DEAR SIR,--I never spent an afternoon among great folks with half that
pleasure as when, in company with you, I had the honour of paying my
devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the professor[21] I would be
delighted to see him perform acts of kindness and friendship, though I
were not the object; he does it with such a grace. I think his
character, divided into ten parts, stands thus,--four parts
Socrates--four parts Nathaniel--and two parts Shakespeare's Brutus.
The following verses were really extempore, but a little corrected
since. They may entertain you a little with the help of that partiality
with which you are so good as to favour the performances of, dear Sir,
your very humble servant, R. B.
[Footnote 21: Dugald Stewart, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the
University of Edinburgh.]
* * * *
XXIX.--TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.
_Nov_. 1786.
MADAM,--I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much
honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am
fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly
alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus; nor is
it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture,
when those, whose character in life gives them a right to be polite
judges, honour him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly
acquainted with me, Madam, you could not have touched my darling
heart-chord more sweetly, than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your
illustrious ancestor, the saviour of his country.
Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!
The first book I met with in my early years which I perused with
pleasure was _The Life of Hannibal_; the next was _The History of Sir
William Wallace_: for several of my early years I had few other authors;
and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations
of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious, but unfortunate stories.
In those boyish days I remember, in particular, being struck with that
part of Wallace's story, where these lines occur--
"Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late,
To make a silent and a safe retreat."
I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and
walked half-a-dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with
as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto; and as I
explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman
to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer) that my heart
glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure
equal to his merits. R. B.
* * * *
XXX.--TO MISS ALEXANDER.
MOSSGIEL, 18_th Nov_. 1786.
MADAM,--Poets are such _outré_ beings, so much the children of wayward
fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows
them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety than the sober sons of
judgment and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties
that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the inclosed poem, which
he begs leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way
worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge: but it is the best my
abilities can produce; and what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a
superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent.
The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say, Madam,
you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic
_reveur_ as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in
the favourite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature
in all the gaiety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over
the distant western hills; not a breath stirred the crimson opening
blossom, or the verdant-spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a
poetic heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their
harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently
turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or
frighten them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a
wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please
him, can eye your elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and
to rob you of all the property nature gives you--your dearest comforts,
your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across
the way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its
welfare, and wished it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the
withering eastern blast? Such was the scene, and such the hour, when, in
a corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's
workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's eye,
those visionary bards excepted, who hold commerce with aerial beings!
Had Calumny and Villainy taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn
eternal peace with such an object.
What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised plain dull
historic prose into metaphor and measure.
The inclosed song was the work of my return; and perhaps it but poorly
answers what might have been expected from such a scene.--I have the
honour to be, Madam, your most obedient and very humble servant,
R. B.
P.S.--Well, Mr. Burns, and _did_ the lady give you the desired
permission? No; she was too fine a lady to _notice_ so plain a
compliment. As to her great brothers, whom I have since met in life on
more equal terms[22] of respectability--why should I quarrel with their
want of attention to me? When fate swore that their purses should be
full, nature was equally positive that their heads should be empty. Men
of their fashion were surely incapable of being unpolite? Ye canna mak a
silk-purse o' a sow's lug.
R. B., 1792.
[Footnote 22: As Depute Master of St. James's Lodge, Burns admitted
Claude Alexander, Esq., of Ballochmyle, an honorary member, in
July 1789.]
* * * *
XXXI.--IN THE NAME OF THE NINE. _Amen_.
WE, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date the
twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini one thousand seven hundred and
fifty-nine,[23] Poet Laureat, and Bard-in-Chief, in and over the
districts and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old
extent,--To our trusty and well-beloved William Chalmers and John
M'Adam, students and practitioners in the ancient and mysterious science
of confounding right and wrong.
