to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scotch 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:--
"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.
"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 civility, dependence, and wretchedness, on
the other. I will not insult your understanding by bidding you make a
choice."
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.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 167: Imitated from Pope's Eloisa to Abelard.]
* * * * *
L.
TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH.
[James Candlish, a student of medicine, was well acquainted with the
poetry of Lowe, author of that sublime lyric, "Mary's Dream," and at
the request of Burns sent Lowe's classic song of "Pompey's Ghost," to
the Musical Museum.]
_Edinburgh, March 21, 1787._
MY EVER DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE,
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 intoxication of good fortune as to be indifferent to
old, and once dear connexions. The truth is, I was determined to write
a good letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as
Bayes says, _all that._ 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 woman'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.
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.
I am, with the warmest sincerity,
R. B.
* * * * *
LI.
TO ----.
[The name of the friend to whom this letter was addressed is still
unknown, though known to Dr. Currie. The Esculapian Club of Edinburgh
have, since the death of Burns, added some iron-work, with an
inscription in honour of the Ayrshire poet to the original headstone.
The cost to the poet was L5 10s.]
_Edinburgh, March, 1787._
MY DEAR SIR,
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 bye, 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; but 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.
I have enclosed 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.
The inscription on the stone is as follows:--
"HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.
Born, September 5th, 1751--Died, 16th October 1774.
"No scuptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,
'No storied urn or animated bust;'
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust."
On the other side of the stone is as follows:
"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."
* * * * *
_Session-house, within the Kirk of Canongate, the
twenty-second day of February, one thousand seven hundred
eighty-seven years._
Sederunt of the Managers of the Kirk and Kirk-Yard funds of Canongate.
Which day, the treasurer to the said funds produced a letter from Mr.
Robert Burns, of date the 6th current, which was read and appointed to
be engrossed in their sederunt book, and of which letter the tenor
follows:--
"To the honourable baillies of Canongate, Edinburgh.--Gentlemen, I am
sorry to be told that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the so justly
celebrated poet, a man whose talents for ages to come will do honour
to our Caledonian name, lie in your church-yard among the ignoble
dead, unnoticed and unknown.
"Some memorial to direct the steps of the lovers of Scottish song,
when they wish to shed a tear over the 'narrow house' of the bard who
is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fergusson's memory: a tribute I
wish to have the honour of paying.
"I petition you then, gentlemen, to permit me to lay a simple stone
over his revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his
deathless fame. I have the honour to be, gentlemen, your very humble
servant (_sic subscribitur_),
ROBERT BURNS."
Thereafter the said managers, in consideration of the laudable and
disinterested motion of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request,
did, and hereby do, unanimously, grant power and liberty to the said
Robert Burns to erect a headstone at the grave of the said Robert
Fergusson, and to keep up and preserve the same to his memory in all
time coming. Extracted forth of the records of the managers, by
WILLIAM SPROTT, Clerk.
* * * * *
LII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The poet alludes in this letter to the profits of the Edinburgh
edition of his Poems: the exact sum is no where stated, but it could
not have been less than seven hundred pounds.]
_Edinburgh, March 22d, 1787._
MADAM,
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, patronized, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I
will not give them the cold name of criticisms, 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 Karl of Glencairn, to
whom I owe more than to any man, does me the honor of giving me his
strictures: his hints, with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I
follow implicitly.
You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects; there I
can give you no light. It is all
"Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams
Athwart the gloom profound."[168]
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.
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
connexions will not rouse to exertion.
I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred pounds by my
authorship; 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.
Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the bard, his situation, and
his views, native as they are in his own bosom.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 168: Blair's Grave.]
* * * * *
LIII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[This seems to be a letter acknowledging the payment of Mrs. Dunlop's
subscription for his poems.]
_Edinburgh_, 15 _April, 1787._
MADAM,
There is an affectation of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of
Johnson and the pause 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
"Rude am I in speech,
And therefore little can I grace my cause
In speaking for myself--"[169]
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.
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.
Dr. Smith[170] was just gone to London the morning before I received
your letter to him.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 169: From Othello.]
[Footnote 170: Adam Smith.]
* * * * *
LIV.
TO MR. SIBBALD,
BOOKSELLER IN EDINBURGH.
[This letter first appeared in that very valuable work, Nicholl's
Illustrations of Literature.]
