No More Learning

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction there, but
I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a
fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it
myself, and, as yet, have little acquaintance in the neighbourhood.
Besides, I am now very busy on my farm, building a dwelling-house; as
at present I am almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have
scarce "where to lay my head. "

There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes.
"The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not
therewith. " The repository of these "sorrows of the heart" is a kind
of _sanctum sanctorum:_ and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that, too,
at particular sacred times, who dares enter into them:--

"Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords
That nature finest strung. "

You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of
entering on this subject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I
wrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale
neighbourhood. They are almost the only favours the muses have
conferred on me in that country:--

Thou whom chance may hither lead. [186]

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the
production of yesterday as I jogged through the wild hills of New
Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or something like them, in an
epistle I am going to write to the gentleman on whose friendship my
Excise hopes depend, Mr. Graham, of Fintray, one of the worthiest and
most accomplished gentlemen not only of this country, but, I will dare
to say it, of this age. The following are just the first crude
thoughts "unhousel'd, unanointed, unanneal'd:"--

* * * * *

Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train;
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main:
The world were blest, did bliss on them depend;
Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a friend! "
The little fate bestows they share as soon;
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung boon.
Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son,
Who life and wisdom at one race begun;
Who feel by reason and who give by rule;
Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool!
Who make poor _will do_ wait upon _I should_;
We own they're prudent, but who owns they're good?

Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye;
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy!
But come * * * * * *

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what yon tell me of
Anthony's writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow! you vex me
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten
days from this date. I have just room for an old Roman farewell.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 186: See Poems LXXXIX and XC]

* * * * *




CXXXI.


TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[This letter has been often cited, and very properly, as a proof of
the strong attachment of Burns to one who was, in many respects,
worthy. ]

_Mauchline, August 10, 1788. _

MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another
valued friend--my wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire: I met both
with the sincerest pleasure.

When I write you, Madam, I do not sit down to answer every paragraph
of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful Commons of
Great Britain in Parliament assembled, answering a speech from the
best of kings! I express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may,
perhaps, be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries; but not
from your very old reason, that I do not read your letters. All your
epistles for several months have cost me nothing, except a swelling
throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration.

When Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found herself "as women wish to be who
love their lords," as I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps
for a private marriage. Her parents got the hint; and not only forbade
me her company and their house, but, on my rumoured West Indian
voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should find security
in my about-to-be paternal relation. You know my lucky reverse of
fortune. On my _eclatant_ return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome
to visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray her; and, as
I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned,
literally turned out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to shelter her
till my return, when our marriage was declared. Her happiness or
misery were in my hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit?

I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for my journey of life;
but, upon my honour, I have never seen the individual instance.

Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner for
life, who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my
favourite authors, &c. , without probably entailing on me at the same
time expensive living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation,
with all the other blessed boarding-school acquirements, which
(_pardonnez moi, Madame_,) are sometimes to be found among females of
the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the
would-be gentry.

I like your way in your church-yard lucubrations. Thoughts that are
the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting
health, place, or company, have often a strength, and always an
originality, that would in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances
and studied paragraphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping a
letter, in progression by me, to send you when the sheet was written
out. Now I talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to
you on paper of this kind is my pruriency of writing to you at large.
A page of post is on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, that I
cannot abide it; and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous
revery manner, are a monstrous tax in a close correspondence.

R. B.

* * * * *




CXXXII.


TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[Mrs. Miller, of Dalswinton, was a lady of beauty and talent: she
wrote verses with skill and taste. Her maiden name was Jean Lindsay. ]

_Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. _

I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac
epistle; and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian:--

"Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn?
Why sinks my soul, beneath each wintry sky? "

My increasing cares in this, as yet strange country--gloomy
conjectures in the dark vista of futurity--consciousness of my own
inability for the struggle of the world--my broadened mark to
misfortune in a wife and children;--I could indulge these reflections
till my humour should ferment into the most acid chagrin, that would
corrode the very thread of life.

