Let me hear from you, your first leisure minute, and trust me,
you shall in future have no reason to complain of my silence. The
dazzling perplexity of novelty will dissipate, and leave me to
pursue my course in the quiet path of methodical routine.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_111"></a><a href="#FNanchor111">[111]</a> John
Armstrong, student in the University of Edinburgh, who had
recently published a volume of Juvenile Poems.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXLVIIL.&mdash;To MR. W. NICOL.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>Feb. 9th, 1790.</i>

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;That damn'd mare of yours is dead. I would
freely have given her price to have saved her; she has vexed me
beyond description. Indebted as I was to your goodness beyond
what I can ever repay, I eagerly grasped at your offer to have
the mare with me. That I might at least show my readiness in
wishing to be grateful, I took every care of her in my power. She
was never crossed for riding above half a score of times by me or
in my keeping. I drew her in the plough, one of three, for one
poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which was the
highest bode I could squeeze for her. I fed her up and had her in
fine order for Dumfries fair, when, four or five days before the
fair, she was seized with an unaccountable disorder in the
sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the neck&mdash;with a weakness or
total want of power in her fillets; and, in short, the whole
vertebrae of her spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged, and in
eight and forty hours, in spite of the two best farriers in the
country, she died and be damn'd to her! The farriers said that
she had been quite strained in the fillets beyond cure before you
had bought her; and that the poor devil, though she might keep a
little flesh, had been jaded and quite worn out with fatigue and
oppression. While she was with me she was under my own eye, and I
assure you, my much valued friend, everything was done for her
that could be done; and the accident has vexed me to the heart.
In fact, I could not pluck up spirits to write to you, on account
of the unfortunate business.</p>

<p>There is little new in this country. Our theatrical company,
of which you must have heard, leave us this week. Their merit and
character are indeed very great, both on the stage and in private
life; not a worthless creature among them; and their
encouragement has been accordingly. Their usual run is from
eighteen to twenty-five pounds a night; seldom less than the one,
and the house will hold no more than the other. There have been
repeated instances of sending away six, and eight, and ten pounds
a night for want of room. A new theatre is to be built by
subscription; the first stone is to be laid on Friday first to
come. Three hundred guineas have been raised by thirty
subscribers, and thirty more might have been got if wanted. The
manager, Mr. Sutherland, was introduced to me by a friend from
Ayr; and a worthier or cleverer fellow I have rarely met with.
Some of our clergy have slipt in by stealth now and then; but
they have got up a farce of their own. You must have heard how
the Rev. Mr. Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr.
Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, and the rest of that faction, have
accused, in formal process, the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron of
Kirkgunzeon, that in ordaining Mr. Nielson to the cure of souls
in Kirkbean, he, the said Heron, feloniously and treasonably
bound the said Nielson to the confession of faith, <i>so far as
it was agreeable to reason and the word of God!</i></p>

<p>Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most gratefully to you. Little
Bobby and Frank are charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to
death with fatigue. For these two or three months, on an average,
I have not ridden less than two hundred miles per week. I have
done little in the poetic way. I have given Mr. Sutherland two
Prologues, one of which was delivered last week. I have likewise
strung four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of Chevy
Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor unfortunate mare, beginning
(the name she got here was Peg Nicholson),&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,<br>
As ever trod on airn;<br>
But now she's floating down the Nith,<br>
And past the mouth o' Cairn.</blockquote>

<p><br>
My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and little Neddy, and all the
family; I hope Ned is a good scholar, and will come out to gather
nuts and apples with me next harvest.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXLIX.&mdash;To MR. CUNNINGHAM, WRITER, EDINBURGH.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>13th February 1790.</i>

<p>I beg your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for writing
to you on this very unfashionable, unsightly sheet&mdash;<br>
  My poverty but not my will consents.</p>

<p>But to make amends, since of modish post I have none, except
one poor widowed half-sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer,
among my plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow of a man of
fashion, whom that unpolite scoundrel, Necessity, has driven from
Burgundy and Pineapple to a dish of Bohea, with the
scandal-bearing help-mate of a village-priest; or a glass of
whisky-toddy with a ruby-nosed yokefellow of a foot-padding
exciseman&mdash;I make a vow to inclose this sheet-full of epistolary
fragments in that my only scrap of gilt paper.</p>

<p>I am, indeed, your unworthy debtor for three friendly letters.
I ought to have written to you long ere now, but it is a literal
fact, I have scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I <i>will
not</i> write to you: Miss Burnet is not more dear to her
guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke of Queensberry to the
powers of darkness, than my friend Cunningham to me. It is not
that I cannot write to you; should you doubt it, take the
following fragment, which was intended for you some time ago, and
be convinced that I can antithesize sentiment, and circumvolute
periods, as well as any coiner of phrase in the regions of
philology.</p>

<p><i>December 1789.</i></p>

<p>My Dear Cunningham,&mdash;Where are you? And what are you doing?
Can you be that son of levity, who takes up a friendship as he
takes up a fashion; or are you, like some other of the worthiest
fellows in the world, the victim of indolence, laden with fetters
of ever-increasing weight?</p>

<p>What strange beings we are! Since we have a portion of
conscious existence, equally capable of enjoying pleasure,
happiness, and rapture, or of suffering pain, wretchedness, and
misery, it is surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there be not
such a thing as a science of life; whether method, economy, and
fertility of expedients, be not applicable to enjoyment; and
whether there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which
renders our little scantling of happiness still less; and a
profuseness, an intoxication in bliss, which leads to satiety,
disgust, and self-abhorrence. There is not a doubt but that
health, talents, character, decent competency, respectable
friends, are real substantial blessings; and yet do we not daily
see those who enjoy many or all of these good things, contrive,
notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as others to whose lot few of
them have fallen? I believe one great source of this mistake or
misconduct is owing to a certain stimulus, with us called
ambition, which goads us up the hill of life, not as we ascend
other eminences; for the laudable curiosity of viewing an
extended landscape, but rather for the dishonest pride of looking
down on others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive in
humbler stations, etc., etc.</p>

<p><i>Sunday, 14th February 1790.</i></p>

<blockquote>God help me! I am now obliged to join<br>
  Night to day, and Sunday to the week.</blockquote>

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, I
am damn'd past redemption, and what is worse, damn'd to all
eternity. I am deeply read in Boston's <i>Four-fold State</i>,
Marshal <i>On Sanctification</i>, Guthrie's <i>Trial of a Saving
Interest</i>, etc., but "there is no balm in Gilead, there is no
physician there," for me; so I shall e'en turn Arminian, and
trust to "Sincere though imperfect obedience."

<p><i>Tuesday, 16th.</i></p>

<p>Luckily for me, I was prevented from the discussion of the
knotty point at which I had just made a full stop. All my fears
and cares are of this world; if there is another, an honest man
has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man that wishes to be a
deist; but I fear, every fair, unprejudiced inquirer must in some
degree be a sceptic. It is not that there are any very staggering
arguments against the immortality of man; but, like electricity,
phlogiston, etc., the subject is so involved in darkness, that we
want data to go upon. One thing frightens me much: that we are to
live for ever seems <i>too good news to be true</i>. That we are
to enter into a new scene of existence, where, exempt from want
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends without
satiety or separation&mdash;how much should I be indebted to any one
who could fully assure me that this was certain!</p>

<p>My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr. Cleghorn
soon. God bless him and all his concerns! And may all the powers
that preside over conviviality and friendship, be present with
all their kindest influence, when the bearer of this, Mr. Syme,
and you meet! I wish I could also make one.</p>

<p>Finally, brethren, farewell! Whatsoever things are lovely,
whatsoever things are gentle, whatsoever things are charitable,
whatsoever things are kind, think on these things, and think
on</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CL.&mdash;To MR. HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>2nd March 1790.</i>

<p>At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly Society, it was
resolved to augment their library by the following books, which
you are to send us as soon as possible:&mdash;<i>The Mirror, The
Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the World,</i> (these, for my own
sake, I wish to have by the first carrier), Knox's <i>History of
the Reformation</i>, Rae's <i>History of the Rebellion in
1715</i>, any good History of the Rebellion in 1745, <i>A Display
of the Secession Act and Testimony</i>, by Mr. Gib, Hervey's
<i>Meditations</i>, Beveridge's <i>Thoughts</i>, and another copy
of Watson's <i>Body of Divinity</i>.</p>

<p>I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four months ago, to pay
some money he owed me into your hands, and lately I wrote to you
to the same purpose, but I have heard from neither one nor other
of you.</p>

<p>In addition to the books I commissioned in my last, I want
very much, an Index to the Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all
the statutes now in force, relative to the Excise, by Jellinger
Symons; I want three copies of this book: if it is now to be had,
cheap or dear, get it for me. An honest country neighbour of mine
wants too a Family Bible, the larger the better, but
second-handed, for he does not choose to give above ten shillings
for the book. I want likewise for myself, as you can pick them
up, second-handed or cheap, copies of Otway's Dramatic Works, Ben
Jonson's, Dryden's, Congreve's, Wycherley's, Vanbrugh's,
Gibber's, or any Dramatic Works of the more modern Macklin,
Garrick, Foote, Colman, or Sheridan. A good copy too of Moliere,
in French, I much want. Any other good dramatic authors in that
language I want also; but comic authors chiefly, though I should
wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. I am in no
hurry for all, or any of these, but if you accidentally meet with
them very-cheap, get them for me.</p>

<p>And now, to quit the dry walk of business, how do you do, my
dear friend? and how is Mrs. Hill? I trust, if now and then not
so <i>elegantly</i> handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as
divinely as ever. My good wife too has a charming "wood-note
wild;" now could we four get together, etc.</p>

<p>I am out of all patience with this vile world, for one thing.
Mankind are by nature benevolent creatures, except in a few
scoundrelly instances. I do not think that avarice of the good
things we chance to have, is born with us; but we are placed here
amid so much nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, that
we are under a cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in order
that we may exist! Still there are, in every age, a few souls
that all the wants and woes of life cannot debase to selfishness,
or even to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence. If ever I
am in danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate myself on this
side of my disposition and character. God knows I am no saint; I
have a whole host of follies and sins to answer for; but if I
could&mdash;and I believe I do it as far as I can&mdash;I would wipe away
all tears from all eyes. Adieu!</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLI.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>10th April 1790.</i>

<p>I have just now, my ever honoured friend, enjoyed a very high
luxury, in reading a paper of the <i>Lounger</i>. You know my
national prejudices. I had often read and admired the
<i>Spectator</i>, <i>Adventurer</i>, <i>Rambler</i>, and
<i>World</i>, but still with a certain regret, that they were so
thoroughly and entirely English. Alas! have I often said to
myself, what are all the boasted advantages which my country
reaps from the Union, that can counterbalance the annihilation of
her independence, and even her very name? I often repeat that
couplet of my favourite poet, Goldsmith&mdash;<br>
States of native liberty possest,<br>
Tho' very poor, may yet be very blest.</p>

<p>Nothing can reconcile me to the common terms, "English
ambassador," "English court," etc., and I am out of all patience
to see that equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by "the
Commons of England." Tell me, my friend, is this weak prejudice?
I believe in my conscience such ideas as "my country; her
independence; her honour; the illustrious names that mark the
history of my native land," etc.&mdash;I believe these, among your
<i>men of the world</i>, men who, in fact, guide for the most
part and govern our world, are looked on as so many modifications
of wrong-headedness. They know the use of bawling out such terms,
to rouse or lead THE RABBLE; but for their own private use, with
almost all the <i>able statesmen</i> that ever existed, or now
exist, when they talk of right and wrong they only mean proper
and improper; and their measure of conduct is, not what they
ought, but what they dare. For the truth of this I shall not
ransack the history of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest
judges of men that ever lived&mdash;the celebrated Earl of
Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could thoroughly control his
vices whenever they interfered with his interests, and who could
completely put on the appearance of every virtue as often as it
suited his purposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, the <i>perfect
man</i>; a man to lead nations. But are great abilities, complete
without a flaw, and polished without a blemish, the standard of
human excellence? This is certainly the staunch opinion of <i>men
of the world</i>; but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to
give the Stygian doctrine a loud negative! However, this must be
allowed, that, if you abstract from man the idea of an existence
beyond the grave, <i>then</i>, the true measure of human conduct
is, <i>proper</i> and <i>improper</i>: virtue and vice, as
dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, of scarcely the
same import and value to the world at large, as harmony and
discord in the modifications of sound; and a delicate sense of
honour, like a nice ear for music, though it may sometimes give
the possessor an ecstacy unknown to the coarser organs of the
herd, yet, considering the harsh gratings, and inharmonic jars,
in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds but the individual
would be as happy, and certainly would be as much respected by
the true judges of society as it would then stand, without either
a good ear or a good heart.</p>

<p>You must know I have just met with the <i>Mirror</i> and
<i>Lounger</i> for the first time, and I am quite in raptures
with them; I should be glad to have your opinion of some of the
papers. The one I have just read, <i>Lounger</i>, No. 61, has
cost me more honest tears than anything I have read for a long
time. Mackenzie has been called the Addison of the Scots, and in
my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the comparison. If he
has not Addison's exquisite humour, he as certainly outdoes him
in the tender and the pathetic. His <i>Man of Feeling</i> (but I
am not counsel learned in the laws of criticism) I estimate as
the first performance in its kind I ever saw. From what book,
moral or even pious, will the susceptible young mind receive
impressions more congenial to humanity and kindness, generosity
and benevolence; in short, more of all that ennobles the soul to
herself, or endears her to others&mdash;than from the simple affecting
tale of poor Harley?</p>

<p>Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie's writings, I do
not know if they are the fittest reading for a young man who is
about to set out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. Do
you not think, Madam, that among the few favoured of Heaven in
the structure of their minds (for such there certainly are) there
may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance of soul,
which are of no use, nay, in some degree, absolutely
disqualifying for the truly important business of making a man's
way into life? If I am not much mistaken, my gallant young
friend, Antony, is very much under these disqualifications; and
for the young females of a family I could mention, well may they
excite parental solicitude; for I, a common acquaintance, or as
my vanity will have it, an humble friend, have often trembled for
a turn of mind which may render them eminently happy&mdash;or
peculiarly miserable!</p>

<p>I have been manufacturing some verses lately; but as I have
got the most hurried season of Excise business over, I hope to
have more leisure to transcribe any thing that may show how much
I have the honour to be, Madam, yours, etc.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLII.&mdash;To DR. JOHN MOORE, LONDON.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>Excise-Office, 14th July 1790.</i>

<p>Sir,&mdash;Coming into town this morning to attend my duty in this
office, it being collection-day, I met with a gentleman who tells
me he is on his way to London; so I take the opportunity of
writing to you, as franking is at present under a temporary
death. I shall have some snatches of leisure through the day,
amid our horrid business and bustle, and I shall improve them as
well as I can; but let my letter be as stupid as..., as
miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as a hungry
grace-before-meat, or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas
cause; as ill spelt as country John's billet-doux, or as
unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre-Mucker's answer to it; I hope,
considering circumstances, you will forgive it; and as it will
put you to no expense of postage, I shall have the less
reflection about it.</p>

<p>I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my thanks for your
most valuable present, <i>Zeluco</i>. In fact, you are in some
degree blameable for my neglect. You were pleased to express a
wish for my opinion of the work, which so flattered me, that
nothing less would serve my over-weening fancy, than a formal
criticism on the book. In fact, I have gravely planned a
comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett, in
your different qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, I
own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never bring
the business to bear; but I am fond of the spirit young Elihu
shows in the book of Job&mdash;"And I said, I will also declare my
opinion." I have quite disfigured my copy of the book with my
annotations. I never take it up without at the same time taking
my pencil, and marking with asterisms, parentheses, etc.,
wherever I meet with an original thought, a nervous remark on
life and manners, a remarkably well-turned period, or a character
sketched with uncommon precision.</p>

<p>Though I should hardly think of fairly writing out my
"Comparative View," I shall certainly trouble you with my
remarks, such as they are.</p>

<p>I have just received from my gentleman that horrid summons in
the Book of Revelation&mdash;"that time shall be no more."</p>

<p>The little collection of sonnets have some charming poetry in
them. If <i>indeed</i> I am indebted to the fair author for the
book, and not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of the
other sex, I should certainly have written to the lady, with my
grateful acknowledgments, and my own idea of the comparative
excellence of her pieces.<a name="FNanchor112"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_112">[112]</a></sup> I would do this last, not from
any vanity of thinking that my remarks could be of much
consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely from my own feelings as an
author, doing as I would be done by.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_112"></a><a href="#FNanchor112">[112]</a>
Sonnets of Charlotte Smith.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLIII.&mdash;To MR. MURDOCH,<a name="FNanchor113"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_113">[113]</a></sup> TEACHER OF FRENCH,
LONDON.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>July</i> 16<i>th</i>, 1790.

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;I received a letter from you a long time ago,
but unfortunately, as it was in the time of my peregrinations and
journeyings through Scotland, I mislaid or lost it, and by
consequence your direction along with it. Luckily my good star
brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, who, I understand, is an
acquaintance of yours: and by his means and mediation I hope to
replace that link, which my unfortunate negligence had so
unluckily broke, in the chain of our correspondence. I was the
more vexed at the vile accident, as my brother William, a
journeyman saddler, has been for some time in London; and wished
above all things for your direction, that he might have paid his
respects to his father's friend.</p>

<p>His last address he sent me was, "Wm. Burns, at Mr. Barber's,
saddler, No. 181 Strand." I writ him by Mr. Kennedy, but
neglected to ask him for your address; so, if you find a spare
half minute, please let my brother know by a card where and when
he will find you, and the poor fellow will joyfully wait on you,
as one of the few surviving friends of the man whose name, and
Christian name too, he has the honour to bear.</p>

<p>The next letter I write you shall be a long one. I have much
to tell you of "hair-breadth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly
breach," with all the eventful history of a life, the early years
of which owed so much to your kind tutorage; but this at an hour
of leisure. My kindest compliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family.&mdash;I
am ever, my dear Sir, your obliged friend,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_113"></a><a href="#FNanchor113">[113]</a> He
had been Burns's schoolmaster at Mount Oliphant.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLIV.&mdash;To MR. CUNNINGHAM.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>8th August 1790.</i>

<p>Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming
negligence. You cannot sit down and fancy the busy life I
lead.</p>

<p>I laid down my goose feather to beat my brains for an apt
simile, and had some thoughts of a country grannum at a family
christening; a bride on the market-day before her marriage; or a
tavern-keeper at an election dinner; but the resemblance that
hits my fancy best is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who
roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching, whom he may
devour. However, tossed about as I am, if I choose (and who would
not choose) to bind down with the crampets of attention the
brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear up the superstructure
of Independence, and from its daring turrets bid defiance to the
storms of fate. And is not this a "consummation devoutly to be
wished?"</p>

<blockquote>Thy spirit, Independence, let me share;<br>
Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye!<br>
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,<br>
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky!</blockquote>

<p><br>
Are not these noble verses? They are the introduction of
Smollett's Ode to Independence: if you have not seen the poem, I
will send it to you. How wretched is the man that hangs on by the
favours of the great! To shrink from every dignity of man, at the
approach of a lordly piece of self-consequence, who, amid all his
tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a creature formed as
thou art&mdash;and perhaps not so well formed as thou art&mdash;came into
the world a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out of it as
all men must, a naked corse...</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLV.&mdash;To MR. CRAUFORD TAIT,<a name="FNanchor114"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_114">[114]</a></sup> W.S., EDINBURGH.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 15th <i>October</i> 1790.