_Lawn Market._
SIR,
So little am I acquainted with the words and manners of the more
public and polished walks of life, that I often feel myself much
embarrassed how to express the feelings of my heart, particularly
gratitude:--
"Rude am I in my speech,
And little therefore shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself--"
The warmth with which you have befriended an obscure man and a young
author in the last three magazines--I can only say, Sir, I feel the
weight of the obligation, I wish I could express my sense of it. In
the mean time accept of the conscious acknowledgment from,
Sir,
Your obliged servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
LV.
TO DR. MOORE.
[The book to which the poet alludes, was the well-known View of
Society by Dr. Moore, a work of spirit and observation.]
_Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787._
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.
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, &c., 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.
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.
* * * * *
LVI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[This letter was in answer to one of criticism and remonstrance, from
Mrs. Dunlop, respecting "The Dream," which she had begged the poet to
omit, lest it should harm his fortunes with the world.]
_Edinburgh, 30th April, 1787._
---- 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.
I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, &c., as all these
respective gentry do by my bardship. I know what I may expect from the
word, by and by--illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect.
I am happy, Madam, that some of my own favourite pieces are
distinguished by your particular approbation. For my "Dream," 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.
* * * * *
LVII.
TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR.
[The answer of Dr. Blair to this letter contains the following
passage: "Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singular: and in
being brought out all at once from the shades of deepest privacy to so
great a share of public notice and observation, you had to stand a
severe trial. I am happy you have stood it so well, and, as far as I
have known or heard, though in the midst of many temptations, without
reproach to your character or behaviour."]
_Lawn-market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787._
REVEREND AND MUCH-RESPECTED SIR,
I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without
troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the
kindness, patronage, and friendship you have shown me. I often felt
the embarrassment of my singular situation; drawn forth from the
veriest shades of life to the glare of remark; and honoured by the
notice of those illustrious names of my country whose works, while
they are applauded to the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world
might attract notice, and honour me with the acquaintance of the
permanent lights of genius and literature, those who are truly
benefactors of the immortal nature of man, I knew very well that my
utmost merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that character
when once the novelty was over; I have made up my mind that abuse, or
almost even neglect, will not surprise me in my quarters.
I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's work[171] for me, done on
Indian paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony with what heart-warm
gratitude I am, &c.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 171: The portrait of the poet after Nasmyth.]
* * * * *
LVIII.
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.
[The poet addressed the following letter to the Earl of Glencairn,
when he commenced his journey to the Border. It was first printed in
the third edition of Lockhart's Life of Burns; an eloquent and manly
work.]
MY LORD,
I go away to-morrow morning early, and allow me to vent the fulness of
my heart, in thanking your lordship for all that patronage, that
benevolence and that friendship with which you have honoured me. With
brimful eyes, I pray that you may find in that great Being, whose
image you so nobly bear, that friend which I have found in you. My
gratitude is not selfish design--that I disdain--it is not dodging
after the heels of greatness--that is an offering you disdain. It is a
feeling of the same kind with my devotion.
R. B.
* * * * *
LIX.
TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR.
[William Dunbar, Colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles. The name has a
martial sound, but the corps which he commanded was club of wits,
whose courage was exercised on "paitricks, teals, moorpowts, and
plovers."]
_Lawn-market, Monday morning._
DEAR SIR,
In justice to Spenser, I must acknowledge that there is scarcely a
poet in the language could have been a more agreeable present to me;
and in justice to you, allow me to say, Sir, that I have not met with
a man in Edinburgh to whom I would so willingly have been indebted for
the gift. The tattered rhymes I herewith present you, and the handsome
volumes of Spenser for which I am so much indebted to your goodness,
may perhaps be not in proportion to one another; but be that as it
may, my gift, though far less valuable, is as sincere a mark of esteem
as yours.
The time is approaching when I shall return to my shades; and I am
afraid my numerous Edinburgh friendships are of so tender a
construction, that they will not bear carriage with me. Yours is one
of the few that I could wish of a more robust constitution. It is
indeed very probable that when I leave this city, we part never more
to meet in this sublunary sphere; but I have a strong fancy that in
some future eccentric planet, the comet of happier systems than any
with which astronomy is yet acquainted, you and I, among the harum
scarum sons of imagination and whim, with a hearty shake of a hand, a
metaphor and a laugh, shall recognise old acquaintance:
"Where wit may sparkle all its rays,
Uncurs'd with caution's fears;
That pleasure, basking in the blaze,
Rejoice for endless years."