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down to write to
you; as I declare upon my soul I always find that the most sovereign
balm for my wounded spirit.

I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's to dinner for the first time. My
reception was quite to my mind: from the lady of the house quite
flattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, _impromptu. _ She
repeated one or two to the admiration of all present. My suffrage as a
professional man, was expected: I for once went agonizing over the
belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye my adored household gods,
independence of spirit, and integrity of soul! In the course of
conversation, "Johnson's Musical Museum," a collection of Scottish
songs with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord,
beginning,

"Raving winds around her blowing. "[187]

The air was much admired: the lady of the house asked me whose were
the words. "Mine, Madam--they are indeed my very best verses;" she
took not the smallest notice of them! The old Scottish proverb says
well, "king's caff is better than ither folks' corn. " I was going to
make a New Testament quotation about "casting pearls" but that would
be too virulent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste.

After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is
by no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selected few,
favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tuned to gladness amid
riches and honours, and prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected
many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days are sold to the minions
of fortune.

If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a
stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called, "The Life and Age of Man;"
beginning thus:

"'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year
Of God and fifty-three,
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear,
As writings testifie. "

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived awhile in her
girlish years; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere
he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and
cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of "the Life and
Age of Man. "

It is this way of thinking; it is these melancholy truths, that make
religion so precious to the poor, miserable children of men. --If it is
a mere phantom, existing only in the heated imagination of enthusiasm,

"What truth on earth so precious as a lie. "

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the
necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophisings the lie.
Who looks for the heart weaned from earth; the soul affianced to her
God; the correspondent devout thanksgiving, constant as the
vicissitudes of even and morn; who thinks to meet with these in the
court, the palace, in the glare of public life? No: to find them in
their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must search among
the obscure recesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty, and
distress.

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more than pleased with the length
of my letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of next week: and it
quickens my pace to think that there will be a letter from you waiting
me there. I must be here again very soon for my harvest.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 187: See Song LII. ]

* * * * *




CXXXIII.


TO MR. BEUGO,

ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH.

[Mr. Beugo was at well-known engraver in Edinburgh: he engraved
Nasmyth's portrait of Burns, for Creech's first edition of his Poems;
and as he could draw a little, he improved, as he called it, the
engraving from sittings of the poet, and made it a little more like,
and a little less poetic. ]

_Ellisland, 9th Sept. 1788. _

MY DEAR SIR,

There is not in Edinburgh above the number of the graces whose letters
would have given me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, which
only reached me yesternight.

I am here on the farm, busy with my harvest; but for all that most
pleasurable part of life called SOCIAL COMMUNICATION, I am
here at the very elbow of existence. The only things that are to be
found in this country, in any degree of perfection, are stupidity and
canting. Prose they only know in graces, prayers, &c. , and the value
of these they estimate as they do their plaiding webs--by the ell! As
for the muses, they have as much an idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet.
For my old capricious but good-natured huzzy of a muse--

"By banks of Nith I sat and wept
When Coila I thought on,
In midst thereof I hung my harp
The willow-trees upon. "

I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my "darling Jean,"
and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my
becob-webbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her
hand across the spokes of her spinning-wheel.

I will send you the "Fortunate Shepherdess" as soon as I return to
Ayrshire, for there I keep it with other precious treasure. I shall
send it by a careful hand, as I would not for anything it should be
mislaid or lost. I do not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or
other grave Christian virtue; 'tis purely a selfish gratification of
my own feelings whenever I think of you.

If your better functions would give you leisure to write me, I should
be extremely happy; that is to say if you neither keep nor look for a
regular correspondence. I hate the idea of being obliged to write a
letter. I sometimes write a friend twice a week, at other times once a
quarter.

I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in making the author you
mention place a map of Iceland instead of his portrait before his
works: 'twas a glorious idea.

