though I am getting vastly better, and have been very much hurried
beside, or else I would have wrote you sooner. I must beg your pardon
for the epistle you sent me appearing in the Magazine. I had given a
copy or two to some of my intimate friends, but did not know of the
printing of it till the publication of the Magazine. However, as it does
great honour to us both, you will forgive it.
The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last is
published to-day. I send you a copy, which I beg you will accept as a
mark of the veneration I have long had, and shall ever have, for your
character, and of the claim I make to your continued acquaintance. Your
songs appear in the third volume, with your name in the index; as I
assure you, Sir, I have heard your "Tullochgorum," particularly among
our west-country folks, given to many different names, and most commonly
to the immortal author of "The Minstrel," who, indeed, never wrote any
thing superior to "Gie's a sang, Montgomery cried." Your brother[58] has
promised me your verses to the Marquis of Huntley's reel, which
certainly deserve a place in the collection. My kind host, Mr.
Cruikshank, of the High School here, and said to be one of the best
Latins in this age, begs me to make you his grateful acknowledgments for
the entertainment he has got in a Latin publication of yours, that I
borrowed for him from your acquaintance and much-respected friend in
this place, the Rev. Dr. Webster. Mr. Cruikshank maintains that you
write the best Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, but
shall return in three weeks. Your song you mentioned in your last, to
the tune of "Dumbarton Drums," and the other, which you say was done by
a brother in trade of mine, a ploughman, I shall thank you for a copy of
each. I am ever, Reverend Sir, with the most respectful esteem and
sincere veneration, yours, R. B.
[Footnote 58: Half-brother, James, a writer to the Signet.]
* * * *
LXXV.--TO MRS. ROSE, OF KILRAVOCK.
EDINBURGH, _February_ 17_th_, 1788.
MADAM,--You are much indebted to some indispensable business I have had
on my hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened such a return for your
obliging favour, as would have tired your patience. It but poorly
expresses my feelings to say, that I am sensible of your kindness: it
may be said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, mine is, much
more justly than Addison applies it,--
Some souls by instinct to each other turn.
There was something in my reception at Kilravock so different from the
cold, obsequious, dancing-school bow of politeness, that it almost got
into my head that friendship had occupied her ground without the
intermediate march of acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or rather
transfuse into language, the glow of my heart when I read your letter.
My ready fancy, with colours more mellow than life itself, painted the
beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock--the venerable grandeur of the
castle--the spreading woods--the winding river, gladly leaving his
unsightly, heathy source, and lingering with apparent delight as he
passes the fairy walk at the bottom of the garden;--your late
distressful anxieties--your present enjoyments--your dear little angel,
the pride of your hopes;--my aged friend, venerable in worth and years,
whose loyalty and other virtues will strongly entitle her to the support
of the Almighty Spirit here, and His peculiar favour in a happier state
of existence. You cannot imagine, Madam, how much such feelings delight
me; they are my dearest proofs of my own immortality. Should I never
revisit the north, as probably I never will, nor again see your
hospitable mansion, were I, some twenty years hence, to see your little
fellow's name making a proper figure in a newspaper paragraph, my heart
would bound with pleasure.
I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scottish songs, set to their
proper tunes; every air worth preserving is to be included; among others
I have given "Morag," and some few Highland airs which pleased me most,
a dress which will be more generally known, though far, far inferior in
real merit. As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I beg leave to
present you with a copy of the work, as far as it is printed; the Man of
Feeling, that first of men, has promised to transmit it by the first
opportunity.
I beg to be remembered most respectfully to my venerable friend, and to
your little Highland chieftain. When you see the "two fair spirits of
the hill," at Kildrummie, tell them that I have done myself the honour
of setting myself down as one of their admirers for at least twenty
years to come, consequently they must look upon me as an acquaintance
for the same period; but, as the Apostle Paul says, "this I ask of grace,
not of debt."--I have the honour to be, Madam, etc., ROBERT BURNS.
* * * *
LXXVI-To RICHARD BROWN, GREENOCK.
MOSSGIEL, 24_th February_ 1788.