<p>Dear Sir,&mdash;Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance the
bearer, Mr. Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, whom I have long known
and long loved. His father, whose only son he is, has a decent
little property in Ayrshire, and has bred the young man to the
law, in which department he comes up an adventurer to your good
town. I shall give you my friend's character in two words: as to
his head, he has talents enough, and more than enough for common
life; as to his heart, when nature had kneaded the kindly clay
that composes it, she said, "I can no more."</p>

<p>You, my good Sir, were born under kinder stars; but your
fraternal sympathy, I well know, can enter into the feelings of
the young man who goes into life with the laudable ambition to do
something, and to be something among his fellow-creatures; but
whom the consciousness of friendless obscurity presses to the
earth and wounds to the soul!</p>

<p>Even the fairest of his virtues are against him. That
independent spirit, and that ingenuous modesty, qualities
inseparable from a noble mind, are, with the million,
circumstances not a little disqualifying. What pleasure is in the
power of the fortunate and the happy, by their notice and
patronage, to brighten the countenance and glad the heart of such
depressed youth! I am not so angry with mankind for their deaf
economy of the purse&mdash;the goods of this world cannot be divided
without being lessened&mdash;but why be a niggard of that which
bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes nothing from our
own means of enjoyment? We wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our
own better fortune, and turn away our eyes, lest the wants and
woes of our brother-mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of
our souls!</p>

<p>I am the worst hand in the world at asking a favour. That
indirect address, that insinuating implication, which, without
any positive request, plainly expresses your wish, is a talent
not to be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell me, then, for you can,
in what periphrasis of language, in what circumvolution of
phrase, I shall envelope, yet not conceal, the plain story. "My
dear Mr, Tait, my friend, Mr. Duncan, whom I have the pleasure of
introducing to you, is a young lad of your own profession, and a
gentleman of much modesty and great worth. Perhaps it may be in
your power to assist him in the, to him, important consideration
of getting a place; but, at all events, your notice and
acquaintance will be a very great acquisition to him; and I dare
pledge myself that he will never disgrace your favour."</p>

<p>You may possibly be surprised, Sir, at such a letter from me;
'tis, I own, in the usual way of calculating these matters, more
than our acquaintance entitles me to; but my answer is short: Of
all the men at your time of life whom I knew in Edinburgh, you
are the most accessible on the side on which I have assailed you.
You are very much altered indeed from what you were when I knew
you, if generosity point the path you will not tread, or humanity
call to you in vain.</p>

<p>As to myself, a being to whose interest I believe you are
still a well-wisher; I am here, breathing at all times, thinking
sometimes, and rhyming now and then. Every situation has its
share of the cares and pains of life, and my situation I am
persuaded has a full ordinary allowance of its pleasures and
enjoyments.</p>

<p>My best compliments to your father and Miss Tait. If you have
an opportunity, please remember me in the solemn league and
covenant of friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay.<a name=
"FNanchor115"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_115">[115]</a></sup> I
am a wretch for not writing her; but I am so hackneyed with
self-accusation in that way, that my conscience lies in my bosom
with scarce the sensibility of an oyster in its shell. Where is
Lady M'Kenzie? wherever she is, God bless her! I likewise beg
leave to trouble you with compliments to Mr. Wm. Hamilton; Mrs.
Hamilton and family; and Mrs. Chalmers, when you are in that
country. Should you meet with Miss Nimmo, please remember me
kindly to her.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_114"></a><a href="#FNanchor114">[114]</a> Son
of Mr. Tait of Harviestoun, where Burns was a happy guest in the
Autumn of 1787. He was also father of the late Archbishop
Tait.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_115"></a><a href="#FNanchor115">[115]</a>
Miss Peggy Chalmers.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLVL.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>November</i> 1790.

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

<p>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&mdash;"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.</p>

<p>I read your letter&mdash;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
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:&mdash;<br>
  Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, etc.<a name=
"FNanchor116"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_116">[116]</a></sup></p>

<p>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, <i>not guilty!</i> 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.</p>

<p>I have a copy of "Tam o' Shanter" ready to send you by the
first opportunity: it is too heavy to send by post.</p>

<p>I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. <a name="t116a"></a><sup><a
href="#116a">[116a]</a></sup> 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.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_116"></a><a href="#FNanchor116">[116]</a> See
Poems.<br>
<a name="[116a]"></a><a href="#t116a">[116a]</a> A Supervisor of
Excise.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLVIL.&mdash;To MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, W.S.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 17<i>th January</i> 1791.

<p>I am not gone to Elysium, most noble Colonel,<a name=
"FNanchor117"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_117">[117]</a></sup>
but am still here in this sublunary world, serving my God by
propagating His image, and honouring my king by begetting him
loyal subjects.</p>

<p>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!!!"</p>

<p>As a farther 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,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_117"></a><a href="#FNanchor117">[117]</a>
Colonel of Volunteers.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLVIIL.&mdash;To MR. PETER HILL.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 17<i>th January</i> 1791.

<p>Take these two guineas, and place them over against that
damn'd 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 misery 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 or 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 contamely 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. <i>His</i> early follies and extravagance
are spirit and fire; <i>his</i> 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!...<br>
</p>

<hr>
<p>Well! divines may say of it what they please; but execration
is to the mind, what phlebotomy is to the body; the overloaded
sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their respective
evacuations.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLIX.&mdash;To DR. MOORE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 28<i>th January</i> 1791.

<p>I do not know, Sir, whether you are a subscriber to Grose's
<i>Antiquities of Scotland</i>. If you are, the inclosed 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 patronise, are still employed in the
way you wish.</p>

<p>The <i>Elegy on Captain Henderson</i> is a tribute to the
memory of the 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.</p>

<p>The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with
<i>Percy's Reliques of English Poetry</i>. 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.</p>

<p>I have just read over, once more of many times, your
<i>Zeluco</i>. I marked with my pencil as I went along, every
passage that pleased me above the rest; and one or two, 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, his <i>dramatis
person&aelig;</i> 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.</p>

<p>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. T 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&mdash;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&mdash;<i>Better be the head o' the commonalty than the
tail o' the gentry</i>.</p>

<p>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, etc.,</p>

<p>R. B.</p>

<p>Written on the blank leaf of a book which I presented to a
very young lady, whom I had formerly characterised under the
denomination of <i>The Rose Bud.<a name=
"FNanchor118"></a></i><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_118">[118]</a></sup><br>
<a name="Footnote_118"></a><a href="#FNanchor118">[118]</a> See
Poems&mdash;-"Lines to Miss Cruikshank."</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLX.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>7th Feb. 1791.</i>

<p>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,&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Your kind letter, with your kind <i>remembrance</i> of your
godson, came safe. This last, Madam, is scarcely what my pride
can bear. As to the little fellow,<a name=
"FNanchor118A"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_118A">[118a]</a></sup>
he is, partiality apart, the finest boy I have of 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.</p>

<p>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,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_118A"></a><a href="#FNanchor118A">[118a]</a>
The infant was Francis Wallace, the Poet's second son.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXI.&mdash;To THE REV. ARCH. ALISON.</h4>

ELLISLAND, <i>near Dumfries 14th Feb. 1791.</i>

<p>Sir,&mdash;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 Jews-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 <i>Essays on the Principles of Taste</i>.
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.</p>

<p>I inclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition.
The one in print is my first essay in the way of telling a
tale.&mdash;I am, Sir, etc.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXII.&mdash;TO THE REV. G. BAIRD.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 1791.

<p>Reverend Sir,&mdash;Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a
hesitating style on the business of poor Bruce?<a name=
"FNanchor119"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_119">[119]</a></sup>
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<a name="FNanchor120"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_120">[120]</a></sup> 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.</p>

<p>R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_119"></a><a href="#FNanchor119">[119]</a>
Michael Bruce, a young poet of Kinross-Shire.<br>
<a name="Footnote_120"></a><a href="#FNanchor120">[120]</a>
<i>Tam o' Shanter</i> included! It was refused!!<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXIII.&mdash;TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, WRITER, EDINBURGH.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 2<i>th March</i> 1791.

<p>If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let me have
them. For my own part, a thing 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.</p>

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

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

<p><br>
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</p>

<blockquote>  That hour, o' night's black arch the
key-stane.</blockquote>

<p><br>
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?&mdash;</p>

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

<p><br>
Good night once more, and God bless you!</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXIV.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 11<i>th April</i> 1791.

<p>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&mdash;joy and sorrow&mdash;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 <i>chef d'oeuvre</i> 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 <i>hayand
heather</i>. 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 an 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.</p>

<p>This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do let
me hear, by first post, how <i>cher petit Monsieur</i> comes on
with his small-pox. May Almighty goodness preserve and restore
him!</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXV.&mdash;TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.</h4>

11<i>th June</i> 1791.

<p>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.</p>

<p>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 every thing 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.<a name="FNanchor121"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_121">[121]</a></sup> 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.</p>

<p>God help the children of dependence! Hated and persecuted by
their enemies, and too often, alas! almost unexceptionally
always, 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 civilised 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 plague 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.</p>

<p>To return in this rambling letter to the subject I set out
with, let me recommend my friend, Mr. Clarice, 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!</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_121"></a><a href="#FNanchor121">[121]</a> Dr.
Robertson, uncle to Mr. Alexander Cunningham.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXVL&mdash;To MR. THOMAS SLOAN</h4>

.<a name="FNanchor122"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_122">[122]</a></sup>

<p>ELLISLAND, <i>Sept. 1st</i>, 1791.</p>

<p>My Dear Sloan,&mdash;Suspense is worse than disappointment; for
that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now learn that Mr.
Ballantine does not choose to interfere more in the business. I
am truly sorry for it, but cannot help it.</p>

<p>You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will please
to recollect that you omitted one little necessary piece of
information;&mdash;your address.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>I can easily enter into the <i>embarras</i> of your present
situation. You know my favourite quotation from Young&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>On Reason build RESOLVE!<br>
That column of true majesty in man,&mdash;</blockquote>

<p><br>
and that other favourite one from Thomson's "Alfred"&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>What proves the hero truly GREAT,<br>
Is, never, never to despair.</blockquote>

<p><br>
Or, shall I quote you an author of your acquaintance?&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>Whether DOING, SUFFERING, or FORBEARING,<br>
You may do miracles by&mdash;PERSEVERING.</blockquote>

<p><br>
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. After the roup was over, about thirty people engaged in
a battle, every man for his own hand, and fought it out for three
hours. Nor was the scene much better in the house. No fighting,
indeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and decanting, until
both my dogs got so drunk by attending them, that they could not
stand. You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as I was no
farther over than you used to see me.</p>

<p>Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire these many weeks.</p>

<p>Farewell! and God bless you, my dear Friend! R.B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_122"></a><a href="#FNanchor122">[122]</a> Of
Wanlockhead. Burns got to know him during his frequent journeys
between Ellisland and Mauchline in 1788-9.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXVII&mdash;TO MR. AINSLIE.</h4>

ELLISLAND, 1791.

<p>My Dear Ainslie,&mdash;Can you minister to a mind diseased? can
you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, remorse, head-ache,
nausea, and all the rest of the damn'd hounds of hell that beset
a poor wretch who has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness&mdash;can
you speak peace to a troubled soul?</p>

<p><i>Miserable perdu</i> that I am, I have tried every thing
that used to amuse me, but in vain; here must I sit, a monument
of the vengeance laid up in store for the wicked, slowly counting
every click of the clock as it slowly, slowly numbers over these
lazy scoundrels of hours, who, damn them, are ranked up before
me, every one at his neighbour's backside, and every one with a
burthen of anguish on his back, to pour on my devoted head&mdash;and
there is none to pity me. My wife scolds me, my business torments
me, and my sins come staring me in the face, every one telling a
more bitter tale than his fellow.&mdash;When I tell you even &mdash;&mdash; has
lost its power to please, you will guess something of my hell
within, and all around me.&mdash;I began <i>Elibanks and Elibraes</i>,
but the stanzas fell unenjoyed and unfinished from my listless
tongue: at last I luckily thought of reading over an old letter
of yours, that lay by me in my bookcase, and I felt something for
the first time since I opened my eyes, of pleasurable
existence.&mdash;&mdash;Well&mdash;I begin to breathe a little, since I began to
write to you. How are you, and what are you doing? How goes Law?
Apropos, for correction's sake do not address to me supervisor,
for that is an honour I cannot pretend to&mdash;I am on the list, as
we call it, for a supervisor, and will be called out by-and-by to
act as one; but at present I am a simple gauger, tho' t'other day
I got an appointment to an excise division of &pound;25 <i>per
annum</i> better than the rest. My present income, down money, is
&pound;70 <i>per annum</i>.</p>

<p>I have one or two good fellows here whom you would be glad to
know.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXVIII.&mdash;TO MISS DAVIES.</h4>

It is impossible, Madam, that the generous warmth and angelic
purity of your youthful mind can have any idea of that moral
disease under which I unhappily must rank as the chief of
sinners; I mean a torpitude of the moral powers that may be
called a lethargy of conscience. In vain Remorse rears her
horrent crest, and rouses all her snakes: beneath the
deadly-fixed eye and leaden hand of Indolence their wildest ire
is charmed into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out the rigours
of winter in the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, Madam,
could have made me so long neglect your obliging commands.
Indeed, I had one apology&mdash;the bagatelle was not worth
presenting. Besides, so strongly am I interested in Miss Davies's
fate and welfare in the serious business of life, amid its
chances and changes, that to make her the subject of a silly
ballad is downright mockery of these ardent feelings; 'tis like
an impertinent jest to a dying friend.

<p>Gracious Heaven! why this disparity between our wishes and our
powers? Why is the most generous wish to make others blest
impotent and ineffectual as the idle breeze that crosses the
pathless desert? In my walks of life I have met with a few people
to whom how gladly would I have said&mdash;"Go, be happy! I know that
your hearts have been wounded by the scorn of the proud, whom
accident has placed above you; or worse still, in whose hands
are, perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your life. But
there! ascend that rock, Independence, and look justly down on
their littleness of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your
indignation, and the foolish sink before your contempt; and
largely impart that happiness to others which, I am certain, will
give yourselves so much pleasure to bestow."</p>

<p>Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this delightful reverie, and
find it all a dream? Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I
find myself poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one tear from
the eye of pity, or of adding one comfort to the friend I love?
Out upon the world! say I, that its affairs are administered so
ill! They talk of reform;&mdash;good Heaven! what a reform would I
make among the sons, and even the daughters of men! Down,
immediately, should go fools from the high places where
misbegotten chance has perked them up, and through life should
they skulk, ever haunted by their native insignificance, as the
body marches accompanied by its shadow. As for a much more
formidable class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to do with
them: had I a world, there should not be a knave in it.</p>

<p>But the hand that could give, I would liberally fill: and I
would pour delight on the heart that could kindly forgive, and
generously love.</p>

<p>Still the inequalities of life are, among men, comparatively
tolerable; but there is a delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying
every view in which we can place lovely Woman, that are grated
and shocked at the rude, capricious distinctions of Fortune.
Woman is the blood-royal of life: let there be slight degrees of
precedency among them&mdash;but let them be ALL sacred. Whether this
last sentiment be right or wrong, I am not accountable; it is an
original component feature of my mind.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXIX.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

<i>5th January</i> 1792.

<p>You see my hurried life, Madam: I can only command starts of
time; however, I am glad of one thing; since I finished the other
sheet, the political blast that threatened my welfare is
overblown. I have corresponded with Commissioner Graham, for the
Board had made me the subject of their animadversions; and now I
have the pleasure of informing you that all is set to rights in
that quarter. Now as to these informers, may the devil be let
loose to&mdash;but, hold! I was praying most fervently in my last
sheet, and I must not so soon fall a swearing in this.</p>

<p>Alas! how little do the wantonly or idly officious think what
mischief they do by their malicious insinuations, indirect
impertinence, or thoughtless babblings. What a difference there
is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevolence, generosity,
kindness,&mdash;in all the charities and all the virtues&mdash;between one
class of human beings and another!</p>

<p>For instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixed with in the
hospitable hall of Dunlop, their generous hearts&mdash;their
uncontaminated dignified minds&mdash;their informed and polished
understandings&mdash;what a contrast, when compared&mdash;if such comparing
were not downright sacrilege&mdash;with the soul of the miscreant who
can deliberately plot the destruction of an honest man that never
offended him, and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate
being, his faithful wife, and prattling innocents, turned over to
beggary and ruin!</p>

<p>Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I had two worthy
fellows dining with me the other day, when I, with great
formality, produced my whigmeleerie cup, and told them that it
had been a family-piece among the descendants of William Wallace,
This roused such an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bumpering
the punch round in it; and by-and-by, never did your great
ancestor lay a <i>Southron</i> more completely to rest than for a
time did your cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the season of
wishing. May God bless you, my dear friend, and bless me, the
humblest and sincerest of your friends, by granting you yet many
returns of the season! May all good things attend you and yours
wherever they are scattered over the earth!</p>

<p>R.B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXX.&mdash;TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, PRINTER.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>22nd January</i> 1792.

