Class _3.y v 4~ 5 QC% IJmik 'RESENTED MY T^t 7 T?a ^ q/i/lo I n mwav ^tvi fywwt fomj- f%e£ m I6j ijg 1 ROBERT BUI do f vj p l e r e m a>« e yoo LJfHIE « i. u uy | u grp Ui A l"l c U ra !l . t/Uv fit tfLL?t~Csh,Gsi. dm* , THE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS WITH LIFE ALLAN CUNNING JI A : AND NOTES BY GILBERT BURNS, LORD BYRON, THOMAS CAMPBELL, THOMAS CARLISLE, ROBERT CHAMBERS, COWPEB, &c. CROMEK, ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, DR. CURRIE, HAZLITT, JAMES HOGG, LORD JEFFREY, &c. T. LANDSEER, LOCKHART, MOTHERWELL. SIR WALTER SCOTT, PROFESSOR WILSON WORDSWORTH, &c. Farewell, High Chief of Scottish song ! That couldst alternately impart Wisdom and rapture in thy page, And brand eai h vice vvith satire strong ; Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, Whose truths electrify the sage :— Farewell! and ne'er may envy dare To wring one baleful poison-drop From the crush 'd laurels of thy bust ; But while the lark sings sweet in air, Still may the grateful pilgrim stop To bless the spot that holds thy dust ! C'AUi'BECSi. ttfefo 3£&ttton. LONDON: HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1844. p. 29 S '02 LONDON : BRINTED T>Y R. CLAY BREAD-STREET-IULL. o 4 a PKEFACE TO THE FIEST EDITION THE LIFE OF BURNS. With something of hope and fear, I offer this work to my country. I have en- deavoured to relate the chequered fortunes, delineate the character, and trace the works of the Illustrious Peasant with candour and accuracy: his farming specu- lations — excise schemes — political feelings and poetic musings — are discussed with a fulness not common to biography: and his sharp lampoons and personal sallies are alluded to with all possible tenderness to the living, and respect for the dead. In writing the Poet's life I have availed myself of his unpublished journals — pri- vate letters., manuscript verses, and of well-authenticated anecdotes and traits of character supplied by his friends ; and I have arranged his works as much as might be in the order of their composition, and illustrated them with such notes, critical, historical and biographical, as seemed necessary. Of verse, one hundred and odd pieces will be found in this edition, which are not in Currie's octavos. The number of letters, too, is materially increased — but nothing is admitted which bears not the true Burns' stamp. A. C. Belgrave-Place, January 1, 1834. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. When this Memoir and chronological Edition of the works of Burns were first announced, a friend observed that the learned part of the world, he was afraid, might think they had enough of the Peasant Poet already, and look coldly on any attempt to associate him in beauty of embellishment and elegance of exterior with bards " Far seen in Greek, deep men of letters." " My chief dread is," I replied, " that my labours in the cause of the Poet may not be acceptable : I have no fear for Burns — he will take care of himself." It has not happened otherwise with the Poet than I anticipated: nor have my own exertions been, it appears, unwelcome : six thousand copies of the Life have been disposed of, and a new edition is called for: I now give it to the world, with some of the errors in the first edition corrected, and all such new intelligence added as seemed useful and characteristic. A. C. Belgrave -Place, September-, 1835. CONTENTS. THE PASSAGES OF THE LIFE WITHIN BRACKETS ARE INCORPORATED FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THIS EDITION. Htfe of 3Stmt$. PART I.— AYR-SHIRE. His parentage .... Picture of his early days, by himself His secret school of study . His first love .... [Narrative of his residence at Kirkoswald in 1777] His melancholy — Letter to his father . Mrs. Stewart of Afton, his first patroness Bachelors' Club, Tarbolton Old and New Light Factions Person and manners of the young Poet^- Sketches by Henry M c Kenzie — David Sillar, and Professor Walker . The maidens of Kyle [His attachment to Jean Armour First appearance of his Poems His friendship for Mrs. Dunlop , Adventure at Ballochmyle— Miss Alexander Dr. Blacklock — his encouraging letter PART IL— EDINBURGH. Burns's first appearance there [Description of his manners and conduct, by Dugald Stewart] Testimony of Professor Walker . [Recollections of the Poet by John Richmond by Sir Walter Scott] Kindness of Henry M c Kenzie The beautiful Duchess of Gordon Anecdotes of the Poet, in Edinburgh [Lockhart's description of Burns among the Literati and Lawyers] [Burns's Border Tour, in company with Robert Ainslie] A love adventure • A jaunt to England . His return to Mossgiel in 1787 His first Highland Tour An adventure Return to Mauchline Renews his intercourse with Miss Armour His second Highland excursion with Dr Adair .... •AGE 62 ib. 63 64 ib. 65 67 68 69 ib. 70 71 73 ib. U 75 LIFE OF BURNS. His residence at Harvieston Visit to a descendant of Robert Bruce The fairest Maid of Devon Banks — Char lotte Hamilton .... Burns's third Highland Tour, in company with Nicol His visit to Bannockburn . to the Duke of Athole, at Blair to Mrs. Rose, at Kilravock . to the Duke and Duchess of Gor don [Hjs return to Edinburgh] ... Dangerous accident .... His friendship with Clarinda He contributes to Johnson's Musical Mu seum Jacobitism of Burns — His Ode to Prince Charles Burns erects a monument to Fcrgusson His connexion with Creech His appointment to the Excise . His Common -place Book — Sketches of Character His return to Mauchline, and Marriage PART III.— ELLISLAND. His appearance as a farmer in Nithsdale, in 1788 79 [State of his mind, described by himself . 81 His increasing cares ..... 83 [Domestic Sketch of the Poet, by Sir Eger- ton Brydges] 84 Friars- Carse Hermitage . . . .85 Picture of his mind and feelings, by himself 87 [His favourite walk on the banks of the Nith] 88 He establishes a Subscription Library . . 89 Anecdotes while in the Excise . . . 90 His Highland Mary 92 [His perambulations over the moors of Dum- fries-shire] 93 The story of the Whistle .... His adventure with Ramsay of Ochtertyro . ib. The Earl of Buchan's invitation to Burns to visit Dryburgh 99 [His final visit to Edinburgh — Anecdotes] . 100 He relinquishes his farm . . . .101 © CONTENTS, PAGE . 102 LIFE OF BURNS. PART IV.— DUMFRIES. His residence at the Bank-Vennel His engagement with George Thomson . 103 Conduct of the Board of Excise towards Burns 104 His Nithside beauties .... 107 [His excursion with Symc of Galloway] . 108 His dislike of epauletted puppies . .115 Story of the sword-cane . . . .116 The beautiful Maria Woodleigh '. .117 His removal to Mill-hole-Brae, in 1794 .118 Death of Glendinning . . . .119 Testimonials of Gray and Findlater re- specting the Poet 120 Visit of Professor Walker .... 121 Illness of the Poet . . , . . ib. His residence at Brow .... 122 Affecting Interview with Mrs. Riddel . 123 His letter to Erskine of Mar . . .125 His return from Brow in a dying state . ib. Melancholy spectacle of his household . ib. Death of Burns — his Funeral . . . 126 [His personal character, by a Lady] . . 127 His personal strength and conversation . 130 Anecdotes of Burns 132 His character as a Poet . . . .135 [The excellence of Burns, by Thos. Carlyle] 138 [The widow, children, and brother of the Poet] 142 .Sale of his household effects (note) . . 143 APPENDIX. Rules and Regulations of the Bachelors' Club 145 [Letter of Gilbert Burns on Education] . 146 [The last three years of the Poet's life, by Mr. Gray] 149 [Phrenological developement of Burns] . 151 [Poem addressed to Burns, by Mr. Telford] 154 Poem on the Death of Burns, by William Roscoe ....... 156 Ode to his Memory, by Campbell . . 157 Address to the Sons of Burns, by Words- worth ....... 158 Lines to a Friend, by Coleridge . . . ib. [On Burn s's Anniversary, by James Mont- gomery] ib. [ Robin's Awa ! by the Ettrick Shepherd] . 159 On his Anniversary, by Hugh Ainslie . . ib. Verses to his Memory by Halleck . . 160 by Andrew Mercer . .161 On his Anniversary, by Mrs. Richardson . ib. To tlie Memory of Burns, by Edward hton 162 Sonnet to the Shade of Burns, by Charlotte Smith 163 Verses to his Memory, by T. H., Dunfermline ib, Stanzas for the Anniversary of Burns, by David Vedder 163 POEMS OF BURNS. * # * The Poems marked thus * are not included in the Eight-volume Edition. PAGE Preface to the First, or Kilmarnock, Edition 164 Dedication to the Second, or Edinburgh, Edition 165 Winter, a Dirge . . . • .166 Death, and dying words, of Poor Mailie . ib. Poor Mailie's Elegy 167 First Epistle to Davie, a brother poet . 168 [Davie's reply] 170 Second Epistle to Davie . . . .171 Address to the De'il . . . . .172 [Explanatory notes by Thomas Landseer] ib. [The De'il's answer, by Lapraik] . . 174 The Auld Farmer's salutation to his auld mare, Maggie . . . . .175 Address to a Haggis . . . . 176 A Winter Night 177 The Jolly Beggars 179 Tune : Soldier's joy .... 180 Soldier laddie . . . .181 Auld Sir Simon .... ib. O an ye were dead, guidman . ib. Whistle o'er the lave o't . .182 Clout the cau'dron . . . ib. For a' that, an' a' that . . .183 Jolly mortals, fill your glasses . ib. Death and Dr. Hornbook . . . .185 The Kirk's Alarm. A satire . . . 187 The Twa Herds, or the Holy Tulzie . .190 Holy Willie's Prayer . . . .192 Epitaph on Holy Willie .... 193 The Inventory. In answer to a mandate by the surveyor of taxes .... 194 Adam A 's prayer . . . .195 The Holy Fair ib. [Letter from a blacksmith to the ministers and elders of the church of Scotland] . 199 The Ordination 200 The Calf. To the Rev. James Steven . 202 [Reply to Burns's Calf, by an Unco Calf] . ib. Epistle to James Smith .... 203 The Vision. Duan first . . . .205 The Vision. Duan second . . . 206 Hallowe'en 208 Man was made to mourn. A Dirge . .213 [The Life and Age of Man] . . .214 Epistle to John Goudie, Kilmarnock . . 215 Epistle to John Lapraik, an old Scottish bard ib. * There's naething like the honest nappy .216 [Lapraik's reply to Burns's Epistle] . .217 Second Epistle of Burns to Lapraik . .218 CONTENTS. in POEMS OF BURNS. PAGE Epistle to William Simpson, Ochiltree . 219 Postscript 220 Third Epistle to John Lapraik . . .221 Epistle to the Rev. John M'Math . . 222 Verses to a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest with the plough .... 223 Scotch Drink 224 The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch representatives in the House of Commons ...... 226 Postscript 228 Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly Righteous . . . . . . ib. Tam Samson's Elegy 230 Epitaph. — Per Contra .... ib. The Lament, occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a friend's amour . . . . 231 Despondency. An Ode . 232 The Cotter's Saturday Night . . .233 [Lines by Mrs. Hemans] .... 234 The First Psalm 236 [The ancient version] .... ib. The first six verses of the Ninetieth Psalm . 237 [The ancient version] .... ib. Ode to Ruin ...... ib. A Prayer under the pressure of violent anguish ....... 238 A Prayer in the prospect of death . . ib. Stanzas on the same occasion . . . ib. Stanzas to a Mountain Daisy on turning one down with the plough .... 239 Epistle to a young friend [Andrew Aiken] 240 Verses to a Louse, on seeing one on a lady's bonnet at church . . . . .241 Epistle to John Rankine .... 242 * Verses to the same, on his writing to the Poet, that a girl in that part of the coun- try was with child by him . . .243 *The Poet's welcome to his illegitimate child ib. Vtrses on a Scotch Bard, gone to the West Indies 244 * Verses written under violent grief . . 245 The Farewell ib. A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 246 Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux . 247 Epistle to James Tait, of Glenconner. . 248 Stanzas on the birth of a Posthumous Child 249 Lines to Miss Cruikshanks, a very young lady, written on the blank leaf of a book ib. Verses to Willie Chalmers .... 250 A Prayer, left at a Reverend Friend's house 251 Epistle to Gavin Hamilton, Esq., recom- mending a boy . . . . . ib. Epistle to Mr. M'Adam, of Craigengillan . 252 * Nature's Law, a Poem, humbly inscribed to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . . . ib. Answer to a Poetical Epistle, sent to the Author by a Tailor .... 253 POEMS OF BURNS. PAGE [Epistle from a Tailor (Thomas Walker, Ochiltree) to Robert Burns] . . .253 Lines written on a Bank note . . . 254 A Dream ....... ib. A Bard's Epitaph 256 * Remorse, a Fragment .... ib. The Twa Dogs, a Tale . . . .257 *Address to the Owl 260 Address to Edinburgh . . . .261 Lines on meeting with Lord Daer . . 262 Epistle to Major Logan .... 263 The Brigs of Ayr, a Dialogue . . . 264 Verses to an old Sweetheart after her mar- riage 267 Elegy on the Death of Robert Dundas, of Arniston, Esq., late Lord President of the Court of Session ib. Verses on the Death of John M'Leod, Esq. ib. Verses to Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems 263 The American War, a Fragment . . ib. The Dean of Faculty, a new Ballad . . 269 * Additional Stanza . . . . . ib. Verses to Clarinda with a present of a pair of drinking glasses ..... 270 Verses to the same, on the Poet's leaving Edinburgh ...... ib. * to the same (I burn, I burn, &c.) . 271 to the same (Before I saw Clarinda's face) Verses written under the Portrait of Fergus- son, the Poet . . . . . ib. Prologue spoken by Mr. Woods on his Be- nefit night ib. Epistle to the Guidwife of Wauchope House 272 [The Guidwife of Wauchope House to Ro- bert Burns] 273 Epistle to William Creech, written at Sel- kirk ....... t^. * The Hermit, written on a marble Sideboard in the Hermitage belonging to the Duke of Athole, in the Wood of Aberfcldy . 275 The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to the Noble Duke of Athole . . . ib. Lines on scaring some Water-fowl in Loch- Turit, a wild scene among the Hills of Ochtertyre . . . . . .276 Lines written in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth . . . .277 Lines written while standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness .... ib. Poetical Address to Mr. William Tytlcr. with the Bard's Picture . . . .278 Lines written in Friars'-Carse Hermitage, on the Banks of Nitli. First Vernon . ib. Second Version 279 Extempore Lines to Captain Riddel, of Glenriddel, on returning ;i Newspaper . 280 CONTENTS. POEMS OF BURNS. PAGE A Mother's Lament for the Death of her Son 280 First Epistle to Robert Graham, of Fintray ib. Verses on the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair 281 Epistle to Hugh Parker . . . .282 Elegy on the year 1 788. A sketch . . ib. Address to the Tooth-ache, written when the author was grievously tormented by that disorder 283 Ode, sacred to the memory of Mrs. Oswald . ib. Sketch inscribed to the Right Hon. Charles James Fox ib. •Additional lines 284 Verses on seeing a wounded hare limp by me, which a fellow had just shot . . ib. *Dr. Gregory's criticism on ditto . . 285 Epistle to Dr. Blacklock, in answer to a letter ib. [Dr. Blacklock's verses] .... 286 Delia. An Ode 287 Verses to John M'Murdo, Esq. . . . ib. To the same ib. Prologue spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, on New-year's day evening . . . ib. Scots prologue for Mr. Sutherland's benefit- night, Dumfries 288 [Letter to Mr. Sutherland] . . . ib. [Scene from Grahame's drama of Queen Mary] 289 New Year's Day, a sketch of the fire-side of Mrs. Dunlop ib. Lines to a Gentleman who had sent the Poet a newspaper, and offered to continue it free of expense ..... 290 *The Ruined Maid's Lament . . . ib. * Verses on the destruction of the woods near Drumlanrig ib. * Stanzas on the Duke of Queensberry . . 291 * On an evening view ot the ruins of Linclu- den Abbey . . . . . . ib. *The Discreet Hint 292 * The Tree of Liberty ib. * Verses to my Bed 293 Elegy on Peg Nicholson . . . . ib. Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson, a gen- tleman who held the patent of his honours immediately from Almighty God . . 293 The Epitaph 294 The Five Carlins. A Scottish ballad . . 295 * The Laddies by the banks o' Nith. An elec- tion ballad 297 Second Epistle to Robert Graham, of Fintray, Esq., at the close of the disputed election for the Dumfries boroughs . . . ib. Verses on Captain Grose's perigrinations through Scotland, collecting the antiqui- ties of that kingdom .... 299 Lines written in a wrapper, enclosing a letter to Captain Grose 300 POEMS OF BURNS. Sir John Malcolm (an old Song). . Tarn o' Shanter. A tale . [A poetical petition of the auld Brig of Doon, by the Rev. Hamilton Paul] [Criticisms on Tarn o' Shanter, by Sir "Walter Scott, Lord Byron, Campbell, and Words- worth] Address of Beelzebub to the President of the Highland Society Verses to John Taylor respecting 'frosting' the shoes of the poet's mare Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots, on the approach of Spring The Whistle Elegy on Miss Burnet, of Monboddo . Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . Lines to Sir John Whitefoord, Bart. . Address to the shade of Thomson, on crown- ing his bust, at Ednam, with bays . [Interesting variations from the Poet's MS.] Third Epistle to Robert Graham, of Fintray, Esq Sketch of a character. (' A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight.') Fourth Epistle to Robert Graham, of Fintray A vision of Liberty, evoked among the ruins of Old Lincluden ..... Verses to John Maxwell, of Terraughty, on his birth-day The Rights of Woman, an Occasional Ad- dress spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night . . . [The Poet's Letter to Miss Fontenelle] Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice. (Mrs. Riddel of Woodlee Park) The Epitaph Epistle from iEsopus to Maria. (William- son the actor and Mrs. Riddel) [Inscription for a Hermitage, by Mrs. Rid- del] [Verses to the Grave of Burns, by the same] Poem on Pastoral Poetry .... * Verses on the illness of a favourite child Sonnet on hearing a Thrush in a morning walk ....... Sonnet on the death of Robert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq Impromptu on Mrs. Riddel's birth-day Liberty, a Fragment, on American Inde- pendence ...... * Tragic Fragment, an Exclamation from a great character Verses to Miss Graham, of Fintray, with a present of Songs * Fickle Fortune— A Fragment The Vowels — A Tale. (Literary Scoldings and Hints sent to a Critic who had taken the Author to task for obscure language, &c.) PAGR ib. 304 ib. 305 306 ib. 307 308 309 310 ib. 311 312 ib. 313 ib. 314 315 ib. ib. ib. 316 ib. ib. 317 ib. ib. 318 ib. ib. ib. M CONTENTS POEMS OF BURNS. PAGE Verses to John Rankine, of Adamhill, sug- gested by his odd sarcastic dream of being refused admission to the Infernal Regions 319 Verses on Sensibility, addressed to Mrs. Dunlop ib. * Verses on the Death of a Favourite Child . 3-0 Lines sent to a Gentleman whom the Poet had offended ib. Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit Night ib. Lines on seeing Miss Fontenelle in a Favou- rite Character 321 Verses to Chloris. (Miss Jean Lorimer, of Craigieburn-wood) . . . . . ib. Poetical Inscription for an Altar to Inde- pendence . . . . . ib. THE HERON BALLADS. N° 1. Here's Heron yet for a' that . . ib. 2. The Election 322 " Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright" 3. An excellent new Song " Buy braw Troggin." * 4. John Busby's Lamentation Poem addressed to Mr. Mitchell, Collector of Excise, Dumfries .... Postscript ib. Poetical Invitation to John Kennedy . . 325 Lines to Mrs. C * * *, on receiving a work of Hannah More ..... Lines to Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries, with a present of books Poem on Life, addressed to Colonel De Peyster, Dumfries, 1796, during the last illness of the Bard ib. * Verses to a Kiss 326 323 324 ib. ib. ib. EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, &c. On the Author's Father * . . ib. On Tam the Chapman . . . 327 On Robert Aiken, Esq. . . . ib. A Farewell. (To John Kennedy) . ib. On a Friend . . . . . ib. On Gavin Hamilton . . . . ib. On the Poet's horse being impounded . ib. On Wee Johnny ib. On Bacon (the landlord at Brownhill) < 328 On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline . ib. 11. On a Wag in Mauchline . . . ib. 12. On a celebrated Ruling Elder . . ib. On a Noisy Polemic .... ib. On a noted Coxcomb .... 329 On Miss Jean Scott, of Ecclefechan . ib. On a Hen-peck 'd Country Squire (Campbell of Netherplace) » . '629 17. On the same * . . . . ib. 18. On the same .... ib. 19. The Highland Welcome . . ib. 20. Extempore on William Smellie,F.R.S.E. ib. 13. *14. 