MY DEAR SIR,--I cannot get the proper direction for my friend in
Jamaica, but the following will do:--To Mr, Jo. Hutchinson, at Jo.
Brownrigg's, Esq., care of Mr. Benjamin Henriquez, merchant, Orange
Street, Kingston. I arrived here, at my brother's, only yesterday, after
fighting my way through Paisley and Kilmarnock, against those old
powerful foes of mine, the devil, the world, and the flesh--so terrible
in the fields of dissipation. I have met with few incidents in my life
which gave me so much pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. There is a
time of life beyond which we cannot form a tie worth the name of
friendship, "O youth! enchanting stage, profusely blest." Life is a
fairy scene: almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure
is only a charming delusion; and in comes repining age, in all the
gravity of hoary wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the bewitching
phantom. When I think of life, I resolve to keep a strict look-out in
the course of economy, for the sake of worldly convenience and
independence of mind; to cultivate intimacy with a few of the companions
of youth, that they may be the friends of age; never to refuse my
liquorish humour a handful of the sweetmeats of life, when they come not
too dear; and, for futurity,--
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw!
How like you my philosophy? Give my best compliments to Mrs. B., and
believe me to be, my dear Sir, yours most truly, ROBERT BURNS.
* * * *
LXXVII.--To MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK.[59]
MAUCHLINE, _March_ 3_rd_, 1788.
My dear Sir,--Apologies for not writing are frequently like apologies
for not singing--the apology better than the song. I have fought my way
severely through the savage hospitality of this country, the object of
all hosts being to send every guest drunk to bed if they can.
I executed your commission in Glasgow, and I hope the cocoa came safe.
'Twas the same price and the very same kind as your former parcel, for
the gentleman recollected your buying there perfectly well.
I Should return my thanks for your hospitality (I leave a blank for the
epithet, as I know none can do it justice) to a poor, wayfaring bard,
who was spent and almost overpowered fighting with prosaic wickedness in
high places; but I am afraid lest you should burn the letter whenever
you come to the passage, so I pass over it in silence. I am just
returned from visiting Mr. Miller's farm. The friend whom I told you I
would take with me was highly pleased with the farm; and as he is,
without exception, the most intelligent farmer in the country, he has
staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans of life before me; I
shall balance them to the best of my judgment; and fix on the most
eligible. I have written Mr. Miller, and shall wait on him when I come
to town, which shall be the beginning or middle of next week: I would be
in sooner, but my unlucky knee is rather worse, and I fear for some time
will scarcely stand the fatigue of my Excise instructions. I only
mention these ideas to you, and, indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I
intend writing to tomorrow, I will not write at all to Edinburgh till I
return to it. I would send my compliments to Mr. Nicol, but he would be
hurt if he knew I wrote to anybody and not to him; so I shall only beg
my best, kindest, kindest compliments to my worthy hostess, and the
sweet little rose-bud.
So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, either as an
Excise-officer, or as a farmer, I propose myself great pleasure from a
regular correspondence with the only man almost I ever saw, who joined
the most attentive prudence with the warmest generosity.
I am much interested for that best of men, Mr. Wood; I hope he is in
better health and spirits than when I saw him last.--I am ever, my
dearest friend, your obliged, humble servant, R. B.
[Footnote 59: One of the masters of the High School of Edinburgh.]
* * * *
LXXVIII.--To MR. ROBERT AINSLIE.
MAUCHLINE, 3_rd March_ 1788.
MY DEAR FRIEND,--I am just returned from Mr. Miller's farm. My old
friend whom I took with me was highly pleased with the bargain, and
advised me to accept of it. He is the most intelligent sensible farmer
in the county, and his advice has staggered me a good deal. I have the
two plans before me; I shall endeavour to balance them to the best of my
judgment, and fix on the most eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr.
Miller in the same favourable disposition as when I saw him last, I
shall, in all probability, turn farmer.
I have been through sore tribulation and under much buffetting of the
wicked one, since I came to this country. Jean I found banished,
forlorn, destitute, and friendless; I have reconciled her to her fate,
and I have reconciled her to her mother.... I swore her privately and
solemnly never to attempt any claim on me as a husband, even though
anybody should persuade her she had such a claim....