RIGHT TRUSTY,--Be it known unto you, That whereas in the course of our
care and watchings over the order and police of all and sundry the
manufacturers, retainers, and vendors of poesy; bards, poets,
poetasters, rhymers, jinglers, songsters, ballad-singers, etc., etc.,
etc., etc., male and female--We have discovered a certain nefarious,
abominable, and wicked song or ballad, a copy whereof we have here
inclosed; Our Will therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and appoint the most
execrable individual of that most execrable species known by the
appellation, phrase, and nickname of The Deil's Yell Nowte,[24] and
after having caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall,
at noontide of the day, put into the said wretch's merciless hands the
said copy of the said nefarious and wicked song, to be consumed by fire
in presence of all beholders, in abhorrence of, and terrorem to, all
such compositions and composers. And this in no wise leave ye undone,
but have it executed in every point as this our mandate bears, before
the twenty-fourth current, when in person We hope to applaud your
faithfulness and zeal.
Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of November, Anno Domini one
thousand seven hundred and eighty-six. God save the Bard!
[Footnote 23: His birthday.]
[Footnote 24: Old bachelors]
* * * *
XXXII.--TO JAMES DALRYMPLE, ESQ., ORANGEFIELD.
[30_th Nov_. 1786.]
DEAR SIR,--I suppose the devil is so elated with his success with you,
that he is determined by a _coup de main_ to complete his purposes on
you all at once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent
me; hummed over the rhymes; and as I saw they were extempore, said to
myself, they were very well; but when I saw at the bottom a name that I
shall ever value with grateful respect, "I gapit wide, but naething
spak." I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of
affliction-bearing memory, when they sat down with him seven days and
seven nights, and spake not a word.
I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon as my wonder-scared
imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed its functions, I
cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My foreboding ideas
had the wide stretch of possibility; and several events, great in their
magnitude, and important in their consequences, occurred to my fancy.
The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of the Cork rumps; a ducal
coronet to Lord George Gordon, and the protestant interest; or St
Peter's keys to .....
You want to know how I come on. I am just in _statu quo_, or, not to
insult a gentleman with my Latin, in "auld use and wont." The noble Earl
of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself in my
concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent Being whose image he so
richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality of the soul than
any that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can never die. Let
the worshipful squire H. L., or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their
primitive nothing. At best, they are but ill-digested lumps of chaos,
only one of them strongly tinged with bituminous particles and
sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell
of magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on
with princely eye at "the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the
crash of worlds." R. B.
* * * *
XXXIII.-To SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD.
EDINBURGH, 1_st Dec_. 1786.
SIR,--Mr. McKenzie in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, has
informed me how much you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate as
a man, and--what to me is incomparably dearer-my fame as a poet. I have,
Sir, in one or two instances, been patronised by those of your character
in life, when I was introduced to their notice by social friends to
them, and honoured acquaintances to me; but you are the first gentleman
in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart has interested
him for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master enough of the
etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether
formal duty bade or cold propriety disallowed my thanking you in this
manner, as I am convinced, from the light in which you kindly view me,
that you will do me the justice to believe this letter is not the
manoeuvre of the needy sharping author, fastening on those in upper life
who honour him with a little notice of him or his works. Indeed, the
situation of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some
measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and talents they have at
times been guilty of. I do not think that prodigality is, by any means,
a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless,
indolent inattention to economy is almost inseparable from it; then
there must be in the heart of every bard of nature's making a certain
modest sensibility, mixed with a kind of pride, which will ever keep him
out of the way of those windfalls of fortune, which frequently light on
hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a
more helpless state than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the
world, and whose character as a scholar gives him some pretensions to
the _politesse_ of life, yet is as poor as I am. For my part, I thank
heaven my star has been kinder: learning never elevated my ideas above
the peasant's shed, and I have an independent fortune at the
plough-tail.
I was surprised to hear[25] that any one who pretended in the least to
the manners of the gentleman should be so foolish, or worse, as to stoop
to traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel,
too, as to meddle with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my
story. With a tear of gratitude I thank you, Sir, for the warmth with
which you interposd in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too
frequently the sport of whim, caprice, and passion; but reverence to
God, and integrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve.
I have no return, Sir, to make you for your goodness, but one--a return
which I am persuaded will not be unacceptable--the honest warm wishes of
a grateful heart for your happiness, and every one of that lovely flock
who stand to you in a filial relation. If ever Calumny aims the poisoned
shaft at them, may friendship be by to ward the blow! R. B.
