Antiquities of Scotland._ If you are, the enclosed poem will not be
altogether new to you. Captain Grose did me the favour to send me a
dozen copies of the proof sheet, of which this is one. Should you have
read the piece before, still this will answer the principal end I have
in view: it will give me another opportunity of thanking you for all
your goodness to the rustic bard; and also of showing you, that the
abilities you have been pleased to commend and patronize are still
employed in the way you wish.
The _Elegy on Captain Henderson_, is a tribute to the memory of a man
I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman
Catholics; they can be of service to their friends after they have
passed that bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of avail.
Whether, after all, either the one or the other be of any real service
to the dead, is, I fear, very problematical; but I am sure they are
highly gratifying to the living: and as a very orthodox text, I forget
where in scripture, says, "whatsoever is not of faith is sin;" so say
I, whatsoever is not detrimental to society, and is of positive
enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all good things, and ought to be
received and enjoyed by his creatures with thankful delight. As almost
all my religious tenets originate from my heart, I am wonderfully
pleased with the idea, that I can still keep up a tender intercourse
with the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly beloved mistress,
who is gone to the world of spirits.
The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with _Percy's
Reliques of English Poetry._ By the way, how much is every honest
heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you
for your glorious story of Buchanan and Targe! 'Twas an unequivocal
proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory. I
should have been mortified to the ground if you had not.
I have just read over, once more of many times, your _Zeluco._ I
marked with my pencil, as I went along, every passage that pleased me
particularly above the rest; and one or two, I think, which with
humble deference, I am disposed to think unequal to the merits of the
book. I have sometimes thought to transcribe these marked passages, or
at least so much of them as to point where they are, and send them to
you. Original strokes that strongly depict the human heart, is your
and Fielding's province beyond any other novelist I have ever perused.
Richardson indeed might perhaps be excepted; but unhappily, _dramatis
personae_ are beings of another world; and however they may captivate
the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever,
in proportion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our
riper years.
As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer before
the Lord, and have lately had the interest to get myself ranked on the
list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet employed as such, but in
a few years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority.
I have had an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn; the
patron from whom all my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent of
my grateful attachment to him, which was indeed so strong that it
pervaded my very soul, and was entwined with the thread of my
existence: so soon as the prince's friends had got in (and every dog
you know has his day), my getting forward in the excise would have
been an easier business than otherwise it will be. Though this was a
consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can live and
rhyme as I am: and as to my boys, poor little fellows! if I cannot
place them on as high an elevation in life, as I could wish, I shall,
if I am favoured so much of the Disposer of events as to see that
period, fix them on as broad and independent a basis as possible.
Among the many wise adages which have been treasured up by our
Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best, _Better be the head o'
the commonalty, than the tail o' the gentry._
But I am got on a subject, which however interesting to me, is of no
manner of consequence to you; so I shall give you a short poem on the
other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the
honour to be,
Yours, &c.
R. B.
Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very young
lady, whom I had formerly characterized under the denomination of _The
Rose Bud._ * * *
* * * * *
CCX.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[Cunningham could tell a merry story, and sing a humorous song; nor
was he without a feeling for the deep sensibilities of his friend's
verse.]
_Ellisland, 12th March, 1791._
If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let me have them. For
my own part, a thing that I have just composed always appears through
a double portion of that partial medium in which an author will ever
view his own works. I believe in general, novelty has something in it
that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates and fumes
away like other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, as usual,
with an aching heart. A striking instance of this might be adduced,
in the revolution of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into
stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my
parish-priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you
another song of my late composition, which will appear perhaps in
Johnson's work, as well as the former.
You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, _There'll never be peace 'till
Jamie comes hame._ When political combustion ceases to be the object
of princes and patriots, it then you know becomes the lawful prey of
historians and poets.
By yon castle wa' at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came--
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot
imagine, my dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if by the
charms of your delightful voice, you would give my honest effusion to
"the memory of joys that are past," to the few friends whom you
indulge in that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I hear the
clock has intimated the near approach of
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane.--
So good night to you! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams!
Apropos, how do you like this thought in a ballad, I have just now on
the tapis?
I look to the west when I gae to rest,
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be;
Far, far in the west is he I lo'e best,
The lad that is dear to my babie and me!
Good night, once more, and God bless you!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXI.
TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL,
FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON.
[Cromek says that Alexander Dalzel introduced the poetry of Burns to
the notice of the Earl of Glencairn, who carried the Kilmarnock
edition with him to Edinburgh, and begged that the poet would let him
know what his views in the world were, that he might further them.]