15. 16. EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, &c. i 21. Lines written on the Window of the Inn at Carron 22. On Viewing Stirling Palace 23. The Reproof .... 24. Lines written under the Portrait of the celebrated Miss Burns . . .331 *25. Johnny Peep ib. 26. The Henpeck'd Husband . . . ib. 27. On Incivility shewn to the Bard at In verary 28. On Elphinstone's Translations of Mar- tial's Epigrams . . . . ib. 29. On a Schoolmaster .... ib. 30. On Andrew Turner . . . . ib. 31. A Grace "before Dinner . . .332 32. On Mr. William Cruikshanks . . ib. 33. On Wat ib. 34. On Captain Francis Grose . . . ib. 35. On the Kirk of Lamington, in Clydes- dale 36. Lines written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn at Moffat .... 37. Lines spoken extempore on being ap pointed to the Excise 38. Verses addressed to the Landlady of the Inn at Roslin *39. On Grizzel Grim *40. Epitaph on W * * * . *41. On Mr. Burton .... 42. On Mrs. Kemble 43. Extempore to Mr. Syme, on refusing to dine with him 44. Lines to Mr. Syme, with a present of Porter 45. Inscription on a Goblet (belonging to Syme of Ryedale) . 46. Poetical Reply to an Invitation . 47. Another ..... *48. A Mother's Address to her Infant 49. The Creed of Poverty 50. Lines written in a Lady's Pocket-book 51. The Parson's Looks *52. Extempore Lines pinned to a Ladv Coach 53. Epitaph on Robert Riddel . 54. The Toast (in reply to a call for Song) 55. On a Person nick- named the Marquis 56. On Excisemen, written on a Window in Dumfries .... *57. Lines on occasion of a National Thanksgiving for a Naval Victory 58. Lines written on a Window of the Globe Tavern, Dumfries *59. Invitation to a Medical Gentleman to attend a Masonic Anniversary . ib. *60. Lines on War . . . . .to. *6l. On Drinking . . . . . tb. 62. The Selkirk Grace . . . .336 VI CONTENTS EPITAPHS, EPIGRAMS, &c. (Continued) 63. Lines on Innocence 64. On the Poet's Daughter 65. On Gabriel Richardson, Brewer, Dum fries 66. On the Death of a Lap-Dog, named Echo 67. On seeing the beautiful Seat of Lord Galloway .... 68. On the same .... 69. On the same .... 70. To the same on the Author being threat- ened with his resentment 71. On a Country Laird 72. On John Bushby 73. The True Loyal Natives . 74. On a Suicide .... 75. Lines to John Rankine 76. To Miss Jessy Lewars 77. The Toast (Lovely Jessy) . 78. On the sickness of Miss Jessy Lewars 79. On her recovery .... *80. The Black-headed Eagle, a Fragment *81. A Bottle and an Honest Friend . *82. Grace after Dinner *83. Another *84. Lines to the Editor of the Star . PAGE 336 ib ib ib ib ib ib ib ib 337 ib. ib ib ib ib ib 338 ib ib ib ib ib SONGS AND BALLADS. * # * The Songs marked * are either now published for the first time, or were not included in the former Edition. J. My handsome Nell . . . .339 The Poet's own criticism on the song. 340 2. Lucklesp Fortune . . . . ib. 3. I dream'd I lay where Flowers were springing ib. 4. Tibbie, I hae seen the day . .341 5. My Father was a Farmer . . . ib. 6. John Barleycorn, a Ballad . . . 342 [Additional Stanzas. Note] . . 343 7. The Rigs o' Barley . . . . ib. 8. Montgomery's Peggy . . . . ib. [M'Millan's Peggy] . . . .344 9. The Mauchline Lady . . . . ib. 10. The Highland Lassie . . . . ib. 11. Peggy (Now westlan' winds, &c.) . 345 *12. O that I had ne'er been married . . ib. 13. The Ranting Dog the Daddie o't . ib. 14. My heart was aince as blithe and free . 346 *15. Guid e'en to you Kimmer . . ib. (We're a' noddin) 16. My Nannie, O . . .347 [Version of the old lyric. Note] . ib. 17. One night as I did wander (a Fragment) 348 *18. O why the deuce should I repine . ib. *19. Robin sure in hairst .* . . . ib. *20. Sweetest May, let love inspire thee . ib. PAGE 348 349 ib. ib. 350 ib. ib. ib. SONGS AND BALLADS. *21. When I think on the happy days 22. Bonny Peggy Alison 23. Green grow the Rashes, O ! . [Ancient Version] .... 24. My Jean (Though cruel fate should bid us part) ..... [The Northern Lass] (Ancient version) 25. Rantin' Rovin' Robin (There was a lad was born in Kyle) 26. Her flowing locks, the raven's wing 27. Mauchline Belles (O leave novels, &c.) 351 28. The Belles of Mauchline (In Mauch line there dwells, &c.) *29. A hunting song (I rede you beware at the hunting, young men) 30. Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass 31. The cure for all care. With a Stanza added in a Mason Lodge . 32. Eliza (From thee, Eliza, I must go) . 33. The Sons of old Killie Menie (Again rejoicing Nature sees) . 354 Katharine Jaffray (There liv'd a lass in yonder dale) The Farewell to the Brethren of Saint James's Lodge, Tarbolton (Adieu ! a heart- warm fond adieu !) On Cessnock Banks there lives a Lass Improved version A Prayer for Mary (Powers celes- tial ! whose protection) 40. The Lass o' Ballochmyle 41. The Bonnie Banks of Ayr (The gloomy night is gath'ring fast) . Bonnie Dundee .... [Another Version. Note]. The Joyful Widower . There was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen Scroggam O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 46. There's news, lasses, news . 47. I'm owre young to marry yet 48. Damon and Sylvia 49. The Birks of Aberfeldy [Ancient Version] . 50. Macpherson's Farewell [Macpherson's Lament] . [Notice of Macpherson] . 51. Braw Lads of Galla Water 52. Stay, my Charmer, can you leave me ? 53. Strathallan's Lament (Thickest night o'erhang my dwelling!) . 54. My Hoggie (What will I do gin my Hoggie die ?) . 55. Jumping John. (Her daddie forbad, &c.) 56. Up in the morning early [Additional Stanzas] [Ancient Version] . 34. "35. 36. 37. ■=38. 39. 42. 43. 45. ib. 352 ib. 353 ib. ib. ib. 355 356 ib. 357 358 359 ib. ib. ib. 360 ib. ib. 361 ib. ib. ib. 362 363 364 ib. ib. 365 ib. ib. 366 ib. :@ CONTENTS. of Up in the morning (Loud 60. '61. 63. SONGS AND BALLADS. Ancient Version early .... 57. The Young Highland Rover. blaw the frosty breezes) . 58. Hey, the Dusty Miller *59. Bonnie Peg. (As I came in by our gate end) ..... Duncan Davison. (There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg) .... Shelah O'Neil. (When first I began for to sigh and to woo her) Theniel Menzie's bonny Mary. (In coming by the brig O'Dye) Ancient Version .... The Banks of the Devon . 64. Duncan Gray ..... The original Version 65. The Ploughman he's a bonnie lad Ancient Version .... 66. Landlady, Count the lawin. (Hey,Tutti, Taiti) Ancient Version .... 67. Ye hae lien a'wrang, Lassie 68. Raving winds around her blowing. (Macgregor of Ruara's Lament — Translation) ..... For a' that, and a' that. (Though women's minds like winter winds) . How lang and dreary is the night ! 71. Musing on the Roaring Ocean 72. Blithe, blithe, and merry was she To Daunton me, and me so young Ancient Version .... O' the water to Charlie A rosebud by my early walk Rattlin' Roarin' Willie Ancient Version .... Where braving angry winter's storms . Sweet Tibbie Dunbar. (0 wilt thou go with me, &c.) ..... Additional Verses .... Streams that glide in Orient Plains. (Bonny Castle Gordon) . My Harry was a gallant gay. (Highland Harry) Ancient Version .... The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'. ..... Ancient Version .... 82. Simmer's a pleasant Time. (Aye waukin °') * 83. Beware o' Bonnie Ann. (Ye gallants bright, &c.) 84. When rosy May comes in wi' flowers. (The gardener with his paidle) . 85. Blooming Xelly. (On a bank of flowers) 378 Ancient Version . . . . ib. 86. The day returns, my bosom burns. . ib. 69. '0. 73. 77. 78. GO. 81. 366 ib. 367 ib. ib. ib. 368 ib. ib. 369 ib. ib. 370 ib. ib. 371 ib. ib. ib. 372 ib. 373 ib. ib. ib. 374 ib. ib. 375 ib. ib. ib. ib. 376 ib. 377 ib. ib. SONGS AND BALLADS. 87. My love she's but a lassie yet Variations to Do 88. Jamie, come try me . Variations to Do 89. My bonnie Mary. (Go fetch to me a pint o' wine) .... Version of the old song . 90. The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill 91. The Captain's Lady. (O mount and go) * Wee Willie Gray *92. O guid ale comes 93. Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 94. Whistle owre the lave o't . *95. O can ye labour lea, young man . * 96. To thee, Lov'd Nith . First Version .... 97. O were I on Parnassus' Hill ! 98. O were my love yon lilac fair 99. There's a youth in this city 100. My heart's in the Highlands Ancient Version 101. John Anderson, my Jo, John. Additional Stanzas . Ancient Version 102. Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair (Awa, whigs, awa.) . 103. Ca' the ewes to the knowes. (As I gaed down the water side) * 104. O gie my love, brose, brose 105. O merry hae I been teething a heckle 106. The braes of Ballochmyle . 107. Lament for Mary. (O'er the mist shrouded cliffs, &c.) . 108. Mary in Heaven. (Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray) . "109. Evan Banks. (Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires) . 110. Eppie Adair. (An' O ! my Eppie, my Jewel, my Eppie !) . 111. The battle of Sheriff-Muir. (O cam ye here the fight to shun) Ancient Version 112. Young Jockey was the blithest lad 113. O' Willie brew'd a Peck of Maut Sequel to Do .... *114. Happy Friendship. (Here around the ingle bleezing) .... 115. The battle of Killiecrankie. 1 16. The blue-eyed lass. (I gaed a waefif gate yestreen) .... 117. The banks of Nith . 118. Tarn Glen. (My heart is a breaking dearTittie!) .... 119. Frae the friends and land I love . 120. Sweet closes the evening onCraigie-lmrn wood •121. Come rede me, dame . PAGE 379 ib. ib. ib. ib. 380 ib. 381 ib. ib. ib. 382 ib. 383 ib. ib. ib. 384 ib. ib. 385 ib. ib. 386 ib. 387 ib. ib. 388 ib. ib. 389 390 ib. 391 ib. ib. 392 393 ib. ib. 304 ib. 395 ib. <§>; - ©: Vlll CONTENTS. SONGS AND BALLADS. PAGE 396 ib. ib. 122. Cock up your beaver . 123. My tocher's the jewel . 124. Guidwife count the lawin . 125. There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame 397 126. O'er the hills and far awa' . . . ib. 127. I do confess thou art sae fair . . 398 Old Version ib. 128. Yon wild mossy mountains . . ib. 129. It is na, Jean, thy bonny face . . 399 *130. O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab. ib. 131. Wha is that at my bower door ? . . ib. 132. What can a young lassie do ? . . 400 Old Version . . . ib. 133. Bonnie wee thing .... ib. 134. The tither morn when I forlorn . .401 135. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever . ib. 136. Lovely Davies . . . .402 137. The weary pund o' tow . . . ib. 138. I hae a Wife o' my ain . . . 403 139. O for ane-and-twenty, Tarn . . ib. 140. O, Kenmure's on and awa, Willie ! . ib. 141. My Collier Laddie . . . .404 The original version . . . ib. 142. Nithsdale's welcome hame . . 405 143. The merry Ploughman . . . ib. 144. As I was a wand'ring ae Midsummer e'ening ...... ib. 145. Bess and her spinning wheel . . 406 146. O luve will venture in. (The Posie) . ib. Another version .... 407 147. Country Lassie. (In simmer, when the hay was mawn) . . . . ib. 148. Fair Eliza . . . • . .408 149. Ye Jacobites by name . . . ib. 150. The Banks of Doon . . . .409 151. Second version. (Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon) .... ib. 152. Sic a wife as Willie had. (Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed) . . .410 153. Lady Mary Ann .... ib. The ancient ballad . . . .411 154. Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame. (Such a parcel of rogues in a Nation) ib. 155. The Carle of Kellyburn braes . .412 Additional Verses . . . .413 156. Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss . . ib. *157. Coming o'er the braes o' Cupar . . ib. 158. Lady Onlie, honest Lucky . . ib. Additional verses . . . .414 159. The Chevalier's Lament. (The small birds rejoice) .... ib. 160. The Song of Death,— a War Song. (Farewell, thou fair day) . . . ib. 161. Afton Water. (Flow gently, sweet Afton!) 415 162. Smiling Spring comes in rejoicing . ib. SONGS AND BALLADS 163 164. 165. 166. 167. 168. 169. 170. 171. 172. 173. 174. 175. 176. 177. "178. 179. 180. 181. 182. 183. 184. 185. 186. 187. 188. 189. 190. 191. 192. 193. 194. 195. 196. 197. 198. 199. "200. "201. '202. '203. 204. The Carles of Dysart. (Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro') The gallant Weaver. (Where Cart rins rowin' to the Sea) The Deuk's dang o'er my Daddie, O She's fair and fause The Deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman The lovely lass of Inverness O, my luve's like a red, red rose . The ancient version .... Jeannie's bosom. (Louis, what reck I by thee) Had I the wyte she bade me Coming through the rye The winter it is past . . , Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain 420 Out over the Forth . . . . ib. The Lass of Ecclefechan . The Cooper o' Cuddie Ah, Chloris ! since it may na be For the sake o' Somebody The cardin' o't. (I coft a stane o' has- lock woo') The lass that made the bed to me. (When Januar' wind was blawing cauld) Sae far awa. (O sad and heavy should I part) ...... I'll aye ca' in by yon town . O wat ye wha's in yon town The mirk night of December. (O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet) , O lovely Polly Stewart ! The Highland Laddie. (The bonniest lad that e'er I saw) .... Anna, thy charms my bosom fire . Cassillis' Banks. (Now bank and brae are claith'd in green) To thee, lov'd Nith. Second Version . Bannocks o' Barley .... Ancient Version .... Hee Balou ! my sweet wee Donald Wae is my heart .... Here's his health in water. (Altho* my back be at the wa') .... My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form Gloomy December .... My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't . Amang the trees where humming bees. The gowden locks of Anna. (Yestreen I had a pint o' wine) Postscript O wat ye what my Minnie did . There came a Piper out o' Fife (a frag- ment) ...... 431 Jenny M'Craw (a fragment) . . ib. The last braw bridal (a fragment) . ib. Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass . ib 416 ib. ib. 417 ib. ib. 418 ib. ib. 419 Jb. ' ib. 421 ib. 422 ib. ib. ib. 423 424 ib. ib. 425 426 ib. ib. 427 ib. ib. ib. 428 ib. ib. ib. 429 ib. 430 ib. ib. CONTENTS. IX SONGS AND BALLADS 205 206. 207. 208. 209. 210. 211. 212. 213. 214. 215. 216. 217. 218. 219. 220. 221. 222. The Farewell (It was a' for our rightful King) Ancient Version .... O steer her up and haud her gaun O aye my wife she dang me Ancient Version .... O, wert thou in the cauld blast . O, wha is she that lo'es me 431 ib. 432 ib. ib. 433 ib. Caledonia. (There was once a day, &c.) 434 O, lay thy loof in mine, lassie . . ib. The Fete Champetre. (O, wha will to St. Stephen's house) . Here's a health to them that's awa Meg o' the Mill. (O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten) The Dumfries Volunteers. (Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ?) The Winter of Life. (But lately seen in gladsome green) .... Mary ! (Could aught of song declare my pains) The Highland Widow's Lament. (Oh ! I am come to the low countrie) Welcome to General Dumourier. Bonny Peg-a-Ramsay. (Cauld is the e'ening blast) There was a bonnie lass. (A sketch) . O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet . 435 ib. . 436 ib. 437 438 ib. 439 ib. ib. OF 440 SONGS, AND CORRESPONDENCE BURNS with GEORGE THOMSON. Autobiographical Notice .... 1792. No. I. Thomson to Burns, requesting the Bard to write twenty-five songs suited to particular melodies, &c 442 II. Burns to Thomson, stating that by comply- ing it will positively add to his enjoyments . ib. III. Thomson to Burns, sending some tunes . 444 IV. Burns to Thomson, with " The Lea- rig," and " Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary ?" [Original Version of " The Lea-rig"] . . ib. V. Burns to Thomson, with " My wife's a win- some wee thing," and " O saw ye bonnie 445 Lesley?" ib. VI. Burns to Thomson, with" Highland Mary" 446 Notice of " Highland Mary" . . . ib. VII. Thomson to Burns — Critical observations 448 VIII. Burns to Thomson, enclosing an addi- tional Stanza to " The Lea- rig" . . .449 IX. Burns to Thomson, with " Auld Rob Morris" and " Duncan Gray" . . . ib. X. Burns to Thomson, with " O'Poortith cauld," and " Galla Water" . . . 450 Original song of " Galla Water" . .451 1793. XI. Thomson to Burns, requesting anecdotes of particular songs— Tytler of Woodhouseke— SONGS AND CORRESPONDENCE. Pleyel — Peter Pindar's Lord Gregory — Postscript from the Hon. A. Erskine . ib. XII. Burns to Thomson — complies with his re- quest, and encloses his own " Lord Gregory" 452 XIII. Burns to Thomson, with" Mary Morison" 453 XIV. Burns to Thomson, with " Wandering Willie" 454 XV. Burns to Thomson, with " Open the door to me, Oh !" ib. XVI. Burns to Thomson, with "Young Jessie" 455 XVII. Thomson to Burns, enclosing a list of songs, and Wandering Willie altered . . ib. XVIII. Bums to Thomson, with " The poor and honest Sodger" and " Meg o' the Mill" 456 XIX. Burns to Thomson — Voice of Coila, Criticism on various songs — Anecdote re- specting The lass o' Patie's Mill . . . 457 XX. Thomson to Burns — Rejoices to find that ballad-making continues his hobby-horse . 458 XXI. Burns to Thomson — Simplicity requisite in a song — Sacrilege in one poet to mangle the words of another 459 XXII. Burns to Thomson — wishes that the national music may preserve its native fea- tures ........ ib. XXIII. Thomson to Burns — Thanks, and ob- servations on Scottish Songs . . .460 XXIV. Burns to Thomson — Fraser the haut- boy player — sends " Blithe hae I been on yon hill" ib. XXV. Burns to Thomson, with " O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide" . . . .461 Original song of " Logan Braes" . . ib. " O gin my love were yon red rose," and two additional verses 462 XXVI. Thomson to Burns — Encloses the Poet a small mark of his gratitude . . . ib. XXVII. Burns to Thomson, with " Bonny Jean," (There was a lass and she was fair) . 463 XXVIII. Burns to Thomson— Hurt at the idea of pecuniary recompense — Remarks on Songs 464 [Fair Helen of Kirkconnell] . . . ib. XXIX. Thomson to Burns — In the way cer- tain songs are frequently sung, one must be contented with the sound without the sense . 465 XXX. Burns to Thomson — Holds the pen for his friend Clarke, who, at present, is studying the music of the spheres at his elbow . . ib XXXI. Burns to Thomson, with " Phillis the Fair' 466 XXXII. Thomson to Burns — Robin Adair — David Allan's drawing from John Anderson my Jo , ib. XXXIII. Burns to Thomson, with " Had I a cave on some wild distant shore" — shrewdly suspects that some favourite airs might be common both to Scotland and Ireland , 4C7 XXXIV. Burns to Thomson, with "By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove" . , . , ib. XXXV. Burns to Thomson, with " Whistle CONTENTS. SONGS AND CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE and I'll come to you my lad," and " Adown winding Nith" ...... 468 XXXVI. Burns to Thomson, with " Come let me take thee to my breast" . . . 469 XXXVII. Burns to Thomson, with " Dainty Davie" ....... ib. XXXVIII. Thomson to Burns, Delighted with the productions of the Poet's muse, and whilst she is so propitious requests the favour of no fewer than twenty-three more Songs ! 470 XXXIX. Burns to Thomson, with " Bruce's address to his Army at Bannockburn" . . 471 XL. Burns to Thomson, with " Behold the hour the boat arrives" .... 472 XLI. Thomson to Burns — Submits with great deference some alterations in Burns's Ode of " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" . . ib. XLII. Burns to Thomson — Alteration in " Down the burn, Davie" — Remarks on songs — his own method of composition, with " Thou hast left me ever, Jamie," and " Auld lang syne" 474 Ancient Version of " Auld lang Syne" . ib. XLIII. Burns to Thomson, with an improved Version of " Scotswha hae wi' Wallace bled" 476 Letter to Captain Miller of Dalswinton. [Notice of Sir William Wallace] . . ib. XLIV. Thomson to Burns, Remarks on Scot- tish Songs — again suggests alterations in the heroic Ode of Bannockburn . . . 477 XLV. Burns to Thomson, — Remains firm with regard to his Ode — sends "Fair Jenny" 578 XLVI. Burns to Thomson—" Deluded Swain the Pleasure," and Remarks on Irish Airs . 479 XLVII. Burns to Thomson, with " Thine am I, my faithful fair" 480 And three songs by Gavin Turnbull : " condescend, dear charming maid," " The Nightingale," and " Laura" . . .481 XLVIII. Thomson to Burns — Apprehension from long silence, and thanks for an English Song ib. XL1X. Burns to Thomson, with "Husband, husband, cease your strife" . . . . ib. And " Wilt thou be my Dearie ?" . . 