Could you conveniently do me one thing? --whenever you finish any head
I should like to have a proof copy of it. I might tell you a long
story about your fine genius; but as what everybody knows cannot have
escaped you, I shall not say one syllable about it.

R. B.

* * * * *




CXXXIV.


TO MISS CHALMERS,

EDINBURGH.

[To this fine letter all the biographer of Burns are largely
indebted. ]

_Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. 16th, 1788. _

Where are you? and how are you? and is Lady Mackenzie recovering her
health? for I have had but one solitary letter from you. I will not
think you have forgot me, Madam; and for my part--

"When thee, Jerusalem, I forget,
Skill part from my right hand! "

"My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea. " I do
not make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among its
fellows--rolling through the crowd without bearing away any mark of
impression, except where they hit in hostile collision.

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather; and as you
and your sister once did me the honour of interesting yourselves much
_a l'egard de moi_, I sit down to beg the continuation of your
goodness. I can truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, I
never saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings of my
soul--I will not say more, but so much as Lady Mackenzie and Miss
Chalmers. When I think of you--hearts the best, minds the noblest of
human kind--unfortunate even in the shades of life--when I think I
have met with you, and have lived more of real life with you in eight
days than I can do with almost any body I meet with in eight
years--when I think on the improbability of meeting you in this world
again--I could sit down and cry like a child! If ever you honoured me
with a place in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more desert. I
am secure against that crushing grip of iron poverty, which, alas! is
less or more fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, the
noblest souls; and a late important step in my life has kindly taken
me out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, however
overlooked in fashionable license, or varnished in fashionable phrase,
are indeed but lighter and deeper shades of VILLANY.

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I married "my Jean. " This
was not in consequence of the attachment of romance, perhaps; but I
had a long and much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery in my
determination, and I durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Nor
have I any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, modish
manners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with
the multiform curse of boarding-school affectation: and I have got the
handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and
the kindest heart in the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her
creed, that I am _le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnete homme_ in the
universe; although she scarcely ever in her life, except the
Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, and the Psalms of David in
metre, spent five minutes together either on prose or verse. I must
except also from this last a certain late publication of Scots poems,
which she has perused very devoutly; and all the ballads in the
country, as she has (O the partial lover! you will cry) the finest
"wood-note wild" I ever heard. I am the more particular in this lady's
character, as I know she will henceforth have the honour of a share in
your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am building my
house; for this hovel that I shelter in, while occasionally here, is
pervious to every blast that blows, and every shower that falls; and I
am only preserved from being chilled to death by being suffocated with
smoke. I do not find my farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect,
but I believe, in time, it may be a saving bargain. You will be
pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle _eclat_, and bind every
day after my reapers.

To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down in a
losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my Excise
instructions, and have my commission in my pocket for any emergency of
fortune. If I could set all before your view, whatever disrespect you,
in common with the world, have for this business, I know you would
approve of my idea.

I will make no apology, dear Madam, for this egotistic detail; I know
you and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it.
What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery
of greatness! When fellow-partakers of the same nature fear the same
God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul,
the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the same scorn at
everything unworthy--if they are not in the dependence of absolute
beggary, in the name of common sense are they not EQUALS? And
if the bias, the instinctive bias, of their souls run the same way,
why may they not be FRIENDS?

When I may have an opportunity of sending you this, Heaven only knows.
Shenstone says, "When one is confined idle within doors by bad
weather, the best antidote against _ennui_ is to read the letters of
or write to, one's friends;" in that case then, if the weather
continues thus, I may scrawl you half a quire.