_Ellisland, 19th March, 1791._
MY DEAR SIR,
I have taken the liberty to frank this letter to you, as it encloses
an idle poem of mine, which I send you; and God knows you may perhaps
pay dear enough for it if you read it through. Not that this is my own
opinion; but the author, by the time he has composed and corrected his
work, has quite pored away all his powers of critical discrimination.
I can easily guess from my own heart, what you have felt on a late
most melancholy event. God knows what I have suffered, at the loss of
my best friend, my first and dearest patron and benefactor; the man to
whom I owe all that I am and have! I am gone into mourning for him,
and with more sincerity of grief than I fear some will, who by
nature's ties ought to feel on the occasion.
I will be exceedingly obliged to you, indeed, to let me know the news
of the noble family, how the poor mother and the two sisters support
their loss. I had a packet of poetic bagatelles ready to send to Lady
Betty, when I saw the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the
same channel that the honoured REMAINS of my noble patron, are
designed to be brought to the family burial-place. Dare I trouble you
to let me know privately before the day of interment, that I may cross
the country, and steal among the crowd, to pay a tear to the last
sight of my ever revered benefactor? It will oblige me beyond
expression.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXII.
TO MRS. GRAHAM,
OF FINTRAY.
[Mrs. Graham, of Fintray, felt both as a lady and a Scottish one, the
tender Lament of the fair and unfortunate princess, which this letter
contained.]
_Ellisland, 1791._
MADAM,
Whether it is that the story of our Mary Queen of Scots has a peculiar
effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the enclosed
ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know not; but it
has pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good while past; on
that account I enclose it particularly to you. It is true, the purity
of my motives may be suspected. I am already deeply indebted to Mr.
Graham's goodness; and what, _in the usual ways of men_, is of
infinitely greater importance, Mr. G. can do me service of the utmost
importance in time to come. I was born a poor dog; and however I may
occasionally pick a better bone than I used to do, I know I must live
and die poor: but I will indulge the flattering faith that my poetry
will considerably outlive my poverty; and without any fustian
affectation of spirit, I can promise and affirm, that it must be no
ordinary craving of the latter shall ever make me do anything
injurious to the honest fame of the former. Whatever may be my
failings, for failings are a part of human nature, may they ever be
those of a generous heart, and an independent mind! It is no fault of
mine that I was born to dependence; nor is it Mr. Graham's chiefest
praise that he can command influence; but it is his merit to bestow,
not only with the kindness of a brother, but with the politeness of a
gentleman; and I trust it shall be mine, to receive with thankfulness,
and remember with undiminished gratitude.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXIII.
TO MRS. GRAHAM,
OF FINTRAY.
[The following letter was written on the blank leaf of a new edition
of his poems, presented by the poet, to one whom he regarded, and
justly, as a patroness.]
It is probable, Madam, that this page may be read, when the hand that
now writes it shall be mouldering in the dust: may it then bear
witness, that I present you these volumes as a tribute of gratitude,
on my part ardent and sincere, as your and Mr. Graham's goodness to me
has been generous and noble! May every child of yours, in the hour of
need, find such a friend as I shall teach every child of mine, that
their father found in you.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXIV.
TO THE REV. G. BAIRD.
[It was proposed to publish a new edition of the poems of Michael
Bruce, by subscription, and give the profits to his mother, a woman
eighty years old, and poor and helpless, and Burns was asked for a
poem to give a new impulse to the publication.]
_Ellisland, 1791._
REVEREND SIR,
Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a hesitating style on
the business of poor Bruce? Don't I know, and have I not felt, the
many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh is heir to? You shall
have your choice of all the unpublished poems I have; and had your
letter had my direction, so as to have reached me sooner (it only came
to my hand this moment), I should have directly put you out of
suspense on the subject. I only ask, that some prefatory advertisement
in the book, as well as the subscription bills, may bear, that the
publication is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not
put it in the power of ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate,
that I clubbed a share in the work from mercenary motives. Nor need
you give me credit for any remarkable generosity in my part of the
business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, failings, follies, and
backslidings (anybody but myself might perhaps give some of them a
worse appellation), that by way of some balance, however trifling, in
the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very limited
power to a fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a
little the vista of retrospection.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXV.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Francis Wallace Burns, the godson of Mrs. Dunlop, to whom this letter
refers, died at the age of fourteen--he was a fine and a promising
youth.]