I shall be in Edinburgh middle of next week. My farming ideas I shall
keep private till I see. I got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and she
tells me she has got no letter of mine but one. Tell her that I wrote to
her from Glasgow, from Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and yesterday from
Cumnock as I returned from Dumfries. Indeed she is the only person in
Edinburgh I have written to till this day. How are your soul and body
putting up?--a little like man and wife I suppose.--Your
faithful friend,
ROBERT BURNS.
* * * *
LXXIX.--To MR. RICHARD BROWN.
MAUCHLINE, 7_th March_ 1788.
I have been out of the country, my dear friend, and have not had an
opportunity of writing till now, when, I am afraid, you will be gone out
of the country too. I have been looking at farms, and, after all,
perhaps I may settle in the character of a farmer. I have got so vicious
a bent to idleness, and have ever been so little a man of business, that
it will take no ordinary effort to bring my mind properly into the
routine: but you will say a "great effort is worthy of you." I say so
myself; and butter up my vanity with all the stimulating compliments I
can think of. Men of grave, geometrical minds, the sons of "which was to
be demonstrated," may cry up reason as much as they please; but I have
always found an honest passion, or native instinct, the truest auxiliary
in the warfare of this world. Reason almost always comes to me like an
unlucky wife to a poor devil of a husband, just in sufficient time to
add her reproaches to his other grievances.
I am gratified with your kind inquiries after Jean; as, after all, I may
say with Othello--
Excellent wretch!
Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee!
I go for Edinburgh on Monday.--Yours,
ROBERT BURNS.
* * * * *
LXXX.--TO MR. ROBERT MUIR.
MOSSGIEL, 7_th March_ 1788.
DEAR SIR,--I have partly changed my ideas, my dear friend, since I saw
you. I took old Glenconner with me to Mr. Miller's farm, and he was so
pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which, if he
accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer, the happiest of lives when a
man can live by it. In this case I shall not stay in Edinburgh above a
week. I set out on Monday, and would have come by Kilmarnock; but there
are several small sums owing me for my first edition about Galston and
Newmilns, and I shall set off so early as to despatch my business and
reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I shall devote a forenoon or two
to make some kind of acknowledgment for all the kindness I owe your
friendship. Now that I hope to settle with some credit and comfort at
home, there was not any friendship or friendly correspondence that
promised me more pleasure than yours; I hope I will not be disappointed.
I trust the spring will renew your shattered frame, and make your
friends happy. You and I have often agreed that life is no great
blessing on the whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning age, is
Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams
Athwart the gloom profound.
But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the
whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods of the
valley, be it so; at least there is an end of pain, care, woes, and
wants. If that part of us called mind does survive the apparent
destruction of the man--away with old-wife prejudices and tales. Every
age and every nation has had a different set of stories; and as the many
are always weak, of consequence they have often, perhaps always, been
deceived. A man conscious of having acted an honest part among his
fellow-creatures--even granting that he may have been the sport at times
of passions and instincts--he goes to a great unknown Being, who could
have no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy, who
gave him those passions and instincts, and well knows their force.
These, my worthy friend, are my ideas; and I know they are not far
different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think for himself,
particularly in a case where all men are equally interested, and where,
indeed, all men are equally in the dark.
Adieu, my dear Sir; God send us a cheerful meeting!
R. B.
* * * *
LXXXI--To MRS. DUNLOP.
MOSSGIEL, 7_th March_ 1788.
MADAM,--The last paragraph in yours of the 30th February affected me
most; so I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I am
often a sinner with any little wit I have, I do confess; but I have
taxed my recollection to no purpose to find out when it was employed
against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal worse than I do
the devil--at least as Milton describes him; and though I may be
rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it
in others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light but
you are sure of being respectable--you can afford to pass by an occasion
to display your wit, because you may depend for fame on your sense; or,
if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on the gratitude of
many, and the esteem of all; but, God help us, who are wits or witlings
by profession, if we stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported!
I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila. I may say to the
fair painter[60] who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to
Ross, the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by the by, I took the idea
of Coila: ('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scottish dialect, which,
perhaps, you have never seen):--
Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs,
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs;
Lang had she lien wi' beffs and flegs,
Bumbaz'd and dizzie,
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs,
Wae's me, poor hizzie.