I very lately--to wit, since harvest began--wrote a poem, not in
imitation, but in the manner, of Pope's Moral Epistles. It is only a
short essay, just to try the strength of my muse's pinion in that way.
I will send you a copy of it, when once I have heard from you. I have
likewise been laying the foundation of some pretty large poetic works:
how the superstructure will come on, I leave to that great maker and
marrer of projects--TIME. Johnson's collection of Scots songs
is going on in the third volume; and, of consequence, finds me a
consumpt for a great deal of idle metre. One of the most tolerable
things I have done in that way is two stanzas I made to an air, a
musical gentleman of my acquaintance composed for the anniversary of
his wedding-day, which happens on the seventh of November. Take it as
follows:--

"The day returns--my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet," &c. [188]

I shall give over this letter for shame. If I should be seized with a
scribbling fit, before this goes away, I shall make it another letter;
and then you may allow your patience a week's respite between the two.
I have not room for more than the old, kind, hearty farewell.

* * * * *

To make some amends, _mes cheres Mesdames_, for dragging you on to
this second sheet, and to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my
unstudied and uncorrectible prose, I shall transcribe you some of my
late poetic bagatelles; though I have, these eight or ten months, done
very little that way. One day in a hermitage on the banks of Nith,
belonging to a gentleman in my neighbourhood, who is so good as give
me a key at pleasure, I wrote as follows; supposing myself the
sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the lonely mansion.

LINES WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE

HERMITAGE.

"Thou whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed. "[189]

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 188: Song LXIX. ]

[Footnote 189: Poems LXXXIX. and XC. ]

* * * * *




CXXXV.


TO MR. MORISON,

MAUCHLINE.

[Morison, of Mauchline, made most of the poet's furniture, for
Ellisland: from Mauchline, too, came that eight-day clock, which was
sold, at the death of the poet's widow, for thirty-eight pounds, to
one who would have paid one hundred, sooner than wanted it. ]

_Ellisland, September 22, 1788. _

MY DEAR SIR,

Necessity obliges me to go into my new house even before it be
plastered. I will inhabit the one end until the other is finished.
About three weeks more, I think, will at farthest be my time, beyond
which I cannot stay in this present house. If ever you wished to
deserve the blessing of him that was ready to perish; if ever you were
in a situation that a little kindness would have rescued you from many
evils; if ever you hope to find rest in future states of untried
being--get these matters of mine ready. My servant will be out in the
beginning of next week for the clock. My compliments to Mrs. Morison.

I am,

After all my tribulation,

Dear Sir, yours,

R. B.

* * * * *




CXXXVI.


TO MRS. DUNLOP,

OF DUNLOP.

[Burns had no great respect for critics who found blemishes without
perceiving beauties: he expresses his contempt for such in this
letter. ]

_Mauchline, 27th Sept. 1788. _

I have received twins, dear Madam, more than once; but scarcely ever
with more pleasure than when I received yours of the 12th instant. To
make myself understood; I had wrote to Mr.
Graham, enclosing my poem
addressed to him, and the same post which favoured me with yours
brought me an answer from him. It was dated the very day he had
received mine; and I am quite at a loss to say whether it was most
polite or kind.

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are truly the work of a
friend. They are not the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed,
caterpillar critic; nor are they the fair statement of cold
impartiality, balancing with unfeeling exactitude the _pro_ and _con_
of an author's merits; they are the judicious observations of animated
friendship, selecting the beauties of the piece. I have just arrived
from Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was on horseback this
morning by three o'clock; for between my wife and my farm is just
forty-six miles. As I jogged on in the dark, I was taken with a poetic
fit as follows:

"Mrs. Ferguson of Craigdarroch's lamentation for the death of her son;
an uncommonly promising youth of eighteen or nineteen years of age. "

"Fate gave the word--the arrow sped,
And pierced my darling's heart. "[190]

You will not send me your poetic rambles, but, you see I am no niggard
of mine. I am sure your impromptus give me double pleasure; what falls
from your pen can neither be unentertaining in itself, nor indifferent
to me.

The one fault you found, is just; but I cannot please myself in an
emendation.

What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent! You interested me
much in your young couple.