482 1794. L. Thomson to Burns — Melancholy compari- son between Burns and Carlini — Allan's Sketch from The Cotter's Saturday Night . ib. LI. Burns to Thomson — Praise of David Allan, and encloses " The Banks of Cree" . . 483 LII. Burns toThomson — Anxious to hearnews of Pleyel — encloses his "-Address to Miss Graham of Fintray," " Here where the Scot- ti-li muse immortal lives" .... ib. LIII. Thomson to Burns — Fears he shall have no more songs from Pleyel, but is desirous, nevertheless, to be prepared with .the poetry, ib. LIV. Burns to Thomson, with "On the Seas and far away" 484 SONGS AND CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE LV. Thomson to Burns — Criticism on the last Song 484 LVI. Burns to Thomson, with "Ca' the yowes to the Knowes" ib. LVII. Burns to Thomson, with " She says she lo'es me best of a' " Stanza to Dr. Maxwell 485 LVIII. Thomson to Burns — Thinks he might produce a Comic Opera in three Acts, that would live by the poetry .... 487 LIX. Thomson to Burns — Ritson, Peter Pin- dar, and John Pinkerton — the Scottish Col- lections of Airs and Songs . . . . ib. LX. Burns to Thomson — Glorious recipe for a love Song — encloses " Saw ye my Phely" Remarks and Anecdotes — " How lang and dreary is the night" — " Let not woman e'er complain" — " The lover's morning salute to his mistress" and — a musical curiosity, an East Indian Air, " The Auld man" . . 488 [Song of " Donocht- Head"] . . . ib. LXI. Thomson to Burns, Wishes to know the inspiring fair one of so many fine Songs — Ritson — Allan — Maggie Lauder , . .491 LXII. Burns to Thomson — Has begun his Anecdotes — Visits his fair one, and sends "My Chlorls, mark how green the groves" . ib. Remarks on Conjugal love, &c. . . . 492 " The charming month of May" — " Lassie wi' the lint-white locks" .... ib. LXIII. Burns to Thomson — " Farewell thou stream that winding flows" — Recipe for com- posing a Scots Air — The black keys — Difficult to trace the origin of our Scottish Airs — Re- quests a copy of his songs for Chloris . .493 LXI V. Thomson to Burns — Remarks on Song, with three copies of the Scottish melodies . 494 LXV. Burns to Thomson, with "O Philly, happy be that day" — Remarks . . . 495 " Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair" . 496 XVI. Burns to Thomson, with "Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?" — Reply by Mrs. Riddel — Stock and Horn — [Dr. Leyden's dissertation on ancient musical instruments] 497 LXVII. Thomson to Burns — Unqualified praise of his songs — Requests more of a hu- morous cast — Picture of the Soldier's Return 498 LXVII I. Burns to Thomson, with " My Nan- nie's Awa" 499 1795. LXIX. Burns to Thomson, with " Is there for honest poverty" and — " Craigie-burn wood" 500 Ancient Version ib. LXX. Thomson to Burns, Thanks for the many delightful songs sent him . . . ib. LXXI. Burns to Thomson, with " Lassie art thou sleeping yet ?" 501 And her answer. "O tell na me o' wind and rain" . ib, LXXII. Burns to Thomson — The unfortunate, wicked, little village of Ecclefechan ! . . 502 LXXIII. Thomson to Bums— His two last -o) =9 CONTENTS. XI SONGS AND CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE epistles prove that, drunk or sober, his " mind is never muddy" 502 LXXI V. Burns to Thomson, " Address to the wood-lark" ib. " On Chloris being ill" . . . .503 "Their groves o' sweet myrtle" . . . ib. " 't was na herbonnie blue e'ewas my ruin" 504 LXXV. Thomson to Burns, with Allan's picture from the " Cotter's Saturday Night" ib. LXX VI . Burns to Thomson, with " How cruel are the parents," and " Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion" ib. LXXVII. Burns to Thomson— Thanks for his elegant present of Allan's picture . . 505 LXXVIII. Thomson to Burns— Thinks he never can repay him for his kindness . . ib. LXXIX. Burns to Thomson, with an im- provement in — " Whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad" — " O, this is na my ain lassie" . 506 " Now spring has clad the grove in green" . ib. " O bonnie was yon rosy brier" . . . 507 " 'Tis friendship's pledge, my fair, young friend" ....... ib. LXXX. Thomson to Burns — His eyes feasted with his last packet — Introducing Dr. Brianton ....... ib. LXXXI. Burns to Thomson, with " Forlorn, my love, no comfort near" .... 508 LXXXII. Burns to Thomson, with " Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen," and " Why, why tell thy lover" . . . 510 LXXXIII. Thomson to Burns — For what we have received, Lord, make us thankful ! 1796. LXXXIV. Thomson to Burns— Awful pause! laments the poet's afflicted state . LXXXV. Burns to Thomson — Thanks for the remaining vol. of Peter Pindar, and sends — " Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher" LXXXVI. Thomson to Burns — Allan has designed and etched about twenty plates for an Octavo edition of the " Songs" LXXXVII. Burns to Thomson— Afflicted by sickness, and counts time by the repercussions of pain ! Is pleased with Allan's etchings . LXXXVIII. Thomson to Burns — Sympa- thises in his sufferings, but beseeches him not to give up to despondency . LXXXIX. Burns to Thomson, with " Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear" XC. Burns to Thomson — Introducing Mr. Lewars — Has taken a fancy to review his songs — Hopes to recover .... XCI. Burns to Thomson — Dreading the hor- rors of a jail, solicits the advance of five pounds, and encloses his last song " Fairest maid on Devon banks" .... XCI I. Thomson to Burns — Sends the exact sum the poet requested — Advises a volume of poetry to be published by subscription . [Pope published the Iliad so.] ib. ib. 511 ,12 513 ib. ib. BURNS'S REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG WITH ANECDOTES, &c. 1. The Highland Queen . PAGE . 518 2. Bess the Gawkie .... . 519 3. Oh, open the door, Lord Gregory . . ib. 4. The Banks of the Tweed . . 520 5. The beds of Sweet Roses . ib. 6. Roslin Castle .... . ib. 7. Ditto Second Version . . 521 8. Saw ye Johnnie cummin ? quo' she . ib. 9. Clout the Caldron . ib. 10. Saw ye nae my Peggy . . 522 11. The Flowers of Edinburgh . . 523 [Highland Laddie. Note] . ib. 12. Jamie Gay . 524 13. My Dear Jockey .... . ib. 14. Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae . ib. 15. Ramsay's Version of Horace's ninth Ode ib. 16. The Lass o' Livingston . 525 17. The last time 1 came o'er the Moor . 526 18. Johnny's grey Breeks . . ib. 19. The happy marriage . ib. 20. The lass of Patie's Mill . 527 21. The Turnimspike .... . 528 22. The Auld Highland Laddie . . ib. 23. Another Version . 529 The Highlander's Prayer at Sheriff-Muir ib. 24. The Gentle Swain . ib. 25. He stole my tender heart away . ib. 26. The Fairest of the Fair . ib. 27. The Blaithrie o't . . 530 28. May Eve, or Kate of Aberdeen . . ib. 29. Tweed Side . 531 30. The Posie . 532 31. Mary's Dream .... . ib. 32. The maid that tends the goats . 533 33. I wish my love were in a mire . ib. 34. Allan Water .... . 534 35. There's nae luck about the house . . ib. 36. Tarry Woo . 535 37. Gramachree .... . ib. 38. The Collier's bonny lassie . . 536 39. My Ain kind Dearie, O . ib. 40. Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow . 537 41. Down the burn, Davie . . ib. 42. Blink o'er the burn, sweet Bettie . . 538 43. The blithesome bridal . . ib. 44. John Hay's bonny lassie . 539 45. The bonnie brucket lassie . ib. Notice of Balloon Tytler . . ib. 46. Sae merry as we twa hac been . 541 47. The banks of Forth . ib. 48. The bush aboon Traquair . ib. 49. Cromleck's Lilt .... . 542 50. My dearie, if thou die . . 543 51. She rose and let me in . . ib. @ © xii CONTENTS. BURNS'S REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG, WITH BURNS'S REMARKS ON SCOTTISH SONG, WITH ANECDOTES, &c ANECDOTES, &c. PAGE PAGE Additional Verses .... 544 101. The Gaberlunzie Man . . 566 52. Will ye go to the Ewe-bughts, Marion ? ib. I D2. The black Eagle . . 567 53. Lewis Gordon ib. 103. Johnny Cope . 568 54. The wauking o' the fauld . . . 545 104. Cease, cease, my dear friend to explore . ib. 55. Oh ono Chrio ib. 105. Auld Robin Gray. . 569 56. I'll never leave thee . . . . ib. 106. Donald and Flora. . ib. 57. Corn Rigs are bonnie .... 546 107. The Captive Ribband . . 570 58. The mucking o' Geordie's byre . . ib. 108. The Bridal o't . . ib. 59. Bide ye yet 547 109. Todlen hame . 571 The Poet's Preface to the Second 110. The Shepherd's Preference . . ib. Volume of the Museum . . ib. 111. John o'Badenyond . 572 60. Tranent Muir 548 112. A Waukrife Minnie . . 573 61. Polwart on the Green . . . . ib. 113. Tullochgorum . ib. 62. Strephon and Lydia . . . . ib. 114. Auld lang Syne . . 574 63. My Jo, Janet 549 115. The Ewie wi' the crooked horn . ib. 64. Love is the cause of my mourning . ib. 116. Hughie Graham . . 575 65. Fife and a' the lands about it . . 550 117. A Southland Jenny . 576 66. Were na my heart light I wad die . ib. 118. My Tocher's the Jewel . ib. 67. The young man's Dream . . . 551 1 19. Then, Guidwife, count the la win . ib. 68. The Tears of Scotland . . . . ib. 120. The Sodger Laddie . ib. 69. Ah ! the poor Shepherd's mournful fate 552 121. Where wad Bonnie Annie lie ? . 577 70. The Mill, Mill, O . . . . ib. 122. Galloway Tarn . . ib. 71. We ran and they ran .... 553 123. As I cam down by yon castle wa' . 578 72. O Waly, waly, up yon bank . . ib. 124. Lord Ronald, my Son . . ib. 73. Duncan Gray ib. 125. O'er the Moor among the heather . ib. 74. Dumbarton Drums .... 554 126. To the Rosebud . . ib, 75. Cauld Kail in Aberdeen . . . ib. 127. Thou art gane awa' . 579 76. For lack of Gold she's left me Oh ! . 555 128. The tears I shed must e'er fall . ib 77. Here's a health to my true love . . ib. 129. Dainty Davie . ib. 78. Hey, Tutti, Taiti . . . . ib. 130. Lucky Nansy . 580 79. Tak your auld cloak about ye . . 556 131. Bob o' Dumblane . ib. 80. 81. Ye Gods, was Strephon's picture blest ? 557 Since robb'd of all that charm'd my view ...... ib. THE AYR-SHIRE BALLAI )S. 82. Young Damon 558 83. Kirk wad let me be . . . . ib. 132. The dowie dens of Yarrow . . 581 [Auld Gienae] 133. Rob Roy .... . 582 84. Blythe was she 559 134. Young Hyndhorn . ib. 85. Johnny Faa, or the Gypsie Laddie . ib. 135. [Ancient Version. Note.] . 583 86. 87. To Daunton me 560 The Bonnie Lass that made the bed to me ib. GENERAL CORRESPONDED CE. 88. Absence ib. 89. I had a horse and I had nae mair. . 561 [The letters marked * now appear for the first time.] 90. Up and warn a' Willie . . . . ib. Remarks by Sir Walter Scott . 585 91. Auld Rob Morris ib. Francis, Lord Jeffrey . ib. 92. Nancy's Ghost 562 Tune your Fiddles, &c. . . . ib. T^rr»TVfi f " , nv "Wrilfimi ib. 93. Lockhart .... . 586 94. Gil Morice 563 Professor Walker . . ib. 95. When I upon thy bosom lean . . ib. Dr. Currie . 587 96. The Highland Character . . . 564 1781. 97. Leader Haughs and Yarrow . . . n. 98. Bum the Violer 5G5 No. I. To William Burness, Dec. 27— V Veak- 99. Tins is no my Ain house . . . £,66 ness of his nerves — heartily tired of inspired by reading the 7th Chapt life— 3r of 100. Si Laddie, lie near me . . . ib. Revelations . 588 »y :© CONTENTS. xm GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE 1783. II. To John Murdoch, Jan. 15 — His present studies and temper of mind . . . 589 Murdoch's Reply 590 III. To James Burness, Montrose, June 21 — His father's illness — wretched state of the country ....... ib. IV. To Miss Eliza B * * * Lochlea, on love . 591 V. To the same, on ditto .... 592 VI. To the same, on ditto . . . . ib. VII. To the same — On her refusal of his hand 593 1784. VIII. To James Burness, Montrose, Feb. 17 — Death of his father ib. IX. To the same, Aug. — Account of the Bu- chanites ib. 1786. X. To John Richmond, Feb. 17 — His poetical progress ....... 594 XI. To Robert Muir, Kilmarnock, March 20 — Enclosing his " Scotch Drink" . . 595 XII. To Mr. Aiken, April 3 — Enclosing lines to Mrs. C ib. XIII. To Mr. M'Whinnie, Ayr, April 17— Sending copies of his prospectus . . . ib. XIV. To John Kennedy, April 20— Enclos- ing " The Gowan, or Mountain Daisy" . ib. XV. To John Kennedy, May 17— Enclosing the " Epistle to Rankine" . . . .596 XVI. ToJohnBallantyne,Ayr,JMM0 — Aiken's coldness — Armour's destruction of his mar- riage certificate . . . . . . ib. XVII. ToDavidBrice,Jwnel2 — Jean Armour — Her perjury — is printing his Poems . ib. XVIII. To Robert Aiken, July— Wilson de- clines printing a Second Edition of his poems — Excise appointment — His belief in the immortality of the soul — Disclaims misanthropy 597 XIX. To Mrs. Dun lop, July— Thanks for her kind notice of his poems — Sir William Wallace 598 [Account of Mrs. Dunlop.] Note . . ib. XX. To David Brice, Glasgow, July 1 7 — Jean Armour — Now fixed to go to the West Indies 599 XXI. To John Richmond, July 30— Intended departure for Jamaica . . . . . ib. XXII. To James Smith, Mauchline, Aug. — His voyage delayed — Woman, lovely woman ! ib. XXIII. To John Kennedy, Aug.— Farewell . 600 XXIV. To Robert Muir, Kilmarnock, Sep. — Poor Jean Armour repays him double — His poem of the Calf. . . . . ib. XXV. To Mr. Burness, Montrose, Sep. 26 — Domestic affections — His departure un- certain ....... ib. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE XXVI. To Dr. Arch d . Lawrie, Nov. 13— The peaceful unity of St. Margaret's Hill . . 601 XXVII. To Miss Alexander, Nov. 18— Scene — The bonny lass of Ballochmyle . . ib. XXVIII. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair, Nov.— Enclosing the Song of "Ettrick banks" — as a grateful recollection of his kind recep- tion at Stair ...... 602 XXIX. To Robert Muir, Nov. 18— Enclosing " Tarn Samson" — His Edinburgh expedition ib. XXX. To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline, Nov.— On dining with Lord Daer — Character of Dugald Stewart 603 XXXI. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Dec. 7— His rising fame — Dalrymple of Orangefield, and other kind patrons .... ib. XXXII. To John Ballantine, Esq. Ayr, Dec. 13 — The Caldonian Hunt subscribe each for a copy of his poems — " The Lounger, &c." ib. XXXIII. To Robert Muir, Dec. 20— On his subscribing for sixty copies of his poems . 604 XXXIV. To William Chalmers, Ayr, Dec. 27 — A humourous sally — the heavenly Miss Burnet 605 1787. *XXXV. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Jan. 7— Jean Armour — Meetswith a Lothian farmer's daughter — delicious ride from Leith . . ib. XXXVI. To the Earl of Eglinton, Jan.— Gratitude for his Lordship's munificence . ib. XXXVII. To John Ballantyne, Esq. Jan. 14 — Not so far gone as Willie Gaw's skate — Miller's offer of a farm — the Grand Lodge of Scotland dub him " Caledonia's Bard" . ib. XXXVIII. To the same, Jan.— Encloses his song of " Bonnie Doon" — while sitting sad and solitary in a little country inn . . 606 XXXIX. To Mrs. Dun lop, Jan. 15— Miserably awkward at a fib — Kindness of Dr. Moore- trembles for the consequences of his popu- larity ib - XL. To Dr. Moore, Jan. — Thanks for his kind notice — not vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame .... 607 [Notice of Dr. Moore. Note] . . ib. XLI. To the Rev. G. Laurie, Feb. 5— Grati- tude for his friendly hints — Compliments paid to Miss Lawrie by the Man of Feeling . 608 [Letter of Dr. Lawrie to the Poet. Note] ib. XLII. To Dr. Moore, Feb. 15— Scorns the affectation of seeming modesty to cover self- conceit — Helen Maria Williams . . . 609 Reply to the Poet ib. XLII I. To John Ballantine, Esq. Feb. 24— Is getting his phiz done by an eminent on- graver . . . . . . .610 XLIV. To the Earl of Glencairn, Feb.— En- closes Stanzas for a picture of his Lordship, and requests permission to publish them . ib. XLV. To the Earl of Buchan, Feb.— Grate- ful for his Lordship's advice— it touches the 2: CONTENTS. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. ] darling chord of his heait — Wisdom dwells with Prudence — must return to his humble station at the plough tail .... *XLVI. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mar. 8— Poor Capt n . Montgomery — his sympathy for the hapless fair one — His two Songs on Miss Alexander and Miss Kennedy tried by a jury of literati, and declared defamatory libels ........ XLVII. To James Candlish, Mar. 21— Still " The old man with his deeds" . XLVIII. To William Dunbar, W. S. Mar.— Acknowledges the present of Spenser's Poems — about to return to his shades . XLIX. To On Fergusson's Head- stone — Conscience L. To Mrs. Dunlop, Mar. 22 — Wishes to sing of Scottish scenes and Scottish story — Uto- pian thoughts — Intends returning to the plough, but not to give up poetry LI. To the same, April 15 — Gratitude for her goodness — about to appear in print LI I. To Dr. Moore, April 23— Gratitude- for the honour done to him — about to return to his rural shades [Dr. Moore's Reply] LIU. To Mrs. Dunlop, April 30— Happy that his own favourite pieces are distinguished by her approbation ...... LIV. To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair, May 3— On leaving Edinburgh — thanks for his patronage ....... [Dr. Blair's Reply] . . L V. To Mr. Pateson, Bookseller, Paisley, May 1 1 — Acknowledging payment for ninety copies of his Poems ..... LVI. To William Nicol, Edinburgh, June 1 — A humorous description of his journey on his favourite mare, Jenny Geddes LVII. To James Smith, Linlithgow, June 11 Disgusted with the mean, servile compliance of the Armour family .... LVIII. To William Nicol, June 18— Charmed with Dumfries' folks — carries Milton per- petually about with him .... LIX. To James Candlish, June — Dissipation and business engross every moment — engaged in assisting an honest Scotch enthusiast (Johnson, the engraver of the Museum) — begs the song of " Pompey's Ghost" . LX. To William Nicol, June — Ramsay of Auchtcrtyre LXI. To William Cruikshank, Edinburgh, June Storm staid two days at the foot of the Ochill-hilla 611 ib. 612 ib. ib. 614 ib. ib. 615 116 617 61! 619 620 ib. M i 18 June — Her piano LXI I. To and herself have played the deuce about his heart ib. 1 LX 1 1. To Robert A inalie, June 28— Written Arracliar [LIFE, p. 60.] . ! !. To Jamee Smith, June 30- -Ad\ GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE ture with a Highlandman — drinking, danc- ing, &c. [LIFE, p. 60-1.] .... LXIII. To John Richmond, July 7— On the death of an old confounder of right and wrong — runs a drunken race and tumbles off Jenny Geddes 621 LXIV. To Robert Ainslie, Esq., July— Strug- gles with the world, the devil, and the flesh — farming ....... ib. LXV. To Dr. Moore, Aug. 2 — Containing his own Autobiography ..... 622 LXVI. Robert Ainslie, Jun r . Dunse, Aug. 23 — Determined henceforth to prefix a kind of text to his letters from some classic Authority — Nicol gabbling Latin . . 627 LXVI I. To Robert Muir, Aug. 26— Kneels at the tomb of Sir John the Graham — utters a fervent prayer at Bannockburn . . 628 LXVIII. To Gavin Hamilton, Aug. 28— Pleasant party to see the famous Caudron- linn — the Harvieston family — Charlotte Hamilton . . . . . . . ib. LXIX. To Mr. Walker, Blair of Athole, Sep. 5 — The noble family of Athole — prays sin- cerely for the " little Angel band, at the Fall of Fyers" 629 LXX. To Gilbert Burns, Sep. 17— Giving an account of his Highland journey . . ib. LXXI. To Miss Margaret Chalmers, Sep. 26 — Determined to pay Charlotte Hamilton a poetic compliment — The Author of " Tul- lochgorum" — looks on the sex with admira- tion . . . . . . . . 630 LXXII. To the same — Charlotte Hamilton and " the Banks of the Devon" . . . ib. LXXIII. To James Hoy, Esq., Gordon Castle, Oct. 20 — Will certainly bequeath his latest curse on that obstinate son of Latin prose [Nicol] for tearing him away from Castle Gordon — Johnson's Museum . . .631 [Hoy's Reply] 632 LXXIV. To the Rev. John Skinner, Oct. 25 — Regrets he had not the pleasure of paying his respects to the Author of the best song Scotland ever saw — the Museum . . . ib. [Skinner's Reply] 633 LXXV. To James Hoy, Esq. Gordon Castle, Nov. 6 — The Duke of Gordon's song — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen" . . . ib. LXXVI. To Miss M n, iVou.^-Compli- ment, a miserable Greenland expression — the hinge of her box like Willy Gaw's Skate, past redemption G34 LXXVII. To Miss Chalmers, Nov. 21— Has found out at last two girls who can be lux- uriantly happy with one another — The Wabster's grace . . . . . .635 LXXVIII. To Robert Ainslie, Edinburgh, Nov. 23— The idea of his friendship neces- sary to his existence ? - £. LXX IX. To the same — Sets him down as the staff of his old age .... ib. (&c © CONTENTS. xv GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE LXXX. To James Dalrymple, Esq. Orange- field — Is naturally of a superstitious cast — the noble Earl of Glencairn . . . 