_Ellisland, 11th April, 1791._
I am once more able, my honoured friend, to return you, with my own
hand, thanks for the many instances of your friendship, and
particularly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster, that my evil
genius had in store for me. However, life is chequered--joy and
sorrow--for on Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a present of
a fine boy; rather stouter, but not so handsome as your godson was at
his time of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake to be my _chef
d'oeuvre_ in that species of manufacture, as I look on Tam o'
Shanter to be my standard performance in the poetical line. 'Tis
true, both the one and the other discover a spice of roguish waggery,
that might perhaps be as well spared; but then they also show, in my
opinion, a force of genius and a finishing polish that I despair of
ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and laid as lustily
about her to-day at breakfast, as a reaper from the corn-ridge. That
is the peculiar privilege and blessing of our hale, sprightly damsels,
that are bred among the _hay and heather._ We cannot hope for that
highly polished mind, that charming delicacy of soul, which is found
among the female world in the more elevated stations of life, and
which is certainly by far the most bewitching charm in the famous
cestus of Venus. It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that where
it can be had in its native heavenly purity, unstained by some one or
other of the many shades of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or
other of the many species of caprice, I declare to Heaven, I should
think it cheaply purchased at the expense of every other earthly good!
But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, extremely rare in any
station and rank of life, and totally denied to such a humble one as
mine, we meaner mortals must put up with the next rank of female
excellence--as fine a figure and face we can produce as any rank of
life whatever; rustic, native grace; unaffected modesty, and unsullied
purity; nature's mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste; a simplicity
of soul, unsuspicious of, because unacquainted with, the crooked ways
of a selfish, interested, disingenuous world; and the dearest charm of
all the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition, and a generous
warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part, and ardently glowing
with a more than equal return; these, with a healthy frame, a sound,
vigorous constitution, which your higher ranks can scarcely ever hope
to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman in my humble walk of life.
This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do let me
hear, by first post, how _cher petit Monsieur_ comes on with his
small-pox. May almighty goodness preserve and restore him!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXVI.
TO ----.
[That his works found their way to the newspapers, need have
occasioned no surprise: the poet gave copies of his favorite pieces
freely to his friends, as soon as they were written: who, in their
turn, spread their fame among their acquaintances.]
_Ellisland, 1791._
DEAR SIR,
I am exceedingly to blame in not writing you long ago; but the truth
is, that I am the most indolent of all human beings; and when I
matriculate in the herald's office, I intend that my supporters shall
be two sloths, my crest a slow-worm, and the motto, "Deil tak the
foremost." So much by way of apology for not thanking you sooner for
your kind execution of my commission.
I would have sent you the poem; but somehow or other it found its way
into the public papers, where you must have seen it.
I am ever, dear Sir,
Yours sincerely,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXVII.
TO ----.
[This singular letter was sent by Burns, it is believed, to a critic,
who had taken him to task about obscure language, and imperfect
grammar.]
_Ellisland, 1791._
Thou eunuch of language: thou Englishman, who never was south the
Tweed: thou servile echo of fashionable barbarisms: thou quack,
vending the nostrums of empirical elocution: thou marriage-maker
between vowels and consonants, on the Gretna-green of caprice: thou
cobler, botching the flimsy socks of bombast oratory: thou blacksmith,
hammering the rivets of absurdity: thou butcher, imbruing thy hands in
the bowels of orthography: thou arch-heretic in pronunciation: thou
pitch-pipe of affected emphasis: thou carpenter, mortising the awkward
joints of jarring sentences: thou squeaking dissonance of cadence:
thou pimp of gender: thou Lion Herald to silly etymology: thou
antipode of grammar: thou executioner of construction: thou brood of
the speech-distracting builders of the Tower of Babel; thou lingual
confusion worse confounded: thou scape-gallows from the land of
syntax: thou scavenger of mood and tense: thou murderous accoucheur of
infant learning; thou _ignis fatuus_, misleading the steps of
benighted ignorance: thou pickle-herring in the puppet-show of
nonsense: thou faithful recorder of barbarous idiom: thou persecutor
of syllabication: thou baleful meteor, foretelling and facilitating
the rapid approach of Nox and Erebus.
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXVIII.
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.
[To Clarke, the Schoolmaster, Burns, it is said, addressed several
letters, which on his death were put into the fire by his widow,
because of their license of language.]
_11th June, 1791._
Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentleman
who waits on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, principal
schoolmaster there, and is at present suffering severely under the
persecution of one or two powerful individuals of his employers. He is
accused of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. God help
the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my friend
Clarke, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and
insists on lighting up the rays of science, in a fellow's head whose
skull is impervious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive
fracture with a cudgel: a fellow whom in fact it savours of impiety to
attempt making a scholar of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the
book of fate, at the almighty fiat of his Creator.
The patrons of Moffat-school are, the ministers, magistrates, and
town-council of Edinburgh, and as the business comes now before them,
let me beg my dearest friend to do everything in his power to serve
the interests of a man of genius and worth, and a man whom I
particularly respect and esteem. You know some good fellows among the
magistracy and council, but particularly you have much to say with a
reverend gentleman to whom you have the honour of being very nearly
related, and whom this country and age have had the honour to produce.