<p>I sit down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young lady<a name=
"FNanchor123"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_123">[123]</a></sup> to
you, and a lady in the first ranks of fashion, too. What a task!
to you&mdash;who care no more for the herd of animals called young
ladies than you do for the herd of animals called young
gentlemen; to you&mdash;who despise and detest the groupings and
combinations of fashion, as an idiot painter that seems
industrious to place staring fools and unprincipled knaves in the
foreground of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are too
often thrown in the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddell, who will take
this letter to town with her, and send it to you, is a character
that, even in your own way as a naturalist and a philosopher,
would be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady, too, is a
votary of the muses; and as I think myself somewhat of a judge in
my own trade, I assure you that her verses, always correct, and
often elegant, are much beyond the common run of the <i>lady
poetesses</i> of the day. She is a great admirer of your book;
and, hearing me say that I was acquainted with you, she begged to
be known to you, as she is just going to pay her first visit to
our Caledonian capital. I told her that her best way was to
desire her near relation, and your intimate friend, Craigdarroch,
to have you at his house while she was there; and lest you might
think of a lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of
eighteen too often deserve to be thought of, I should take care
to remove that prejudice. To be impartial, however, in
appreciating the lady's merits, she has one unlucky failing&mdash;a
failing which you will easily discover, as she seems rather
pleased with indulging in it; and a failing that you will easily
pardon, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself;&mdash;where
she dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no more a secret of
it, than where she esteems and respects.</p>

<p>I will not present you with the unmeaning <i>compliments of
the season</i>, but I will send you my warmest wishes and most
ardent prayers, that Fortune may never throw your subsistence to
the mercy of a knave, or set your character on the judgment of a
fool; but that, upright and erect, you may walk to an honest
grave, where men of letters shall say, here lies a man who did
honour to science, and men of worth shall say, here lies a man
who did honour to human nature.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_123"></a><a href="#FNanchor123">[123]</a> Maria
Riddell, a gay, clever, young Creole, wife of Walter, brother of
Captain Riddell.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXL&mdash;TO MR. WILLIAM NICOL.</h4>

20<i>th February</i> 1792.

<p>O thou wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full
moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors! How infinitely
is thy puddle-headed, rattleheaded, wrong-headed, round-headed
slave indebted to thy super-eminent goodness, that from the
luminous path of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest
benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag wanderings
defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple copulation of
units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions! May one feeble ray
of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straight
as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration,
may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face
and favour of that father of proverbs and master of maxims, that
antipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, the wise and witty
Willie Nicol! Amen! Amen! Yea, so be it!</p>

<p>For me! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing! From the
cave of my ignorance, amid the fogs of my dulness, and
pestilential fumes of my political heresies, I look up to thee,
as doth a toad through the iron-barred lucarne of a pestiferous
dungeon, to the cloudless glory of a summer sun! Sorely sighing
in bitterness of soul, I say, When shall my name be the quotation
of the wise, and my countenance be the delight of the godly, like
the illustrious lord of Laggan's many hills?<a name=
"FNanchor124"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_124">[124]</a></sup> As
for him, his works are perfect: never did the pen of calumny blur
the fair page of his reputation, nor the bolt of hatred fly at
his dwelling.</p>

<p>Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfin lamp of my
glimmerous understanding, purged from sensual appetites and gross
desires, shine like the constellation of thy intellectual powers.
As for thee, thy thoughts are pure and thy lips are holy. Never
did the unhallowed breath of the powers of darkness, and the
pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy
sky-descended and heaven-bound desires: never did the vapours of
impurity stain the unclouded serene of thy cerulean imagination.
O that like thine were the tenor of my life, like thine the tenor
of my conversation! then should no friend fear for my strength,
no enemy rejoice in my weakness! Then should I lie down and rise
up, and none to make me afraid. May thy pity and thy prayer be
exercised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality! thy
devoted slave,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_124"></a><a href="#FNanchor124">[124]</a> Mr.
Nicol had purchased a small piece of ground called Laggan, on the
Nith. There took place the Bacchanalian scene which called forth
"Willie brew'd a peck o' Maat."</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXIL.&mdash;TO MR. FRANCIS GROSE, F.S A.</h4>

DUMFRIES, 1792.

<p>Among the many witch stories I have heard, relating to Alloway
Kirk, I distinctly remember only two or three.</p>

<p>Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind, and
bitter blasts of hail; in short, on such a night as the devil
would choose to take the air in; a farmer or farmer's servant was
plodding and plashing homeward with his plough-irons on his
shoulder, having been getting some repairs on them at a
neighbouring smithy. His way lay by the kirk of Alloway, and
being rather on the anxious look out in approaching a place so
well known to be a favourite haunt of the devil and the devil's
friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast by discovering
through the horrors of the storm and stormy night, a light, which
on his nearer approach plainly showed itself to proceed from the
haunted edifice. Whether he had been fortified from above on his
devout supplication, as is customary with people when they
suspect the immediate presence of Satan; or whether, according to
another custom, he got courageously drunk at the smithy, I will
not pretend to determine; but so it was that he ventured to go up
to, nay, into the very kirk. As luck would have it his temerity
came off unpunished.</p>

<p>The members of the infernal junto were all out on some
midnight business or other, and he saw nothing but a kind of
kettle or caldron, depending from the roof, over the fire,
simmering some heads of unchristened children, limbs of executed
malefactors, etc., for the business of the night. It was in for a
penny, in for a pound, with the honest ploughman: so without
ceremony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire, and, pouring
out the damn'd ingredients, inverted it on his head, and carried
it fairly home, where it remained long in the family, a living
evidence of the truth of the story.</p>

<p>Another story, which I can prove to be equally authentic, is
as follows:</p>

<p>On a market day in the town of Ayr a farmer from Carrick, and
consequently whose way lay by the very gate of Alloway kirk-yard,
in order to cross the river Doon at the old Bridge, which is
about two or three hundred yards farther on than the said gate,
had been detained by his business, till by the time he reached
Alloway it was the wizard hour, between night and morning.</p>

<p>Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the kirk,
yet as it is a well-known fact that to turn back on these
occasions is running by far the greatest risk of mischief, he
prudently advanced on his road. When he had reached the gate of
the kirk-yard, he was surprised and entertained, through the ribs
and arches of an old gothic window, which still faces the
highway, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it round their
old sooty blackguard master, who was keeping them all alive with
the power of his bagpipe. The farmer stopping his horse to
observe them a little, could plainly descry the faces of many old
women of his acquaintance and neighbourhood. How the gentleman
was dressed tradition does not say; but that the ladies were all
in their smocks: and one of them happening unluckily to have a
smock which was considerably too short to answer all the purpose
of that piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled that he
involuntarily burst out with a loud laugh, "Weel luppen, Maggy
wi' the short sark!" and recollecting himself, instantly spurred
his horse to the top of his speed. I need not mention the
universally known fact, that no diabolical power can pursue you
beyond the middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for the poor
farmer that the river Doon was so near, for, notwithstanding the
speed of his horse, which was a good one, against he reached the
middle of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the middle of
the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags were so close at his
heels, that one of them actually sprung to seize him; but it was
too late; nothing was on her side of the stream but the horse's
tail, which immediately gave way at her infernal grip, as if
blasted by a stroke of lightning; but the farmer was beyond her
reach. However, the unsightly, tail-less condition of the
vigorous steed was to the last hour of the noble creature's life,
an awful warning to the Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in
Ayr markets.</p>

<p>The last relation I shall give, though equally true, is not so
well identified as the two former, with regard to the scene; but
as the best authorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate
it.</p>

<p>On a summer's evening, about the time nature puts on her
sables to mourn the expiry of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy,
belonging to a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood of Alloway
kirk, had just folded his charge, and was returning home. As he
passed the kirk, in the adjoining field he fell in with a crew of
men and women, who were busy pulling stems of the plant ragwort.
He observed that as each person pulled a ragwort, he or she got
astride of it, and called out, "Up, horsie!" on which the ragwort
flew off, like Pegasus, through the air with its rider. The
foolish boy likewise pulled his ragwort, and cried with the rest,
"Up, horsie!" and, strange to tell, away he flew with the
company. The first stage at which the cavalcade stopt was a
merchant's wine-cellar in Bourdeaux, where, without saying "By
your leave," they quaffed away at the best the cellar could
afford, until the morning, foe to the imps and works of darkness,
threatened to throw light on the matter, and frightened them from
their carousals.</p>

<p>The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stranger to the scene
and the liquor, heedlessly got himself drunk; and when the rest
took horse, he fell asleep, and was found so next day by some of
the people belonging to the merchant. Somebody that understood
Scotch, asking him what he was, he said such a-one's herd in
Alloway, and by some means or other getting home again, he lived
long to tell the world the wondrous tale.<a name=
"FNanchor125"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_125">[125]</a></sup></p>

<p>R. B.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_125"></a><a href="#FNanchor125">[125]</a>
<i>Cp.Hogg's Witch of Fife.</i><br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXIIL.&mdash;TO MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

ANNAN WATER FOOT, 22<i>nd August</i> 1792.

<p>Do not blame me for it, Madam&mdash;my own conscience, hackneyed
and weather-beaten as it is, in watching and reproving my
vagaries, follies, indolence, etc., has continued to punish me
sufficiently.</p>

<p>Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured friend, that I
could be so lost to gratitude for many favours; to esteem for
much worth; and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now old
acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of progressive, increasing
friendship&mdash;as, for a single day, not to think of you nor to ask
the Fates what they are doing and about to do with my much loved
friend and her wide scattered connections, and to beg of them to
be as kind to you and yours as they possibly can?</p>

<p>Apropos! (though how it is apropos I have not leisure to
explain) do you know that I am almost in love with an
acquaintance of yours?&mdash;Almost! said I&mdash;I <i>am</i> in love,
souse! over head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable abyss of
the boundless ocean; but the word Love, owing to the
<i>intermingledoms</i> of the good and the bad, the pure and the
impure, in this world, being rather an equivocal term for
expressing one's sentiments and sensations, I must do justice to
the sacred purity of my attachment. Know, then, that the
heart-struck awe the distant humble approach; the delight we
should have in gazing upon and listening to a Messenger of
Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity of his celestial
home, among the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, to
deliver to them tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and
their imaginations soar in transport&mdash;such, so delighting and so
pure, were the emotions of my soul on meeting the other day with
Miss Lesley Baillie, your neighbour at Mayfield. Mr. B., with his
two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. of G., passing through
Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to England, did me the
honour of calling on me; on which I took my horse (though God
knows I could ill spare the time), and accompanied them fourteen
or fifteen miles, and dined and spent the day with them. Twas
about nine, I think, when I left them, and, riding home, I
composed the following ballad, of which you will probably think
you have a dear bargain, as it will cost you another groat of
postage. You must know that there is an old ballad beginning
with&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>My bonnie Lizzie Bailie,<br>
I'll lowe thee in my plaidie, (etc,)</blockquote>

<p><br>
So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the first copy,
"unanointed, unanneal'd," as Hamlet says,&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>O saw ye bonny Lesley<br>
As she gaed o'er the border?<br>
She's gane, like Alexander,<br>
To spread her conquests farther, (etc.)</blockquote>

<p><br>
So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to the east
country, as I am to be in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This
world of ours, notwithstanding it has many good things in it, yet
it has ever had this curse, that two or three people, who would
be the happier the oftener they met together, are, almost without
exception, always so placed as never to meet but once or twice
a-year, which, considering the few years of a man's life, is a
very great "evil under the sun," which I do not recollect that
Solomon has mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of man. I
hope and believe that there is a state of existence beyond the
grave, where the worthy of this life will renew their former
intimacies, with this endearing addition, that "we meet to part
no more"</p>

<blockquote>Tell us, ye dead,<br>
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret<br>
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be!</blockquote>

<p><br>
A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the departed sons
of men, but not one of them has ever thought fit to answer the
question. "O that some courteous ghost would blab it out!" but it
cannot be; you and I, my friend, must make the experiment by
ourselves, and for ourselves. However, I am so convinced that an
unskaken faith in the doctrines of religion is not only
necessary, by making us better men, but also by making us happier
men, that I shall take every care that your little godson, and
every little creature that shall call me father, shall be taught
them. So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at this wild
place of the world, in the intervals of my labour of discharging
a vessel of rum from Antigua.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXIV.&mdash;TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.</h4>

DUMFRIES, 10<i>th September</i> 1792.

<p>No! I will not attempt an apology. Amid all my hurry of
business, grinding the faces of the publican and the sinner on
the merciless wheels of the Excise; making ballads, and then
drinking, and singing them; and, over and above all, the
correcting the press-work of two different publications; still,
still I might have stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the
first of my friends and fellow-creatures. I might have done, as I
do at present-snatched an hour near "witching time of night," and
scrawled a page or two; I might have congratulated my friend on
his marriage; or I might have thanked the Caledonian archers for
the honour they have done me (though, to do myself justice, I
intended to have done both in rhyme, else I had done both long
ere now). Well, then, here is to your good health! for you must
know, I have set a nipperkin of toddy by me, just by way of
spell, to keep away the meikle horned deil, or any of his
subaltern imps who may be on their nightly rounds.</p>

<p>But what shall I write to you?&mdash;"The voice said, cry," and I
said, "What shall I cry?"&mdash;O, thou spirit! whatever thou art, or
wherever thou makest thyself visible! be thou a bogle by the
eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary glen through which the
herd-callan maun bicker in his gloamin route frae the fauld!&mdash;Be
thou a brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy task by the blazing
ingle, or in the solitary barn, where the repercussions of thy
iron flail half affright thyself, as thou performest the work of
twenty of the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon thee to
thy ample cog of substantial brose. Be thou a kelpie, haunting
the ford or ferry, in the starless night, mixing thy laughing
yell with the howling of the storm and the roaring of the flood,
as thou viewest the perils and miseries of man on the foundering
horse, or in the tumbling boat!&mdash;Or, lastly, be thou a ghost,
paying thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed
grandeur; or performing thy mystic rites in the shadow of the
time-worn church, while the moon looks, without a cloud, on the
silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee; or taking thy
stand by the bedside of the villain, or the murderer, portraying
on his dreaming fancy, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of
unveiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed
Deity!&mdash;Come, thou spirit, but not in these horrid forms; come
with the milder, gentle, easy inspirations, which thou breathest
round the wig of a prating advocate, or the t&ecirc;te of a
tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run at the light-horse
gallop of clish-maclaver for ever and ever&mdash;come and assist a
poor devil who is quite jaded in the attempt to share half an
idea among half a hundred words; to fill up four quarto pages,
while he has not got one single sentence of recollection,
information, or remark worth putting pen to paper for.</p>

<p>I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural assistance!
Circled in the embrace of my elbow-chair, my breast labours,
liked the bloated Sibyl on her three-footed stool, and like her
too, labours with Nonsense. Nonsense, auspicious name! Tutor,
friend, and finger-post in the mystic mazes of law; the
cadaverous paths of physic: and particularly in the sightless
soarings of SCHOOL DIVINITY, who, leaving Common Sense confounded
at the strength of his pinion; Reason delirious with eyeing his
giddy flight; and Truth creeping back into the bottom of her
well, cursing the hour that ever she offered her scorned alliance
to the wizard power of Theologic Vision-raves abroad on all the
winds:&mdash; "On earth discord! a gloomy Heaven above, opening her
jealous gates to the nineteen-thousandth part of the tithe of
mankind! and below, an inescapable and inexorable hell, expanding
its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals!!! "&mdash;O
doctrine! comfortable and healing to the weary wounded soul of
man! Ye sons and daughters of affliction, ye <i>pauvres
miserables,</i> to whom day brings no pleasure, and night yields
no rest, be comforted! 'Tis but <i>one</i> to nineteen hundred
thousand that your situation will mend in this world; so, alas,
the experience of the poor and needy too often affirms; and 'tis
nineteen hundred thousand to <i>one,</i> by the dogmas of
Theology, that you will be condemned eternally in the world to
come!</p>

<p>But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is the most
nonsensical; so enough, and more than enough, of it. Only,
by-the-bye, will you, or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why
a sectarian turn of mind has always a tendency to narrow and
illiberalise the heart? They are orderly; they may be just; nay,
I have known them merciful: but still your children of sanctity
move among their fellow-creatures with a nostril snuffing
putrescence, and a foot spurning filth&mdash;in short, with a
conceited dignity that your titled Douglases, or any other of
your Scottish lordlings of seven centuries standing, display when
they accidentally mix among the many-aproned sons of mechanical
life. I remember, in my plough-boy days, I could not conceive it
possible that a noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man could
be a knave. How ignorant are plough-boys!&mdash;Nay, I have since
discovered that a <i>godly woman</i> may be a&mdash;!&mdash;But
hold&mdash;here's t'ye again&mdash;this rum is generous Antigua, so a very
unfit menstruum for scandal.</p>

<p>Apropos, how do you like, I mean <i>really</i> like, the
married life? Ah, my friend! matrimony is quite a different thing
from what your love-sick youths and sighing girls take it to be!
But marriage, we are told, is appointed by God, and I shall never
quarrel with any of His institutions. I am a husband of older
standing than you, and shall give you my ideas of the conjugal
state, (<i>en passant</i>&mdash;you know I am no Latinist-is not
<i>conjugal</i> derived from <i>jugum</i>, a yoke?) Well, then,
the scale of good wifeship I divide into ten parts. Good-nature,
four; Good Sense, two; Wit, one; Personal Charms, viz., a sweet
face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful carriage (I would add a
fine waist too, but that is so soon spoilt, you know), all these,
one; as for the other qualities belonging to, or attending on, a
wife, such as Fortune, Connections, Education (I mean education
extraordinary), Family blood, etc., divide the two remaining
degrees among them as you please; only, remember that all these
minor properties must be expressed by <i>fractions,</i> for there
is not any one of them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled to the
dignity of an <i>integer</i>.</p>

<p>As for the rest of my fancies and reveries&mdash;how I lately met
with Miss Lesley Baillie, the most beautiful, elegant woman in
the world&mdash;how I accompanied her and her father's family fifteen
miles on their journey, out of pure devotion, to admire the
loveliness of the works of God, in such an unequalled display of
them&mdash;how, in galloping home at night, I made a ballad on her, of
which these two stanzas make a part&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>Thou, bonnie Lesley, art a queen,<br>
Thy subjects we before thee;<br>
Thou, bonnie Lesley, art divine,<br>
The hearts o' men adore thee.<br>
The very deil he could na scathe<br>
Whatever wad belang thee!<br>
He'd look into thy bonnie face<br>
And say, "I canna wrang thee"&mdash;</blockquote>

<p><br>
behold all these things are written in the chronicles of my
imagination, and shall be read by thee, my dear friend, and by
thy beloved spouse, my other dear friend, at a more convenient
season.</p>

<p>Now to thee and thy wife [<i>etc.</i>&mdash;a mock
benediction.]</p>

<p>R.B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXV.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>24th September 1792</i>.