[Footnote 25: From Dr. Mackenzie, Burns's friend, and medical
attendant of the family of Sir John.]
* * * *
XXXIV.--To MR, GAVIN HAMILTON, MAUCHLINE.
EDINBURGH, _Dec_. 7_th_, 1786,
HONOURED SIR,--I have paid every attention to your commands, but can
only say what perhaps you will have heard before this reach you, that
Muirkirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W.S., but for whom I know
not; Mauchlands, Haugh Miln, etc., by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed
to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adam-hill and Shawood were bought for
Oswald's folks. This is so imperfect an account, and will be so late ere
it reach you, that were it not to discharge my conscience I would not
trouble you with it; but after all my diligence I could make it no
sooner nor better.
For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas
à Kempis or John Bunyan; and you may expect henceforth to see my
birthday inserted among the wonderful events in the poor Robin's and
Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the black Monday and the battle of
Bothwell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H.
Erskine, have taken me under their wing; and by all probability I shall
soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise man of the world. Through
my lord's influence, it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian
Hunt, that they universally, one and all, subscribe for the second
edition. My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have
some of them next post. I have met in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield,
what Solomon emphatically calls, "a friend that sticketh closer than a
brother." The warmth with which he interests himself in my affairs is of
the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aikin, and the few patrons
that took notice of my earlier poetic days, showed for the poor unlucky
devil of a poet.
I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy in my poetic prayers,
but you both in prose and verse.
May cauld ne'er catch you, but a hap,
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap!
Amen!
R. B.
* * * * *
XXXV.--To MR. JOHN BALLANTINE, BANKER, AT ONE TIME PROVOST OF AYR.
EDINBURGH, 13_th December_ 1786.
MY HONOURED FRIEND,--I would not write you till I could have it in my
power to give you some account of myself and my matters, which, by the
by, is often no easy task. I arrived here on Tuesday was se'nnight[26],
and have suffered ever since I came to town with a miserable headache
and stomach complaint, but am now a good deal better. I have found a
worthy warm friend in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, who introduced me
to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me I
shall remember when time shall be no more. By his interest it is passed
in the "Caledonian Hunt," and entered in their books, that they are to
take each a copy of the second edition, for which they are to pay one
guinea. I have been introduced to a good many of the _noblesse_, but my
avowed patrons and patrones es are, the Duchess of Gordon--the Countess
of Glencairn, with my Lord and Lady Betty[27]--the Dean of Faculty--Sir
John Whitefoord. I have likewise warm friends among the literati;
Professors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie--the Man of Feeling. An
unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald,
which I got. I since have discovered my generous unknown friend to be
Patrick Miller, Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk; and drank a glass of
claret with him, by invitation, at his own house yesternight. I am
nearly agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin
on Monday. I will send a subscription bill or two, next post; when I
intend writing my first kind patron, Mr. Aikin. I saw his son to-day,
and he is very well.
Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned friends, put me in the periodical
paper called the _Lounger_,[28] a copy of which I here enclose you. I
was, Sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, too obscure; now I
tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the
glare of polite and learned observation.
I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, write you an account of my
every step; and better health and more spirits may enable me to make it
something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle.--I have the
honour to be, good Sir, your ever grateful humble servant, R. B.
If any of my friends write me, my direction is care of Mr. Creech,
Bookseller.
[Footnote 26: A mistake for "a fortnight."]
[Footnote 27: Cunningham]
[Footnote 28: The paper here alluded to was written by Mackenzie, the
celebrated author of _The Man of Feeling_.]
* * * *
XXXVI.--TO MR. ROBERT MUIR.
EDINBURGH, _Dec_. 20_th_, 1786.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I have just time for the carrier, to tell you that I
received your letter, of which I shall say no more but what a lass of my
acquaintance said of her bastard wean; she said she "didna ken wha was
the father exactly, but she suspected it was some o' thae bonny
blackguard smugglers, for it was like them." So I only say, your
obliging epistle was like you. I enclose you a parcel of subscription
bills. Your affair of sixty copies is also like you; but it would not be
like me to comply.
