forjesket and forniaw'd as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion
o' my land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrowfu' hour that I sheuk
hands and parted wi' auld Reekie.
My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huch-yall'd up hill and down brae,
in Scotland and England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil 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 ringbanes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, and fairly
soupl'd, she beets to, beets to, and ay 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-stricket a five
gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail.
I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dumbar to Selcraig, and hae
forgather'd wi' monie a guid fallow, and monie a weelfar'd huzzie. I
met wi' twa dink quines in particular, ane o' them a sonsie, fine,
fodgel lass, baith braw and bonnie; the tither was clean-shankit,
straught, tight, weelfar'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
presbytries that you and I baith ken. They play'd me sik a deevil o' a
shavie that I daur say if my harigals were turn'd out, ye wad see twa
nicks i' the heart o' me like the mark o' a kail-whittle in a castock.
I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgie me, I gat
mysel sae noutouriously bitchify'd the day after kail-time, that I can
hardly stoiter but and ben.
My best respecks to the guidwife and a' our common friens, especiall
Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge.
I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the
branks bide hale.
Gude be wi' you, Willie! Amen!
R. B.
* * * * *
LXIV.
TO MR. JAMES SMITH,
AT MILLER AND SMITH'S OFFICE, LINLITHGOW.
[Burns, it seems by this letter, had still a belief that he would be
obliged to try his fortune in the West Indies: he soon saw how hollow
all the hopes were, which had been formed by his friends of "pension,
post or place," in his native land.]
_Mauchline, 11th June, 1787._
MY EVER DEAR SIR,
I date this from Mauchline, where I arrived on Friday even last. I
slept at John Dow's, and called for my daughter. Mr. Hamilton and your
family; your mother, sister, and brother; my quondam Eliza, &c., all
well. If anything had been wanting to disgust me completely at
Armour's family, their mean, servile compliance would have done it.
Give me a spirit like my favourite hero, Milton's Satan:
Hail, horrors! hail,
Infernal world! and thou proufoundest hell,
Receive thy new possessor! he who brings
A mind not be chang'd by _place_ or _time_!
I cannot settle to my mind.--Farming, the only thing of which I know
anything, and heaven above knows but little do I understand of that, I
cannot, dare not risk on farms as they are. If I do not fix I will go
for Jamaica. Should I stay in an unsettled state at home, I would
only dissipate my little fortune, and ruin what I intend shall
compensate my little ones, for the stigma I have brought on their
names.
I shall write you more at large soon; as this letter costs you no
postage, if it be worth reading you cannot complain of your
pennyworth.
I am ever, my dear Sir,
Yours,
R. B.
P.S. The cloot has unfortunately broke, but I have provided a fine
buffalo-horn, on which I am going to affix the same cipher which you
will remember was on the lid of the cloot.
* * * * *
LXV.
TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ.
[The charm which Dumfries threw over the poet, seems to have dissolved
like a spell, when he sat down in Ellisland: he spoke, for a time,
with little respect of either place or people.]
_Mauchline, June 18, 1787._
MY DEAR FRIEND,
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 gray-headed, 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.
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.
I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks--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--but if I say one word more about her, I shall be
directly in love with her.
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--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
influences to the rhyming tribe, 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 _ignes fatui_, 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--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"--the love which Solomon emphatically says "is strong as
death." My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the circle of our common
friends.
P.S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter end of July.
R. B.
* * * * *
LXVI.
TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH.
[Candlish was a classic scholar, but had a love for the songs of
Scotland, as well as for the poetry of Greece and Rome.]
_Edinburgh, 1787._
MY DEAR FRIEND,
If once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, I
promise myself the pleasure of that correspondence being renewed
which has been so long broken. At present I have time for nothing.
Dissipation and business engross every moment. I am engaged in
assisting an honest Scotch enthusiast,[174] a friend of mine, who is an
engraver, and has taken it into his head to publish a collection of
all our songs set to music, of which the words and music are done by
Scotsmen. This, you will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly to my
taste. I have collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the songs I
could meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words and music, I beg from you
immediately, to go into his second number: the first is already
published. I shall show you the first number when I see you in
Glasgow, which will be in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind as to
send me the song in a day or two; you cannot imagine how much it will
oblige me.
Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, St. James's Square, New Town,
Edinburgh.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 174: Johnson, the publisher and proprietor of the Musical
Museum.]
* * * * *
LXVII.
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ.
["Burns had a memory stored with the finest poetical passages, which
he was in the habit of quoting most aptly in his correspondence with
his friends: and he delighted also in repeating them in the company of
those friends who enjoyed them." These are the words of Ainslie, of
Berrywell, to whom this letter in addressed.]
_Arracher_, 28_th June_, 1787.
MY DEAR SIR,
I write 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--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.
