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?"
"Thy spirit, Independence, let me share;
Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye!
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky!"
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--and perhaps
not so well formed as thou art--came into the world a puling infant as
thou didst, and must go out of it, as all men must, a naked corse.
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCVII.
TO DR. ANDERSON.
[The gentleman to whom this imperfect note is addressed was Dr. James
Anderson, a well-known agricultural and miscellaneous writer, and the
editor of a weekly miscellany called the Bee.]
SIR,
I am much indebted to my worthy friend, Dr. Blacklock, for introducing
me to a gentleman of Dr. Anderson's celebrity; but when you do me the
honour to ask my assistance in your proposed publication, alas, Sir!
you might as well think to cheapen a little honesty at the sign of an
advocate's wig, or humility under the Geneva band. I am a miserable
hurried devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of holding the noses
of the poor publicans to the grindstone of the excise! and, like
Milton's Satan, for private reasons, am forced
"To do what yet though damn'd I would abhor."
--and, except a couplet or two of honest execration * * * *
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCVIII.
TO WILLIAM TYTLER, ESQ.,
OF WOODHOUSELEE.
[William Tytler was the "revered defender of the beauteous Stuart"--a
man of genius and a gentleman.]
_Lawn Market, August, 1790._
SIR,
Enclosed I have sent you a sample of the old pieces that are still to
be found among our peasantry in the west. I had once a great many of
these fragments, and some of these here, entire; but as I had no idea
then that anybody cared for them, I have forgotten them. I invariably
hold it sacrilege to add anything of my own to help out with the
shattered wrecks of these venerable old compositions; but they have
many various readings. If you have not seen these before, I know they
will flatter your true old-style Caledonian feelings; at any rate I am
truly happy to have an opportunity of assuring you how sincerely I am,
revered Sir,
Your gratefully indebted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CXCIX.
TO CRAUFORD TAIT, ESQ.,
EDINBURGH.
[Margaret Chalmers had now, it appears by this letter, become Mrs.
Lewis Hay: her friend, Charlotte Hamilton, had been for some time Mrs.
Adair, of Scarborough: Miss Nimmo was the lady who introduced Burns to
the far-famed Clarinda.]
_Ellisland_, 15th _October, 1790._
DEAR SIR,
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."
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!
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:--the goods of this world cannot be divided
without being lessened--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!
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 this 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."
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.
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.
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. 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.
R. B.
* * * * *
CC.
TO ----.
[This letter contained the Kirk's Alarm, a satire written to help the
cause of Dr. M'Gill, who recanted his heresy rather than be removed
from his kirk.]
_Ellisland, 1790._
DEAR SIR,
Whether in the way of my trade I can be of any service to the Rev.
Doctor, is I fear very doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of
seven bull-hides and a plate of brass, which altogether set Hector's
utmost force at defiance. Alas! I am not a Hector, and the worthy
Doctor's foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. Ignorance,
superstition, bigotry, stupidity, malevolence, self-conceit, envy--all
strongly bound in a massy frame of brazen impudence. Good God, Sir! to
such a shield, humour is the peck of a sparrow, and satire the pop-gun
of a school-boy. Creation-disgracing scelerats such as they, God only
can mend, and the devil only can punish. In the comprehending way of
Caligula, I wish they all had but one neck. I feel impotent as a child
to the ardour of my wishes! O for a withering curse to blast the
germins of their wicked machinations! O for a poisonous tornado,
winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, to sweep the spreading crop
of their villainous contrivances to the lowest hell!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The poet wrote out several copies of Tam o' Shanter and sent them to
his friends, requesting their criticisms: he wrote few poems so
universally applauded.]
_Ellisland, November, 1790._
"As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far
country."
Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for
the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I
most cordially obey the apostle--"Rejoice with them that do
rejoice"--for me, _to sing_ for joy, is no new thing; but _to preach_
for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a
pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before.
I read your letter--I literally jumped for joy--How could such a
mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of
the best news from his best friend. I seized my gilt-headed Wangee
rod, an instrument indispensably necessary in my left hand, in the
moment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, stride--quick and
quicker--out skipt I among the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my
joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs.
Little's is a more elegant, but not a more sincere compliment to the
sweet little fellow, than I, extempore almost, poured out to him in
the following verses:--
Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love
And ward o' mony a prayer,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, an' fair.
November hirples o'er the lea
Chill on thy lovely form;
But gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree
Should shield thee frae the storm.
I am much flattered by your approbation of my _Tam o' Shanter_, which
you express in your former letter; though, by the bye, you load me in
that said letter with accusations heavy and many; to all which I
plead, _not guilty_! Your book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As
to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for the press, you have
only to spell it right, and place the capital letters properly: as to
the punctuation, the printers do that themselves.
I have a copy of _Tam o' Shanter_ ready to send you by the first
opportunity: it is too heavy to send by post.