Your friend's notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head of
sketching it in some future epistle to you. My compliments to Charles
and Mr. Parker. R. B.
* * * *
XXXVII.--TO MR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, WRITER, AYR.
EDINBURGH, _Dec_. 27_th_, 1786.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I confess I have sinned the sin for which there is
hardly any forgiveness--ingratitude to friendship, in not writing you
sooner; but of all men living, I had intended to have sent you an
entertaining letter; and by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in
nodding conceited majesty preside over the dull routine of business--a
heavily-solemn oath this!--I am and have been, ever since I came to
Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour, as to write a
commentary on the Revelation of St. John the Divine, who was banished to
the Isle of Patmos by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian
and brother to Titus, both emperors of Rome, and who was himself an
emperor, and raised the second or third persecution, I forget which,
against the Christians, and after throwing the said apostle John,
brother to the apostle James, commonly called James the Greater, to
distinguish him from another James, who was on some account or other
known by the name of James the Less--after throwing him into a cauldron
of boiling oil from which he was miraculously preserved, he banished the
poor son of Zebedee to a desert island in the Archipelago where he was
gifted with the second sight, and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen
since I came to Edinburgh; which, a circumstance not uncommon in
story-telling, brings me back to where I set out.
To make you some amends for what, before you reach this paragraph, you
will have suffered, I enclose you two poems I have carded and spun since
I passed Glenbuck.
One blank in the address to Edinburgh--"Fair B----," is heavenly Miss
Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour
to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her in all
the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has
formed, since Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence.
My direction is--care of Andrew Bruce, merchant, Bridge Street. R. B.
* * * *
XXXVIII.--To THE EARL OF EGLINGTON.
EDINBURGH, _January_ 1787.
MY LORD,--As I have but slender pretensions to philosophy, I cannot rise
to the exalted ideas of a citizen of the world, but have all those
national prejudices, which I believe glow peculiarly strong in the
breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely anything to which I am so fully
alive as the honour and welfare of my country; and as a poet, I have no
higher enjoyment than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my
station in the veriest shades of life; but never did a heart pant more
ardently than mine to be distinguished; though till very lately I looked
in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is easy then to guess how
much I was gratified with the countenance and approbation of one of my
country's most illustrious sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on me
yesterday on the part of your lordship. Your munificence, my lord,
certainly deserves my very grateful acknowledgments; but your patronage
is a bounty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not master enough of
the etiquette of life to know, whether there be not some impropriety in
troubling your lordship with my thanks, but my heart whispered me to do
it. From the emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude I
hope I am incapable of; and mercenary servility, I trust, I shall ever
have so much honest pride as to detest. R. B.
* * * *
XXXIX.--TO MR. JOHN BALLANTINE.
EDINBURGH, _Jan_. 14_th_ 1787.
MY HONOURED FRIEND,--It gives me a secret comfort to observe in myself
that I am not yet so far gone as Willie Gaw's Skate, "past redemption;"
for I have still this favourable symptom of grace, that when my
conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells me I am leaving
something undone that I ought to do, it teases me eternally till I
do it.
I am still "dark as was Chaos" in respect to futurity. My generous
friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, has been talking with me about a lease of
some farm or other in an estate called Dalswinton, which he has lately
bought near Dumfries. Some life-rented embittering recollections whisper
me that I will be happier anywhere than in my old neighbourhood, but Mr.
Miller is no judge of land; and though I daresay he means to favour me,
yet he may give me, in his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may
ruin me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I return, and have promised
to meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in May.
I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the Most Worshipful Grand
Master Chartres, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The
meeting was numerous and elegant; all the different lodges about town
were present, in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with
great solemnity and honour to himself as a gentleman and mason, among
other general toasts gave "Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, Brother
Burns," which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours
and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would happen, I
was downright thunderstruck, and, trembling in every nerve, made the
best return in my power. Just as I had finished, some of the grand
officers said so loud that I could hear with a most comforting accent,
"Very well, indeed!" which set me something to rights again.