<p>I have this moment, my dear Madam, yours of the twenty-third.
All your other kind reproaches, your news, etc., are out of my
head when I read and think of Mrs. Henri's<a name=
"FNanchor126"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_126">[126]</a></sup>
situation. Good God! a heart-wounded helpless young woman&mdash;in a
strange, foreign land, and that land convulsed with every horror
that can harrow the human feelings&mdash;sick-looking, longing for a
comforter, but finding none&mdash;a mother's feelings, too:&mdash;but it
is too much: He who wounded (He only can) may He heal!</p>

<p>I wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisition to his
family.... I cannot say that I give Him joy of his life as a
farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, a
<i>cursed life!</i> As to a laird farming his own property;
sowing his own corn in hope; and reaping it, in spite of brittle
weather, in gladness; knowing that none can say unto him, "What
dost thou?"&mdash;fattening his herds; shearing his flocks; rejoicing
at Christmas; and begetting sons and daughters, until he be the
venerated, grey-haired leader of a little tribe&mdash;'tis a heavenly
life! but devil take the life of reaping the fruits that another
must eat!</p>

<p>Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing me when
I make my Ayrshire visit. I cannot leave Mrs. Burns until her
nine months' race is run, which may perhaps be in three or four
weeks. She, too, seems determined to make me the patriarchal
leader of a band. However, if Heaven will be so obliging as to
let me have them in the proportion of three boys to one girl, I
shall be so much the more pleased. I hope, if I am spared with
them, to show a set of boys that will do honour to my cares and
name; but I am not equal to the task of rearing girls. Besides, I
am too poor; a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, your
little godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very deil. He,
though two years younger, has completely mastered his brother.
Robert is indeed the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He
has a most surprising memory, and is quite the pride of his
schoolmaster.</p>

<p>You know how readily we get into prattle upon a subject dear
to our heart: you can excuse it. God bless you and yours!<br>
<a name="Footnote_126"></a><a href="#FNanchor126">[126]</a> Her
daughter, ill in France.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXVI.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

<i>Supposed to have been written on the Death of Mirs. Henri, her
daughter, at Muges.</i>

<p>I had been from home, and did not receive your letter until my
return the other day. What shall I say to comfort you, my
much-valued, much-afflicted friend! I can but grieve with you;
consolation I have none to offer, except that which religion
holds out to the children of affliction&mdash;<i>children of
affliction!</i>&mdash;how just the expression! and like every other
family, they have matters among them which they hear, see, and
feel in a serious, all-important manner, of which the world has
not, nor cares to have, any idea. The world looks indifferently
on, makes the passing remark, and proceeds to the next novel
occurrence.</p>

<p>Alas, Madam! who would wish for many years? What is it but to
drag existence until our joys gradually expire, and leave us in a
night of misery: like the gloom which blots out the stars, one by
one, from the face of night, and leaves us, without a ray of
comfort, in the howling waste!</p>

<p>I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon hear from
me again.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXVII.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>6th December 1792.</i>

<p>I shall be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; and, if at all
possible, I shall certainly, my much esteemed friend, have the
pleasure of visiting at Dunlop House.</p>

<p>Alas, Madam! how seldom do we meet in this world, that we have
reason to congratulate ourselves on accessions of happiness! I
have not passed half the ordinary term of an old man's life, and
yet I scarcely look over the obituary of a newspaper that I do
not see some names that I have known, and which I and other
acquaintances little thought to meet with there so soon. Every
other instance of the mortality of our kind makes us cast an
anxious look into the dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder
with apprehension for our own fate. But of how different an
importance are the lives of different individuals! Nay, of what
importance is one period of the same life more than another? A
few years ago I could have lain down in the dust, "careless of
the voice of the morning;" and now not a few, and these most
helpless individuals, would, on losing me and my exertions, lose
both "staff and shield." By the way, these helpless ones have
lately got an addition&mdash;Mrs. B. having given me a fine girl since
I wrote you. There is a charming passage in Thomson's" Edward and
Eleanora:"<br>
The valiant, <i>in himself</i> what can he suffer?<br>
Or what need he regard his <i>single</i> woes? (etc.)</p>

<p>I do not remember to have heard you mention Thomson's dramas.
I pick up favourite quotations, and store them in my mind as
ready armour, offensive or defensive, amid the struggle of this
turbulent existence. Of these is one, a very favourite one, from
his "Alfred:"<br>
Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds<br>
And offices of life; to life itself,<br>
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose.</p>

<p>Probably I have quoted these to you formerly, as indeed, when
I write from the heart, I am apt to be guilty of repetitions. The
compass of the heart, in the musical style of expression, is much
more bounded than that of the imagination; so the notes of the
former are extremely apt to run into one another; but in return
for the paucity of its compass, its few notes are much more
sweet....</p>

<p>I see you are in for double postage, so I shall e'en scribble
out t'other sheet. We in this country here have many alarms of
the reforming, or rather the republican spirit, of your part of
the kingdom. Indeed, we are a good deal in commotion ourselves.
For me, I am a placeman, you know; a very humble one indeed,
Heaven knows, but still so much as to gag me. What my private
sentiments are, you will find out without an interpreter.</p>

<p>I have taken up the subject, and the other day, for a pretty
actress's benefit night, I wrote an address, which I will give on
the other page, called "The Rights of Woman." I shall have the
honour of receiving your criticisms in person at Dunlop.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXVIII.&mdash;To MR. R. GRAHAM, FINTRY.</h4>

<i>December 1792.</i>

<p>Sir,&mdash;I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted, by
Mr. Mitchel, the collector, telling me that he has received an
order from your Board to inquire into my political conduct, and
blaming me as a person disaffected to government.</p>

<p>Sir, you are a husband&mdash;and a father. You know what you would
feel, to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your
helpless, prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world,
degraded and disgraced from a situation in which they had been
respectable and respected, and left almost without the necessary
support of a miserable existence. Alas, Sir! must I think that
such, soon, will be my lot! and from the damn'd, dark
insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too! I believe, Sir, I
may aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not
tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors,
if worse can be, than those I have mentioned, hung over my head;
and I say, that the allegation, whatever villain has made it, is
a lie! To the British Constitution, on revolution principles,
next after my God, I am most devoutly attached. You, Sir, have
been much and generously my friend: Heaven knows how warmly I
have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have thanked you.
Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent; has given
you patronage, and me dependence. I would not for my single self
call on your humanity; were such my insular, unconnected
situation, I would despise the tear that now swells in my eye&mdash;I
could brave misfortune, I could face ruin; for at the worst,
"Death's thousand doors stand open;" but, good God! the tender
concerns that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that I see at
this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve Courage, and
wither Resolution! To your patronage, as a man of some genius,
you have allowed me a claim; and your esteem, as an honest man, I
know is my due: to these, Sir, permit me to appeal; by these may
I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to
overwhelm me, and which, with my latest breath I will say it, I
have not deserved.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXIX.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>31st December 1792.</i>

<p>Dear Madam,&mdash;A hurry of business, thrown in heaps by my
absence, has until now prevented my returning my grateful
acknowledgments to the good family of Dunlop, and you in
particular, for that hospitable kindness which rendered the four
days I spent under that genial roof, four of the pleasantest I
ever enjoyed. Alas, my dearest friend! how few and fleeting are
those things we call pleasures! on my road to Ayrshire I spent a
night with a friend whom I much valued; a man whose days promised
to be many; and on Saturday last we laid him in the dust!</p>

<p><i>Jan. 2nd, 1793.</i></p>

<p>I have just received yours of the 30th, and feel much for your
situation. However, I heartily rejoice in your prospect of
recovery from that vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better,
though not quite free of my complaint. You must not think, as you
seem to insinuate, that in my way of life I want exercise. Of
that I have enough; but occasional hard drinking is the devil to
me. Against this I have again and again bent my resolution, and
have greatly succeeded. Taverns I have totally abandoned: it is
the private parties in the family way, among the hard-drinking
gentlemen of this country, that do me the mischief&mdash;but even this
I have more than half given over.</p>

<p>Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at present; at least
I should be shy of applying. I cannot possibly be settled as a
supervisor for several years. I must wait the rotation of the
list, and there are twenty names before mine. &mdash;I might indeed
get a job of officiating, where a settled supervisor was ill, or
aged; but that hauls me from my family, as I could not remove
them on such an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, malicious
devil has raised a little demur on my political principles, and I
wish to let that matter settle before I offer myself too much in
the eye of my supervisors. I have set, henceforth, a seal on my
lips, as to these unlucky politics; but to you I must breathe my
sentiments. In this, as in everything else, I shall show the
undisguised emotions of my soul. War I deprecate: misery and ruin
to thousands are in the blast that announces the destructive
demon. But....</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXX.&mdash;To MR. ROBERT GRAHAM OF FINTRY.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>Morning of 5th Jan.</i> 1793.

<p>Sir,&mdash;I am this moment honoured with your letter. With what
feelings I received this other instance of your goodness I shall
not pretend to describe.</p>

<p>Now to the charges which malice and misrepresentation have
brought against me.<a name="FNanchor127"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_127">[127]</a></sup> It has been said, it seems, that
I not only belong to, but head a disaffected party in this town.
I know of no party here, republican or reform, except an old
Burgh-Reform party, with which I never had anything to do.
Individuals, both republican and reform, we have, though not many
of either; but if they have associated, it is more than I have
the least knowledge of, and if such an association exist it must
consist of such obscure, nameless beings as precludes any
possibility of my being known to them, or they to me.</p>

<p>I was in the playhouse one night when <i>C&agrave; Ira</i> was
called for. I was in the middle of the pit, and from the pit the
clamour arose. One or two persons, with whom I occasionally
associate, were of the party, but I neither knew of, nor joined
in the plot, nor at all opened my lips to hiss or huzza that, or
any other political tune whatever. I looked on myself as far too
obscure a man to have any weight in quelling a riot, and at the
same time as a person of higher respectability than to yell to
the howlings of a rabble. I never uttered any invectives against
the king. His private worth it is altogether impossible that such
a man as I can appreciate; but in his public capacity I always
revered, and always will with the soundest loyalty revere the
monarch of Great Britain as&mdash;to speak in masonic&mdash;the sacred
keystone of our royal arch constitution. As to Reform principles,
I look upon the British Constitution, as settled at the
Revolution, to be the most glorious on earth, or that perhaps the
wit of man can frame; at the same time I think, not alone, that
we have a good deal deviated from the original principles of that
Constitution,&mdash;particularly, that an alarming system of
corruption has pervaded the connection between the Executive and
the House of Commons. This is the whole truth of my Reform
opinions, which, before I knew the complexion of these innovating
times, I too unguardedly as I now see sported with: henceforth I
seal up my lips. But I never dictated to, corresponded with, or
had the least connection with any political association whatever.
Of Johnstone, the publisher of the <i>Edinburgh Gazetteer</i>, I
know nothing. One evening, in company with four or five friends,
we met with his prospectus, which we thought manly and
independent; and I wrote to him, ordering his paper for us. If
you think I act improperly in allowing his paper to come
addressed to me, I shall immediately countermand it. I never
wrote a line of prose to <i>The Gazetteer</i> in my life. An
address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, and
which I called "The Rights of Woman," I sent to <i>The
Gazetteer</i>, as also some stanzas on the Commemoration of the
poet Thomson: both of these I will subjoin for your perusal. You
will see they have nothing whatever to do with politics.</p>

<p>As to France, I was her enthusiastic votary in the beginning
of the business. When she came to shew her old avidity for
conquest by annexing Savoy and invading the rights of Holland, I
altered my sentiments.</p>

<p>This, my honoured patron, is all. To this statement I
challenge disquisition. Mistaken prejudice or unguarded passion
may mislead, have often misled me; but when called on to answer
for my mistakes, though no man can feel keener compunction for
them, yet no man can be more superior to evasion or disguise.&mdash;I
have the honour to be, Sir, your ever grateful, etc.,</p>

<p>ROBT. BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_127"></a><a href="#FNanchor127">[127]</a>
Because of what Burns elsewhere called "Some temeraire conduct of
mine, in the political opinions of the day."</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXXI.&mdash;TO MR. ALEX. CUNNINGHAM, W.S., EDINBURGH.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>20th Feb</i>. 1793.

<p>What are you doing? What hurry have you got on your head, my
dear Cunningham, that I have not heard from you? Are you deeply
engaged in the mazes of the Jaw, the mysteries of love, or the
profound wisdom of <i>politics</i>? Curse on the word!</p>

<p><i>Q</i>. What is Politics?</p>

<p><i>A</i>. It is a science wherewith, by means of nefarious
cunning and hypocritical pretence, we govern civil politics (sic)
for the emolument of ourselves and adherents.</p>

<p>Q. What is a minister?</p>

<p>A. An unprincipled fellow who, by the influence of hereditary
or acquired wealth, by superior abilities or by a lucky
conjuncture of circumstances, obtains a principal place in the
administration of the affairs of government.</p>

<p>Q. What is a patriot?</p>

<p>A. An individual exactly of the same description as a
minister, only out of place.</p>

<p>I was interrupted in my Catechism, and am returned at a late
hour just to subscribe my name, and to put you in mind of the
forgotten friend of that name who is still in the land of the
living, though I can hardly say in the place of hope.</p>

<p>I made the enclosed sonnet<a name="FNanchor128"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_128">[128]</a></sup> the other day. Adieu!</p>

<p>ROBT. BURNS.<br>
<a name="Footnote_128"></a><a href="#FNanchor128">[128]</a> "On
Hearing a Thrush Sing."</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXXIL&mdash;To MR. CUNNINGHAM.</h4>

3rd March 1793.

<p>Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had
time to write to you farther. When I say that I had not time,
that, as usual, means that the three demons, indolence, business,
and ennui, have so completely shared my hours among them, as not
to leave me a five minutes' fragment to take up a pen in.</p>

<p>Thank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards with the
renovating year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson's
songs. I dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I must
own with too much appearance of truth...</p>

<p>There is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately
lost a valuable seal, a present from a departed friend, which
vexes me much. I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which
I fancy would make a very decent one; and I want to cut my
armorial bearing on it; will you be so obliging as inquire what
will be the expense of such a business? I do not know that my
name is matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all; but I have
invented arms for myself, so you know I shall be chief of the
name; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to
supporters. These, however, I do not intend having on my seal. I
am a bit of a herald, and shall give you, <i>secundum artem</i>,
my arms. On a field, azure, a holly bush, seeded, proper, in
base; a shepherd's pipe and crook, saltier-wise, also proper, in
chief. On a wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching on a
sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes; round the top
of the crest, <i>Wood notes wild</i>; at the bottom of the
shield, in the usual place, <i>Better a wee bush than nae
bield</i>. By the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the
nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a <i>Stock and Horn</i>, and
a <i>Club</i> such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in
Allan's quarto edition of the "Gentle Shepherd." By-the-bye, do
you know Allan? He must be a man of very great genius&mdash;Why is he
not more known?&mdash;Has he no patrons? or do "Poverty's cold wind
and crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him? I once, and but
once, got a glance of that noble edition of the noblest pastoral
in the world: and dear as it was, I mean dear as to my pocket, I
would have bought it; but I was told that it was printed and
engraved for subscribers only. He is the <i>only</i> artist who
has hit <i>genuine</i> pastoral <i>costume</i>. What, my dear
Cunningham, is there in riches, that they narrow and harden the
heart so? I think, that were I as rich as the sun, I should be as
generous as the day: but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a
nobler one than any other man's, I must conclude that wealth
imparts a bird-lime quality to the possessor, at which the man,
in his native poverty, would have revolted. What has led me to
this, is the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such
riches as a nabob or government contractor possesses, and why
they do not form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish
unprotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit
will richly repay it.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXXIII.&mdash;To Miss BENSON, YORK, AFTERWARDS MRS. BASIL
MONTAGU.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>21st March 1793.</i>

<p>Madam,&mdash;Among many things for which I envy those hale,
long-lived old fellows before the flood, is this in particular,
that when they met with anybody after their own heart, they had a
charming long prospect of many, many happy meetings with them in
after-life.</p>

<p>Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting
existence, when you now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents,
meet an individual whose acquaintance is a real acquisition,
there are all the probabilities against you, that you shall never
meet with that valued character more. On the other hand, brief as
this miserable being is, it is none of the least of the miseries
belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or
creature whom you despise, the ill-run of the chances shall be so
against you, that in the over takings, turnings, and jostlings of
life, pop! at some unlucky corner, eternally comes the wretch
upon you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt a
moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the powers of
darkness, I take these to be the doings of that old author of
mischief, the devil. It is well known that he has some kind of
short-hand way of taking down our thoughts, and I make no doubt
that he is perfectly acquainted with my sentiments respecting
Miss Benson; how much I admired her abilities and valued her
worth, and how very fortunate I thought myself in her
acquaintance. For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must
entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of meeting with you
again.&mdash;I am, etc.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXXIV.-To MR. JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, OF MAR.</h4>

DUMFRIES, 13th <i>April 1793</i>.