I would not take my folio paper for this epistle, and now I repent it.
I am so jaded with my dirty long journey that I was afraid to drawl
into the essence of dulness with anything larger than a quarto, and
so I must leave out another rhyme of this morning's manufacture.

I will pay the sapientipotent George, most cheerfully, to hear from
you ere I leave Ayrshire.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 190: Poem XCII. ]

* * * * *




CXXXVII.


TO MR. PETER HILL.

["The 'Address to Lochlomond,' which this letter criticises," says
Currie in 1800, "was written by a gentleman, now one of the masters of
the High-school of Edinburgh, and the same who translated the
beautiful story of 'The Paria,' published in the Bee of Dr.
Anderson. "]

_Mauchline, 1st October, 1788. _

I have been here in this country about three days, and all that time
my chief reading has been the "Address to Lochlomond" you were so
obliging as to send to me. Were I impannelled one of the author's
jury, to determine his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my
verdict should be "guilty! a poet of nature's making! ". It is an
excellent method for improvement, and what I believe every poet does,
to place some favourite classic author in his own walks of study and
composition, before him as a model. Though your author had not
mentioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, guessed his model
to be Thomson. Will my brother-poet forgive me, if I venture to hint
that his imitation of that immortal bard is in two or three places
rather more servile than such a genius as his required:--_e. g. _

"To soothe the maddening passions all to peace. "

ADDRESS.

"To soothe the throbbing passions into peace. "

THOMSON.

I think the "Address" is in simplicity, harmony, and elegance of
versification, fully equal to the "Seasons. " Like Thomson, too, he has
looked into nature for himself: you meet with no copied description.
One particular criticism I made at first reading; in no one instance
has he said too much. He never flags in his progress, but, like a true
poet of nature's making kindles in his course. His beginning is simple
and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of his pinion; only, I
do not altogether like--

-------------------------------"Truth
The soul of every song that's nobly great. "

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly great. Perhaps I am
wrong: this may be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase in line 7,
page 6, "Great lake," too much vulgarized by every-day language for so
sublime a poem?

"Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song,"

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a comparison with other
lakes is at once harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must
sweep the

"Winding margin of an hundred miles. "

The perspective that follows mountains blue--the imprisoned billows
beating in vain--the wooded isles--the digression on the
yew-tree--"Ben-lomond's lofty, cloud-envelop'd head," &c. are
beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject which has been often tried,
yet our poet in his grand picture has interjected a circumstance, so
far as I know, entirely original:--

-----------------------------"the gloom
Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire. "

In his preface to the Storm, "the glens how dark between," is noble
highland landscape! The "rain ploughing the red mould," too, is
beautifully fancied. "Ben-lomond's lofty, pathless top," is a good
expression; and the surrounding view from it is truly great: the

-----------------"silver mist,
Beneath the beaming sun,"

is well described; and here he has contrived to enliven his poem with
a little of that passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern
muses altogether. I know not how far this episode is a beauty upon the
whole, but the swain's wish to carry "some faint idea of the vision
bright," to entertain her "partial listening ear," is a pretty
thought. But in my opinion the most beautiful passages in the whole
poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Lochlomond's
"hospitable flood;" their wheeling round, their lighting, mixing,
diving, &c. ; and the glorious description of the sportsman. This last
is equal to anything in the "Seasons. " The idea of "the floating tribe
distant seen, far glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he is
obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic genius. "The howling
winds," the "hideous roar" of the white cascades, are all in the same
style.

I forget that while I am thus holding forth with the heedless warmth
of an enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must,
however, mention that the last verse of the sixteenth page is one of
the most elegant compliments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice
that beautiful paragraph beginning, "The gleaming lake," &c. I dare
not go into the particular beauties of the last two paragraphs, but
they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic.

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl. I had no idea of it
when I began--I should like to know who the author is; but, whoever he
be, please present him with my grateful thanks for the entertainment
he has afforded me.