I need not name the historian of Charles V. I tell him through the
medium of his nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman who
will not disgrace even his patronage. I know the merits of the cause
thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is falling a sacrifice to
prejudiced ignorance.
God help the children of dependence! Hated and persecuted by their
enemies, and too often, alas! almost unexceptionably, received by
their friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin disguise of
cold civility and humiliating advice. O! to be a sturdy savage,
stalking in the pride of his independence, amid the solitary wilds of
his deserts; rather than in civilized life, helplessly to tremble for
a subsistence, precarious as the caprice of a fellow-creature! Every
man has his virtues, and no man is without his failings; and curse on
that privileged plain-dealing of friendship, which, in the hour of my
calamity, cannot reach forth the helping hand without at the same time
pointing out those failings, and apportioning them their share in
procuring my present distress. My friends, for such the world calls
ye, and such ye think yourselves to be, pass by my virtues if you
please, but do, also, spare my follies: the first will witness in my
breast for themselves, and the last will give pain enough to the
ingenuous mind without you. And since deviating more or less from the
paths of propriety and rectitude, must be incident to human nature, do
thou, Fortune, put it in my power, always from myself, and of myself,
to bear the consequence of those errors! I do not want to be
independent that I may sin, but I want to be independent in my
sinning.
To return in this rambling letter to the subject I set out with, let
me recommend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good
offices; his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will
merit the other. I long much to hear from you.
Adieu!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXIX.
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN.
[Lord Buchan printed this letter in his Essay on the Life of Thomson,
in 1792. His lordship invited Burns to leave his corn unreaped, walk
from Ellisland to Dryburgh, and help him to crown Thomson's bust with
bays, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of September.]
_Ellisland, August 29th, 1791._
MY LORD,
Language sinks under the ardour of my feelings when I would thank your
lordship for the honour you have done me in inviting me to make one at
the coronation of the bust of Thomson. In my first enthusiasm in
reading the card you did me the honour to write me, I overlooked
every obstacle, and determined to go; but I fear it will not be in my
power. A week or two's absence, in the very middle of my harvest, is
what I much doubt I dare not venture on. I once already made a
pilgrimage _up_ the whole course of the Tweed, and fondly would I take
the same delightful journey _down_ the windings of that delightful
stream.
Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion: but who would write
after Collins? I read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and
despaired.--I got indeed to the length of three or four stanzas, in
the way of address to the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I
shall trouble your lordship with the subjoined copy of them, which, I
am afraid, will be but too convincing a proof how unequal I am to the
task. However, it affords me an opportunity of approaching your
lordship, and declaring how sincerely and gratefully I have the honour
to be, &c.,
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXX.
TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN.
[Thomas Sloan was a west of Scotland man, and seems, though not much
in correspondence, to have been on intimate terms with Burns.]
_Ellisland, Sept. 1, 1791._
MY DEAR SLOAN,
Suspense is worse than disappointment, for that reason I hurry to tell
you that I just now learn that Mr. Ballantyne does not choose to
interfere more in the business. I am truly sorry for it, but cannot
help it.
You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will please to
recollect that you omitted one little necessary piece of
information;--your address.
However, you know equally well, my hurried life, indolent temper, and
strength of attachment. It must be a longer period than the longest
life "in the world's hale and undegenerate days," that will make me
forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at times,
but I will not part with such a treasure as that.
I can easily enter into the _embarras_ of your present situation. You
know my favourite quotation from Young--
---------------"On reason build RESOLVE!
That column of true majesty in man;"
and that other favourite one from Thomson's Alfred--
"What proves the hero truly GREAT,
Is never, never to despair."
Or shall I quote you an author of your acquaintance?
"---- Whether DOING, SUFFERING, OR FORBEARING,
You may do miracles by--PERSEVERING."
I have nothing new to tell you. The few friends we have are going on
in the old way. I sold my crop on this day se'ennight, and sold it
very well. A guinea an acre, on an average, above value. But such a
scene of drunkenness was hardly ever seen in this country. After the
roup was over, about thirty people engaged in a battle, every man for
his own hand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was the scene
much better in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks lying drunk
on the floor, and decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by
attending them, that they could not stand. You will easily guess how I
enjoyed the scene; as I was no farther over than you used to see me.
Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire these many weeks.
Farewell; and God bless you, my dear friend!
R. B.
* * * * *
CCXXI.
TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM.
[The poem enclosed was the Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn: it is
probable that the Earl's sister liked the verses, for they were
printed soon afterwards.]
MY LADY,