<p>Sir,&mdash;Degenerate as human nature is said to be&mdash;and in many
instances worthless and unprincipled it is&mdash;still there are
bright examples to the contrary: examples that, even in the eyes
of superior beings, must shed a lustre on the name of Man.</p>

<p>Such an example have I now before me, when you, Sir, came
forward to patronise and befriend a distant and obscure stranger,
merely because poverty had made him helpless, and his British
hardihood of mind had provoked the arbitrary of wantonness and
power. My much esteemed friend, Mr, Riddel of Glenriddel, has
just read me a paragraph of a letter he had from you. Accept,
Sir, of the silent throb of gratitude, for words would but mock
the emotions of my soul.</p>

<p>You have been misinformed as to my final dismissal from the
Excise; I am still in the service. Indeed, but for the exertions
of a gentleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham of Fintry, a
gentleman who has ever been my warm and generous friend, I had,
without so much as a hearing, or the slightest previous
intimation, been turned adrift, with my helpless family, to all
the horrors of want. Had I had any other resource, probably I
might have saved them the trouble of a dismissal; but the little
money I gained by my publication is almost every guinea embarked
to save from ruin an only brother, who, though one of the
worthiest, is by no means one of the most fortunate of men.</p>

<p>In my defence to their accusations, I said, that whatever
might be my sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to
Britain, I abjured the idea: That a constitution, which, in its
original principles, experience had proved to be every way fitted
for our happiness in society, it would be insanity to sacrifice
to an untried visionary theory: That, in consideration of my
being situated in a department, however humble, immediately in
the hands of people in power, I had forborne taking any active
part, either personally, or as an author, in the present business
of Reform: but that, where I must declare my sentiments, I would
say there existed a system of corruption between the executive
power and the representative part of the legislature, which boded
no good to our glorious constitution, and which every patriotic
Briton must wish to see amended. Some such sentiments as these I
stated in a letter to my generous patron, Mr. Graham, which he
laid before the Board at large; where, it seems, my last remark
gave great offence: and one of our supervisors-general, a Mr.
Corbet, was instructed to inquire on the spot, and to document
me&mdash;"that my business was to act, <i>not to think</i>; and that
whatever might be men or measures, it was for me to be
<i>silent</i> and <i>obedient</i>".</p>

<p>Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend; so between Mr.
Graham and him I have been partly forgiven; only I understand
that all hopes of my getting officially forward are blasted.</p>

<p>Now, Sir, to the business in which I would more immediately
interest you. The partiality of my countrymen has brought me
forward as a man of genius, and has given me a character to
support. In the Poet I have avowed manly and independent
sentiments, which I trust will be found in the man. Reasons of no
less weight than the support of a wife and family, have pointed
out as the eligible, and situated as I was, the only eligible
line of life for me, my present occupation. Still my honest fame
is my dearest concern; and a thousand times have I trembled at
the idea of those <i>degrading</i> epithets that malice or
misrepresentation may affix to my name. I have often, in blasting
anticipation, listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the
heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting in his hireling
paragraphs&mdash;"Burns, notwithstanding the <i>fanfaronade</i> of
independence to be found in his works, and after having been held
forth to public view and to public estimation as a man of some
genius, yet, quite destitute of resources within himself to
support his borrowed dignity, he dwindled into a paltry
exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence
in the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of mankind."</p>

<p>In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my
disavowal and defiance of these slanderous falsehoods. Burns was
a poor man from birth, and an exciseman by necessity; but&mdash;I will
say it! the sterling of his honest worth no poverty could debase,
and his independent British mind, oppression might bend, but
could not subdue. Have not I, to me a more precious stake in my
country's welfare, than the richest dukedom in it?&mdash;I have a
large family of children, and the prospect of more. I have three
sons, who, I see already, have brought into the world souls ill
qualified to inhabit the bodies of slaves.&mdash;Can I look tamely on,
and see any machinations to wrest from them the birthright of my
boys,&mdash;the little independent Britons, in whose veins runs my own
blood?&mdash;No! I will not! should my heart's blood stream around my
attempt to defend it!</p>

<p>Does any man tell me that my full efforts can be of no
service; and that it does not belong to my humble station to
meddle with the concerns of a nation?</p>

<p>I can tell him that it is on such individuals as I that a
nation has to rest, both for the hand of support and the eye of
intelligence. The uninformed mob may swell a nation's bulk; and
the titled, tinsel, courtly throng may be its feathered ornament;
but the number of those who are elevated enough in life to reason
and to reflect, yet low enough to keep clear of the venal
contagion of a court!&mdash;these are a nation's strength.</p>

<p>I know not how to apologise for the impertinent length of this
epistle; but one small request I must ask of you farther&mdash;When
you have honoured this letter with a perusal, please to commit it
to the flames. Burns, in whose behalf you have so generously
interested yourself, I have here, in his native colours, drawn as
he is; but should any of the people in whose hands is the very
bread he eats, get the least knowledge of the picture, it would
ruin the poor bard for ever!</p>

<p>My poems having just come out in another edition, I beg leave
to present you with a copy as a small mark of that high esteem
and ardent gratitude with which I have the honour to be, Sir,
your deeply indebted, and ever devoted, humble servant,</p>

<p>R. B.<a name="FNanchor129"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_129">[129]</a></sup><br>
<a name="Footnote_129"></a><a href="#FNanchor129">[129]</a> This
letter was penned in response to the sympathy which Mr. Erskine
had expressed for Burns in a letter to Captain Riddell of Carse,
when Burns was taken to task by the Board of Excise for his
political opinions.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXXV.&mdash;To MISS M'MORDO, DRUMLANRIG.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>Juy 1793.</i>

<p>... Now let me add a few wishes which every man, who has
himself the honour of being a father, must breathe when he sees
female youth, beauty, and innocence about to enter into this
chequered and very precarious world. May you, my young madam,
escape that frivolity which threatens universally to pervade the
minds and manners of fashionable life, The mob of fashionable
female youth&mdash;what are they? Are they anything? They prattle,
laugh, sing, dance, finger a lesson, or perhaps turn the pages of
a fashionable novel; but are their minds stored with any
information worthy of the noble powers of reason and judgment?
and do their hearts glow with sentiment, ardent, generous, or
humane? Were I to poetize on the subject I would call them the
butterflies of the human kind, remarkable only for the idle
variety of their ordinary glare, sillily straying from one
blossoming weed to another, without a meaning or an aim, the
idiot prey of every pirate of the skies who thinks them worth his
while as he wings his way by them, and speedily by wintry time
swept to that oblivion whence they might as well never have
appeared. Amid this crowd of nothings may you be something,
etc.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXXVI.&mdash;To JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ., DRUMLANRIG.</h4>

This is a painful, disagreeable letter, and the first of the kind
I ever wrote. I am truly in serious distress for three or four
guineas: can you, my dear sir, accommodate me? These accursed
times by tripping up importation have, for this year at least,
lopped off a full third of my income;<a name=
"FNanchor130"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_130">[130]</a></sup>
and with my large family this is to me a distressing matter.

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_130"></a><a href="#FNanchor130">[130]</a> Never
more than 70 UK pounds.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXXVII.&mdash;To MRS. RIDDEL.</h4>

Dear Madam,&mdash;I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I
edged up to your box-door, the first object which greeted my
view, was one of those lobster-coated puppies<a name=
"FNanchor131"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_131">[131]</a></sup>
sitting like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the
conditions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, I shall
certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of your
box-furniture on Tuesday; when we may arrange the business of the
visit.

<p>Among the profusion of idle compliments, which insidious
craft, or unmeaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine&mdash;a
shrine, how far exalted above such adoration&mdash;permit me, were it
but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest tribute of a warm
heart and an independent mind; and to assure you that I am, thou
most amiable, and most accomplished of thy sex, with the most
respectful esteem, and fervent regard, thine, etc.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_131"></a><a href="#FNanchor131">[131]</a>
Military officers.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXXVIII.&mdash;To MRS. RIDDEL.</h4>

I will wait on you, my ever valued friend, but whether in the
morning I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst
revenue business, and may probably keep me employed with my pen
until noon. Fine employment for a poet's pen! There is a species
of human genus that I call <i>the gin-horse class</i>: what
enviable dogs they are! Round, and round, and round they
go,&mdash;Mundell's ox, that drives his cotton mill, is their exact
prototype&mdash;without an idea or wish beyond their circle; fat,
sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented; while here I sit,
altogether Novemberish, a damn'd melange of fretfulness and
melancholy; not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of
the other to repose me in torpor; my soul flouncing and
fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the
horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am
persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he
foretold&mdash; "And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his
heart, it shall not prosper!" If my resentment is awaked, it is
sure to be where it dare not squeak; and if&mdash;....

<p>Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CLXXXIX.&mdash;To MRS. RIDDEL.</h4>

I have often told you, my dear friend, that you had a spice of
caprice in your composition, and you have as often disavowed it;
even perhaps while your opinions were, at the moment,
irrefragably proving it. Could any thing estrange me from a
friend such as you?&mdash;No! To-morrow I shall have the honour of
waiting on you.

<p>Farewell, thou first of friends, and most accomplished of
women I even with all thy little caprices!</p>

<p>R B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXC.&mdash;To MRS. RIDDEL.</h4>

Madam,&mdash;I return your commonplace book. I have perused it with
much pleasure, and would have continued my criticisms, but as it
seems the critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must
lose their value.

<p>If it is true that "offences come only from the heart," before
you I am guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you as the most
accomplished of women, and the first of friends&mdash;if these are
crimes, I am the most offending thing alive.</p>

<p>In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of
friendly confidence, <i>now</i> to find cold neglect and
contemptuous scorn&mdash;is a wrench that my heart can ill bear. It
is, however, some kind of miserable good luck, that while
<i>de-haut-en-bas</i> rigour may depress an unoffending wretch to
the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn something in
his bosom, which, though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul,
is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy.</p>

<p>With the profoundest respect for your abilities, the most
sincere esteem and ardent regard for your gentle heart and
amiable manners, and the most fervent wish and prayer for your
welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to be, Madam, your
most devoted humble servant.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXCI.&mdash;TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.</h4>

25<i>th February</i> 1794.

<p>Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace
and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one
friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next
surge may overwhelm her? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly
alive to the tortures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of
the rock that braves the blast? If thou canst not do the least of
these, why wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, with thy
inquiries after me?</p>

<p>For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My
constitution and frame were, <i>ab origine</i>, blasted with a
deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my existence.
Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary share
in the ruin of these cursed times; losses which, though trifling,
were yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my
feelings at times could only be envied by a reprobate spirit
listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition.</p>

<p>Are you deep in the language of consolation? I have exhausted
in reflection every topic of comfort. <i>A heart at ease</i>
would have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; but as
to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel; he
might melt and mould the hearts of those around him, but his own
kept its native incorrigibility.</p>

<p>Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the
wreck of misfortune and misery. The ONE is composed of the
different modifications of a certain noble, stubborn something in
a man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The
OTHER is made up of those feelings and sentiments, which, however
the sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are
yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human
soul; those <i>senses of the mind</i> if I may be allowed the
expression, which connect us with, and link us to, those awful
obscure realities&mdash;an all-powerful, and equally beneficent God;
and a world to come, beyond death and the grave. The first gives
the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field: the
last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which time can
never cure.</p>

<p>I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever
talked on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh
at it, as the trick of the crafty FEW, to lead the undiscerning
MANY; or at most, as an uncertain obscurity which mankind can
never know anything of, and with which they are fools if they
give themselves much to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for
his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a musical
ear, I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to
others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this
point of a view, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue
the mind of every child of mine with religion. If my son should
happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus
add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this
sweet little fellow, who is just now running about my desk, will
be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart; and an imagination,
delighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure
him wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales,
and enjoy the glowing luxuriance of the spring; himself the while
in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and
through nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift delighting
degrees, is rapt above this sublunary sphere until he can be
silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm of
Thomson,<br>
These, as they change, Almighty Father, these<br>
Are but the varied God. The rolling year<br>
Is full of thee.</p>

<p>And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn.
These are no ideal pleasures, they are real delights; and I ask,
what of the delights among the sons of men are superior, not to
say equal to them? And they have this precious, vast addition,
that conscious virtue stamps them for her own; and lays hold on
them to bring herself into the presence of a witnessing, judging,
and approving God.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXCII.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

CASTLE DOUGLAS, <i>25th June 1794.</i>

<p>Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by
myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may. Solitary
confinement, you know, is Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming
sinners; so let me consider by what fatality it happens, that I
have so long been exceeding sinful as to neglect the
correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. To tell
you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse enough,
though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the
follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying
gout; but I trust they are mistaken.</p>

<p>I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the
first sketch of a stanza I have been framing, as I passed along
the road. The subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend,
how dear the theme is to me. I design it an irregular ode for
General Washington's birth-day. After having mentioned the
degeneracy of other kingdoms I come to Scotland thus:</p>

<blockquote>Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,<br>
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,<br>
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;<br>
Where is that soul of freedom fled?<br>
Immingled with the mighty dead!<br>
Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies!<br>
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death;<br>
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep,<br>
Disturb ye not the hero's sleep.</blockquote>

<p><br>
You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or
two.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXCIII.&mdash;To MR. JAMES JOHNSON.</h4>

DUMFRIES, 1794.

<p>My Dear Friend,&mdash;You should have heard from me long ago; but
over and above some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of
these accursed times, I have all this winter been plagued with
low spirits and blue devils, so that <i>I have almost hung my
harp on the willow trees</i>.</p>

<p>I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and
this, with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment.</p>

<p>I send you by my friend, Mr. Wallace, forty-one songs for your
fifth volume; if we cannot finish it any other way, what would
you think of Scotch words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the
meantime, at your leisure, give a copy of the <i>Museum</i> to my
worthy friend, Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for me,
interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as he did the Laird of
Glenriddel's, that I may insert every anecdote I can learn,
together with my own criticisms and remarks on the songs. A copy
of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at
some after period, by way of making the <i>Museum</i> a book
famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever.</p>

<p>I have got a highland dirk, for which I have great veneration,
as it once was the dirk of <i>Lord Balmerino</i>. It fell into
bad hands, who stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as the
knife and fork. I have some thoughts of sending it to your care,
to get it mounted anew.&mdash;Yours, etc.,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXCIV.&mdash;To MR. PETER MILLER, JUN., OF DALSWINION.<a name=
"FNanchor131"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_131">[131]</a></sup></h4>

DUMFRIES, Nov. 1794.

<p>Dear Sir,&mdash;Your offer is indeed truly generous, and sincerely
do I thank you for it; but in my present situation, I find that I
dare not accept it. You well know my political sentiments; and
were I an insular individual, unconnected with a wife and a
family of children, with the most fervid enthusiasm I would have
volunteered my services; I then could and would have despised all
consequences that might have ensued.</p>

<p>My prospect in the Excise is something; at least, it is&mdash;
encumbered as I am with the welfare, the very existence, of near
half-a-score of helpless individuals&mdash;what I dare not sport
with.</p>

<p>In the meantime, they are most welcome to my Ode; only, let
them insert it as a thing they have met with by accident and
unknown to me. Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your
character of him, I cannot doubt, if he will give me an address
and channel by which anything will come safe from those spies
with which he may be certain that his correspondence is beset, I
will now and then send him any bagatelle that I may write. In the
present hurry of Europe, nothing but news and politics will be
regarded; but against the days of peace, which Heaven send soon,
my little assistance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a
newspaper. I have long had it in my head to try my hand in the
way of little prose essays, which I propose sending into the
world through the medium of some newspaper; and should these be
worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall be welcome; and all my
reward shall be, his treating me with his paper, which,
by-the-by, to anybody who has the least relish for wit, is a high
treat indeed.</p>

<p>With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, Dear Sir,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_131"></a><a href="#FNanchor131">[131]</a> He
had offered Burns a post on the staff of <i>The Morning
Chronicle</i>, of which newspaper Mr. Perry was proprietor.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXCV.&mdash;To MRS, RIDDEL</h4>

Madam,&mdash;I dare say that this is the first epistle you ever
received from this nether world. I write you from the regions of
hell, amid the horrors of the damn'd. The time and manner of my
leaving your earth I do not exactly know, as I took my departure
in the heat of a fever of intoxication, contracted at your too
hospitable mansion; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly tried,
and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal
confine for the space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and
twenty-nine days, and all on account of the impropriety of my
conduct yesternight under your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of
pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined on a pillow of
ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and
old, and cruel&mdash;his name I think is <i>Recollection</i>&mdash;with a
whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and
keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could in any
measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom
my conduct last night so much injured, I think it would be an
alleviation to my torments. For this reason I trouble you with
this letter. To the men of the company I will make no
apology.&mdash;Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I
chose, has no right to blame me, and the other gentlemen were
partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, I have much to
apologise. Your good opinion I valued as one of the greatest
acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to
forfeit it. There was a Miss I&mdash;-too, a woman of fine sense,
gentle and unassuming manners&mdash;do make, on my part, a miserable
damn'd wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs. G&mdash;, a charming
woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this
makes me hope that I have not outraged her beyond all
forgiveness.&mdash;To all the other ladies please present my humblest
contrition for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious
pardon. O all ye powers of decency and decorum! whisper to them
that my errors, though great, were involuntary&mdash;that an
intoxicated man is the vilest of beasts&mdash;that it was not in my
nature to be brutal to any one&mdash;that to be rude to a woman, when
in my senses, was impossible with me&mdash;but&mdash;

<p>Regret! Remorse! Shame! ye three hell hounds that ever dog my
steps and bay at my heels, spare me! spare me!</p>

<p>Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, Madam, your
humble slave,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXCVI.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

<i>15th December 1795.</i>

<p>My Dear Friend,&mdash;As I am in a complete Decemberish humour,
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the Deity of Dulness herself
could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy letter with a number of
heavier apologies for my late silence. Only one I shall mention,
because I know you will sympathise with it: these four months, a
sweet little girl, my youngest child, has been so ill, that every
day a week or less threatened to terminate her existence. There
had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband
and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I
cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties
frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks; me
and my exertions all their stay: and on what a brittle thread
does the life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of
fate! even in all the vigour of manhood as I am&mdash;such things
happen every day&mdash;Gracious God! what would become of my little
flock! 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. A father on
his deathbed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has
indeed woe enough; but the man of competent fortune leaves his
sons and daughters independency and friends; while I&mdash;but I shall
run distracted if I think any longer on the subject!</p>

<p>To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with
the old Scots ballad&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>O that I had ne'er been married,<br>
I would never had nae care;<br>
Now I've gotten wife and bairns,<br>
They cry crowdie evermair.