I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in consequence of your
recommendation, is most zealous to serve me. Please favour me soon
with an account of your good folks; if Mrs. H. is recovering, and the
young gentleman doing well.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCII.
TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE.
[The present alluded to was a gold snuff-box, with a portrait of Queen
Mary on the lid.]
_Ellisland, 11th January, 1791._
MY LADY,
Nothing less than the unlucky accident of having lately broken my
right arm, could have prevented me, the moment I received your
ladyship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, from returning you my
warmest and most grateful acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I
shall set it apart--the symbols of religion shall only be more sacred.
In the moment of poetic composition, the box shall be my inspiring
genius. When I would breathe the comprehensive wish of benevolence for
the happiness of others, I shall recollect your ladyship; when I would
interest my fancy in the distresses incident to humanity, I shall
remember the unfortunate Mary.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCIII.
TO WILLIAM DUNBAR, W.S.
[This letter was in answer to one from Dunbar, in which the witty
colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles supposed the poet had been
translated to Elysium to sing to the immortals, as his voice had not
been beard of late on earth.]
_Ellisland, 17th January, 1791._
I am not gone to Elysium, most noble colonel, but am still here in
this sublunary world, serving my God, by propagating his image, and
honouring my king by begetting him loyal subjects.
Many happy returns of the season await my friend. May the thorns of
care never beset his path! May peace be an inmate of his bosom, and
rapture a frequent visitor of his soul! May the blood-hounds of
misfortune never track his steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm
his dwelling! May enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure number thy
days, thou friend of the bard! "Blessed be he that blesseth thee, and
cursed be he that curseth thee!!!"
As a further proof that I am still in the land of existence, I send
you a poem, the latest I have composed. I have a particular reason for
wishing you only to show it to select friends, should you think it
worthy a friend's perusal; but if, at your first leisure hour, you
will favour me with your opinion of, and strictures on the
performance, it will be an additional obligation on, dear Sir, your
deeply indebted humble servant,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCIV.
TO MR. PETER HILL.
[The poet's eloquent apostrophe to poverty has no little feeling in
it: he beheld the money which his poems brought melt silently away,
and he looked to the future with more fear than hope.]
_Ellisland, 17th January, 1791._
Take these two guineas, and place them over against that d--mned
account of yours! which has gagged my mouth these five or six months!
I can as little write good things as apologies to the man I owe money
to. O the supreme curse of making three guineas do the business of
five! Not all the labours of Hercules; not all the Hebrews' three
centuries of Egyptian bondage, were such an insuperable business, such
an infernal task!! Poverty! thou half-sister of death, thou
cousin-german of hell: where shall I find force of execration equal to
the amplitude of thy demerits? Oppressed by thee, the venerable
ancient, grown hoary in the practice of every virtue, laden with years
and wretchedness, implores a little--little aid to support his
existence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, whose sun of prosperity
never knew a cloud; and is by him denied and insulted. Oppressed by
thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart glows with independence, and
melts with sensibility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in
bitterness of soul, under the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth.
Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition
plants him at the tables of the fashionable and polite, must see in
suffering silence, his remark neglected, and his person despised,
while shallow greatness in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet with
countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have
reason to complain of thee: the children of folly and vice, though in
common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod.
Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and neglected
education, is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and
shunned as a needy wretch, when his follies as usual bring him to
want; and when his unprincipled necessities drive him to dishonest
practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice
of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man of family and
fortune. _His_ early follies and extravagance, are spirit and fire;
_his_ consequent wants are the embarrassments of an honest fellow; and
when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commission to
plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns,
perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder; lives wicked and
respected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord.--Nay, worst of all, alas
for helpless woman! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the
corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual
prostitution, is left neglected and insulted, ridden down by the
chariot wheels of the coroneted RIP, hurrying on to the
guilty assignation; she who without the same necessities to plead,
riots nightly in the same guilty trade.
Well! divines may say of it what they please; but execration is to the
mind what phlebotomy is to the body: the vital sluices of both are
wonderfully relieved by their respective evacuations.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCV.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[To Alexander Cunningham the poet generally communicated his favourite
compositions.]
_Ellisland, 23d January, 1791._
Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear friend! As many of
the good things of this life, as is consistent with the usual mixture
of good and evil in the cup of being!
I have just finished a poem (Tam o' Shanter) which you will receive
enclosed. It is my first essay in the way of tales.
I have these several months been hammering at an elegy on the amiable
and accomplished Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no farther than
the following fragment, on which please give me your strictures. In
all kinds of poetic composition, I set great store by your opinion;
but in sentimental verses, in the poetry of the heart, no Roman
Catholic ever set more value on the infallibility of the Holy Father
than I do on yours.
I mean the introductory couplets as text verses.
ELEGY
ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO.
Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize
As Burnet lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.
Let me hear from you soon.