R.B.
[Footnote 60: One of Mrs. Dunlop's daughters was painting a sketch
from the "Coila of the Vision".]
* * * * *
LXXXII--TO MR. WM. NICOL (PERHAPS).
MAUCHLINE, 7_th March_ 1788.
MY DEAR SIR,--My life, since I saw you last, has been one continued
hurry; that savage hospitality which knocks a man down with strong
liquors, is the devil. I have a sore warfare in this world; the devil,
the world, and the flesh, are three formidable foes. The first I
generally try to fly from; the second, alas! generally flies from me;
but the third is my plague, worse than the ten plagues of Egypt.
I have been looking over several farms in this country; one in
particular, in Nithsdale, pleased me so well, that if my offer to the
proprietor is accepted, I shall commence farmer at Whit-Sunday. If
farming do not appear eligible, I shall have recourse to any other
shift; but this to a friend.
I set out for Edinburgh on Monday morning; how long I stay there is
uncertain, but you will know so soon as I can inform you myself. However
I determine, poesy must be laid aside for some time; my mind has been
vitiated with idleness, and it will take a good deal of effort to
habituate it to the routine of business.--I am, my dear Sir, yours
sincerely, R. B.
* * * *
LXXXIII.--To Miss Chalmers.
EDINBURGH, _March_ 14_th_, 1788.
I know, my ever dear friend, that you will be pleased with the news when
I tell you I have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight I
completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, for the farm of
Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above
Dumfries. I begin at Whit-Sunday to build a house, drive lime, etc., and
Heaven be my help! for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind
into the routine of business. I have discharged all the army of my
former pursuits, fancies, and pleasures--a motley host! and have
literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I
have incorporated into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's
observation, "Where much is attempted, something is done." Firmness,
both in sufferance and exertion, is a character I would wish to be
thought to possess: and have always despised the whining yelp of
complaint, and the cowardly, feeble resolve.
Poor Miss K.[61] is ailing a good deal this winter, and begged me to
remember her to you the first time I wrote to you. Surely woman, amiable
woman, is often made in vain. Too delicately formed for the rougher
pursuits of ambition; too noble for the dirt of avarice, and even too
gentle for the rage of pleasure; formed, indeed, for, and highly
susceptible of enjoyment and rapture; but that enjoyment, alas! almost
wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupidity, or
wickedness of an animal at all times comparatively unfeeling, and often
brutal. R.B.
[Footnote 61: Miss Kennedy, sister of Gavin Hamilton. She lived
nearly half a century after this.]
* * * *
THE CLARINDA LETTERS.
NOTE PREFATORY TO THE LETTERS TO CLARINDA.
We have now arrived, in the history of Burns, as his general
correspondence reveals it, at the middle of March 1788. Before the end
of the month he had broken off from Clarinda, and shortly afterwards he
married Jean Armour. The correspondence with Clarinda began in the last
month of 1787, and ran its course in three months. It is now necessary
to go back to the commencement of this correspondence, and to follow it
down to its first conclusion at the point to which his general
correspondence has brought us. It has been thought preferable to take it
by itself.
Clarinda's maiden name was Agnes Craig. She was the daughter of Mr.
Andrew Craig, who had been a surgeon in Glasgow. Lord Craig of the Court
of Session was her cousin. She was born in the same year as Burns, but
three months later. At the age of seventeen she was married to Mr. James
M'Lehose, a law agent in Glasgow. Incompatibility of temper resulted in
a separation of the unhappy pair five years after their marriage. The
lady went home to her father, and on his death in 1782 removed to
Edinburgh, where she lived independently on a small annuity. Her two
sons lived with her. Her husband meanwhile went out to the West Indies
to push his fortune.
LETTERS TO CLARINDA.
I.
_Thursday Evening_ [_Dec_. 6_th_, 1787].
MADAM,--I had set no small store by my tea-drinking tonight, and have
not often been so disappointed. Saturday evening I shall embrace the
opportunity with the greatest pleasure. I leave this town this day
se'ennight, and, probably, for a couple of twelvemonths; but must ever
regret that I so lately got an acquaintance I shall ever highly esteem,
and in whose welfare I shall ever be warmly interested.