<p>Crowdie ance, crowdie twice:<br>
Crowdie three times in a day:<br>
An ye crowdie ony mair,<br>
Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.<br>
<i>25th, Christmas Morning.</i></p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes; accept
mine&mdash;so Heaven hear me as they are sincere! that blessings may
attend your steps, and affliction know you not! In the charming
words of my favourite author&mdash; "The Man of Feeling," "May the
Great Spirit bear up the weight of thy grey hairs, and blunt the
arrow that brings them rest!"</p>

<p>Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper? Is not the
"Task" a glorious poem? The religion of the "Task," bating a few
scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and
Nature; the religion that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you
to send me your <i>Zeluco</i> in return for mine? Tell me how you
like my marks and notes through the book. I would not give a
farthing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot it with my
criticisms.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXCVII.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>2Oth December 1795.</i>

<p>I have been prodigiously disappointed in this London journey
of yours.... Do let me hear from you the soonest possible. As I
hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Miller, I shall, every
leisure hour, take up the pen and gossip away whatever comes
first, prose or poetry, sermon or song. In this last article I
have abounded of late. I have often mentioned to you a superb
publication of Scottish songs, which is making its appearance in
our great metropolis, and where I have the honour to preside over
the Scottish verse, as no less a personage than Peter Pindar does
over the English.</p>

<p><i>December 29th.</i></p>

<p>Since I began this letter, I have been appointed to act in the
capacity of supervisor here, and I assure you, what with the load
of business, and what with that business being new to me, I could
scarcely have commanded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had
you been in town, much less to have written you an epistle. This
appointment is only temporary, and during the illness of the
present incumbent; but I look forward to an early period when I
shall be appointed in full form: a consummation devoutly to be
wished! My political sins seem to be forgiven me.</p>

<p>This is the season (New Year's day is now my date) of wishing,
and mine are most fervently offered up for you! May life to you
be a positive blessing while it lasts, for your own sake; and
that it may yet be greatly prolonged is my wish for my own sake,
and for the sake of the rest of your friends! What a transient
business is life! Very lately I was a boy; but t'other day I was
a young man; and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and
stiffening joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. With all
my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few vices of manhood, still I
congratulate myself on having had in early days religion strongly
impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one as to
which sect he belongs to, or what creed he believes: but I look
on the man who is firmly persuaded of infinite Wisdom and
Goodness superintending and directing every circumstance that can
happen in his lot&mdash;I felicitate such a man for having a solid
foundation for his mental enjoyment; a firm prop and sure stay,
in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress; and a
never-failing anchor of hope when he looks beyond the grave.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXVIII.&mdash;To THE HON, THE PROVOST, ETC., OF DUMFRIES.</h4>

Gentlemen,&mdash;The literary taste, and liberal spirit, of your good
town has so ably filled the various departments of your schools,
as to make it a very great object for a parent to have his
children educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, with my
large family, and very stinted income, to give my young ones the
education I wish, at the high-school fees which a stranger pays,
will bear hard upon me.

<p>Some years ago, your good town did me the honour of making me
an honorary Burgess. Will you allow me to request that this mark
of distinction may extend so far, as to put me on a footing of a
real freeman of the town, in the schools?</p>

<p>If you are so very kind as to grant my request, it will
certainly be a constant incentive to me to strain every nerve
where I can officially serve you; and will, if possible, increase
that grateful respect with which I have the honour to be,
Gentlemen, your devoted humble servant,</p>

<p>R. B.<a name="FNanchor132"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_132">[132]</a></sup><br>
<a name="Footnote_132"></a><a href="#FNanchor132">[132]</a> With
the Poet's request the Magistiates of Dumfries very handsomely
complied. He was induced to make the request through the
persuasions of Mr. James Gray and Mr. Thomas White, Masters of
the Grammar School, Dumfries whose memories are still green on
the banks of the Nith.&mdash;CUNNINGHAM.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CXCIX.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.<a name="FNanchor133"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_133">[133]</a></sup></h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>3lst January 1796.</i>

<p>These many months you have been two packets in my debt&mdash;what
sin of ignorance I have committed against so highly valued a
friend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas! Madam, ill can I
afford, at this time, to be deprived of any of the small remnant
of my pleasures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of
affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling
child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it
out of my power to pay the last duties to her. <a name=
"t[133a]"></a><sup><a href="#[133a]">[133a]</a></sup> I had
scarcely begun to recover from that shock, when I became myself
the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die
spun doubtful; until after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to
have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room,
and once indeed have been before my own door in the street.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_133"></a><a href="#FNanchor133">[133]</a>
Cunningham says&mdash;"It seems all but certain that Mrs. Dunlop
regarded the Poet with some little displeasure during the evening
of his days."<br>
<a name="[133a]"></a><a href="#t[133a]">[133a]</a>This child died
at Mauchline.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CC.&mdash;To MR. JAMES JOHNSON.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>4th July 1796.</i>

<p>How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth
volume?<a name="FNanchor134"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_134">[134]</a></sup> You may probably think that for
some time past I have neglected you and your work; but, alas! the
hand of pain, and sorrow, and care has these many months lain
heavy on me! Personal and domestic affliction have almost
entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to woo
the rural muse of Scotia.</p>

<p>You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right
to live in this world&mdash;because you deserve it. Many a merry
meeting this publication has given us, and possibly it may give
us more, though, alas! I fear it. This protracting, slow,
consuming illness which hangs over me will, I doubt much, my dear
friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his middle
career, and will turn over the poet to far more important
concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit, or the pathos of
sentiment! However, hope is the cordial of the human heart, and I
endeavour to cherish it as well as I can.</p>

<p>I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have
been so very good already; but my wife has a very particular
friend, a young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to
present the <i>Scots Musical Museum</i>. If you have a spare
copy, will you be so obliging as to send it by the very first
fly, as I am anxious to have it soon.&mdash;Yours ever,</p>

<p>R. B.<a name="FNanchor135"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_135">[135]</a></sup><br>
<a name="Footnote_134"></a><a href="#FNanchor134">[134]</a> Of
the <i>Musical Museum</i>.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_135"></a><a href="#FNanchor135">[135]</a>
"In this humble manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work to
which he had contributed, gratuitously, not less than 184
original, altered, and collected songs!"&mdash;CROMEK.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CCI&mdash;TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.</h4>

BROW, <i>Sea-bathing quarters, 7th July</i> 1796.

<p>My Dear Cunningham,&mdash;I received yours here this moment, and am
indeed highly flattered with the approbation of the literary
circle you mention; a literary circle inferior to none in the two
kingdoms. Alas! my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon
be heard among you no more! For these eight or ten months I have
been ailing, sometimes bedfast and sometimes not; but these last
three months I have been tortured with an excruciating
rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You
actually would not know me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so
feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair&mdash;my spirits
fled! fled!&mdash;but I can no more on the subject&mdash;only the medical
folks tell me that my last and only chance is bathing and country
quarters, and riding. The deuce of the matter is this&mdash;when an
exciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced to &pound;35 instead
of &pound;50. What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain
myself, and keep a horse in country quarters, with a wife and
five children at home, on 35 pounds? I mention this, because I
had intended to beg your utmost interest, and that of all the
friends you can muster, to move our Commissioners of Excise to
grant me the full salary; I dare say you know them all
personally. If they do not grant it me, I must lay my account
with an exit truly <i>en poete</i>; if I die not of disease, I
must perish with hunger.<a name="FNanchor136"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_136">[136]</a></sup></p>

<p>I have sent you one of the songs; the other my memory does not
serve me with, and I have no copy here, but I shall be at home
soon, when I will send it you. Apropos to being at home, Mrs.
Burns threatens in a week or two to add one more to my paternal
charge, which, if of the right gender, I intend shall be
introduced to the world by the respectable designation of
<i>Alexander Cunningham Burns</i>. My last was <i>James
Glencairn</i>, so you can have no objection to the company of
nobility. Farewell.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_136"></a><a href="#FNanchor136">[136]</a>
<i>Not</i> granted.</p>

<hr>
<h4>CCII.&mdash;To MR. GILBERT BURNS.</h4>

<i>10th July 1795.</i>

<p>Dear Brother,&mdash;It will be no very pleasing news to you to be
told that I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An
inveterate rheumatism has reduced me to such a state of debility,
and my appetite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely stand on
my legs. I have been a week at sea-bathing, and will continue
there, or in a friend's house in the country, all the summer. God
keep my wife and children; if I am taken from their head, they
will be poor indeed. I have contracted one or two serious debts,
partly from my illness these many months, partly from too much
thoughtlessness as to expense when I came to town, that will cut
in too much on the little I leave them in your hands. Remember me
to my mother.&mdash;Yours,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CCIII.&mdash;To MRS. BURNS.<a name="FNanchor137"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_137">[137]</a></sup></h4>

<p><br>
BROW, <i>Thursday.</i></p>

<p>My Dearest Love,&mdash;I delayed writing until I could tell you
what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would be
injustice to deny that it has eased my pains, and I think has
strengthened me; but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh
nor fish can I swallow: porridge and milk are the only things I
can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you
are all well. My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to
all the children. I will see you on Sunday.&mdash;Your affectionate
husband,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_137"></a><a href="#FNanchor137">[137]</a> One
evening, while at the Brow, Burns was visited by  two young
ladies. The sun, setting on the western hills, threw a strong
light upon him through the window. One of them perceiving this,
proceeded to draw the curtain; "Let me look at the sun, my dear,"
said the sinking poet, "he will not long shine on me."</p>

<hr>
<h4>CCIV.&mdash;To MRS. DUNLOP.</h4>

BROW, <i>Saturday, 12th July 1796.</i>

<p>Madam,&mdash;I have written you so often, without receiving any
answer, that I would not trouble you again, but for the
circumstances in which I am. An illness which has long hung about
me, in all probability will speedily send me beyond that bourne
whence no traveller returns. Your friendship, with which for many
years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your
conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once
highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did I use
to break up the seal! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to
my poor palpitating heart. Farewell!!!</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CCV.&mdash;To MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>12th July.</i>

<p>MY DEAR COUSIN,&mdash;When you offered me money assistance, little
did I think I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher,
to whom I owe a considerable bill, taking it into his head that I
am dying, has commenced a process against me, and will infallibly
put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to
accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds? O
James, did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly
for me! Alas! I am not used to beg! The worst of it is, my health
was coming about finely. Melancholy and low spirits are half my
disease. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, quite well in
a manner.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>CCVI.&mdash;To HIS FATHER-IN-LAW, JAMES ARMOUR, MASON,
MAUCHLINE.<a name="FNanchor138"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_138">[138]</a></sup></h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>18th July 1799.</i>

<p>MY DEAR SIR,&mdash;Do, for heaven's sake, send Mrs. Armour here
immediately. My wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed. Good
God! what a situation for her to be in, poor girl, without a
friend! I returned from sea-bathing quarters to-day, and my
medical friends would almost persuade me that I am better, but I
think and feel that my strength is so gone that the disorder will
prove fatal to me.&mdash;Your son-in-law,</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_138"></a><a href="#FNanchor138">[138]</a> Mrs.
Burns's father. This is the very last of Burns's compositions,
being written only three days before his death.</p>

<hr>
<h2><a name="thoms"></a><a href="#tthom">THE THOMSON
LETTERS.</a></h2>

<h3>PREFATORY NOTE.</h3>

This correspondence began in September 1792, when Burns had
already been domiciled nine months in the town of Dumfries, and
ended only with his death in July 1796. It originated in the
request of a stranger for a series of songs to suit a projected
collection of the best Scottish airs. The stranger was George
Thomson, a young man of about Burns's own age, and head clerk in
the office of the Board of Manufactures in Edinburgh. Thomson
outlived his great correspondent by more than half a century. He
died so recently as 1851, at the advanced age of ninety-two.
Robert Chambers has described him as a most honourable man, of
singularly amiable character and cheerful manners. It may
interest some people to know that his granddaughter was the wife
of Dickens, the famous novelist.

<h3>THE THOMSON LETTER.</h3>

<h4>I.</h4>

DUMFRIES, <i>16th September 1792.</i>

<p>Sir,&mdash;I have just this moment got your letter. As the request
you make to me will positively add to my enjoyments in complying
with it, I shall enter into your undertaking with all the small
portion of abilities I have, strained to their utmost exertion by
the impulse of enthusiasm. Only, don't hurry me. "Deil tak the
hindmost" is by no means the <i>crie de guerre</i> of my muse.
Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in enthusiastic
attachment to the poetry and music of old Caledonia, and, since
you request it, have cheerfully promised my mite of
assistance&mdash;will you let me have a list of your airs, with the
first line of the printed verses you intend for them, that I may
have an opportunity of suggesting any alteration that may occur
to me? You know 'tis in the way of my trade; still leaving you,
gentlemen,<a name="FNanchor139"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_139">[139]</a></sup> the undoubted rights of
publishers, to approve or reject at your pleasure, for your own
publication. <i>Apropos</i> if you are for <i>English</i> verses,
there is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the
simplicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only
hope to please myself in being allowed at least a sprinkling of
our native tongue. English verses, particularly the works of
Scotsmen, that have merit, are certainly very eligible.
"Tweedside;" "Ah! the Poor Shepherd's Mournful Fate;" "Ah!
Chloris, could I now but sit," etc., you cannot mend; but such
insipid stuff as "To Fanny fair, could I impart," etc., usually
set to "The Mill, Mill, O," is a disgrace to the collections in
which it has already appeared, and would doubly disgrace a
collection that will have the very superior merit of yours. But
more of this in the farther prosecution of the business, if I am
to be called on for my strictures and amendments&mdash;I say,
amendments; for I will not alter, accept where I myself, at
least, think that I amend.</p>

<p>As to any renumeration, you may think my songs either above or
below price; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other.
In the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking,
to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, etc., would be downright
sodomy of soul! A proof of each of the songs that I compose or
amend I shall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the
season, "Gude speed the wark!"&mdash;I am, Sir, your very humble
servant,</p>

<p>R. BURNS.</p>

<p>P.S.&mdash;I have some particular reasons for wishing my
interference to be known as little as possible.<br>
<a name="Footnote_139"></a><a href="#FNanchor139">[139]</a>
Thomson in his letter spoke of coadjutors, but in less than a
year he became sole editor of the collection.</p>

<hr>
<h4>II.</h4>

My Dear Sir,&mdash;Let me tell you that you are too fastidious in your
ideas of songs and ballads. I own that your criticisms are just;
the songs you specify in your list have, <i>all but one</i>, the
faults you remark in them; but how shall we mend the matter? Who
shall rise up and say&mdash;Go to, I will make a better? For
instance, on reading over "The Lea-rig," I immediately set about
trying my hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing more
of it than the following, which, Heaven knows, is poor enough:&mdash;

<blockquote>When o'er the hill the eastern star<br>
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, (etc.)</blockquote>

<p><br>
Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's ballad to the
air, "Nannie O," is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most
beautiful ballad in the English language. But let me remark to
you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs there
is a pastoral simplicity, a something that one may call the Doric
style and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native
tongue and manners is particularly, nay, peculiarly apposite. For
this reason, and upon my honour, for this reason alone, I am of
opinion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is yours, freely
yours to approve or reject as you please) that my ballad of
"Nannie, O", might perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune.
Now don't let it enter into your head that you are under any
necessity of taking my verses. I have long ago made up my mind as
to my own reputation in the business of authorship; and have
nothing to be pleased or offended at, in your adoption or
rejection of my verses. Though you should reject one half of what
I give you, I shall be pleased with your adopting the other half,
and shall continue to serve you with the same assiduity.</p>

<p>In the printed copy of my "Nannie, O", the name of the river
is horridly prosaic. I will alter it,</p>

<p>Behind yon hills where <i>Lugar</i> flows.</p>

<p>Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the
stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of
syllables.</p>

<p>I will soon give you a great many more remarks on this
business; but I have just now an opportunity of conveying you
this scrawl, free of postage, an expense that it is ill able to
pay; so, with my best compliments to honest Allan,<a name=
"FNanchor140"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_140">[140]</a></sup>
goodbye to ye.</p>

<p><i>Friday night.</i><br>
<i>Saturday morning.</i></p>

<p>As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning before my
conveyance goes away, I will give you "Nannie, O", at length.</p>

<p>Your remarks on "Ewe-bughts, Marion", are just; still it has
obtained a place among our more classical Scottish songs; and
what with many beauties in its composition, and more prejudices
in its favour, you will not find it easy to supplant it.</p>

<p>In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the
West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is
quite trifling, and has nothing of the merits of "Ewe-bughts",
but it will fill up this page. You must know that all my earlier
love-songs were the breathings of ardent passion, and though it
might have been easy in after-times to have given them a polish,
yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps alone
cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which
was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity
was, as they say of wines, their <i>race</i>.</p>

<p>Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, (etc.)</p>

<p>"Gala Water," and "Auld Rob Morris," I think, will most
probably be the next subject of my musings. However, even on
<i>my verses</i>, speak out your criticisms with equal frankness.
My wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying bigot of
<i>opini&acirc;tret&egrave;</i>, but cordially to join issue with
you in the furtherance of the work. Gude speed the wark!</p>

<p>Amen.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_140"></a><a href="#FNanchor140">[140]</a>
David Allan, the artist.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>III.</h4>

<i>November</i> 8<i>th</i>, 1792,

<p>If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your
collection shall be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid you
will find more difficulty in the undertaking than you are aware
of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a
necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or what I would
call the <i>feature-notes</i> of the tune, that cramp the poet,
and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance,
in the air, "My Wife's a wanton wee Thing", if a few lines,
smooth and pretty, can be adapted to it, it is all you can
expect. The enclosed were made extempore to it; and though, on
farther study, I might give you something more profound, yet it
might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this
random clink.</p>

<p>I have just been looking over the "Collier's bonny Dochter",
and if the enclosed rhapsody which I composed the day, on a
charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Baillie, as she passed through this
place to England, will suit your taste better than the "Collier
Lassie", fall on and welcome.</p>

<p>I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs
until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve a greater
effort. However, they are all put into your hands, as clay into
the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to honour, and
another to dishonour. Farewell, etc.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>IV.</h4>

Inclosing "Highland Mary".&mdash;Tune&mdash;<i>Katharine Ogie</i>.

<p>Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, (etc.)</p>

<p>14<i>th November</i> 1792.</p>

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;I agree with you, that the song "Katharine
Ogie", is very poor stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of
so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it; but the awkward sound
"Ogie," recurring in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at
introducing sentiment into the piece. The foregoing song pleases
myself; I think it is in my happiest manner; you will see at the
first glance that it suits the air. The subject of the song is
one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days; and I
own that I should be much flattered to see the verses set to an
air which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all,'tis the
still glowing prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre
over the merits of the composition.</p>

<p>I have partly taken your idea of "Auld Rob Morris". I have
adopted the two first verses, and am going on with the song on a
new plan, which promises pretty well. I take up one or another,
just as the bee of the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug; and do
you, <i>sans ceremonie</i>, make what use you choose of the
productions. Adieu! etc.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>V.</h4>

26<i>th January</i> 1793.