635 LXXXL To the Earl of Glencairn, Dec- Requests his assistance respecting the Excise 636 LXXXII. To Miss Chalmers, Dec. 12— Is under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on a cushion — has taken tooth and nail to the Bible . . . . . ib LXXXIII. To the same, Dec. 19— His motto is — I dare — his worst enemy — " Lui-meme" 637 LXXXIV. To Charles Hay, Esq., Advocate, Dec. — The wailings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly sus- picious . . ib. LXXXV. To Sir John Whitefoord, Dec- Gratitude for his kind interposition in his behalf ib. LXXX VI. To Miss Helen Maria Williams, Dec. — Criticisms on her poem of the " Slave Trade" 638 LXXXVII. To Richard Brown, Irvine, Dec. 30— His Will-o'-wisp fate— Clarinda . .839 LXXXVIII. To Gavin Hamilton, Dec— Ad- vises him to have a reverend care of his health — never to drink more than a pint of wine at one time, &c. . . . . .640 LXXXIX. To Miss Chalmers, Dec— Sheepish timidity — Selfishness — his affairs with Creech . . . . . . .641 1788. XC. To Mrs. Dunlop, Jan. 21— His illness- Has a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer resigns a commission ib. XCI. To the same, Feb. 12 — Religion not only his chief dependence, but his dearest enjoyment ib. XCII. To the Rev. John Skinner, Ftb. 14— Tullochgorum, &c. — Cruikshank maintains that the author of that song writes the best Latin since Buchanan 642 XCIII. To Richard Brown, Feb. 15— Hurried, as if hvnced by fifty devils, else he should meet him at Greenock . . . . ib. XCIV. To Miss Chalmers, Feb. 15— Has en- tered into the Excise after mature delibera- tion — the question is not at what door of fortune's palace we shall enter in, but what doors does she open to us ? . . . . ib. XCV. To Mrs. Rose of Kilravock, Feb. 17— Glowing recollections of the beautifully wild scenery of Kilravock, the venerable grandeur of the Castle, &c 643 XCVI. To Richard Brown, Feb. 24— Life is a fairy scene ; almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment is only a charming delu- sion ........ 644 *XCVII. To Feb.— Dares not be- come security on a large scale for his brother Gilbert n,_ XCVIH. To William Cruikshank, Mar. 3— Has fought his way severely through the GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. Mr. savage hospitality of the country Miller's farm ...... XCIX. To Robert Ainslie, Esq., Mar. 3— Has been in sore tribulation — Jean Armour re- conciled to her fate, and to her mother — Clarinda C. To Richard Brown, Mar. 7 — Reason comes to him like an unlucky wife to a poor devil of a husband ...... CI. To Mr. Muir, Kilmarnock, Mar. 7— Life is no great blessing on the whole, but an honest man has nothing to fear . CII. To Mrs. Dunlop, Mar. 17— Hates an ungenerous sarcasm as he does the devil — highly flattered by the news of Coila . CHI. To Miss Chalmers, Mar. 14— Trusts in Dr. Johnson's observation, " Where much is attempted, something is done" CIV. To Richard Brown, Mar. 26— Has been racking shop accounts with Creech CV. To Robert Cleghorn, Mar. 31 — Is so har- assed with care and anxiety that his muse has degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that ever followed a tinker .... CVI. To William Dunbar, W. S. Edinburgh, April 7 — Skill in the sober science of life his most serious and hourly study — never again will intimately mix with the world of wits, and gens comme ilfaut CVII. To Miss Chalmers, April 7— How apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judgments of one another ! *CVII. To the same — " Wishes he were dead, but he's no like to die," fears he is undone . CVIII. To Mrs. Dunlop, April 28— Thinks five and thirty pounds a year no bad dernier ressort for a poor poet — delighted with Virgil, Dryden, and Tasso CIX. To James Smith, Linlithgow, April 28 — Lets him a little into the secrets of his peri- cranium — ordersa present for his bonny Jean, to whom he has given a matrimonial title to his corpus CX. To Dugald Stewart, May 3— Shall ever regard his patronage as the most valued con- sequence of his late success in life CXI. To Mrs. Dunlop, May 4 — Disappointed in the JEneid — thinks Virgil a servile copier of Homer, and Dryden Pope's master CXII. To Robert Ainslie, May 26— His bonny Jean has the most sacred enthusiasm of at- tachment to him CXIII. To Mrs. Dunlop, May27— Reflections on human life — light be the turf upon his breast who taught " Reverence thyself!" . CXIV. To the same — June 13 — Her surmise is just — he is indeed a husband — to jealousy or infidelity he is an equal stranger — praise of his bonny Jean ...... CXV. To Robert Ainslie, June 14— His farm gives him many cares, but be hates the lan- guage of complaint — Looks upon the Excise PAGE 644 645 6iG ib. ib. 647 ib. 648 ib. ib. 649 ib. 650 ib. 651 ib. CONTENTS. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE scheme as a certainty of maintenance — a luxury to what either Mrs. Burns or he were born to 652 CXVI. To the same, June 23 — Requests him to sit to Miers for his profile . . . ib. CXVII. To the same, June 30— Man is na- turally a kind, benevolent animal — has every possible reverence for the much-talked-of world beyond the grave .... 653 CXVI 1 1. To George Lockhart, Glasgow, July 18 — Elegant compliment to the charms of the Misses Baillie ib. CXIX. To Peter Hill, Edinburgh— Indiges- tion is the devil — prescribes a bit of his ewe- milk cheese to various friends as a remedy . 654 CXX. To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintray— Begs his patronage in the Excise . . 655 CXXI. To William Cruikshank,^?^.— Creech and Nicol — dares not interpose between them, as the former still owes him fifty pounds . ib. CXXII. To Mrs. Dunlop, Aug. 2— Sends her his first crude thoughts of his Epistle to Robert Graham of Fintray . . . . ib. CXXIII. To the same, Aug. 10— The happi- ness or misery of his bonny Jean was in his hands — and who could trifle with such a deposit ? 656 CXXIV. To the same, Aug. 16— "Kings chaff is better than ither folks' corn" — " casting pearls, &c." — " The Life and Age of Man" 657 CXXV. To Mr. Beugo, Engraver, Sep. 9— As to social communication he is at the very elbow of existence — could tell a long story about his fine genius ..... 658 CXXVI. To Miss Chalmers, Edinburgh, Sep. 16 — Has married "his Jean" — poem in the manner of Pope's moral Epistles . . 659 CXXVII. To Mr. Morison, Mauchline, Sep. 22 — Furnishing his new house, &c. . . ib. CXXVIII. To Mrs. Dunlop, Sep. 27— What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent ! — her criticisms the judicious observations of animated friendship 660 CX X IX. To Peter Hill, Edinburgh, Oct. 1 — Criticism on the "Address to Lochlomond" — thinks it fully equal to the "Seasons" . ib. CXXX. To the Editor of " The Star," Nov. 8— The House of Stuart .... 661 CXXXI. To Mrs. Dunlop, Nov. 13— Gra- titude for the present of a heifer from her son Major Dunlop 662 (XXXII. To James Johnson, Engraver, Xor. 1 5 — Sends two more songs for the Musi- cal Museum — and is preparing a flaming preface for the third volume. . . 663 CXXXIII. To Dr. Blacklock, Nov. 15— Is more and more pleased with the step lie took respecting " his Jean" — a ivife\s head imma- terial compared with her heart . . . ib. (X XXIV. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 17— Her friendship— -light be the turf on the breast of the poet who composed the glorious fragment of M Auld lang Syne" « .... 664 O GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE CXXXV. To Miss Davies, Dec. — Ballad- making — when he meets with a person after his own heart, he can no more resist rhyming than an iEolian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming air 664 To John Tennant, Dec. 22— Whiskey. . 665 CXXXVII. To John Richmond, Edinburgh, July 9, 1786. — Godly Bryan in the inquisi- tion and half the country-side witnesses against him — intends complying with the rules of the church, and putting on sackcloth and ashes ....... ib. CXXXVIII. To James Johnson, Editor of the Museum, May 3, 1787.— Has met with few people whose company and conversation gave him so much pleasure .... 666 1789. CXXX1X. To Mrs. Dunlop, Jan. 1 — Ap- proves of set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion — glorious paper in the Spectator — "The Vision of Mirza" — his favourite flowers in Spring, &c. . . . ib. CXL. To Dr. Moore, Jan. 4— Has no doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by him who forms the secret bias of the soul — Saves his mother, brothers, and sisters from ruin — thought that throwing a little filial piety and maternal affection into the scale might help to smooth matters at the "grand reckoning" 667 CXLI. To Robert Ainslie, Jan. 6— The two favourite passages which rouse his manhood and steel his resolution like inspiration . 668 CXLII. To Dugald. Stewart, Jan. 20 — He shall ever revere the native genius and accu- rate discernment in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures, &c. . . . . . . ib. CXLI II. To Bishop Geddes, Feb. 3— More than ever an enthusiast to the muses — de- termined to study man and nature inces- santly 669 CXLIV. To James Burness, Feb. 9 — Has attached himself to a good wife, and shaken himself loose of every bad failing — family concerns 670 CXLV. To Mrs. Dunlop, Mar. 4— Has sug- gested, as an . improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in proportion to his own conceit, could have pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out his horns. Lines attributed to Mrs. Dunlop ...... ib. CXLVI. To the Rev. P. Carfrae, Mar.— The profits of the labours of a man of genius are as honourable as any profits whatever — Mr. Mylne's Poems 671 [Mr. Carfrae's letter] . . . . . ib. CXLVI I. To Dr. Moore, Mar. 23— Origin of his sarcastic ode to the memory of Mrs. Oswald of Aucheneruive — Finally settles with Creech 672 | Dr. Moore's Reply] . . . . . ib. or. -.© CONTENTS. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE CXLVIII. To William Burns, Mar. 25— Family matters ...... CXLIX. To Peter Hill, April 2— Apostrophe to Frugality — orders a Shakspeare and a Johnson's Dictionary, which he supposes is the best ....... CL. To Mrs. Dunlop, April 4 — Enclosing a sketch of the R l . Hon. C. J. Fox CLI. To Mrs. M c Murdo, Drumlanrig, May 2 — Encloses his song of " Bonnie Jean" — She cannot easily imagine what thin-skinned, sensitive plants poor poets are CLII. To Alex r . Cunningham, May 4— En- closes "The Wounded Hare" — Cruikshank a glorious production of the Author of man CLIII. To Samuel Brown, May 4 — Ailsa fowling — is engaged in a " smuggling trade" CLIV. To Richard Brown, May 21— A string of good wishes ...... CLV. To James Hamilton, May 26 — Has ever laid down as his foundation of comfort — "that he who has lived the life of an honest man has by no means lived in vain" . CLVI. To William Creech, May 30— The tooth-ache — fifty troops of infernal spirits driving post from ear to ear along his jaw bones. ....... CLVII. To Mr. M c Auley of Dumbarton, June 4 — As he has entered into the holy state of matrimony, he trusts his face is turned com- pletely Zionward, and hopes that the little poetic licenses of former days will fall into oblivion ....... CLVI II. To Robert Ainslie, June 8— Life is a serious matter — serious counsel to young, unmarried, rake-helly dogs .... CLIX. To Mr. M c Murdo, June 19— A poet and a beggar are in many points of view alike — if you help either the one or the other to a mug of ale, they will repay you with a song — what it is to patronize a poet . CLX. To Mrs. Dunlop, June 21— His religi- ous creed CLXI. To Miss Williams, Aug. — His way of reading poetry — has honesty enough to tell her what he takes to be truths, even when they are not quite on the side of approbation CLXII. To John Logan, ^.7— "The Kirk's Alarm"~Dr. M c Gill PAGE 673 ib. 674 ib. 674 675 ib. 676 ib. CLXIII. To Mi Sep. ib 678 ib. 679 ib. -The tomb- stone over poor Fergusson — his many virtues CLXIV. To Mrs. Dunlop, Sep. 6— No dab at fine-drawn letter writing — religion the true comfort ! — Zeluco 681 CLXV. To Captain Riddel, Carse, Oct. 16— Anxious for the day of contention for the Whistle ib. CLXVI. To the same— Gratitude— " An old song" generally the only coin a poet has to pay with 682 CLXVII. To Robert Ainslie, Nov. 1— Reasons for entering into the Excise — fifty pounds a GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE year, and a provision for widows and orphans, no bad settlement for a poet — encourage- ment given by a recruiting serjeant — fickle- ness — love of change has ruined many a fine fellow, as well as many a blockhead . . 682 CLXVIII, To Richard Brown, Nov. 4— Labour endears rest, and both absolutely necessary for the due enjoyment of life . 683 CLXIX. To Robert Graham of Fin tray, Esq Dec. 9 — The visits of the muses, like those of good angels, are short and far between — is too little a man to have any political at- tachments ....... ib. CLXX. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 13— Reflections on immortality ...... 684 CLXXL To Lady Winifred Maxwell Consta- ble, Dec 6 — Has the honour of being con- nected with her ladyship by one of the strongest and most endearing ties — common sufferers in the cause of heroic loyalty ! .685 CLXXII. To Provost Maxwell, of Lochma- ben, Dec. 20— His poor distracted mind is so torn, jaded, racked, and bedevilled, to make "one guinea do the business of three," that he detests, abhors, and swoons at, the very name of business .... 1790. ib. CLXXIII. To Sir John Sinclair, Bart.— Ac- count of a book society among the Nithsdale farmers ....... 686 CLXXIV. To Charles Sharpe, of Hoddam, Esq. — Enclosing a ballad, under a fictitious character . . . . . • .687 CLXXV. To Gilbert Burns, Jan. 11— Nerves in a cursed state — his farm has undone him 688 CLXXVI. To William Dunbar, W. S. Jan. 14 — Since we are creatures of a day, why bar the enjoyment of a mutual correspond- ence—resolved never to breed up a son of his to any of the learned professions — Hopes of a better world ib. CLXXVII. To Mrs. Dunlop, Jan. 25— Some account of Falconer, the unfortunate Author of " The Shipwreck" — misery is like love ; to speak its language truly, the author must have felt it 689 CLXXVIII. To Peter Hill, Bookseller, Edin- burgh, Feb. 2 — Enquiry as to the fate of his poor name-sake Mademoiselle Burns — orders some books 6S0 CLXXIX. To William Nicol, Feb. 9— His d — d mare dead — theatricals in Dumfries — Sutherland's company . . . .691 CLXXX. To Alex r . Cunningham, Feb. 13— Apologies for his unsightly sheet of paper — — is there a science of life ? — obliged to break the Sabbath— one thing frightens him much — that we are to live for ever, seems " too good news to be true" . . . 692 CLXXXI. To Peter Hill, Edinburgh. Mar. 2 — Orders more books — thinks mankind are —9> xvm CONTENTS. 'AGE 693 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. by nature benevolent, except in a few scoun- drelly instances ...... CLXXXII. To Mrs. Dunlop, April 10— Couplet of his favourite poet, Goldsmith — national prejudices — conduct of " able states- men" — their measure of conduct is not what they " ought" but what they " dare" — is in raptures with the " Mirror and Lounger" — Mackenzie the Scottish Addison — purity, tenderness, dignity and elegance of soul absolutely disqualify, in some degree, for making a man's way into life CLXXXII I. To Collector Mitchell— Mercy to the thief is injustice to the honest man . CLXXXIV. To Dr. Moore, July 14— Has quite disfigured " Zeluco" with his annota- tions — Charlotte Smith's sonnets. CLXXXV. To Mr. Murdoch, London, July 16 — Respecting his brother William . [Murdoch's Reply] CLXXXVI. To Mr. M c Murdo, Aug. 2— En- closing his poem on the death of Captain Matthew Henderson ..... CLXXXVII. To Mrs. Dunlop, Aug. 8— A " ci-devant" friend has given his feelings a wound that will gangrene dangerously ere it cure CLXXXVIII. To Alex r . Cunningham,^. 8 — Aspirations after independence CLXXXIX. To Dr. Anderson— Apologizes for inability to aid in a literary work — like Milton's Satan, he is forced " To do what yet, tho' damn'd I would abhor" . CXC. To Crawford Tait, Esq., Edinburgh, Oct. 15 — Character of his friend Mr. William Duncan — an earnest appeal to his generosity CXCI. To Dr. M c Gill's case — doubtful whether he can be of any service . CXCII. To Mrs. Dunlop, Nov. — Rejoices on the birth of her grand-child — is much flat- tered by her approbation of Tarn o' Shanter ib. 1791. CXCIII. To Lady W. M. Constable, Jan. 11 — Thanks for the gift of a valuable snuff- box with a fine picture of Queen Mary on the lid ib. CXCIV. To William Dunbar, W. S., Jan. 17 — Not yet gone to Elysium — good wishes — encloses a poem 700 CXCV. To Mrs. Graham, of Fintray, Jan.— Enclosing " Queen Mary's Lament" — in- dulges the flattering faith that his poetry will outlive his poverty . . . . . ib. CXCVI. To Peter Hill, Edinburgh, Jan. 17 — Eloquent apostrophe to poverty . . 701 CXCVII. To Alex r . Cunningham, Jan. 23— Enclosing " Tarn o' Shanter" — and a portion of his "elegy on Miss Burnet" . . . ib. CXCVI 1 1. To A. F. Tytler, Esq., Feb.— To have his poem of Tarn o' Shanter so much ib. 694 695 ib. 696 ib. 697 ib. ib. 698 699 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE applauded by one of the first judges was the most delicious vibration that ever thrilled along the heart strings of a poor poet . . 702 CXCIX. To Mrs. Dunlop, Feb. 7— Has had a fall from his horse — the late Miss Burnet — the "little floweret" and the "mother plant" ib. CC. To the Rev. Arch. Alison, Feb. 14— Doctrine of Association of ideas — " Essays on Taste" 703 CCI. To the Rev. G. Baird, Feb.— Respecting the poems of Michael Bruce . . . 704 CCII. To Dr. Moore, Feb. 28— Captain Grose — poems have 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 — a wise adage ..... i'>. [Dr. Moore's Reply] ib. CCIII. To Alex 1 . Cunningham, Mar. 12— Novelty irrebriates the fancy, and not un- frequently dissipates and fumes away like other intoxication 706 CCIV. To Alex r . Dalzel, Factor, Mar. 19— On the death of his patron Lord Glencairn, wishes to know privately the day of inter- ment that he may cross the country, to pay a tear to the last sight of his ever revered benefactor ....... ib. CCV. To Mar.— When he matricu- lates in the Herald's Office, he intends that his supporters shall be two sloths — his crest a slow-worm and his motto " Deil tak the foremost" 707 CCVI. To Mrs. Dunlop, April 11— Birth of his third son — peculiar privilege and blessing of our pale, sprightly damsels — the famous census of Venus ..... CCVII. To Alex r . Cunningham, June li— Pleads in behalf of Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, a persecuted school-master — God help the children of dependence ! CCVIII. To the Earl of Buchan, June— En- closing an ode to celebrate the birth-day of Thomson ....... CCIX. To Thomas Sloan, Sep. 1— Suspense worse than disappointment — strange drunken scene at the public sale of his crops CCX. To Lady E. Cunningham, Sep.— En- closing his lament for the Earl of Glencairn — the sables he wore were not the "mockery of woe" ....... CCXI. To Colonel Fullarton, Oct. 3— Ambi- tious of being known to a gentleman whom he is proud to call his countryman CCXII. To Mr. Ainslie— " Miserable" state of his mind , CCXIII. To Miss Davies— Lethargy of con- science — a delightful reverie — woman is the blood royal of life ..... CCXIV. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 17— "Scene — a field of battle — his song of death" ib. •08 ib. . 709 710 711 ib. 712 :@ CONTENTS. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PA( 1792. CCXV. To William Smellie, Jan. 22— Cha- racter of Maria Woodleigh . . . .713 CCXVI. To Peter Hill, Bookseller, Feb. 5— Enclosing money for erecting the stone over the grave of poor Fergusson . . . ib. CCXVII. To William Nicol, Feb. 20— Ironi- cal thanks for his advice .... 714 CCXVI II. To Francis Grose, Esq., F. S. A.— Character of Dugald Stewart . . . ib. CCXIX. To the same— With three legends respecting Alio way Kirk . . . .715 CCXX. To J. Clarke, Edinburgh, July 16— Humorous invitation to come to the country to teach music ..... 716 CCXXI. To Mrs. Dunlop, Aug. 22— Almost in love with Miss Lesley Baillie — separation from friends ib. CCXXII. To Alex r . Cunningham, Sep. 10— Wild apostrophe to a spirit — religious non- sense — the conjugal state . . . .717 CCXXIII. To Mrs. Dunlop, Sep. 27— Con- doles with her on Mrs. Henri's situation in France — the life of a farmer, paying a dear, unconscionable rent, is a " cursed life" — his own increasing family 719 CCXXIV. To the same, Sep.