Our worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant way, rallied me a good
deal on my new acquaintance, and in the humour of her ideas I wrote some
lines, which I inclose you, as I think they have a good deal of poetic
merit: and Miss Nimmo tells me you are not only a critic, but a poetess.
Fiction, you know, is the native region of poetry; and I hope you will
pardon my vanity in sending you the bagatelle as a tolerably off-hand
_jeu-d'esprit_. I have several poetic trifles, which I shall gladly
leave with Miss Nimmo, or you, if they were worth house room; as there
are scarcely two people on earth by whom it would mortify me more to be
forgotten, though at the distance of ninescore miles.--I am, Madam, with
the highest respect, your very humble servant,
ROBERT BURNS.
* * * *
II.
_Saturday Evening, Dec_. 8_th_, 1787.
I can say with truth, Madam, that I never met with a person in my life
whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. To-night I was
to have had that very great pleasure; I was intoxicated with the idea,
but an unlucky fall from a coach has so bruised one of my knees, that I
can't stir my leg; so if I don't see you again, I shall not rest in my
grave for chagrin. I was vexed to the soul I had not seen you sooner; I
determined to cultivate your friendship with the enthusiasm of religion;
but thus has Fortune ever served me. I cannot bear the idea of leaving
Edinburgh without seeing you. I know not how to account for it--I am
strangely taken with some people, nor am I often mistaken. You are a
stranger to me; but I am an odd being: some yet unnamed feelings,
things, not principles, but better than whims, carry me farther than
boasted reason ever did a philosopher. Farewell! every happiness be
yours! ROBERT BURNS.
* * * *
III.
_Dec_. 12, 1787.
I stretch a point indeed, my dearest Madam, when I answer your card on
the rack of my present agony. Your friendship, Madam! By heavens, I was
never proud before. Your lines, I maintain it, are poetry, and good
poetry; mine were indeed partly fiction and partly a friendship, which,
had I been so blest as to have met with you in time, might have led
me--god of love only knows where. Time is too short for ceremonies. I
swear solemnly, in all the tenor of my former oath, to remember you in
all the pride and warmth of friendship until I cease to be! To-morrow,
and every day till I see you, you shall hear from me. Farewell! May you
enjoy a better night's repose than I am likely to have. R. B.
* * * *
IV.
_Thursday, Dec_. 20, 1787.
Your last, my dear Madam, had the effect on me that Job's situation had
on his friends when they sat down seven days and seven nights astonished
and spake not a word. "Pay my addresses to a married woman!" I started
as if I had seen the ghost of him I had injured. I recollected my
expressions; some of them were indeed in the law phrase "habit and
repute," which is being half guilty. I cannot possibly say, Madam,
whether my heart might not have gone astray a little; but I can declare
upon the honour of a poet that the vagrant has wandered unknown to me. I
have a pretty handsome troop of follies of my own, and, like some other
people's, they are but undisciplined blackguards; but the luckless
rascals have something like honour in them--they would not do a
dishonest thing.
To meet with an unfortunate woman, amiable and young, deserted and
widowed by those who were bound by every tie of duty, nature, and
gratitude to protect, comfort and cherish her; add to all, when she is
perhaps one of the first of lovely forms and noble minds--the mind, too,
that hits one's taste as the joys of Heaven do a saint--should a faint
idea, the natural child of imagination, thoughtfully peep over the
fence--were you, my friend, to sit in judgment, and the poor, airy
straggler brought before you, trembling, self-condemned, with artless
eyes, brimful of contrition, looking wistfully on its judge--you could
not, my dear Madam, condemn the hapless wretch to death without benefit
of clergy? I won't tell you what reply my heart made to your raillery of
seven years, but I will give you what a brother of my trade says on the
same allusion:--
The patriarch to gain a wife,
Chaste, beautiful, and young,
Served fourteen years a painful life,
And never thought it long.
O were you to reward such cares,
And life so long would stay,
Not fourteen but four hundred years
Would seem but as a day.[62]