* * * * *
LXVIII.
TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ.
[This visit to Auchtertyre produced that sweet lyric, beginning
"Blythe, blythe and merry was she;" and the lady who inspired it was
at his side, when he wrote this letter.]
_Auchtertyre, Monday, June, 1787._
MY DEAR SIR,
I find myself very comfortable here, neither oppressed by ceremony nor
mortified by neglect. Lady Augusta is a most engaging woman, and very
happy in her family, which makes one's outgoings and incomings very
agreeable. I called at Mr. Ramsay's of Auchtertyre as I came up the
country, and am so delighted with him that I shall certainly accept of
his invitation to spend a day or two with him as I return. I leave
this place on Wednesday or Thursday.
Make my kind compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank and Mrs. Nicol, if
she is returned.
I am ever, dear Sir,
Your deeply indebted,
R. B.
* * * * *
LXIX.
TO WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK, ESQ.
ST. JAMES'S SQUARE, EDINBURGH.
[At the house of William Cruikshank, one of the masters of the High
School, in Edinburgh, Burns passed many agreeable hours.]
_Auchtertyre, Monday morning._
I have nothing, my dear Sir, to write to you but that I feel myself
exceedingly comfortably situated in this good family: just notice
enough to make me easy but not to embarrass me. I was storm-staid two
days at the foot of the Ochillhills, with Mr. Trait of Herveyston and
Mr. Johnston of Alva, but was so well pleased that I shall certainly
spend a day on the banks of the Devon as I return. I leave this place
I suppose on Wednesday, and shall devote a day to Mr. Ramsay at
Auchtertyre, near Stirling: a man to whose worth I cannot do justice.
My respectful kind compliments to Mrs. Cruikshank, and my dear little
Jeanie, and if you see Mr. Masterton, please remember me to him.
I am ever,
My dear Sir, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
LXX.
TO MR. JAMES SMITH.
LINLITHGOW.
[The young lady to whom the poet alludes in this letter, was very
beautiful, and very proud: it is said she gave him a specimen of both
her temper and her pride, when he touched on the subject of love.]
_June 30, 1787._
MY DEAR FRIEND,
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 Bab at the Bowster, Tullochgorum, Loch
Erroch Side, &c., 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 reach 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----e in a clipt hedge; and down came Jenny Geddes over
all, and my bardship 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.
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.
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 paradisaical evening interviews, stolen from the restless cares and
prying inhabitants of this weary world. I have only * * * *. 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 good deal; but what
piques me is her conduct at the commencement of our acquaintance. I
frequently visited her when I was in ----, 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 ----, 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.
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
R. B.
* * * * *
LXXI.
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND.
[Mr. John Richmond, writer, was one of the poet's earliest and firmest
friends; he shared his room with him when they met in Edinburgh, and
did him many little offices of kindness and regard.]
_Mossgiel, 7th July, 1787._
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 connexions 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 the king's evidences, and then the devil's
bagpiper will touch him off "Bundle and go!"
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.
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, zigzagged 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.
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 connexion and mine stands on a
different footing.
I am ever, my dear friend, yours,
R. B.
* * * * *
LXXII.
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ.
[This letter, were proof wanting, shows the friendly and familiar
footing on which Burns stood with the Ainslies, and more particularly
with the author of that popular work, the "Reasons for the Hope that
is in us."]
_Mauchline, 23d July, 1787._
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 the temptations of the devil as to grow so very wise
that you will in the least disrespect an honest follow 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.
Though in the morn comes sturt and strife,
Yet joy may come at noon;
And I hope to live a merry, merry life
When a' thir days are done.
Write me soon, were it but a few lines just to tell me how that good
sagacious man your father is--that kind dainty body your mother--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.
R. B.
* * * * *
LXXIII.
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ.
[The "savage hospitality," of which Burns complains in this letter,
was at that time an evil fashion in Scotland: the bottle was made to
circulate rapidly, and every glass was drunk "clean caup out."]
_Mauchline, July, 1787._
MY DEAR SIR,
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.
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 my other
shift: but this to a friend.
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.
I am, my dear Sir,
Yours sincerely,
R. B.
* * * * *
LXXIV.
TO DR. MOORE.
[Dr. Moore was one of the first to point out the beauty of the lyric
compositions of Burns. "'Green grow the Rashes,' and of the two
songs," says he, "which follow, beginning 'Again rejoicing nature
sees,' and 'The gloomy night is gathering fast;' the latter is
exquisite. By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent for such
compositions which you ought to indulge: no kind of poetry demands
more delicacy or higher polishing." On this letter to Moore all the
biographies of Burns are founded.]
_Mauchline, 2d August, 1787._
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,--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.
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,
"My ancient but ignoble blood
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood."
POPE.
Gules, purpure, argent, &c., quite disowned me.