— Condoles on the death of her daughter — Mrs. Henri . . ib. CCXXV. To the same— Dec. 6— Melancholy reflexions on the death of friends — birth of his daughter — Poetical quotations . . ib. CCXXVI. To Robert Graham, of Fintray, Esq., Dec. — Distress of mind in consequence of an order of the Board of Excise to en- quire into his political conduct — earnest ap- peal for protection ..... 720 CCXXVI I. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 31— How fleeting are pleasures ! — resolutions against hard-drinking — no hope of promotion — for- swears politics 721 1793. CCXXVIII. To the same, Jan. 5— All set right with respect to the Board of Excise — Execrates informers — family cup of Wallace ib. CCXXIX. To Alex r . Cunningham, Mar. 3— Orders a seal to be engraved, with mottoes — merits of Allan the painter . . . 722 CCXXX. To Miss Benson, Mar. 21— Pleasure he has felt in meeting with her . . . 723 CCXXXI. To Patrick Miller, Esq., April— With a new edition of his poems . . ib. CCXXXI I. To John Francis Erskine, Esq. of Mar, April 13 — Gratitude for his friendship — defence of his political principles — pathetic appeal against his supposed degradation by being aD Exciseman 724 CCXXXIII. To Robert Ainslie, April 26— Damnably out of humour — Stunkie his tutelary genius! — scholar-craftmay be caught by friction — by mere dint of handling books GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PAGB — anecdote of a wise - looking, jabbering tailor 725 CCXXXI V. To Miss Kennedy— Faint sketches of her portrait — poets, of all mankind, feel most forcibly the powers of " beauty" . 726 CCXXXV. To Miss Craik, Dumfries, Aug.— Fate and character of the rhyming tribe — what we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of man ! . . . . . il CCXXXVI. To Lady Glencairn— Gratitude to her noble family — would rather have it said that his profession borrowed credit from him than that he borrowed credit from his profession — has turned his thoughts on the Drama 727 CCXXXVII. To John Macmurdo, Esq., Dec. — Pays a debt of six guineas, and now, he does not owe a shilling to either man or woman — sends a collection of Scots songs of which there is not another copy in the world 728 CCXXXVI II. To the same— With a present of his poems — to no man has he ever paid a compliment at the expense of Truth . . ib. CCXXXIX. To Capt n . Dec. 5— Honours him as a man, and as a patriot to whom the rights of his country are sacred — encloses " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" . 729 CCXL. To Mrs. Riddel— Envies her going to a party of choice spirits .... ib. CCXLI. To a Lady — In favour of a player's benefit — of all the qualities assigned to the Author of Nature, by far the most enviable is to be able " to wipe away all tears from all eyes" ib, CCXLII. To the Earl of Buchan, Jan. 12— The story of Bannockburn — Apostrophe to liberty 730 * CCXLII. To Capt". Miller Dalswinton— En- closing " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" [See Ode, p. 477.] CCXLIII. To Mrs. Riddel — Execration of lobster-coated puppies . . . . ib. CCXLIV. To the same—" Gin-horse class" of the human genus — himself ad — d" melange" of fretfulness and melancholy . . . ib. CCXLV. To the same— Recals her late look that froze the very life-blood of his heart, but assures her of his highest esteem . . ib. CCXLVI. To the same— Renewal of inter- rupted friendship 731 CCXLVII. If it be a crime to admire, esteem, and prize, the most accomplished of women, and the first of friends, he is the most offending thing alive .... ib, CCXLVIIL To John Syme, Esq.,— The in- comparable Mrs. Oswald .... ib. CCXLIX. To Miss Recollections of a dear friend — requests the return of MSS. 'eut to him 732 CCL. To Alex'. Cunningham, Feb. 26— Can he minister to a mind diseased : — his hypo- chondria — requests consolation — the two —© CONTENTS. GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. PAGE great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfortune — thoughts on religion . . 732 CCLI. To the Earl of Glencairn, May— Re- collections of the generous patronage of his late illustrious brother .... 733 CCLII. To David Macculloch, Esq., June 21 — His projected journey in Galloway . . ib. CCLI 1 1. To Mrs. Dunlop, June 25— Melan- choly forebodings as to his health — stanza of an Ode to Liberty 734 IStature of Sir William Wallace (Note)] . ib. CCLIV. To James Johnson — " Has almost hung his harp on the willow trees" — sends forty-one songs for the fifth volume of "The Museum" — Lord Balmerino's dirk . . ib CCLV. To Peter Miller, jun., Esq. of Dals- winton, Nov. — Dares not accept of his ge- nerous offer of a salary to write for the Morning Chronicle — has long had it in his head to try his hand at little prose essays, to which Mr. Perry is welcome . . .735 CCLVI. To Samuel Clarke, jun., Dumfries, — Allusions to a drunken squabble with a Captain — the obnoxious toast . . . 736 CCLVII. To Mrs. Riddel-* As from the other world — from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of the damned — apology for his being intoxicated . . . . . ib. 1795. CCLIX. To Miss Fontenelle.— Her charms as a woman, &c. 737 CCLX. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 15— Anxiety respecting his family — is almost distracted — Dumfries theatricals — Cowper's "Task" a glorious poem ib. CCLXI. To Alexander Findlater — Enclosing two schemes — good wishes .... 738 CCLXII. To the Editor of the Morning Chronicle, in the name of a friend — the rights of human nature .... ib. CCLXIII. To Colonel W. Dunbar.— Not yet gone to Elysium — many happy returns of the season .... . 739 CCLX IV. To Mr. Heron, of Heron— Pillory on Parnassus — a life of literary leisure, with ;t decent competency, the summit of his wishes •••..... ib. CCLXV. To Mrs. Dunlop, Dec. 20— Has the honour to preside over the Scottish verse in Thomson's collection of songs — appointed to a temporary supervisorship — religion early implanted in his mind — the humour of Dr. Moon perfectly original .... 740 CCLXVI. Ironical address of the Scottish Distillers to the Right Hon. William Pitt, signed John Barleycorn, Presses . . ib. CCLX VII. To the Hon. the Provost, Bailies, and Town Council of Dumfries — requesting the privilege of sending his children to the Burgh schools 741 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 1796. CCLXVIII To Mrs. Riddel, Jan. 20— Ana- charsis an indisputable desideratum to a son of the Muses — his health flown for ever . 742 CCLXIX. To Mrs. Dunlop, Jan. 31— Has lately drunk deep of the cup of affliction — become the victim of a most severe rheu- matic fever . . . . . . ib. CCLXX. To Mrs. Riddel, June 4— Racked with rheumatism — meets every face with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam . ib. CCLXXI. To Mr. Clarke, Schoolmaster, For- far, June 26 — Still, still the victim of af- fliction ! — begins to fear the worst — bewails the prospects of his wife and children — there he is as weak as a woman's tear . .743 CCLXXII. To James Johnson, Edinburgh, July 4 — Hope is the cordial of the human heart — endeavours to cherish it as well as he can . . . . . . . ib. CCLXXI II. To Alexander Cunningham, July 7 — Fears the voice of the Bard will soon be heard no more ! — his spirits fled ! fled! — his last and only chance is sea-bathing, country quarters, and riding ..... 744 CCLXXI V. To Gilbert Burns, July 10— His appetite totally gone — can scarcely stand on his legs — God keep his wife and children ! . ib. CCLXXV. To Mrs. Burns, from Brow, July 10 — Sea bathing affords little relief . . ib. CCLXXVI. To Mrs. Dunlop, July 12— His illness will, in all probability, speedily send him beyond that " bourne whence no tra- veller returns" — her friendship dearest to his soul 745 CCLXXVII. To James Burness, Montrose, July 12 — Solicits aid — alas ! he is not used to beg ! — melancholy and low spirits half his disease — his brother's affairs — fears he must cut him up ...... ib. CCLXXVIII. To James Gracie, Esq., July 16 — His loss of appetite still continues — shall not need his kind offer (to bring him to town in a post chaise) .... 746 CCLXXIX. To James Armour, Mauchline, July 18 — Begs for Heaven's sake that Mrs. A. may come to attend his wife in her con- finement — feels his strength gone . . 747 [To Mr. Burness, Montrose, from John Lew- ars, July 23 — Announcing the death of the Poet — Note to page 745.] .... [To Mrs. Robert Burns, Dumfries, from James Burness, July 29 — Condolence on the death of her husband ib.~\ .... [To Mr. Burness, Montrose, from the Poet's widow, Aug. 23 — Acknowledgment for his kindness — Note to page 746] [The Wife of the Poet — Note to page 746-7] [Anecdote of Mrs. Burns — ib.] [Song by Robert Burns, jun. — ib.] . . CONTENTS. FIRST COMMON PLACE -BOOK, BEGUN IN APRIL 1783. PAGE To Robert Riddel, Esq., — Observations, hints, songs, scraps, of poetry, &c., by Ro- bert Burness 748 April, 1783. Connexion between love, music, and poetry ib. Sep. Remorse — the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom . . ib. March, 1784. Every man, even the worst, has something good about him — love-verses, without any real passion, the most nauseous of all conceits 749 April, 1 784. The whole species of young men may be divided into two grand classes, the " grave" and the " merry" ... ib. Aug. 1784. The grand end of human life . 750 May, 1785. Egotisms from my own sensa- tions • ib. Aug, 1785. The glorious Wallace the Sa- viour of his country ib. Sep. 1785. Irregularity in the Old Scottish Songs 751 Oct. 1785. Let a young man, as he tenders his own peace keep up a regular, warm inter- course with the Deity . . . ib. SECOND COMMON PLACE-BOOK, BEGUN IN EDINBURGH, APRIL, 1787. Prefatory Remarks 752 Philosophy, benevolence, and greatness of soul 753 ib. ib. ib. ib. ib. 754 The whining cant of love The Wabster's grace .... An old man's dying .... The powers of beauty .... The much-talked- of world beyond the grave The Poet's Assignment of his Works LETTERS TO CLARINDA, BY ROBERT BURNS, UNDER THE SIGNATURE OF SYLVANDER. No. I. Bee. 6, 1787. Fiction, the native region of poetry 755 II. Dec. 8. Uulucky fall from a coach . . ib. III. Bee. 22. No holding converse with an amiable woman, much less a " gloriously amiable fine woman," without some mixture of that delicious passion whose most devoted slave he has more than once had the honour of being 756 IV. Jan. 1788. A friendly correspondence goes for nothing, except one writes his or her un- disguised sentiments — his definition of worth — Clarinda's song " Talk not of love" — adds a fourth stanza 757 V. Jan. 21. Epigram on Martial — "The night is my departing night." — " What art thou, LETTERS TO CLARINDA. love?" — likes to have quotations for e very- occasion ....... VI. Jan. 26. His favourite feature in Milton's Satan VII. Jan. 27. Impertinence of fools Jan. 28. Saying of Locke — fears incon- stancy — the consequent imperfection of hu- man weakness — mysterious faculty of that thing called imagination ! — fairy fancies — Devotion the favourite employment of his heart VIII. His religious tenets — the witching hour of night ....... IX. His friendship, a life-rent business — his likings strong and eternal .... X. Thoughts on religion — Bolingbroke's say- ing to Swift — scorns dissimulation XI. The devotion of love .... XII. Her person unapproachable, by the laws of her country — wretched condition of one haunted with conscious guilt— lines on re- ligion ....... XIII. Never does things by halves — she is the soul of his enjoyment XIV. Feb. 7. Fortune, the most capricious jade ever known — Nature has a great deal to say with Fortune . XV. Feb. 9. The pensive hours of " Philo- sophic melancholy" — a peep through " The dark postern of time long elaps'd" — child- ish fondness of the every-day children of the world — innocence .... XVI. Feb. 10. Invocation to Heaven — vows to be hers in the way she thinks most to her happiness ....... XVII. Feb. 12. Was "behind the scenes with her" — saw the noblest immortal soul cre- ation ever showed him — fears his acquaint- ance is too short to make that lasting impression on her heart he could wish XVIII. Prays to the Father of Mercies to make him worthy of her friendship XIX. Esteems and loves her as a friend . XX. When matters are desperate, we must put on a desperate face — her fame, her wel- fare, her happiness, dearer to him than any gratification whatever .... XXI. Feb. 17. Attraction of love . XXII. March 2. Insidious decree of the Per- sian monarch's mandate — his farming scheme .... . XXIII. March 7. Stung with her reproach for unkindness — we ought, when we wish to be economists in happiness, to fix the standard of our own character ..... XXIV. Thoughtless career we run in the hour of health XXV. In whatever company he is, when a married lady is called on as a toa^t, he con- stantly gives the name of Mrs. Mack — his round of Arcadian Shepherdesses [Recent account of Claiunda — Note] . - . PAGE 758 ib. 759 ib. 760 761 ib. 762 ib. ib. . 763 764 ib. ib. 765 ib. 776 ib. <:>. ,67 768 ib. :@ BURNS, His genius was universal. In satire, in humour, in pathos, in description, in sentiment, he was equally great : but his satire and his humour partake of the soil whence they sprung. They are rude, forceful, and manly : they are not polished into elegance, nor laboured into ease j but in every composition I am inclined to regard him as one of the few geniuses who arise to illumi- nate the hemisphere of mind. Education had nothing in the formation of his character ; what he wrote was the pure offspring of native genius : and if we reflect how excellent he was in all ; what various powers he has shewn in paths that are amongst the highest of poetical delineation 5 we may, without much offence to justice, place him by the side of the greatest names this country has produced. f Thornhill's Virgil, p. 443. -■ * ■' — -±—- - " & CHRONOLOGY OP BURNS'S LIFE AND WORKS. 1759. January 25. — Born in a clay-built cottage, raised by his father's own hands, on the banks of the Doon, in the district of Kyle, and county of Ayr. A few days after his birth a wind arose, that crushed the frail structure, and the unconscious Poet was carried unharmed to the shelter of a neighbouring house. 1765.— (aetat 6.) Sent by his father to a school at Alloway Miln— taught by one Camp- bell—same year placed under the care of Mr. Murdoch. 1766.— (7.) May 25. — His father removes to the farm of Mount Oliphant, in the parish of Ayr, leased him by Mr. Ferguson, of Doonholm. 1768.— (9.) In the absence of Murdoch, he is taught arithmetic in the winter evenings by his father, who instructs him also in the knowledge of History and Geography. On hearing Murdoch read the tragedy of Titus Andronicus, he is so shocked at the recital that he threatens to burn the book. 1769.— (10.) The latent seeds of poetry cultivated in his mind by an old woman who resides ill the family, and who had the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, witches, warlocks, apparitions, giants, enchanted towers, &c. The recital of these had so strong an effect on his imagination that for ever after- wards, in hit nocturnal rambles, he kept a sharp look out in suspicious places. 1772.— (13.) Sent to the Parish School of Dalrymple, for improvement in penman- ship. Resumes his studies with Murdoch, in the town of Ayr. Revises his Grammar, and acquires a knowledge of French. Attempts the Latin, but makes little progress. occasionally with the smugglers, and learns to fill his glass and mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet he goes on with a high hand with his geometry, till the sun enters Virgo, a month always a carnival in his bosom, when a charming Jillette, who lives next door to the school, oversets all his trigonometry, and sets bim off at a tangent from the sphere of his studies. Returns home considerably improved — engages several of his schoolfellows to keep up a literary correspon- dence—pores over a collection of Letters of the Wits of Queen Anne's reign. 1773.— (14.) Forms several connexions with other younkers, who possess superior advantages, but who never insult the clouterly appearance of his plough-boy carcase, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all the inclemencies of the seasons. They give him stray volumes of books, and one (the late Sir John Malcolm), whose heart, not even the Mutiny Begum scenes have tainted, helped him to a little French. Parting with these young friends, as tbey occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was often a sore affliction, but he is soon called to more serious evils. His father's farm proves a ruinous bargain, and, to clench the misfortune, he falls into the hands of a scoundrelly factor, who afterwards sat for the picture he drew of one in his Tale of The Twa Does. He becomes a dexterous ploughman for his age, but his Indignation boils at the insolent threatening letters of the factor, which sets the family ail in tears. 1774.— (15.) Is the principal labourer in his father's farm— suffers great depression of spirits — is afflicted with head-ache in the evenings — forms his first attachment for Nelly Blair, a bottnie sweet sonsie lass, the tones of whose voice makes his heart-strings thrill like an ^olian harp. Coin- poses his first song in praise of his Handsome Nelly. 1775.— (16.) A Collection of Songs, his vade mecum— these he pores over, while driving his cart, or walking to labour, song by song, veTse by verse, carefully noting the true tender, or sublime, from affectation and fustian. To this practice he owes much of his critic craft. Hitherto, he was, perhaps, the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire less acquainted with the M-ays of the world. 1776.— (17.) He goes to a country dancing school to give his manners a brush, strongly against the wish of his father, who was subject to strong passions, and, from that instance of disobedience, took a sort of dislike to him, which, he believes, was one cause of the apparent dissipation which marked his succeeding years— the great misfortune of his life was to want an aim— the only two openings by which he can enter the temple of fortune are the gate of niggardly economy, or the path of little chicaning bargain-making. A constitutional melancholy makes him fly solitude, and he becomes a welcome guest wherever he visits— his greatest Impulse is tin penchant pour Vadorable moitii du genre numain— his heart is completely tinder, and eternally lighted up by some goddess or other. At the plough, scythe, or reap-liook, he fears no competitor, and spends his evenings after his own heart. His zeal, curiosity, and intrepid dexterity, recommend him as a confidant in all love adventures, and he is in the secret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton. 1777.— (18.) May 25. — His father removes to the farm of Lochlea. The young eoet composes the ballad " My father was a farmer upon the Carriek border;" and the best of all his songs— "It was upon a Lammas Bight." 1778.— (19.) Spends his nineteenth summer on n smuggling coast at a noted school In Kirkoswald, where he learns mensuration, surveying, dialling, fcc, but makes a greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. He falls in 1779.— (20.) Vive V amour, et vive la bagatelle, his sole principles of action — Tristram Shandy and the Man of Feeling his favourite books. Poetry the darling walk of his mind— usually half-a-dozen or more pieces on hand. His passions now rage like so many devils, till they find vent in rhyme. Composes " Winter, a Dirge," the eldest of his printed pieces— The Death of poor Mailie, John Barleycorn, and several songs. 1780.— (21.) November.— Forms, in conjunction with Gilbert, and seven or eight young men, a Bachelors' Club, in Tarbolton, the rules of which he after- wards draws up— the declared objects are — relaxation from toil— the pro- motion of sociality and friendship, and the improvement of the mind. 1781.— (22.) Midsummer. — Partly through whim, and partly that he wishes to set about doing something in life, he joins a flax-dresser in Irvine, of the name of Peacock, a relation of his mother— where he spends six months learning the trade. December 27. — Writes a remarkable letter to his father, in which he states that the weakness of his nerves has so debilitated his mind that he dares neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity. He is quite transported at the thought that ere long, perhaps very soon, he shall bid adieu to all the pains, and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for he is heartily tired of it, and, if he does not very much deceive himself, he could contentedly and gladly resign it. He concludes by saying, " My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow till I get more." December 31.