A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books, "Letters
on the Religion essential to Man," a book you sent me before; and "The
World unmasked, or the Philosopher the greatest Cheat. " Send me them
by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly elegant; I
only wish it had been in two volumes.

R. B.

* * * * *




CXXXVIII.


TO THE EDITOR OF "THE STAR. "

[The clergyman who preached the sermon which this letter condemns, was
a man equally worthy and stern--a divine of Scotland's elder day: he
received "a harmonious call" to a smaller stipend than that of
Dunscore--and accepted it. ]

_November 8th, 1788. _

SIR,

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which some of our
philosophers and gloomy sectarians have branded our nature--the
principle of universal selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they
have given us; still the detestation in which inhumanity to the
distressed, or insolence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, shows
that they are not natives of the human heart. Even the unhappy partner
of our kind, who is undone, the bitter consequence of his follies or
his crimes, who but sympathizes with the miseries of this ruined
profligate brother? We forget the injuries and feel for the man.

I went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, most cordially to join in
grateful acknowledgment to the AUTHOR OF ALL GOOD, for the
consequent blessings of the glorious revolution. To that auspicious
event we owe no less than our liberties, civil and religious; to it we
are likewise indebted for the present Royal Family, the ruling
features of whose administration have ever been mildness to the
subject, and tenderness of his rights.

Bred and educated in revolution principles, the principles of reason
and common sense, it could not be any silly political prejudice which
made my heart revolt at the harsh abusive manner in which the reverend
gentleman mentioned the House of Stewart, and which, I am afraid, was
too much the language of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our
deliverance from past evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes of
those whose misfortune it was, perhaps as much as their crime, to be
the authors of those evils; and we may bless God for all his goodness
to us as a nation, without at the same time cursing a few ruined,
powerless exiles, who only harboured ideas, and made attempts, that
most of us would have done, had we been in their situation.

"The bloody and tyrannical House of Stewart" may be said with
propriety and justice, when compared with the present royal family,
and the sentiments of our days; but is there no allowance to be made
for the manners of the times? Were the royal contemporaries of the
Stewarts more attentive to their subjects' rights? Might not the
epithets of "bloody and tyrannical" be, with at least equal justice,
applied to the House of Tudor, of York, or any other of their
predecessors?

The simple state of the case, Sir, seems to be this:--At that period,
the science of government, the knowledge of the true relation between
king and subject, was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just
in its infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and barbarity.

The Stewarts only contended for prerogatives which they knew their
predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contemporaries
enjoying; but these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness of a
nation and the rights of subjects.

In the contest between prince and people, the consequence of that
light of science which had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch of
France, for example, was victorious over the struggling liberties of
his people: with us, luckily the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable
pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and happiness. Whether it
was owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, or to the justling
of parties, I cannot pretend to determine; but likewise happily for
us, the kingly power was shifted into another branch of the family,
who, as they owed the throne solely to the call of a free people,
could claim nothing inconsistent with the covenanted terms which
placed them there.

The Stewarts have been condemned and laughed at for the folly and
impracticability of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they failed,
I bless GOD; but cannot join in the ridicule against them.
Who does not know that the abilities or defects of leaders and
commanders are often hidden until put to the touchstone of exigency;
and that there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular
accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, which exalt us as heroes,
or brand us as madmen, just as they are for or against us?

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsistent being; who would
believe, Sir, that in this our Augustan age of liberality and
refinement, while we seem so justly sensible and jealous of our rights
and liberties, and animated with such indignation against the very
memory of those who would have subverted them--that a certain people
under our national protection should complain, not against our monarch
and a few favorite advisers, but against our WHOLE LEGISLATIVE
BODY, for similar oppression, and almost in the very same terms,
as our forefathers did of the house of Stewart! I will not, I cannot
enter into the merits of the cause; but I dare say the American
Congress, in 1776, will be allowed to be as able and as enlightened as
the English Convention was in 1688; and that their posterity will
celebrate the centenary of their deliverance from us, as duly and
sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive measures of the
wrong-headed House of Stewart.