Adieu!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCVI.
TO A.F. TYTLER, ESQ.
["I have seldom in my life," says Lord Woodhouselee, "tasted a higher
enjoyment from any work of genius than I received from Tam o'
Shanter."]
_Ellisland, February, 1791._
SIR,
Nothing less than the unfortunate accident I have met with, could have
prevented my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His own
favourite poem, and that an essay in the walk of the muses entirely
new to him, where consequently his hopes and fears were on the most
anxious alarm for his success in the attempt; to have that poem so
much applauded by one of the first judges, was the most delicious
vibration that ever thrilled along the heart-strings of a poor poet.
However, Providence, to keep up the proper proportion of evil with the
good, which it seems is necessary in this sublunary state, thought
proper to check my exultation by a very serious misfortune. A day or
two after I received your letter, my horse came down with me and broke
my right arm. As this is the first service my arm has done me since
its disaster, I find myself unable to do more than just in general
terms thank you for this additional instance of your patronage and
friendship. As to the faults you detected in the piece, they are truly
there: one of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall cut out;
as to the falling off in the catastrophe, for the reason you justly
adduce, it cannot easily be remedied. Your approbation, Sir, has given
me such additional spirits to persevere in this species of poetic
composition, that I am already revolving two or three stories in my
fancy. If I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind of
embodied form, it will give me additional opportunity of assuring you
how much I have the honour to be, &c.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCVII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[The elegy on the beautiful Miss Burnet, of Monboddo, was laboured
zealously by Burns, but it never reached the excellence of some of his
other compositions.]
_Ellisland, 7th Feb. 1791._
When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, not from my horse, but with my
horse, I have been a cripple some time, and that this is the first day
my arm and hand have been able to serve me in writing; you will allow
that it is too good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful silence. I
am now getting better, and am able to rhyme a little, which implies
some tolerable ease, as I cannot think that the most poetic genius is
able to compose on the rack.
I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you my having an idea of
composing an elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo. I had the
honour of being pretty well acquainted with her, and have seldom felt
so much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when I heard that so
amiable and accomplished a piece of God's work was no more. I have, as
yet, gone no farther than the following fragment, of which please let
me have your opinion. You know that elegy is a subject so much
exhausted, that any new idea on the business is not to be expected:
'tis well if we can place an old idea in a new light. How far I have
succeeded as to this last, you will judge from what follows. I have
proceeded no further.
Your kind letter, with your kind _remembrance_ of your godson, came
safe. This last, Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. As to the
little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the finest boy I have for a
long time seen. He is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox and
measles over, has cut several teeth, and never had a grain of doctor's
drugs in his bowels.
I am truly happy to hear that the "little floweret" is blooming so
fresh and fair, and that the "mother plant" is rather recovering her
drooping head. Soon and well may her "cruel wounds" be healed. I have
written thus far with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a little
abler you shall hear farther from,
Madam, yours,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCVIII.
TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON.
[Alison was much gratified it is said, with this recognition of the
principles laid down in his ingenious and popular work.]
_Ellisland, near Dumfries, 14th Feb. 1791._
SIR,
You must by this time have set me down as one of the most ungrateful
of men. You did me the honour to present me with a book, which does
honour to science and the intellectual powers of man, and I have not
even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you
yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as I was by your telling me
that you wished to have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual
enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity is one of the sins that
most easily beset me, put it into my head to ponder over the
performance with the look-out of a critic, and to draw up forsooth a
deep learned digest of strictures on a composition, of which, in fact,
until I read the book, I did not even know the first principles. I
own, Sir, that at first glance, several of your propositions startled
me as paradoxical. That the martial clangour of a trumpet had
something in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, than the
twingle twangle of a jew's-harp: that the delicate flexure of a
rose-twig, when the half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of the
dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant than the upright stub
of a burdock; and that from something innate and independent of all
associations of ideas;--these I had set down as irrefragable, orthodox
truths, until perusing your book shook my faith.--In short, Sir,
except Euclid's Elements of Geometry, which I made a shift to unravel
by my father's fire-side, in the winter evening of the first season I
held the plough, I never read a book which gave me such a quantum of
information, and added so much to my stock of ideas, as your "Essays
on the Principles of Taste." One thing, Sir, you must forgive my
mentioning as an uncommon merit in the work, I mean the language. To
clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of style, sounds something like
a contradiction in terms; but you have convinced me that they are
quite compatible.
I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition. The one
in print[198] is my first essay in the way of telling a tale.
I am, Sir, &c.
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 198: Tam O' Shanter]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A NAVAL BATTLE.]
CCIX.
TO DR. MOORE.
[Moore admired but moderately the beautiful ballad on Queen Mary, and
the Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson: Tam o' Shanter he thought full
of poetical beauties.--He again regrets that he writes in the language
of Scotland.]
_Ellisland, 20th February, 1791._