— His shop accidentally catches fire, as he is giving a welcome carousal to the new year, and is burned to ashes, and, like a true poet, he is left without a sixpence. 1782.— (23.) The clouds of misfortune gather thick round his father's head ; and he is visibly far gone in consumption. To crown the distresses of the poet, a belle Jill e, whom he adores, and who had pledged her soul to meet him in the field of matrimony, jilts him, with peculiar circum- stances of mortification. His constitutional melancholy is now increased to such a degree that for three months he is in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — depart from me, ye accursed '. He forms a friendship with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune, whose mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. He was the only man he ever saw who was a greater fool than himself, where woman was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto he had regarded with horror. Here his friendship did him a mischief, and the consequence was, that soon after he resumed the plough, he wrote "The Poet's Welcome to his Illegitimate Child.'' Meeting with Fergusson's Scot- tish Poems, he strings anew his wildly-sounding lyre. 1783.— (24.) April. — Commences his Common Place Book, entitled: "Observa- tions, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, &c. By Robert Burness ; a man who had little art "in making money, and still less in keeping it." June 21.— Writes to his cuusin, James Burness, that his father is in a dying condition ; and sends, probably for the last time in this world, his warmest wishes for his welfare and happiness— He becomes a Free Mason, being his first introduction to the life of a boon companion. 1784.— (25.) January.— Writes his "First Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet." in which he alludes to his Datling Jean. The first idea of his becoming an Author started on this occasion. February 13. — Death of his Father ; whose all went among the hell- hounds that growl in the kennel of Justice— He makes shift to collect a little money in the family ; and he and his brother Gilbert take the neighbouring farm of M os *g>el, on which he enters with a full resolu- tion, Come, go to, I will be wise '. — He reads farming books, calculates crops, attends markets ; and, in spite of the devil, the world, and the Jiesh, he believes he would have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately buying bad seed, the second from a late harvest,' they lost half their crops. This overset all his wisdom, and he returns, like the dog to his vomit, and the tow t hut was washed to her wallo'cing in the mire. He now begins to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker of rhvmes, and the first of his poetic offspring that saw the light was The Holy Tuilzie or Twa Herds, a burlesque sham imitation of a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis per- sona in his Holy Fair. Holy Willie's Prayer nrxi make* its appear- ance, and alarms the Kirk-session so much that thev hold several meetings, to look over their spiritual artillery. Unluckily for him, his wanderings lead him on another side, within point blank shot of their heaviest nu-tal. This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to his printed poem. The Lament . He is compelled to perform penance in church— inveighs against the olergviu:iii for rebuking him — write! his " Epistle to Raukinc" and oil song " The Hantiug Dog the D&ddie o't." 1785.— (aetat 26.) Espouses the cause of Gavin Hamilton against the Auld Light Fanatics; and produces, in succession, The Kirk's Alarm, The Ordi- nation, The Holy Fair, $c. — His Address to the De il, and Death and Doctor Hornbook. April 1 — 21. Writes his Epistles to Lapraik, and, In the course of the year, Halloween, The Jolly Beggars, The Cotter's Saturday Night, and various songs. 1786.— (27.) March 20.— Encloses Mr. Robert Muir, Kilmarnock, his Scotch Drink, with a wish that the may follow, with a blessing, for his edification. April 3.— Writes to Mr. Aiken that his proposals for publishing by sub- scription, he is just going to send to press, and signs his name, for the last time— Burness. April 20.— Encloses Mr. John Kennedy, his Mountain Daisy (entitled in the MS. The Gowan), as being the very latest of his productions, and composed while holding the plough.— His connexion with his bonny Jean She presents him with Twins— Anger of her father— The distress of the Poet— Performs penance a second time in the Kirk for his incon- tinency — Is called upon to find security for the maintenance of his children— Is unable to raise the money, and the alternative is expatria- tion, or a jail— Prefers the former. August 1.— Publisher, the first Edition of his Poems— Realizes above 20/., and takes out his passage lor Jamaica— Composes the last song he believes he shall ever measure in Caledonia, " The Gloomy Night is gathering fast ;" when a letter from Dr. Blackloek fortunately arrives, which overthrows all his schemes, by opening new prospects to his poetic ambition. His poems everywhere received with rapture— Cul- tivates friendship with Professor Dugald Stewart, Dr. Blair, Dr. Robert- son, Dr. Gregory, Mrs. Dunlop, &c— Visits Katrine, the seat of Dugald Stewart, where he meets Lord Daer, and Mrs. Stewart of Stair, whom he celebrates in his Song, Flow gently , sweet Aj ton — Composes the Lass of Ballochmyle, and forwards the Song to the heroine, Miss Alexander — is treated by her with coldness, which he resents with bitterness. November 28. — Arrives in Edinburgh. 1787.— (28.) January 7.— Writes to Gavin Hamilton that he feels a miserable blank in his heart, from the want of his bonnie Jean. " I don't think,'' he says, " I shall ever meet with so delicious an armful again. She has her faults ; but so have you and I ; and so has everybody." January 14. — Attends a Grand Masonic Lodge, &c. — Received with acclamation as the Bard of Caledonia— Resides with his friend Rich- mond, in the house of Mrs. Carfrae, Lawnmarket, in a single room, at the rent of 3j. a week— Meets the Duchess of Gordon, and his conversa- tion completely carries her off her feet. April 4.— Publishes the second Edition of his Poems, of which 3000 copies are subscribed for— Commences his second Common Place Book. May 6.— Sets out on a Border Tour, in company with Robert Ainslie, Esq.— Presented by the Magistracy of Jedburgh with the freedom of the town — his reception every where triumphant. May 13.— Visits Dryburgh Abbey, and spends an hour among the ruins, since hallowed by the dust of Scott. June 8.— Returns to Mossgiel — The family of his bonnie Jean now court his society— Returns to Edinburgh, where he obtains permission to erect a tombstone over the grave of Fergusson. The architect was two years in completing it, and the Poet was two years in paying him ; for which they are quits. " He had," says the Poet, " the hardiesse to ask for interest on the sum, but considering that the money was due by one Poet, for putting a tombstone over another, he may with grateful surprise, thank heaven that ever he saw a farthing of it." Proceeds on his first Highland Tour, by way of Stirling, to Inverary— Visits the Harviestou ladies, and becomes acquainted with Miss Chalmers. July.— Spends this month at Mossgiel— Writes his Epistle to Willie Chalmers. August.— Re-visits Stirling-shire, in company with Dr. Adair of Har- rowgate— Visits the ruined Abbey of Dunfermline— Kneels down and kisses with sacred fervour the stone which covers the grave of Robert Bruce— Shewn at Linlithgow the room where the beautiful and injured Mary Queen of Scots was born— Crosses the Forth, and arrives in Edinburgh. August 25.— Sets out on his third and last Highland Tour, in company with his friend Nicol— Visits the Duke and Duchess of Gordon— Dines with them, and forgets his friend Nicol, who, in a foaming rage, in- duces the Poet reluctant.y to turn his back on bonnie Castle Gordon, with a vexation he was unable to conceal. September 16.— Arrives once more in Edinburgh, having travelled 600 miles in 22 days -Composes verses on LochTurit, and Brtiar Water- Forms an Intimacy with Clarinda — Is overturned in a hackney-coach, by a drunken coachman ; and is confined to his room for six weeks with a bruised limb — Writes his celebrated Letters to Clarinda— Contributes numerous Songs to Johnson's Musical Museum. December 30.— Writes to his friend Brown that Almighty love still reigm in his bosom ; and that he is at this moment ready to haDg him- self for a young Edinburgh IVidow. (She turns aut to be a married lady, whose husband is absent In Jamaica.) December 31. Attends a Grand Dinner to celebrate the birth of Prince Charles Stuart, and produces an Ode on the occasion. 1788.— (29.) Man-h 30.— Composes (partly on horseback) The Chevalier's Lament. April 18, Settles with his Publisher, Creech, and receives upwards of 600/., as the produce of his Second Edition— Advances 200/. to assist hie brother Gilbert | but, when afterwards solicited to become bail tor him to ■ COOllderable amount, he is compelled to decline injustice to his family. Takes the farm <,f Ellisland. August 3.— Marries Ins bonnie Jean, and contributes many of his best Songs to the Museum. 1789.— (30.) July.— Receives an Epistle, part Poetic and part prosaic, from a young Poetess, Miss Janet Little, which he doei not well know how to imwr, being no dab at fineclravn letter- writing. r. Writes the noblest of all hi* oalladi, " To Mary in Heaven," Lines on Friar's- Cnrse Hermitage, &c. October 16.— Contends for the prize of "The Whistle," at Friars Carse — Drinks bottle for bottle in the Contest, and celebrates the occa- sion by a Poem. December 20.— Writes to Provost Maxwell that his poor distracted mind is so torn, so jaded, so racked and bedevilled with the task of the superlatively damned, to make one guinea do the work of three, that he detests, abhors, and swoons at, the very name of business. 1790.— (31.) January 25. — Communicates to Mrs. Dunlop some interesting parti- culars of the life and death of Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Shipwreck— Finds his farm a ruinous affair— His " nerves in a cursed state," and a horrid hypochondria pervading every atom of both body and soul— Resumes his intercourse with the Muse, and writes in Novem- ber his inimitable Tam o' Shanter, the best of all his productions— Is appointed to the Excise— Has an adventure with Ramsay of Ochtertyre. 1791.— (32.) April 11. — Birth of a third son— Becomes a member of the Dumfries Volunteers, and their Poet Laureate— Writes several patriotic Songs, and his " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled "—Fires off his " Five Car- lines," and other Political Squibs, and satirizes both Whigs and Tories — Visited in the summer by two English gentlemen, who dine with him, and partake freely of his Whiskey Punch— They forget the flight of time; lose their way on returning to Dumfries, and can scarcely count its three steeples, although assisted by the morning dawn. August 25. — Sells his crop at a guinea an acre above value — A strange scene of drunkenness on the occasion— About 30 people engaged in a regular battle, every man for his own hand, and fight it out for three hours — In-doors folk lying drunk on the floor, and decanting until his dogs get so tipsy by attending them that they can't stand — Enjoys the scene — Relinquishes Ellisland, and removes to Dumfries — Is invited by the Earl of Buchan to assist at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on the 23rd of September — Apologizes, but sends an Ode for the occa- sion—Presented by Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable with a valuable snuff-box, on the lid of which is a miniature of Mary Queen of Scots, as an acknowledgment for his "Lament " of that ill-starred Princess. 1792.— (33.) February 27- — Pots himself at the head of a party of soldiers, and raptures, sword in hand, a French Smuggler— Communicates to Francis Grose, Esq., the celebrated Antiquary, three remarkable Witch Stories relating to Alloway Kirk. September.— Commences his celebrated Correspondence with George Thomson, and composes for his Collection of Scottish Songs upwards of one hundred and twenty of the finest lyrics in the language. September 10. — Writes a remarkable letter to his friend Alexander Cunningham, in which he gives him his ideas of the conjugal state. " Ah, my friend ! matrimony is quite a different thing from what your love-sick youths and sighing girls take it to be !" December 8.— Birth of his Daughter. 1793.— (34.) Publishes a Fourth Edition of his Poems, in 2 vols. — Makes an excur- sion through Galloway and the neighbouring country, in company with Syme of Ryedale, the same who related to Sir Walter Scott his story of The Sword Cane— Continues pouring forth his beautiful Songs to the Museum of Johnson— Admonished by the Excise that his business is to act, not to think, in allusion to his political opinions— Rejects the offer of an Annuity of 60/. to write Poetical Articles for the Morning Chronicle. December.— Writes to Mr. Macmurdo that he does not owe a shilling to either man or woman. 1794.— (35.) February 25.— Writes to Alexander Cunningham commencing with these words : — " Canst thou minister to a mind diseased ?" and stating that for two months he has been unable to wield the pen. May. — Publishes a Fifth Edition of his Poems, finally corrected with his own hand. At Midsummer he removes from the Bank Vennel, Dumfries, to Mill Hill Brae. June 25. — Writes to Mrs. Dunlop from a solitary inn, in a solitary vil- lage, in Castle Douglas, that he is in poor health, and that he is afraid he is about to suffer for the follies of his youth. — His medical friends threaten him with a flying gout, but he trusts they are mistaken. 1795.— (36.) January. — Writes his manly song " For a' that and a' that." In the Autumn he loses his only daughter — Writes his Heron Ballads. In November he is visited by Professor Walker, who spends two days with him, and writes a description of the Poet's appearance. December 29.— Writes to Mrs. Dunlop that he already begins to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over his frame. 1796.— (37.) January 31.— Becomes the victim of a severe Rheumatic Fever — Rack'd with pain— Every face he meets with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam: " Come, curse me Jacob, and come, defy me Israel." — Implores his friends in Edinburgh to make interest with the Board of Excise to grant him his full Salary— His application refused ! July 5.— AITecting interview with Mrs. Riddel at Brow. July 7— Writes to his friend Cunningham :— " I fear the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among you no more ! You actually would not know me. Pale, emaciated, and so feeble as occasionally to need help from my chair— My spirits fled, fled'."— Goes to Brow for the benefit of sea air. July 12. — Writes to George Thomson for Five Pounds, and to his cousin James Burness for Ten Pounds, to save him from the horrors of a jail !— Sends his last, letter to Mrs. Dunlop, stating that, in all probabi- lity, he will speedily be beyond that bourne whence no traveller returns. July 18. — Returns to Dumfries in a dying state— His good humour is uui'iifllcd, and his wit never forsakes him. He looks to one of his brother Volunteers with a smile, as he stood weeping by his bedside, and says, " John, don't let the awkward squad fire over me!" July 21. -His Death. July 25. — Mis remains removed to the Town Hall of Dumfries, where they lie in state, and his funeral takes place on the following day. J. C. r_@ the LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, PART I.— AYR-SHIRE. T. he national poetry of Scotland, like her thistle, is the offspring of the soil. To the poems of our first James, the strains of forgot- ten minstrels, or the inspiration of shepherds and husbandmen, its origin has been ascribed. Where proof cannot be procured, we must be content with conjecture : classic or foreign lore can claim no share in the inspiration which comes from nature's free grace and liberality. From what- ever source our poetry has sprung, it wears the character and bears the image of the north : the learned and the ignorant have felt alike its ten- derness and humour, dignity and ardour; and both have united in claiming, as its brightest ornament, the poetry of Him of whose life and works I am now about to write. This, how- ever, has already been done with so much affec- tion by Currie, care by Walker, and manliness by Lockhart — the genius, the manners, and fortunes of Burns have been discussed so fully by critics of all classes, and writers of all ranks, that little remains for a new adventurer in the realms of biography, save to extract from the works of others a clear and judicious narrative. But, like the artist who founds a statue out of old materials, he has to re-produce them in a new shape, touch them with the light of other feeling, and inform them with fresh spirit and sentiment. Robert Burns, eldest son of William Burness and Agnes Brown his wife, was born Jan. 25, 1759, in a clay-built cottage, raised by his fa- ther's own hands, on the banks of the Doon, in the district of Kyle, and county of Ayr. The season was ungentle and rough, the walls weak and new : — some days after his birth a wind arose which crushed the frail structure, and the unconscious Poet was carried unharmed to the shelter of a neighbouring house. He loved to allude, when he grew up, to this circumstance ; and ironically to claim some commiseration for the stormy passions of one ushered into the world by a tempest. This rude edifice is now an ale- house, and belongs to the shoemakers of Ayr: the recess in the wall, where the bed stood in which he was born, is pointed out to inquiring guests : the sagacious landlord remembers, too, as he brings in the ale, that he has seen and conversed with Burns, and ventures to relate traits of his person and manners. There is no- thing very picturesque about the cottage or its surrounding grounds ; the admirers of the Muses' haunts will see little to call romantic in low meadows, flat enclosures, and long lines of pub- lic road. Yet the district, now emphatically called " The land of Burns," has many attrac- tions. There are fair streams, beautiful glens, rich pastures, picturesque patches of old natural wood ; and, if we may trust proverbial rhyme, " Kyle for a man" is a boast of old standing. The birth of the illustrious Poet has caused the vaunt to be renewed in our own days. The mother of Burns was a native of the county of Ayr ; her birth was humble, and her personal attractions moderate ; yet, in all other respects, she was a remarkable woman. She was blest with singular equanimity of temper ; her religious feeling Avas deep and constant ; she loved a well-regulated household ; and it was frequently her pleasure to give wings to the weary hours of a chequered life by chanting old songs and ballads, of which she had a large store. In her looks she resembled her eldest son ; her eyes were bright and intelligent ; her perception of character, quick and keen. She lived till Jan. 14, 1820, rejoiced in the fame of the Poet, and partook of the fruits of his genius. His father was from another district. He was the son of a farmer in Kincardine-shire, and born in the year 1721, on the lands of the noble family of Keith-Marischall. The retainer, like his chief, fell into misfortunes ; his household was scattered, and William Burness, with a small knowledge of farming, and a large stock of speculative theology, was obliged to leave his native place, in search of better fortune, at the age of nineteen. He has been heard to relate with what bitter feelings he bade farewell to his younger brother, on the top of a lonely bill, and turned his face toward the border. His first resting-place was Edinburgh, where he obtained a slight knowledge of gardening: thence he LIFE OF BURNS. 