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; 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 d--mned
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.
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, _so far as it was
agreeable to reason and the word of God_!
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)
"Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
As ever trod on airn;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o' Cairn."
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.
R. B.
* * * * *
CLXXXVIII.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[Burns looks back with something of regret to the days of rich dinners
and flowing wine-cups which he experienced in Edinburgh. Alexander
Cunningham and his unhappy loves are recorded in that fine song, "Had
I a cave on some wild distant shore."]
_Ellisland, 13th February, 1790._
I beg your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for writing to you
on this very unfashionable, unsightly sheet--
"My poverty but not my will consents."
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
fool's-cap 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
yoke-fellow of a foot-padding exciseman--I make a vow to enclose this
sheet-full of epistolary fragments in that my only scrap of gilt
paper.
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 _will not_ write to you;
Miss Burnet is not more dear to her guardian angel, nor his grace the
Duke of Queensbury 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.
_December, 1789._
MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM,
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?
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, &c &c.
_Sunday, 14th February, 1790._
God help me! I am now obliged to
"Join night to day, and Sunday to the week."[197]
If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, I am
d--mned past redemption, and what is worse, d--mned to all eternity. I
am deeply read in Boston's Four-fold State, Marshal on Sanctification,
Guthrie's Trial of a Saving Interest, &c.; 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."
_Tuesday, 16th._
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 care 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, &c., 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 _too good news
to be true._ 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--how much should I be indebted
to any one who could fully assure me that this was certain!
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.
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
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 197: Young. _Satire on Women._]
* * * * *
CLXXXIX.
TO MR. PETER HILL.
[That Burns turned at this time his thoughts on the drama, this order
to his bookseller for dramatic works, as well as his attendances at
the Dumfries theatre, afford proof.]
_Ellisland, 2d March, 1790._
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:--The Mirror, The Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of
the World, (these, for my own sake, I wish to have by the first
carrier), Knox's History of the Reformation; Rae's History of the
Rebellion in 1715; any good history of the rebellion in 1745; A
Display of the Secession Act and Testimony, by Mr. Gibb; Hervey's
Meditations; Beveridge's Thoughts; and another copy of Watson's Body
of Divinity.
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 or other of you.
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,
Cibber'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.
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
_elegantly_ 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 ----.
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 sin, to answer for; but if I could, and I believe I do it as far
as I can, I would wipe away all tears from all eyes.
Adieu!
R. B.
* * * * *
CXC.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[It is not a little singular that Burns says, in this letter, he had
just met with the Mirror and Lounger for the first time: it will be
remembered that a few years before a generous article was dedicated by
Mackenzie, the editor, to the Poems of Burns, and to this the poet
often alludes in his correspondence.]
_Ellisland, 10th April, 1790._
I have just now, my ever honoured friend, enjoyed a very high luxury,
in reading a paper of the Lounger. You know my national prejudices. I
had often read and admired the Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, and
World; 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--
"------ States of native liberty possest,
Tho' very poor, may yet be very blest."
Nothing can reconcile me to the common terms, "English ambassador,
English court," &c. 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;" &c.--I believe these, among your
_men of the world_, men who in fact guide for the most part and govern
our world, are looked on as so many modifications of wrongheadedness.
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 _able
statesmen_ 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--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 Stanhopean plan, the _perfect man_; 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 _men of the world_; 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, _then_ the true measure of human conduct is, _proper_
and _improper_: 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 ecstasy 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.
You must know I have just met with the Mirror and Lounger 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,
Lounger, No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than anything I have
read of 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 Man of Feeling (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--than from the simple affecting tale of poor Harley?
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 not you 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, A * * * * * *, 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--or peculiarly miserable!
I have been manufacturing some verses lately; but when I have got the
most hurried season of excise business over, I hope to have more
leisure to transcribe anything that may show how much I have the
honour to be, Madam,
Yours, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCI.
TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL.