To conclude, Sir; let every man who has a tear for the many miseries
incident to humanity feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe,
and unfortunate beyond historic precedent; and let every Briton (and
particularly every Scotsman) who ever looked with reverential pity on
the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of the
kings of his forefathers.

R. B.

* * * * *




CXXXIX.


TO MRS. DUNLOP,

AT MOREHAM MAINS.

[The heifer presented to the poet by the Dunlops was bought, at the
sale of Ellisland stock, by Miller of Dalswinton, and long grazed the
pastures in his "policies" by the name of "Burns. "]

_Mauchline_, 13_th November_, 1788.

MADAM,

I had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men are
said to flatter women because they are weak; if it is so, poets must
be weaker still; for Misses R. and K. and Miss G. M'K. , with their
flattering attentions, and artful compliments, absolutely turned my
head. I own they did not lard me over as many a poet does his patron,
but they so intoxicated me with their sly insinuations and delicate
inuendos of compliment, that if it had not been for a lucky
recollection, how much additional weight and lustre your good opinion
and friendship must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked
upon myself as a person of no small consequence. I dare not say one
word how much I was charmed with the Major's friendly welcome, elegant
manner, and acute remark, lest I should be thought to overbalance my
orientalisms of applause over-against the finest quey[191] in Ayrshire,
which he made me a present of to help and adorn my farm-stock. As it
was on hallow-day, I am determined annually, as that day returns, to
decorate her horns with an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop.

So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take the first
conveniency to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship,
under the guarantee of the Major's hospitality. There will soon be
threescore and ten miles of permanent distance between us; and now
that your friendship and friendly correspondence is entwisted with the
heart-strings of my enjoyment of life, I must indulge myself in a
happy day of "The feast of reason and the flow of soul. "

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 191: Heifer. ]

* * * * *




CXL.


TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON,

ENGRAVER.

[James Johnson, though not an ungenerous man, meanly refused to give a
copy of the Musical Museum to Burns, who desired to bestow it on one
to whom his family was deeply indebted. This was in the last year of
the poet's life, and after the Museum had been brightened by so much
of his lyric verse. ]

_Mauchline, November 15th, 1788. _

MY DEAR SIR,

I have sent you two more songs. If you have got any tunes, or
anything to correct, please send them by return of the carrier.

I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will very probably have
four volumes. Perhaps you may not find your account lucratively in
this business; but you are a patriot for the music of your country;
and I am certain posterity will look on themselves as highly indebted
to your public spirit. Be not in a hurry; let us go on correctly, and
your name shall be immortal.

I am preparing a flaming preface for your third volume. I see every
day new musical publications advertised; but what are they? Gaudy,
hunted butterflies of a day, and then vanish for ever: but your work
will outlive the momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy the
teeth of time.

Have you never a fair goddess that leads you a wild-goose chase of
amorous devotion? Let me know a few of her qualities, such as whether
she be rather black, or fair; plump, or thin; short, or tall, &c. ; and
choose your air, and I shall task my muse to celebrate her.

R. B.

* * * * *




CXLI.


TO DR. BLACKLOCK.

[Blacklock, though blind, was a cheerful and good man. "There was,
perhaps, never one among all mankind," says Heron, "whom you might
more truly have called an angel upon earth. "]

_Mauchline, November 15th, 1788. _

REVEREND AND DEAR SIR,

As I hear nothing of your motions, but that you are, or were, out of
town, I do not know where this may find you, or whether it will find
you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated from the land of
matrimony, in June; but either it had not found you, or, what I dread
more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too precarious a state of
health and spirits to take notice of an idle packet.

I have done many little things for Johnson, since I had the pleasure
of seeing you; and I have finished one piece, in the way of Pope's
"Moral Epistles;" but, from your silence, I have everything to fear,
so I have only sent you two melancholy things, which I tremble lest
they should too well suit the tone of your present feelings.