<p>I approve greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie's
essay will of itself be a treasure. On my part, I mean to draw up
an appendix to the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of
anecdotes, etc., of our Scots songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's
anecdotes I have by me, taken down in the course of my
acquaintance with him, from his own mouth. I am such an
enthusiast, that in the course of my several peregrinations
through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from
which every song took its rise, Lochaber and the Braes of
Ballendean excepted. So far as locality, either from the title of
the air, or the tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I have
paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scots
Muse.</p>

<p>I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection
of Jacobite songs&mdash;but would it give no offence? In the meantime,
do not you think that some of them, particularly "The Sow's Tail
to Geordie", as an air, with other words, might be well worth a
place in your collection of lively songs?</p>

<p>If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be
proper to have one set of Scots words to every air, and that the
set of words to which the notes ought to be set. There is a
<i>na&iuml;vet&egrave;</i>, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight
intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in
unison (at least to my taste, and, I will add, to every genuine
Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness
of our native music, than any English verses whatever.</p>

<p>The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work.
His "Gregory" is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of
stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your service.
Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter; that would be
presumption indeed. My song, though much inferior in poetic
merit, has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it.<br>
LORD GREGORY.<br>
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, (etc.)</p>

<p>Your remark on the first stanza of my "Highland Mary" is just,
but I cannot alter it, without injuring the poetry.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>VI.</h4>

<i>20th March 1793.</i>

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;The song prefixed ("Mary Morison") is one of my
juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I do not think it very
remarkable, either for its merits or demerits. It is impossible
(at least I feel it so in my stinted powers) to be always
original, entertaining, and witty.</p>

<p>What is become of the list, etc., of your songs? I shall be
out of all temper with you by and by. I have always looked on
myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, and valued
myself accordingly; and I will not, cannot bear rivalship from
you, nor anybody else.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>VII.</h4>

<i>7th April 1793.</i>

<p>Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine
how much this business of composing for your publication has
added to my enjoyments. What, with my early attachment to
ballads, your book, etc., ballad-making is now as completely my
hobby-horse as ever fortification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en
canter it away till I come to the limit of my race (God grant
that I may take the right side of the winning-post!) and then
cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have been
happy, I shall say, or sing, "Sae merry as we a' hae been" and
raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of
the voice of Coila shall be, "Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!"
So much for my last words; now for a few present remarks as they
have occurred at random, on looking over your list.</p>

<p>The first lines of "The last time I came o'er the Moor", and
several other lines in it, are beautiful; but in my
opinion&mdash;pardon me, revered shade of Ramsay!&mdash;the song is
unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to <i>make</i> or
<i>mend</i>. "For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove," is a charming
song; but "Logan Burn and Logan Braes" are sweetly susceptible of
rural imagery; I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, the
other song may class among the English ones. I remember the two
last lines of a verse in some of the old songs of "Logan Water"
(for I know a good many different ones), which I think
pretty&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>Now my dear lad maun face his faes,<br>
Far, far frae me, and Logan braes.</blockquote>

<p><br>
"My Patie is a lover gay", is unequal. "His mind is never muddy,"
is a muddy expression indeed.</p>

<blockquote>Then I'll resign and marry Pate,<br>
And syne my cockernony&mdash;</blockquote>

<p><br>
This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song,
"Rigs of Barley", to the same tune, does not altogether please
me; but if I can mend it, and thresh a few loose sentiments out
of it, I will submit it to your consideration. The "Lass o'
Patie's Mill" is one of Ramsay's best songs; but there is one
loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued friend, Mr. Erskine,
will take into his critical consideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's
statistical volumes are two claims, one I think, from
Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, for the honour of
this song. The following anecdote, which I had from the present
Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it of the late
John, Earl of Loudon, I can on such authorities believe.</p>

<p>Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl,
father to Earl John; and one forenoon, riding or walking out
together, his lordship and Allan passed a sweet romantic spot on
Irwine water, still called "Patie's Mill," where a bonnie lass
was "tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." My lord observed to
Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a song, Ramsay took the
hint, and lingering behind, he composed the first sketch of it,
which he produced at dinner.</p>

<p>"One day I heard Mary say," is a fine song; but for
consistency's sake, alter the name "Adonis." Was there ever such
banns published, as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and
Mary? I agree with you that my song, "There's nought but care on
every hand," is much superior to "Poortith Cauld." The original
song, "The Mill, Mill, O," though excellent, is, on account of
delicacy, inadmissible; still I like the title, and think a
Scottish song would suit the notes best; and let your chosen
song, which is very pretty, follow, as an English set. The "Banks
of Dee" is, you know, literally "Langolee" to slow time. The song
is well enough, but has some false imagery in it, for
instance,</p>

<p>And sweetly the nightingale sung from the <i>tree</i>.</p>

<p>In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but
never from a tree; and in the second place, there never was a
nightingale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the
banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is
always comparatively flat. If I could hit on another stanza equal
to "The small birds rejoice," etc., I do myself honestly avow
that I think it a superior song. "John Anderson, my jo"&mdash;the song
to this tune in Johnson's <i>Museum</i> is my composition, and I
think it not my worst: if it suit you, take it and welcome. Your
collection of sentimental and pathetic songs is, in my opinion,
very complete; but not so your comic ones. Where are
"Tullochgorum," "Lumps o' Puddin'," "Tibbie Fowler," and several
others, which, in my humble judgment, are well worthy of
preservation? There is also one sentimental song of mine in the
<i>Museum</i>, which never was known out of the immediate
neighbourhood, until I got it taken down from a country girl's
singing. It is called "Craigie-burn Wood;" and in the opinion of
Mr. Clarke is one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an
enthusiast about it; and I would take his taste in Scottish music
against the taste of most connoisseurs.</p>

<p>You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list,
though they are certainly Irish. "Shepherds, I have lost my
love," is to me a heavenly air&mdash;what would you think of a set of
Scottish verses to it? I have made one a good while ago, which I
think is the best love song<a name="FNanchor141"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_141">[141]</a></sup> I ever composed in my life;
but in its original state it is not quite a lady's song. I
enclose an altered, not amended copy for you, if you choose to
set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow.</p>

<p>Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his "Lone Vale" is
divine.&mdash;Yours, etc.</p>

<p>Let me know just how you like these random hints.<br>
<a name="Footnote_141"></a><a href="#FNanchor141">[141]</a>
"Yestreen I had a pint o' wine."</p>

<hr>
<h4>VIII.</h4>

<i>April 1793.</i>

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;I own my vanity is flattered when you give my
songs a place in your elegant and superb work; but to be of
service to the work is my first wish. As I have often told you, I
do not in a single instance wish you, out of compliment to me, to
insert anything of mine. One hint let me give you&mdash;whatever Mr.
Peyel does, let him not alter one <i>iota</i> of the original
Scottish airs; I mean in the song department; but let our
national music preserve its native features. They are, I own,
frequently wild, and irreducible to the more modern rules; but on
that very eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their
effect.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>IX.</h4>

<i>June</i> 1793.

<p>When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine, in whom I
am much interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed
times, you will easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing
any good among ballads. My own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is
trifling; but the total ruin of a much-loved friend is a loss
indeed. Pardon my seeming inattention to your last commands.</p>

<p>I cannot alter the disputed lines in the "Mill, Mill, O."<a
name="FNanchor142"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_142">[142]</a></sup> What you think a defect I esteem
as a positive beauty; so you see how doctors differ. I shall now,
with as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with your
commands.</p>

<p>You know Frazer, the hautboy player in Edinburgh&mdash;he is here
instructing a band of music for a fencible corps quartered in
this country. Among many of the airs that please me, there is one
well known as a reel, by the name of "The Quaker's Wife"; and
which I remember a grand-aunt of mine used to sing, by the name
of "Liggeram Cosh, my bonnie wee lass". Mr. Frazer plays it slow,
and with an expression that quite charms me. I became such an
enthusiast about it that I made a song for it, which I here
subjoin, and inclose Frazer's set of the tune. If they hit your
fancy, they are at your service; if not, return me the tune, and
I will put it in Johnson's <i>Museum</i>. I think the song is not
in my worst manner.</p>

<p>Blithe hae I been on yon hill, (etc.)</p>

<p>I should wish to hear how this pleases you.<br>
<a name="Footnote_142"></a><a href="#FNanchor142">[142]</a> The
lines were the third and fourth&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,<br>
And mony a widow mourning.</blockquote>

<hr>
<h4>X.</h4>

June 25th 1793.

<p>Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst
with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide
kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations
waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still
more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day I
recollected the air of "Logan Water;" and it occurred to me that
its querulous melody probably had its origin from the plaintive
indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at the
tyrannic strides of some public destroyer, and overwhelmed with
private distress, the consequence of a country's ruin. If I have
done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following
song, composed in three quarters of an hour's meditation in my
elbow-chair, ought to have some merit.</p>

<p>[Here follows "Logan Water."]</p>

<p>Do you know the following beautiful little fragment in
Witherspoon's <i>Collection of Scots Songs</i>?</p>

<blockquote>Air&mdash;<i>Hughie Graham.</i><br>
O gin my love were yon red rose,<br>
That grows upon the castle wa',<br>
And I mysel' a drap o' dew<br>
Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

<p>Oh, there beyond expression blest,<br>
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;<br>
Seal'd on her silk saft faulds to rest,<br>
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus light.</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
This thought is inexpressibly beautiful; and quite, so far as I
know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear
you altogether, unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to
eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a
musing five minutes, on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I
produced the following. The verses are far inferior to the
foregoing, I frankly confess; but if worthy of insertion at all,
they might be first in place; as every poet, who knows anything
of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding
stroke.</p>

<blockquote>O were my love yon lilac fair,<br>
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;<br>
And I a bird to shelter there,<br>
When wearied on my little wing;

<p>How I wad mourn, when it was torn<br>
By autumn wild, and winter rude!<br>
But I wad sing on wanton wing,<br>
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.</p>
</blockquote>

<hr>
<h4>XI.</h4>

<i>July</i> 1793.

<p>I assure you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with your
pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to
return it would savour of affectation; but as to any more traffic
of that debtor or creditor kind, I swear by that HONOUR which
crowns the upright statue of ROBERT BURNS'S INTEGRITY&mdash;on the
least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the by&mdash;past
transaction, and from that moment commence entire stranger to
you! BURNS'S character for generosity of sentiment and
independence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his
wants, which the cold, unfeeling ore can supply: at least, I will
take care that such a character he shall deserve.</p>

<p>Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes
behold, in any musical work, such elegance and correctness. Your
preface, too, is admirably written; only, your partiality to me
has made you say too much: however, it will bind me down to
double every eifort in the future progress of the work. The
following are a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent me.
I never copy what I write to you, so I may be often tautological,
or perhaps contradictory.</p>

<p>"The Flowers of the Forest" is charming as a poem; and should
be, and must be, set to the notes; but, though out of your rule,
the three stanzas, beginning,<br>
I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling,</p>

<p>are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalise the author
of them, who is an old lady[143] of my acquaintance, and at this
moment living in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn; I forget of
what place; but from Roxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe
is</p>

<blockquote>O fickle Fortune, why this cruel sporting,<br>
Why, why torment us&mdash;<i>poor sons of a day</i>!</blockquote>

<p><br>
The old ballad, "I wish I were where Helen lies," is silly, to
contemptibility. My alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much
better.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_142"></a><a href="#FNanchor142">[142]</a>
<i>Nee</i> Rutherford, of Selkirkshire. She was then 81 years
old.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XII.</h4>

<i>August</i> 1793.

<p>That tune, "Cauld Kail," is such a favourite of yours, that I
once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the muses;
when the muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather my
old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following. I
have two reasons for thinking that it was my early, sweet, simple
inspirer that was by my elbow, "smooth gliding without step," and
pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I
left Coila's haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer
her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her; so I more
than suspect she has followed me hither, or at least makes me
occasional visits; secondly, the last stanza of this song I send
you is the very words that Coila taught me many years ago, and
which I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson's <i>Museum</i>.</p>

<p>Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than
in all the year else. God bless you.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XIII.</h4>

<i>Sept</i>. 1793.

<p>You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any exertion in my
power is heartily at your service. But one thing I must hint to
you; the very name of Peter Finder is of great service to your
publication, so get a verse from him now and then; though I have
no objection, as well as I can, to bear the burden of the
business.</p>

<p>You know that my pretensions to musical taste are merely a few
of nature's instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this
reason, many musical compositions, particularly where much of the
merit lies in counterpoint, however they may transport and ravish
the ears of your connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise
than merely as melodious din. On the other hand, by way of
amends, I am delighted with many little melodies which the
learned musician despises as silly and insipid. I do not know
whether the old air "Hey tuttie taittie" may rank among this
number; but well I know that, with Frazer's hautboy, it has often
filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have met
with in many places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march
at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary
wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of
Liberty and Independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish
ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the gallant
Royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful
morning.<br>
BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS,<br>
On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn.<br>
<i>Hey tuttie taittie</i>.<br>
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, (etc.)</p>

<p>So may God ever defend the cause of Truth and Liberty, as He
did that day!&mdash;Amen.</p>

<p>P.S.&mdash;I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with
it, and begged me to make soft verses for it; but I had no idea
of giving myself any trouble on the subject, till the accidental
recollection of that glorious struggle for freedom, associated
with the glowing ideas of some other struggles of the same
nature, not quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. Clarke's
set of the tune, with his bass, you will find in the
<i>Museum</i>; though I am afraid that the air is not what will
entitle it to a place in your elegant selection.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XIV.</h4>

<i>September 1793</i>.

<p>I have received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my
observations on it.<a name="FNanchor143"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_143">[143]</a></sup></p>

<p>"Down the burn, Davie." I have this moment tried an
alteration, leaving out the last half of the third stanza, and
the first half of the last stanza, thus:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>As down the burn they took their way,<br>
And thro' the flowery dale,<br>
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,<br>
And love was aye the tale.

<p>With "Mary, when shall we return,<br>
Sic pleasure to renew?"<br>
Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn,<br>
And aye shall follow you."</p>
</blockquote>

<p><br>
"Thro' the wood, laddie." I am decidedly of opinion that both in
this and "There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame," the
second or high part of the tune being a repetition of the first
part an octave higher, is only for instrumental music, and would
be much better omitted in singing.</p>

<p>"Cowden-knowes." Remember in your index that the song in pure
English, to this tune, beginning</p>

<p>When summer comes, the swains on Tweed,</p>

<p>is the production of Crawford; Robert was his Christian
name.</p>

<p>"Laddie lie near me," must <i>lie by me</i> for some time. I
do not know the air; and until I am complete master of a tune in
my own singing (such as it is), I never can compose for it. My
way is: I consider the poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea
of the musical expression, then choose my theme, begin one
stanza; when that is composed, which is generally the most
difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and
then, look out for objects in nature around me that are in unison
or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my
bosom; humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have
framed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the
solitary fireside of my study, and there commit my effusions to
paper; swinging at intervals on the hind legs of my elbow chair,
by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my pen
goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost invariably my way.
What cursed egotism!</p>

<p>"Gil Morice" I am for leaving out. It is a plaguy length; the
air itself is never sung, and its place can well be supplied by
one or two songs for fine airs that are not in your list. For
instance, "Craigieburn-wood" and "Roy's Wife". The first, besides
its intrinsic merit, has novelty; and the last has high merit, as
well as great celebrity. I have the original words of a song for
the last air in the handwriting of the lady who composed it, and
they are superior to any edition of the song which the public has
yet seen.</p>

<p>"Highland Laddie". The old set will please a mere Scotch ear
best; and the new an Italianised one. There is a third, and what
Oswald calls the "Old Highland Laddie", which pleases we more
than either of them. It is sometimes called "Jinglan Johnnie", it
being the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that name. You
will find it in the Museum, "I hae been at Crookie-den," etc. I
would advise you in this musical quandary, to offer up your
prayers to the muses for inspiring direction; and, in the
meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow a libation to
Bacchus, and there is not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious
choice. <i>Probatum est</i>.</p>

<p>"Auld Sir Simon," I must beg you to leave out, and put in its
place "The Quaker's Wife".</p>

<p>"Blythe hae I been on yon hill" is one of the finest songs
ever I made in my life; and, besides, is composed on a young lady
positively the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I
purpose giving you the names and designations of all my heroines,
to appear in some future edition of your work, perhaps half a
century hence, you must certainly include <i>the bonniest lass in
a' the warld</i> in your collection.</p>

<p>"Daintie Davie" I have heard sung nineteen thousand, nine
hundred, and ninety-nine times, and always with the low part of
the tune; and nothing has surprised me so much as your opinion on
this subject. If it will not suit, as I propose, we will lay two
of the stanzas together, and then make the chorus follow.</p>

<p>"Fee him, Father". I enclose you Frazer's set of this tune
when he plays it slow; in fact, he makes it the language of
despair, I shall here give you two stanzas in that style, merely
to try if it will be any improvement. Were it possible, in
singing, to give it half the pathos which Frazer gives it in
playing, it would make an admirable pathetic song. I do not give
these verses for any merit they have. I composed them at the time
at which <i>Patie Allan's mither died</i>; that was <i>the back
o' midnight</i>; and by the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which
had overset every mortal in the company, except the hautbois and
the muse.</p>

<p>Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, (etc.)</p>

<p>"Jockie and Jenny" I would discard, and in its place would put
"There's nae luck about the house", which has a very pleasant
air; and which is positively the finest love-ballad in that style
in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other language. "When she came
ben she bobbet", as an air, is more beautiful than either, and in
the <i>andante</i> way would unite with a charming sentimental
ballad.</p>

<p>"Saw ye my father" is one of my greatest favourites. The
evening before last I wandered out, and began a tender song, in
what I think its native style. I must premise that the old way,
and the way to give most effect, is to have no starting note, as
the fiddlers call it, but to burst at once into the pathos. Every
country girl sings-"Saw ye my father", etc.</p>

<p>My song is just begun; and I should like, before I proceed, to
know your opinion of it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish
dialect, but it may be easily turned into correct English.</p>

<blockquote>Fragment.&mdash;Tune&mdash;"<i>Saw ye my Father</i>"<br>
Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, (etc.)</blockquote>

<p><br>
"Todlin hame": Urbani mentioned an idea of his, which has long
been mine; and this air is highly susceptible of pathos;
accordingly, you will soon hear him, at your concert, try it to a
song of mine in the <i>Museum</i>&mdash;"Ye banks and braes o' bonnie
Doon". One song more and I have done: "Auld lang syne". The air
is but <i>mediocre</i>; but the following song, the old song of
the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in
manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's singing, is
enough to recommend any air.<a name="FNanchor144"></a><sup><a
href="#Footnote_144">[144]</a></sup></p>

<blockquote>AULD LANG SYNE.<br>
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, (etc.)</blockquote>

<p><br>
Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after
all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called, "Gil
Morice", "Tranent Muir", "M'Pherson's Farewell", "Battle of
Sheriff-Muir", or "We ran and they ran" (I know the author of
this charming ballad, and his history); "Hardiknute", "Barbara
Allan" (I can furnish a finer set of this tune than any that has
yet appeared), and besides, do you know that I really have the
old tune to which "The Cherry and the Slae" was sung? and which
is mentioned as a well-known air in <i>Scotland's Complaint</i>,
a book published before poor Mary's days. It was then called "The
Banks o' Helicon"; an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to
light. You will see all this in Tytler's <i>History of Scottish
Music</i>. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit;
but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many original things
of this kind.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_143"></a><a href="#FNanchor143">[143]</a>
Songs for his publication. Burns goes through the whole; but only
his remarks of any importance are presented here.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_144"></a><a href="#FNanchor144">[144]</a> It
is believed to have been his own composition.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XV.</h4>

<i>September</i> 1793.