1781 went into Ayr-shire, and procured employment first from Crawford of Doonside, and second, in the double capacity of steward and gardener, from Ferguson of Doonholm. Imagining now that he had established a resting-place, he took a wife, Dec. 1757, leased a small patch of land for a nursery, and raised that frail shealing, the catastrophe of which has alread y been re- lated. During his residence with the laird of Doon- holm, a rumour was circulated that William Bumess had fought for our old line of princes in the late rebellion, the fatal 1745. His austere and somewhat stately manners caused him to be looked upon as a man who had a secret in re- serve, which he desired to conceal ; and, as a report of that kind was not calculated for his good, he procured a contradiction from the hand of the clergyman of his native parish, acquitting him of all participation in the late "wicked re- bellion." I mention this, inasmuch as the Poet, speaking of his forefathers, says, "they followed boldly where their leaders led," and hints that they suffered in the cause which crushed the fortunes of their chief. Gilbert Burns, a sensi- ble man, but no poet, imagined he read in his brother's words an imputation on the family loyalty, and hastened to contradict it, long after his father had gone where the loyal or rebellious alike find peace. He considered his father's religious turn of mind, and the certificate of his parish minister, as decisive : and so they are, as far as regards William Burness ; but the Keiths- Marischall were forfeited before he was born, and the Poet plainly alludes to earlier matters than the affair of the " Forty-five." — " My an- cestors," he says, " rented lands of the noble Keiths- Marischall, and had the honour of sharing their fate. I mention this circumstance because it threw my father on the world at large." Here he means that the misfortunes of the fathers were felt by the children ; he was accurate in all things else, and it is probable he related what his father told him. The feelings of the Poet were very early coloured with Ja- cobitism. Though William Burness sought only at first to add the profits of a small stewardship to those of a little garden or nursery, and toiled along with his wife to secure food and clothing, his increasing family induced him to extend his views; and he accordingly ventured to lease Mount Oliphant, a neighbouring farm of a hundred acres, and entered upon it in 1765, when Robert was between six and seven years Old. The elder Burns seems to have been but an indifferent judge of land : in a district where much fine ground is in cultivation, he sat down on ;i Bterile and hungry spot, which no labour could render fruitful, fie hud commenced, too, on borrowed money J the seasons, as well as the -oil, proved churlish j and Ferguson his friend dying, " a stern fuctor," says Robert, "whose threatening letters set us all in tears," inter- posed ; and he was compelled, after a six years' struggle, to relinquish the lease. This harsh- ness was remembered in other days : the factor sat for that living portrait of insolence and wrong in the " Twa Dogs." How easily may endless infamy be purchased ! From this inhospitable spot William Burness removed his household to Lochlea, a larger and better farm, some ten miles off, in the parish of Tarbolton. Here he seemed at once to strike root and prosper. He was still strong in body, ardent in mind, and unsubdued in spirit. Every day, too, was bringing vigour to his sons, who, though mere boys, took more than their proper share of toil ; while his wife superintended, with care and success, the whole system of in-door economy. But it seemed as it fortune had de- termined that nought he set his heart on should prosper. For four years, indeed, seasons w r ere favourable, and markets good ; but, in the fifth year, there ensued a change. It was in vain that he laboured with head and hand, and re- solved to be economical and saving. In vain Kobert held the plough with the dexterity of a man by day, and thrashed and prepared corn for seed or for sale, evening and morning, before the sun rose and after it set. " The gloom of hermits, and the unceasing moil of galley slaves," were endured to no purpose ; and, to crown all, a difference arose between the tenant and his landlord, as to terms of lease and rotation of crop. The farmer, a stern man, self-willed as well as devoutly honest, admitted but of one inter- pretation to ambiguous words. The proprietor, accustomed to give law rather than receive it, explained them to his own advantage ; and the declining years of this good man, and the early years of his eminent son, were embittered by disputes, in which sensitive natures suffer and w r orldly ones thrive. Amid all these toils and trials, William Bur- ness remembered the worth of religious instruc- tion, and the usefulness of education in the rearing of his children. The former task he took upon himself, and in a little manual of devotion still extant, sought to soften the rigour of the Calvinistic creed Into the gentler Armi- nian. He set, too, the example which he taught. He abstained from all profane swearing and vain discourse, and shunned all approach to levity of conversation or behaviour. A week- day in his house wore the sobriety of a Sunday ; nor did he fail in performing family worship in a way which enabled his son to give the world that fine picture of domestic devotion, the "Cot- ter's Saturday Night." The depressing cares of the world, and a consciousness, perhaps, that he was fighting a losing battle, brought an al- most habitual gloom to his brow. He had nothing to cheer him but a sense of having done his duty. The education of his sons he confided to other hands. At first he sent Robert MTAT. 6-7. EDUCATION. 3 to a small school at Alloway Miln, within a mile of the place of his birth ; but the master was removed to a better situation, and his place was supplied by John Murdoch, a candidate for the honours of" the church, who undertook, at a moderate salary, to teach the boys of Lochlea, and the children of five other neighbouring farmers, reading, writing, arithmetic, grammar, and Latin. He was a young man, a good scholar, and an enthusiastic instructor, with a moderate knowledge of human nature, and a competent share of pedantry. He made himself accepta- ble to the elder Burness by engaging in con- versations on speculative theology, and in lend- ing his learning to aid the other's sagacity and penetration; and he rendered himself welcome to Robert by bringing him knowledge of any kind — by giving him books — telling him about eminent men — and teaching him the art — which he was not slow in learning — of opening up fresh sources of information for himself. Of the progress which Robert made in knowledge, his teacher has given us a very clear account. In reading, writing and arith- metic, he excelled all boys of his own age, and took rank above several who were his seniors. The New Testament, the Bible, the English Grammar, and Mason's collection of verse and prose, laid the foundation of devotion and knowledge. As soon as he was capable of understanding composition, Murdoch taught him to turn verse into its natural prose order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poetical words, and to supply all the ellipses. By these means he perceived when his pupil knew the meaning of his author, and thus sought to instruct him in the proper arrangement of words, as well as variety of expression. For some two years and a half, Robert continued to receive the instructions of his excellent teacher under his father's roof. Op. Murdoch's nomination to the Grammar School of Ayr, his pupil did not forsake him, but took lodgings with him ; and, during the ordi- nary school hours, walks in the evening, and other moments of leisure, he sought to master the grammar, in order to take upon himself the task of instructing his brothers and sisters at home. Under the same kind instructor he strove to obtain some knowledge of French. " When walking together, and even at meals," says Murdoch, " I was constantly telling him the names of different objects, as they presented themselves, in French, so that he was hourly laying in a stock of words, and sometimes little phrases. In short, he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teaching, that it was difficult to say which of the two was most zealous in the business ; and about the end of our second week of study of the French, we began to read a little of the Adventures of Telemachus, in Fenelon's own words." All the French which the young Poet picked up, during one fortnight's course of instruction, could not be much ; the coming of harvest called him to more laborious duties ; nor did he, save for a passing hour or so, ever seriously resume his studies in Tele- machus. Of these early and interesting days, during which the future man was seen, like fruit shaping amid the unfolded bloom, we have a picture drawn by the Poet's own hand, and touched off in his own vivid manner. — " At seven years of age I was by no means a favourite with any body. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piety* — I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; and, by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in was the vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, beginning, " How are thy servants blesl, O Lord !" I particularly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my ear — " For though on dreadful whirls we hung, High on the broken wave." I met with these in Mason's English collec- tion, one of my school-books. The first two books I ever read in private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two I have read since, were the Life of Hannibal, and the His- tory of the Acts and Deeds of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn that I used to strut in raptures up and dowm after the recruiting drum and bagpipe, and w r ish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, which will boil along there till the floodgates of life shut in eternal rest." The education of Burns was not over when the school-doors w r ere shut.. The peasantry of Scotland turn their cottages into schools ; and when a father takes his arm-chair by the evening fire, he seldom neglects to communicate to his children whatever knowledge he possesses himself. Nor is this knowledge very limited ; it extends, generally, to the history of Europe, and to the literature of the island ; but more particularly to the divinity, the poetry, and what may be called the traditionary history of Scot- land. An intelligent peasant is intimate with all those skirmishes, sieges, combats, and quarrels, domestic or national, of which public writers take no account. Genealogies of the chief families are quite familiar to him. He has by heart, too, whole volumes of songs and ballads ; nay, long poems sometimes -abide in [* Idiot, for idiotic. Ct REIB.] B 2 6 LIFE OF BURNS. 1777. there was I among them. Another circumstance in my lite, which made some alteration in my mind and manners, was, that I spent my nine- teenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted school,* to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c, in which I made pretty good progress. But I made greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were till this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high hand with my geometry till the sun entered Virgo — a month which is always a carnival in my bosom — when a charming fillette, who lived next door to the school, upset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from the sphere of my studies." [The following additional particulars, re- specting this period of his life, will be found interesting to every admirer of the Poet. They were collected by Mr. Robert Chambers, and appeared originally in Chambers' Edinburgh Journal : — " If Burns be correct in stating that it was his nineteenth summer which he spent in Kir- koswald parish, the date of his residence there must be 1777. What seems to have suggested his going to Kirkoswald school was the con- nection of his mother with that parish. She was the daughter of Gilbert Brown, farmer of Craigenton, in this parochial division of Carrick, in which she had many friends still living, particularly a brother, Samuel Brown, who resided, in the miscellaneous capacity of farm-labourer, fisherman, and dealer in wool, at the farm-house of Ballochneil, above a mile from the village of Kirkoswald. This Brown, though not the farmer or guidman of the place, was a person held to be in creditable circum- stances, in a district where the distinction be- tween master and servant was, and still is, by no means great. His wife was the sister of Niven, the tenant ; and he lived in the "Cham- ber" or better portion of the farm-house, but was now a widower. It was with Brown that Burns lived during his attendance at Kirkoswald school, walking every morning to the village where the little seminary of learning was situate, and returning at night. The district into which the young poet of Kyle was thus thrown has many features of a remarkable kind. Though situated on the shore of the Firth of Clyde, where steamers are evtiry hour to be seen on their passage be- * This was the school of Kirkoswald. t "TIi'im business was first carried on here from the Isle of Man, and afterwards to a considerable extent from France, Ontend, and Gottenburg. Persons engaged in tween enlightened and busy cities, it is to this day the seat of simple and patriarchal usages. Its land, composed of bleak green uplands, partly cultivated and partly pastoral, was, at the time alluded to, occupied by a generation of primitive small farmers, many of whom, while preserving their native simplicity, had superadded to it some of the irregular habits, arising from a concern in the trade of intro- ducing contraband goods on the Carrick coast. t Such dealings did not prevent superstition from flourishing amongst them in a degree of vigour of which no district of Scotland now presents any example. The parish has six miles of sea-coast ; and the village, where the church and school are situate, is in a sheltered situation about a couple of miles inland. The parish schoolmaster, Hugh Rodger, en- joyed great local fame as a teacher of men- suration and geometry, and was much employed as a practical land-surveyor. On the day when Burns entered at the school, another youth, a little younger than himself, also en- tered. This was a native of the neighbouring town of Maybole, who, having there com- pleted a course of classical study, was now sent by his father, a respectable shopkeeper, to acquire arithmetic and mensuration under the famed mathematician of Kirkoswald. It was then the custom, when pupils of their age first entered a school, to take the master to a tavern, and complete the engagement by treating him to some liquor. Burns and the Maybole youth, accordingly, united to regale Rodger with a potation of ale, at a public- house in the village, kept by two gentlewomanlv sort of persons named Kennedy — Jean and Anne Kennedy — the former of whom was des- tined to be afterwards married to immortal verse, under the appellation of Kirkton Jean, and whose house, in consideration of some pre- tensions to birth or style above the common, was always called "the Leddies' House." From that time, Burns and the Maybole youth became intimate friends, insomuch that, during this summer, neither had any companion with whom he was more frequently in company than the one with the other. Burns was only at the village during school hours ; but when his friend Willie returned to the paternal dome on Saturday nights, the poet would accompany him, and stay till it was time for both to come back to school on Monday morning. There was also an interval between the morning and afternoon meetings of the school, which the two youths used to spend together. Instead of amusing themselves with ball or any other sport, like the rest of the scholars, they would it found it necessary to go abroad, and enter into busi- ness with foreign merchants ; and, by dealing in tea, spirits, and silks, brought home to their families and friends the means of luxury and finery at the cheapest rate." — Statist. Account of Kirkoswald, 1794. 3STAT 18. KIRKOSWALD. take a walk by themselves in the outskirts of the village, and converse on subjects calculated to improve their minds. By and bye, they fell upon a plan of holding disputations, or arguments on speculative questions, one taking one side, and the other the other, without much regard to their respective opinions on the point, whatever it might be, the whole object being to sharpen their intellects. They asked several of their companions to come and take a side in these debates, but not one would do so ; they only laughed at the young philosophers. The matter at length reached the ears of the master, who, however skilled in mathematics, possessed but a narrow understanding and little general knowledge. With all the bigotry of the old school, he conceived that this supererogatory employment of his pupils was a piece of ab- surdity, and he resolved to correct them in it. One day, therefore, when the school was fully met, and in the midst of its usual business, he went up to the desk, where Burns and Willie were sitting opposite to each other, and began to advert in sarcastic terms to what he had heard of them. They had become great de- baters, he understood, and conceived them- selves fit to settle affairs of importance, which wiser heads usually let alone. He hoped their disputations would not ultimately become quar- rels, and that they would never think of coming from words to blows ; and so forth. The jokes of schoolmasters always succeed amongst the boys, who are too glad to find the awful man m any thing like good humour to question either the moral aim or the point of his wit. They therefore, on this occasion, hailed the master's remarks with hearty peals of laughter. Nettled at this, Willie resolved he would " speak up" to Rodger ; but first he asked Burns, in a whisper, if he would support him, which Bums promised to do. He then said that he was sorry to find that Robert and he had given offence ; — it had not been intended. And in- deed he had expected that the master would have been rather pleased, to know of their endeavours to improve their minds. He could assure him that such improvement was the sole object they had in view. Rodger sneered at the idea of their improving their minds by nonsensical discussions, and contemptuously asked what it was they disputed about ? Willie replied that, generally, there was a new subject every day ; that he could not recollect all that had come under their attention ; but the ques- tion of to-day had been — " Whether is a great general or a respectable merchant the most valuable member of society?" The dominie laughed outrageously at what he called the silliness of such a question, seeing there could be no doubt for a moment about it. " Well," Slid Burns, " if you think so, I shall be glad if you take any side you please, and allow me to take the other, and let us discuss it before the school." Rodger most unwisely assented, and commenced the argument by a flourish in favour of the general. Burns answered by a pointed advocacy of the pretensions of the merchant, and soon had an evident superi- ority over his preceptor. The latter replied, but without success. His hand was observed to shake ; then his voice trembled ; and he dissolved the school in a state of vexation pitiable to behold. In this anecdote, who can fail to read a prognostication of future eminence to the two disputants ? The one became the most illustrious poet of his country ; and it is not unworthy of being mentioned, in the same sentence, that the other advanced, through a career of successful industry in his native town, to the possession of a large estate in its neighbourhood, and some share of the honours usually reserved in this country for birth and aristocratic connection. The coast, in the neighbourhood of Burns's residence at Ballochneil, presented a range of rustic characters upon whom his genius was destined to confer an extraordinary interest. At the farm of Shanter, on a slope overlooking the shore, not far from Turnberry Castle, lived Douglas Graham, a stout hearty specimen of the Carrick farmer, a little addicted to smugg- ling, but withal a worthy and upright member of society, and a kind-natured man. He had a wife named Helen M'Taggart, who was un- usually addicted to superstitious beliefs and fears. The steading where this good couple lived is now no more, and the farm has been divided for the increase of two others in its neighbourhood; but genius has given them a perennial existence in the tale of Tam o' Shanter, where their characters are exactly delineated under the respective appellations of Tam and Kate. * * * At Ballochneil, Burns engaged heartily in the sports of leaping, dancing, wrestling, putting (throwing) the stone, and others of the like kind. His innate thirst for distinc- tion and superiority was manifested in these, as in more important, affairs ; but though he was possessed of great strength, as well as skill, he could never match his young bed- fellow John Niven. Obliged at last to ac- knowledge himself beat by this person in bodily warfare, he had recourse for amends to a spi- ritual mode of contention, and would engage young Niven in an argument about some speculative question, when, of course, he inva- riably floored his antagonist. His satisfaction on these occasions is said to have been extreme. One day, as he was walking slowly along the street of the village, in a manner customary with him, — his eyes bent on the ground, he was met by the Misses Biggar, the daughters of the parish pastor. He would have passed without noticing them, if one of the young ladies had not called him by name. She then rallied -® 8 LIFE OF BURNS. 