In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to Nithsdale; till then, my
direction is at this place; after that period, it will be at
Ellisland, near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me, were it but
half a line, to let me know how you are, and where you are. Can I be
indifferent to the fate of a man to whom I owe so much? A man whom I
not only esteem, but venerate.

My warmest good wishes and most respectful compliments to Mrs.
Blacklock, and Miss Johnston, if she is with you.

I cannot conclude without telling you that I am more and more pleased
with the step I took respecting "my Jean. " Two things, from my happy
experience, I set down as apothegms in life. A wife's head is
immaterial, compared with her heart; and--"Virtue's (for wisdom what
poet pretends to it? ) ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths
are peace. "

Adieu!

R. B.

[Here follow "The Mother's Lament for the Loss of her Son," and the
song beginning "The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. "]

* * * * *




CXLII.


TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[The "Auld lang syne," which Burns here introduces to Mrs. Dunlop as a
strain of the olden time, is as surely his own as Tam-o-Shanter. ]

_Ellisland, 17th December, 1788. _

MY DEAR HONOURED FRIEND,

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, makes me very unhappy.
"Almost blind and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of human nature;
but when told of a much-loved and honoured friend, they carry misery
in the sound. Goodness on your part, and gratitude on mine, began a
tie which has gradually entwisted itself among the dearest chords of
my bosom, and I tremble at the omens of your late and present ailing
habit and shattered health. You miscalculate matters widely, when you
forbid my waiting on you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. My
small scale of farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than what
you have lately seen at Moreham Mains. But, be that as it may, the
heart of the man and the fancy of the poet are the two grand
considerations for which I live: if miry ridges and dirty dunghills
are to engross the best part of the functions of my soul immortal, I
had better been a rook or a magpie at once, and then I should not
have been plagued with any ideas superior to breaking of clods and
picking up grubs; not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards,
creatures with which I could almost exchange lives at any time. If you
continue so deaf, I am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to
either of us; but if I hear you are got so well again as to be able to
relish conversation, look you to it, Madam, for I will make my
threatenings good. I am to be at the New-year-day fair of Ayr; and, by
all that is sacred in the world, friend, I will come and see you.

Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your old schoolfellow
and friend, was truly interesting. Out upon the ways of the
world! --They spoil "these social offsprings of the heart. " Two
veterans of the "men of the world" would have met with little more
heart-workings than two old hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is
not the Scotch phrase, "Auld lang syne," exceedingly expressive? There
is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul. You
know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give you the
verses on the other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Ker will save you the
postage.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot! "[192]

Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who
composed this glorious fragment. There is more of the fire of native
genius in it than in half-a-dozen of modern English Bacchanalians! Now
I am on my hobby-horse, I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas,
which please me mightily:--

"Go fetch to me a pint of wine. "[193]

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 192: See Song CCX. ]

[Footnote 193: See Song LXXII. ]

* * * * *




CXLIII.


TO MISS DAVIES.

[The Laird of Glenriddel informed "the charming, lovely Davies" that
Burns was composing a song in her praise. The poet acted on this, and
sent the song, enclosed in this characteristic letter. ]

_December, 1788. _

MADAM,

I understand my very worthy neighbour, Mr. Riddel, has informed you
that I have made you the subject of some verses. There is something
so provoking in the idea of being the burthen of a ballad, that I do
not think Job or Moses, though such patterns of patience and meekness,
could have resisted the curiosity to know what that ballad was: so my
worthy friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say he never
intended; and reduced me to the unfortunate alternative of leaving
your curiosity ungratified, or else disgusting you with foolish
verses, the unfinished production of a random moment, and never meant
to have met your ear. I have heard or read somewhere of a gentleman
who had some genius, much eccentricity, and very considerable
dexterity with his pencil.