<p>"Who shall decide when doctors disagree?" My ode<a name=
"FNanchor145"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_145">[145]</a></sup>
pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. Your proposed
alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly
obliged to you for putting me on reconsidering it; as I think I
have much improved it. Instead of "sodger! hero!" I will have it
"Caledonian! on wi' me!"</p>

<p>I have scrutinised it over and over; and to the world some way
or other it shall go as it is. At the same time it will not in
the least hurt me, should you leave it out altogether, and adhere
to your first intention of adopting Logan's verses.</p>

<p>I have finished my song to "Saw ye my Father;" and in English,
as you will see. That there is a syllable too much for the
<i>expression</i> of the air, is true; but allow me to say, that
the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet and a
quaver is not a great matter; however, in that, I have no
pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak
with confidence; but the music is a business where I hint my
ideas with the utmost diffidence.<br>
<a name="Footnote_145"></a><a href="#FNanchor145">[145]</a> Scots
wha hae.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XVI.</h4>

<i>May</i> 1794.

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;I return you the plates, with which I am highly
pleased. I would humbly propose, instead of the younker knitting
stockings, to put a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of
mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the subject I have
ever met with, and though an unknown, is yet a superior artist
with the <i>burin</i>, is quite charmed with Allan's manner. I
got him a peep of the "Gentle Shepherd", and he pronounces Allan
a most original artist of great excellence.</p>

<p>For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing my favourite poem
for his subject to be one of the highest compliments I have ever
received.</p>

<p>I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up in France, as it
will put an entire stop to our work. Now, and for six or seven
months, I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by-and-by. I
got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of
Heron, which she calls "The Banks of Cree." Cree is a beautiful
romantic stream, and, as her ladyship is a particular friend of
mine, I have written the following song to it:&mdash;<br>
  Here is the glen, and here the bower, (etc.)<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XVII.</h4>

<i>Sept</i>. 1794.

<p>I shall withdraw my "On the seas and far away" altogether; it
is unequal, and unworthy of the work. Making a poem is like
begetting a son; you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a
fool, until you produce him to the world and try him.</p>

<p>For that reason I have sent you the offspring of my brain,
abortions and all; and as such, pray look over them, and forgive
them, and burn them. I am flattered at your adopting "Ca' the
yowes to the knowes", as it was owing to me that it ever saw the
light. About seven years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy
little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung it
charmingly: and, at my request, Mr. Clarke took it down from his
singing. When I gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the
song, and mended others, but still it will not do for you. In a
solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a few
pastoral lines, following up the idea of the chorus, which I
would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and
imperfections on its head.</p>

<p>Ca' the yowes, (etc.)</p>

<p>I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted songs,
my first scribbling fit.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XVIII.</h4>

19<i>th October</i> 1794.

<p>My Dear Friend,&mdash;By this morning's post I have your list, and,
in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at more leisure,
give you a critique on the whole. Clarke goes to your town by
to-day's fly, and I wish you would call on him and take his
opinion in general; you know his taste is a standard. He will
return here again in a week or two, so please do not miss asking
for him. One thing I hope he will do&mdash;persuade you to adopt my
favourite, "Craigie-burn wood", in your selection; it is as great
a favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is
one of the finest women in Scotland; and, in fact (<i>entre
nous</i>), is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him&mdash;a
mistress, a friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity
of Platonic love. (Now, don't put any of your squinting
constructions on this, or have any clishmaclaiver about it among
our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend you are
indebted for many of your best songs of mine. Do you think that
the sober gin-horse routine of existence could inspire a man with
life, and love, and joy&mdash;could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt
him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? No! no!
Whenever I want to be more than ordinary <i>in song</i>&mdash;to be in
some degree equal to your diviner airs&mdash;do you imagine I fast and
pray for the divine emanation? <i>Tout au contraire</i>! I have a
glorious recipe&mdash;the very one that for his own use was invented
by the divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the
flocks of Admetus. I put myself on a regimen of admiring a fine
woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in
proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her
eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile
the divinity of Helicon!</p>

<p>To descend to business; if you like my idea of "When she cam
ben she bobbit", the enclosed stanzas of mine, altered a little
from what they were formerly when set to another air, may perhaps
do instead of worse stanzas.</p>

<p>Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. "The Posie" (in the
<i>Museum</i>) is my composition; the air was taken down from
Mrs. Burns's voice. It is well known in the West Country, but the
old words are trash. By-the-bye, take a look at the tune again,
and tell me if you do not think it is the original from which
"Roslin Castle" is composed. The second part in particular, for
the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air.
"Strathallan's Lament" is mine; the music is by our right trusty
and deservedly well beloved, Allan Masterton. "Donocht head" is
not mine; I would give ten pounds if it were. It appeared first
in the <i>Edinburgh Herald</i>; and came to the editor of that
paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it<a name=
"FNanchor146"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_146">[146]</a></sup></p>

<p>"Whistle o'er the lave o't" is mine; the music is said to be
by a John Bruce, a celebrated violin player in Dumfries, about
the beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was an
honest man, though a redwud Highlandman, constantly claimed it;
and by all the old musical people here is believed to be the
author of it.</p>

<p>"Andrew and his cutty gun". The song to which this is set in
the <i>Museum</i> is mine; and was composed on Miss Euphemia
Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the "Flower
of Strathmore."</p>

<p>"How lang and dreary is the night." I met with some such words
in a collection of songs somewhere, which I altered and enlarged;
and to please you, and to suit your favourite air, I have taken a
stride or two across the room, and have arranged it anew, as you
will find on the other page.</p>

<blockquote>Tune&mdash;<i>Cauld Kail in Aberdeen</i>.<br>
How lang and dreary is the night, (etc.)</blockquote>

<p><br>
Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the
expression of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of
tenderness in it.</p>

<p>I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a sight of
Ritson's <i>Collection of English Songs</i>, which you mention in
your letter. I will thank you for another information, and that
as speedily as you please&mdash;whether this miserable drawling
hotch-potch epistle has not completely tired you of my
correspondence.</p>

<blockquote><a name="Footnote_146"></a><a href=
"#FNanchor146">[146]</a>"Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht
head,<br>
The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale,<br>
The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck,<br>
And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale.<br>
"Cauld is the night, O let me in,<br>
And dinna let your minstrel fa',<br>
And dinna let his winding-sheet<br>
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw."(etc.)</blockquote>

<p><br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XIX.</h4>

<i>November</i> 1794.

<p>Many thanks to you, my dear sir, for your present: it is a
book of the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday begun my
anecdotes, etc., for your work. I intend drawing it up in the
form of a letter to you, which will save me from the tedious dull
business of systematic arrangement. Indeed, as all I have to say
consists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps of old songs,
etc., it would be impossible to give the work a beginning, a
middle, and an end; which the critics insist to be absolutely
necessary in a work. In my last, I told you my objections to the
song you had selected for "My lodging is on the cold ground". On
my visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic
name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an
idea, which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the
following song:&mdash;</p>

<p>My Chloris, mark how green the groves, (etc,)</p>

<p>How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this
pastoral? I think it pretty well.</p>

<p>I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the
story of <i>ma chlre amie</i>. I assure you, I was never more in
earnest in my life than in the account of that affair which I
sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion which I deeply
feel and highly venerate; but, somehow, it does not make such a
figure in poesy as that other species of the passion,</p>

<p>Where Love is liberty, and Nature law,</p>

<p>Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the
gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet;
while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual
modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet, in my
enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of the
beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades
my soul; and whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever
might be the raptures they would give me, yet, if they interfere
with that first principle, it is having these pleasures at a
dishonest price; and justice forbids, and generosity disdains,
the purchase!<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XX.</h4>

I am out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender an
air, as "Deil tak the wars," to the foolish old verses. You talk
of the silliness of "Saw ye my father:" by heavens, the odds is
gold to brass! Besides, the old song, though now pretty well
modernised into the Scottish language, is, originally, and in the
early editions, a bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner,
by that genius, Tom D'Urfey; so has no pretensions to be a
Scottish production. There is a pretty English song by Sheridan
in the "Duenna," to this air, which is out of sight superior to
D'Urfey's. It begins,

<p>When sable night each drooping plant restoring.</p>

<p>The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the
very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have
again gone over my song to the tune as follows.<a name=
"FNanchor147"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_147">[147]</a></sup></p>

<p>There is an air, "The Caledonian Hunt's delight", to which I
wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. "Ye banks and braes
o' bonnie Doon"; this air, I think, might find a place among your
hundred, as Lear says of his knights. Do you know the history of
the air? It is curious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James
Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman whom possibly you
know, was in company with our friend Clarke; and talking of
Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to
compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him
to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve some
kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots air.
Certain it is, that in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the
rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and
corrections, fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, you
know, has the same story of the "Black keys;" but this account
which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of several
years ago. Now, to shew you how difficult it is to trace the
origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that this
was an Irish air nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed
he had heard it in Ireland among the old women; while, on the
other hand, a countess informed me, that the first person who
introduced the air into this country was a baronet's lady of her
acquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in
the Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascertain the truth
respecting our poesy and music! I, myself, have lately seen a
couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my
name at the head of them as the author, though it was the first
time I had ever seen them.</p>

<p>I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request; 'tis
dunning your generosity; but in a moment when I had forgotten
whether I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you this; but an
ungracious request is doubly so, by a tedious apology. To make
you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the necessary
information out of them, I will return you Ritson's volumes.</p>

<p>The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so
distinguished a figure in your collection, and I am not a little
proud that I have it in my power to please her so much. Lucky it
is for your patience that my paper is done, for when I am in a
scribbling humour, I know not when to give over.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_147"></a><a href="#FNanchor147">[147]</a>
Our Bard remarks upon it, "I could easily throw this into an
English mould; but, to my taste, in the simple and the tender of
the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish has an
inimitable effect."</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXI.</h4>

19<i>th Nov</i>. 1794.

<p>Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the
trifling circumstance of being known to one another to be the
best friends on earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates,
mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I have, at last,
gotten one; but it is a very rude instrument. It is composed of
three parts; the stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a
sheep, such as you see in a mutton-ham, the horn, which is a
common Highland cow's horn, cut off at the smaller end, until the
aperture be large enough to admit the stock to be pushed up
through the horn, until it be held by the thicker end of the
thigh-bone; and, lastly, an oaten reed exactly cut and notched
like that which you see every shepherd boy have, when the corn
stems are green and full-grown. The reed is not made fast in the
bone, but is held up by the lips, and plays loose in the smaller
end of the stock; while the stock, with the horn hanging on its
larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or
seven ventiges on the upper side, and one back ventige, like the
common flute. This of mine was made by a man from the Braes of
Athole, and is exactly what the shepherds wont to use in that
country.</p>

<p>However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes,
or else we have not the art of blowing it rightly; for we can
make little of it. If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight
of mine; as I look on myself to be a kind of brother-brush with
him. "Pride in poets is nae sin", and I will say it, that I look
on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real
painters of Scottish costume in the world.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXII.</h4>

<i>January</i> 1795.

<p>I fear for my songs; however a few may please, yet originality
is a coy feature in composition, and in a multiplicity of efforts
in the same style, disappears altogether. For these three
thousand years we poetic folks have been describing the spring,
for instance; and, as the spring continues the same, there must
soon be a sameness in the imagery, etc., of these said rhyming
folks.</p>

<p>A great critic, Aikin on Songs, says that love and wine are
the exclusive themes for song-writing. The following is on
neither subject, and consequently is no song; but will be
allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts,
inverted into rhyme.<br>
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.<br>
Is there for honest poverty, (etc.)<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXIII.</h4>

Ecclefechan,<a name="FNanchor148"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_148">[148]</a></sup> 7<i>th Feb</i>. 1795.

<p>My Dear Thomson,&mdash;You cannot have any idea of the predicament
in which I write to you. In the course of my duty as supervisor
(in which capacity I have acted of late) I came yesternight to
this unfortunate, wicked little village. I have gone forward, but
snows of ten feet deep have impeded my progress: I have tried to
"gae back the gate I cam again," but the same obstacle has shut
me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since
dinner, a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a
butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceeding good
company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk,
to forget these miseries; or to hang myself, to get rid of them;
like a prudent man (a character congenial to my every thought,
word, and deed) I of two evils have chosen the least, and am very
drunk at your service!</p>

<p>I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then to
tell you all I wanted to say; and Heaven knows, at present I have
not capacity.</p>

<p>Do you know an air&mdash;I am sure you must know it, "We'll gang
nae mair to yon town?" I think, in slowish time, it would make an
excellent song. I am highly delighted with it; and if you should
think it worthy of your attention, I have a fair dame in my eye
to whom I would consecrate it.</p>

<p>As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night.</p>

<p><a name="Footnote_148"></a><a href="#FNanchor148">[148]</a>
The birthplace of Carlyle.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXIV.</h4>

You see how I answer your orders; your tailor could not be more
punctual. I am just now in a high fit of poetising, provided that
the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If you can, in a
post or two, administer a little of the intoxicating potion of
your applause, it will raise your humble servant's frenzy to any
height you want. I am at this moment "holding high converse" with
the Muses, and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic
dog as you are. <br>
<hr>
<h4>XXV.</h4>

<i>April</i> 1796.

<p>Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere I tune
my lyre again! "By Babel streams I have sat and wept" almost ever
since I wrote you last. I have only known existence by the
pressure of the heavy hand of sickness, and have counted time by
the repercussions of pain! Rheumatism, cold, and fever have
formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery,
and open them without hope. I look on the vernal day, and say,
with poor Fergusson&mdash;<br>
Say, wherefore has an all indulgent Heaven<br>
Light to the comfortless and wretched given?</p>

<p>This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of
the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has been my
<i>howff</i>, and where our friend Clarke and I have had many a
merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings.
"Woo'd and married and a'", is admirable! The <i>grouping</i> is
beyond all praise. The expression of the figures, conformable to
the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection. I
next admire "Turnim-spike". What I like least is, "Jenny said to
Jockey". Besides the female being in her appearance quite a
virago, if you take her stooping into the account, she is at
least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn! I
sincerely sympathise with him! Happy am I to think that he yet
has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in this world.
As for me&mdash;but that is a damning subject!<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXVI.</h4>

[<i>Probably May</i> 1796.]

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;Inclosed is a certificate which (although little
different from the model) I suppose will amply answer the
purpose, and I beg you will prosecute the miscreants<a name=
"FNanchor149"></a><sup><a href="#Footnote_149">[149]</a></sup>
without mercy. When your publication is finished, I intend
publishing a collection, on a cheap plan, of all the songs I have
written for you, The Museum, and others&mdash;at least, all the songs
of which I wish to be called the author. I do not propose this so
much in the way of emolument as to do justice to my muse, lest I
should be blamed for trash I never saw, or be defrauded by false
claimants of what is justly my own. The post is going.&mdash;I will
write you again to-morrow. Many thanks for the beautiful
seal.</p>

<p>R. B.<br>
<a name="Footnote_149"></a><a href="#FNanchor149">[149]</a> For
infringement of copyright.</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXVII.</h4>

BROW-ON-SOLWAY, 4<i>th July</i> 1796.

<p>My Dear Sir,&mdash;I received your songs; but my health is so
precarious, nay, dangerously situated, that, as a last effort, I
am here at sea-bathing quarters. Besides an inveterate
rheumatism, my appetite is quite gone, and I am so emaciated as
to be scarce able to support myself on my own legs. Alas! Is this
a time for me to woo the muses? However, I am still anxiously
willing to serve your work, and if possible shall try. I would
not like to see another employed&mdash;unless you could lay your hand
upon a poet whose productions would be equal to the rest.
Farewell, and God bless you.</p>

<p>R. BURNS.<br>
</p>

<hr>
<h4>XXVIII.</h4>

BROW, on the Solway Firth, 12<i>th July</i> 1796.

<p>After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me
to implore you for five pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher,
to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am
dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into
jail.</p>

<p>Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of
post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have
made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for,
upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you
with five pounds worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen.
I tried my hand on "Rothiemurchie" this morning. The measure is
so difficult that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the
lines; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me!<a name=
"FNanchor150"></a><sup><a href=
"#Footnote_150">[150]</a></sup></p>

<blockquote>Fairest maid on Devon banks,<br>
Crystal Devon, winding Devon,<br>
Wilt thou lay that frown aside,<br>
And smile as thou wert wont to do? (etc.)</blockquote>

<a name="Footnote_150"></a><a href="#FNanchor150">[150]</a> These
verses, and the letter inclosing them, are written in a character
that marks the very feeble state of their author.

<hr>







<pre>





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