I have the honour to be, with the warmest sincerity, dear Sir, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
LX.
TO JAMES JOHNSON.
[James Johnson was an engraver in Edinburgh, and proprietor of the
Musical Museum; a truly national work, for which Burns wrote or
amended many songs.]
_Lawn-market, Friday noon, 3 May, 1787._
DEAR SIR,
I have sent you a song never before known, for your collection; the
air by M'Gibbon, but I know not the author of the words, as I got it
from Dr. Blacklock.
Farewell, my dear Sir! I wished to have seen you, but I have been
dreadfully throng, as I march to-morrow. Had my acquaintance with you
been a little older, I would have asked the favour of your
correspondence, as I have met with few people whose company and
conversation gives me so much pleasure, because I have met with few
whose sentiments are so congenial to my own.
When Dunbar and you meet, tell him that I left Edinburgh with the idea
of him hanging somewhere about my heart.
Keep the original of the song till we meet again, whenever that may
be.
R. B.
* * * * *
LXI.
TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ.
EDINBURGH.
[This characteristic letter was written during the poet's border tour:
he narrowly escaped a soaking with whiskey, as well as with water; for
according to the Ettrick Shepherd, "a couple of Yarrow lads, lovers of
poesy and punch, awaited his coming to Selkirk, but would not believe
that the parson-looking, black-avised man, who rode up to the inn,
more like a drouket craw than a poet, could be Burns, and so went
disappointed away."]
_Selkirk, 13th May, 1787._
MY HONOURED FRIEND,
The enclosed I have just wrote, nearly extempore, in a solitary inn in
Selkirk, after a miserable wet day's riding. I have been over most of
East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and Selkirk-shires; and next week I
begin a tour through the north of England. Yesterday I dined with Lady
Harriet, sister to my noble patron,[172] _Quem Deus conservet_! I would
write till I would tire you as much with dull prose, as I dare say by
this time you are with wretched verse, but I am jaded to death; so,
with a grateful farewell,
I have the honour to be,
Good Sir, yours sincerely,
R. B.
Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest,
Down drops her ance weel burnish'd crest,
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest
Can yield ava;
Her darling bird that she loves best,
Willie's awa.[173]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 172: James, Earl of Glencairn.]
[Footnote 173: See Poem LXXXIII.]
* * * * *
LXII.
TO MR. PATISON,
BOOKSELLER, PAISLEY.
[This letter has a business air about it: the name of Patison is
nowhere else to be found in the poet's correspondence.]
_Berrywell, near Dunse, May 17th, 1787._
DEAR SIR,
I am sorry I was out of Edinburgh, making a slight pilgrimage to the
classic scenes of this country, when I was favoured with yours of the
11th instant, enclosing an order of the Paisley banking company on the
royal bank, for twenty-two pounds seven shillings sterling, payment in
full, after carriage deducted, for ninety copies of my book I sent
you. According to your motions, I see you will have left Scotland
before this reaches you, otherwise I would send you "Holy Willie" with
all my heart. I was so hurried that I absolutely forgot several things
I ought to have minded, among the rest sending books to Mr. Cowan; but
any order of yours will be answered at Creech's shop. You will please
remember that non-subscribers pay six shillings, this is Creech's
profit; but those who have subscribed, though their names have been
neglected in the printed list, which is very incorrect, are supplied
at subscription price. I was not at Glasgow, nor do I intend for
London; and I think Mrs. Fame is very idle to tell so many lies on a
poor poet. When you or Mr. Cowan write for copies, if you should want
any direct to Mr. Hill, at Mr. Creech's shop, and I write to Mr. Hill
by this post, to answer either of your orders. Hill is Mr. Creech's
first clerk, and Creech himself is presently in London. I suppose I
shall have the pleasure, against your return to Paisley, of assuring
you how much I am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
LXIII.
TO W. NICOL, ESQ.,
MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH.
[Jenny Geddes was a zealous old woman, who threw the stool on which
she sat, at the Dean of Edinburgh's head, when, in 1637, he attempted
to introduce a Scottish Liturgy, and cried as she threw, "Villain,
wilt thou say the mass at my lug!" The poet named his mare after this
virago.]
_Carlisle, June 1., 1787._
KIND, HONEST-HEARTED WILLIE,