[Collector Mitchell was a kind and considerate gentle man: to his
grandson, Mr. John Campbell, surgeon, in Aberdeen, I owe this
characteristic letter.]
_Ellisland, 1790._
SIR,
I shall not fail to wait on Captain Riddel to-night--I wish and pray
that the goddess of justice herself would appear to-morrow among our
hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word in their ear that mercy to
the thief is injustice to the honest man. For my part I have galloped
over my ten parishes these four days, until this moment that I am just
alighted, or rather, that my poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let
me down; for the miserable devil has been on his knees half a score of
times within the last twenty miles, telling me in his own way,
'Behold, am not I thy faithful jade of a horse, on which thou hast
ridden these many years!'
In short, Sir, I have broke my horse's wind, and almost broke my own
neck, besides some injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing to
a hard-hearted stone for a saddle. I find that every offender has so
many great men to espouse his cause, that I shall not be surprised if
I am committed to the strong hold of the law to-morrow for insolence
to the dear friends of the gentlemen of the country.
I have the honour to be, Sir,
Your obliged and obedient humble
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCII.
TO DR. MOORE.
[The sonnets alluded to by Burns were those of Charlotte Smith: the
poet's copy is now before me, with a few marks of his pen on the
margins.]
_Dumfries, Excise-Office, 14th July, 1790._
SIR,
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.
I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my thanks for your most
valuable present, _Zeluco._ 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
overweening 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; and I am fond of the spirit young Elihu
shows in the book of Job--"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, &c., wherever I meet
with an original thought, a nervous remark on life and manners, a
remarkable well-turned period, or a character sketched with uncommon
precision.
Though I should hardly think of fairly writing out my "Comparative
View," I shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, such as they
are.
I have just received from my gentleman that horrid summons in the book
of Revelations--"That time shall be no more!"
The little collection of sonnets have some charming poetry in them. If
_indeed_ 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 ideas of the comparative excellence of her pieces. 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.
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCIII.
TO MR. MURDOCH,
TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON.
[The account of himself, promised to Murdoch by Burns, was never
written.]
_Ellisland, July 16, 1790._
MY DEAR SIR,
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.
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.
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.
I am ever, my dear Sir,
Your obliged friend,
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCIV.
TO MR. M'MURDO.
[This hasty note was accompanied by the splendid elegy on Matthew
Henderson, and no one could better feel than M'Murdo, to whom it is
addressed, the difference between the music of verse and the clangour
of politics.]
_Ellisland, 2d August, 1790._
SIR,
Now that you are over with the sirens of Flattery, the harpies of
Corruption, and the furies of Ambition, these infernal deities, that
on all sides, and in all parties, preside over the villanous business
of politics, permit a rustic muse of your acquaintance to do her best
to soothe you with a song.--
You knew Henderson--I have not flattered his memory.
I have the honour to be, Sir,
Your obliged humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCV.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Inquiries have been made in vain after the name of Burns's ci-devant
friend, who had so deeply wounded his feelings.]
_8th August, 1790._
DEAR MADAM,
After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I sit down to write to you.
Ask me not why I have delayed it so long! It was owing to hurry,
indolence, and fifty other things; in short to anything--but
forgetfulness of _la plus aimable de son sexe._ By the bye, you are
indebted your best courtesy to me for this last compliment; as I pay
it from my sincere conviction of its truth--a quality rather rare in
compliments of these grinning, bowing, scraping times.
Well, I hope writing to _you_ will ease a little my troubled soul.
Sorely has it been bruised to-day! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an
intimate acquaintance of yours, has given my feelings a wound that I
perceive will gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded my
pride!
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCVI.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
["The strain of invective," says the judicious Currie, of this letter,
"goes on some time longer in the style in which our bard was too apt
to indulge, and of which the reader has already seen so much."]
_Ellisland, 8th August, 1790._
Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming negligence.
You cannot sit down and fancy the busy life I lead.