1777. him on his inattention to the fair sex, in pre- ferring to look towards the inanimate ground, instead of seizing the opportunity afforded him, of indulging in the most invaluable privilege of man, that of beholding and conversing with the ladies. " Madam," said he, "it is a natural and right thing for man to contemplate the ground, from whence he was taken, and for { woman to look upon and observe man, from whom she was taken." This was a conceit, but it was the conceit of " no vulgar boy." There is a great fair at Kirkoswald in the beginning of August — on the same day, we believe, with a like fair at Kirkoswald in Northumberland, both places having taken their rise from the piety of one person, Oswald, a Saxon king of the heptarchy, whose memory is probably honoured in these observances. During the week preceding this fair, in the year 1777, Burns made overtures to his Maybole friend, Willie, for their getting up a dance, on the evening of the approaching festival, in one of the public-houses of the village, and inviting their sweethearts to join in it. Willie knew little at that time of dances or sweethearts ; but he liked Burns, and was no enemy to amuse- ment. He therefore consented, and it was agreed that some other young men should be requested to join in the undertaking. The dance took place, as designed, the requisite music being supplied by a hired band ; and about a dozen couples partook of the fun. When it was proposed to part, the reckoning was called, and found to amount to eighteen shil- lings and fourpence. It was then discovered that almost every one present had looked to his neighbours for the means of settling this claim. Burns, the originator of the scheme, I was in the poetical condition of not being mas- ter of a single penny. The rest were in the like condition, all except one, whose resources amounted to a groat, and Maybole Willie, who possessed about half-a-crown. The last individual, who alone boasted any worldly wis- dom or experience, took it upon him to extricate the company from its difficulties. By virtue of a candid and sensible narration to the land- lord, he induced that individual to take what they had, and give credit for the remainder. The payment of the debt is not the worst part of the story. Seeing no chance from beg- ging or borrowing, Willie resolved to gain it, if possible, by merchandise. Observing that stationery articles for the school were procured at Kirkoswald with difficulty, he supplied himself with a stock from his father's ware- lion Be at Maybole, and for some weeks sold pens and paper to his companions, with so much advantage, at length, that he realised a sufficient amount of profit to liquidate the expense of the dance. Burns and he then uint in triumph to the inn, and not only pettled the claim to the last penny, but gave the kind-hearted host a bowl of thanks into the bargain. Willie, however, took care from that time forth to engage in no schemes for country dances without looking carefully to the probable state of the pockets of his felloe adventurers. Burns, according to his own account, con- cluded his residence at Kirkoswald in a blaze of passion for a fair fillette who lived next door to the school. At this time, owing to the de- struction of the proper school of Kirkoswald, a chamber at the end of the old church, the bu- siness of parochial instruction was conducted in an apartment on the ground floor of a house in the main street of the village, opposite the church-yard. From behind this house, as from behind each of its neighbours in the same row, a small stripe of kail-yard (Anglice, a kitchen-garden) runs back about fifty yards, along a rapidly ascending slope. When Burns went into the particular patch behind the school to take the sun's altitude, he had only to look over a low enclosure to see the similar patch connected with the next house. Here, it seems, Peggy Thomson, the daughter of the rustic occupant of that house, was walking at the time, though more probably engaged in the business of cutting a cabbage for the family dinner, than imitating the flower-gathering Proserpine, or her prototype Eve. Hence the bewildering passion of the poet. Peggy after- wards became Mrs. Neilson, and lived to a good age in the town of Ayr, where her children still reside. At his departure from Kirkoswald, he en- gaged his Maybole friend and some other lads to keep up a correspondence with him. His object in doing so, as we may gather from his own narrative, was to improve himself in composition. " I carried this whim so far," says he, " that, though I had not three farthings' worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book and ledger." To Willie, in particular, he wrote often, and in the most friendly and con- fidential terms. When that individual was commencing business in his native town, the poet addressed him a poetical epistle of appro- priate advice, headed with the well-known lines from Blair's Grave, beginning " Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul, Sweetener of life and solder of society." This correspondence continued till the period of the publication of the poems, when Burns wrote to request his friend's good offices in increasing his list of subscribers. The young man was then possessed of little influence ; but what little he had, he exercised with all the zeal of friendship, and with no ittle success. A considerable number of copies were accordingly transmitted in proper time to :® MTAT 18. EDUCATION.— MURDOCH. 9 his care, and soon after, the poet came to May- bole to receive the money. His friend collected a few choice spirits to meet him at the King's Arms Inn, and they spent a happy night toge- ther. Burns was on this occasion particularly elated, for "Willie, in the midst of their convi- viality, handed over to him above seven pounds, being the first considerable sum of money the poor bard had ever possessed. In the pride of his heart, next morning, he determined that he should not walk home, and accordingly he hired from his host a certain poor hack mare, well known along the whole road from Glasgow to Portpatrick — in all probability the first hired conveyance that Poet Burns had ever enjoyed, for even his subsequent journey to Edinburgh, auspicious as were the prospects under which it was undertaken, was per- formed on foot. Willie and a few other youths who had been in his company on the preceding night, walked out of town before him, for the purpose of taking leave at a particular spot ; and before he came up, they had prepared a few mock-heroic verses in which to express their farewell. When Burns rode up, accord- ingly, they saluted him in this formal manner, a little to his surprise. He thanked them, however, and instantly added, " What need of all this fine parade of verse ? It would have been quite enough if you had said — ■ Here comes Burns, On Rosinante ; She's d poor, But he's d canty." The company then allowed Burns to go on his way rejoicing.]"* Nature, in all this, resumes Mr. Cunningham, was pursuing her own plan in the education of Burns. The melancholy of which he complains was a portion of his genius ; the invisible object to which he was impelled was poetry. No one can fail to perceive, in the scenes which he de- scribes as dear to his heart and fancy, the very- materials over which his muse afterwards breathed life and inspiration ; and no one can fail to feel, that all this time he had been walking in the path of the muse without knowing it. He complains that he Mas unfitted with an aim. He looked around, and saw no outlet for his ambition. FarminQ- he failed to find the [* " All this pleasantry was not without its bitter. The poet's Maybole frend, en inspecting the volume, was mortified to find the poetical epistle which had been addressed to him, printed with the name Andrew substituted for his own, and the motto from Blair, as was but proper, omitted. He said nothing at the time ; but, young, ambi- tious, and conscious of having done all in his humble power for friendship's cause, he could not forgive so marked a slight. He therefore from that time ceased to answer Burns's letters. When the poet was next at Maybole, he asked the cause, and Willie answered bv inquiring if he could not himself divine it. He said he thought he could, and adverted to the changed name in the poem. Mr. same as it is in Virgil — elegance united with toil. The high places of the land were occupied, and no one could hope to ascend save the titled or the wealthy. The church he could not reach without an expensive education, or patronage less attainable still. Law held out temptation to talent, but not to talent without money ; while the army opened its glittering files to him who could purchase a commission, or had, in the words of the divine, "A beauteous sister, or convenient wife," to smooth the way to preferment. With a con- sciousness of genius, and a desire of distinction, he stood motionless, like a stranded vessel whose sails are still set, her colours flying, and the mariners a-board. He had now and then a sort of vague intimation from his own heart that he was a poet ; but the polished and stately versi- fication of English poetry alarmed and dismayed him : he had sung to himself a song or two, and stood with his hand on the plough, and his heart with the muse. The strength which he could not himself discover was not likely to be found out by others. It is thus we find him spoken of by his good old kind preceptor : — " Gilbert," says Murdoch, " always appeared to me to possess a more lively imagination, and to be more of the wit, than Robert. I at- tempted to teach them a little church music. Robert's ear, in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice untuneable. It was long- before I could get him to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was gene- rally grave, and expressive of a serious, con- templative, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said — "Mirth, with thee I mean to live ;" and certainly, if any person who knew the two boys had been asked which of them was most likely to court the muses, he would surely never have guessed that Robert had a pro- pensity of that kind." The simple school- master had perhaps paid court to some small heritor's daughter, and dressed his face in smiles for the task ; he accordingly thought that the Muse was to be wooed and won in the same Malvolio way, and never imagined that the face inspired with contemplation and melan- choly could be dear to her heart. While the boy was thus rising into the man, Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, had been, he said, a useful friend and patron to him. He had a son commencing a commercial life in Liverpool. I thought, he said, that a few verses addressed to this youth would gratify his father, and be accepted as a mark of my gratitude. But, my muse being lazy, I could not well make them out. After all, this old epistle occurred to me, and by putting his name into it, in place of yours, I made it answer this purpose. Willie told him in reply that he had just exchanged his friend- ship for that of Mr. Aiken, and requested that their respective letters might be burnt — a duty which he scru- pulously performed on his own part. The two disputants of Kirkoswald never saw or corresponded with each other again."] 10 LIFE OF BURNS. 1781. and the mind was expanding with the body, both were in danger of being crushed, as the daisy was, in the Poet's own immortal strains, beneath the weight of the furrow. The whole life of his father was a continued contest with fortune. Burns saw, as he grew up, to what those days of labour and nights of anxiety would lead, and set himself, with heart and hand, to lighten the one, and alleviate the other. At the plough, scythe, and reaping hook, he feared no competitor, and so set all fears of want in his own person at defiance : he felt but for his father. All this is touchingly described by Gilbert. " My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and, at fifteen, was the principal labourer on the farm ; for we had no hired ser- vant, male or female. The anguish of mind we felt, at our tender years, under these straits and difficulties, was very great. To think of our father growing old — for he was now above fifty, broken down with the long-continued fatigues of his life, with a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circum- stances — these reflections produced in my bro- ther's mind and mine sensations of the deepest distress. At this time he was almost constantly afflicted in the evening with a dull head-ache, which, at a future period of his life, was ex- changed for a palpitation of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed in the night-time." The elder Burness, while in the Lothians, had paid attention to gardening ; but he could not bring much agricultural knowledge from his native county. His toil was incessant ; but it was of the body, not of the brain. More is required in farming than mere animal vigour and dexterity of hand. A skilful farmer may be called a learned man ; — to work according to the season, and in the spirit of the soil ; to anticipate sunshine, and be prepared for storms ; to calculate chances and consequences ; suit demands at home, and fit markets abroad ; require what not many fully possess. I know not how much of this knowledge William Burness possessed. He was, how- ever, fertile in expedients: when he found that his farm was unproductive in corn, he thought the soil suitable for flax, and re- solved himself to raise the commodity, while to the Poel he allotted the task of manufacturing it for the market. To accomplish this, it was necessary that he should be instructed in flax- dressing : sueordingly, at Midsummer, 1781, Robert went to Irvine, where he wrought under tin- eye of one Peacock, kinsman to his mother. ffis mode of life was frugal enough. "He possessed/' says Currie, " a single room for his lodging, rented, perhaps, at the rate of a shilling a week. He passed his days in con- stant labour :ts a flax-dresser, and his food Consisted chiefly of oatmeal sent to him from his father's family." A picture of his situation and feelings is luckily preserved of his own drawing : the simplicity of the expression, and pure English of the style, are not its highest qualities. He thus wrote to his father: — "Honoured Sir: — I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on new year's day : but work comes so hard upon us that I do not choose to be absent on that account. My health is nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and, on the whole, I am rather better than otherwise, though I mend by very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my mind that I dare neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity : for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, I glimmer a little into futurity : but my principal, and indeed my only pleasurable, employment is looking backwards and forwards in a moral and reli- gious way. I am quite transported at the thought that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you I am heartily tired of it : and, if I do not A r ery much deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. { ' As for this world," he continues, " I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capable of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am alto- gether unconcerned at the thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity pro- bably await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been remembered ere it is yet too late." This letter is dated Dec. 27, 1781. No one can mistake the cause of his melancholy : obscure toil and an undistinguished lot on earth directed his thoughts in despair to another world, where the righteous "shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more ; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat." To plough, and sow, and reap were poetic labours, compared with the dusty toil of a flax-dresser : with the lark for his companion, and the green fields around him, his spirits rose, and he looked on himself as forming a part of creation : but when he sat down to the brake and the heckle, his spirits sank, and his dreams of ambition vanished. Flax-dressing, in the poet's estimation, seemed any thing but the way to wealth and fame : the desponding tone of his letter was no JETAT 22. DEATH OF HIS FATHER. 11 good augury ; the catastrophe of the business is not quite in keeping with, quotations from Scripture and hopes in heaven. " Partly through whim," said the bard to Moore, " and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I joined a flax-dresser in Irvine, to learn his trade. This was an unlucky affair : as Ave were giving a welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took fire and burnt to ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a six- pence." This disaster was followed by one much more grievous. " The clouds of mis- fortune," says Burns, " were gathering fast round my father's head. After three years' tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, he was just saved from the horrors of a jail by a consumption, which, after two years' pro- mises, kindly stepped in and carried him away to ' where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.' His all went among the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree, that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got then- mittimus — ' Depart from me, ye accursed V" The intelligence, recti- tude, and piety of William Burness were an honour to the class to which he belonged : his eminent son acknowledged, when his own inter- course with the world entitled his opinions to respect, that he had met with few who under- stood men, their manners, and their ways, equal to his father : " but stubborn, ungainly integ- rity, and headlong, ungovernable irascibility," he added, " are disqualifying circumstances in the paths of fortune." " I remember William Burness well," said the venerable Mrs. Hun- ter, daughter to Ferguson of Doonholm ; " there was something very gentlemanly in his manners and appearance : unfortunately for him my father died early, the estate passed into other hands, and was managed by a factor, who, it is said, had no liking for the family of Mount Oliphant." Robert and his brother were afflicted, but did not despair ; they collected together the little property which law and misfortune had spared,* and, in the year 1784, took the farm of Mossgiel, near Mauchline, consisting of 118 acres, at an annual rent of ninety pounds. Their mother superintended the dairy and the house- hold, while the Poet and Gilbert undertook for the rest. " It was," observes the latter, " a joint concern among us : every member of the family was allowed wages for the labour per- * [Both Robert and Gilbert speak of the total ruin of their father at the time of his death. " His all," says Robert, " went atnonp the hell-hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice." In order to reconcile this statement with one immediately ensuing, by Gilbert, " that Mossgiel was stocked by the property and individual savings of the whole family,'" it is necessary to add that, at the bankruptcy of William formed ; my brother's allowance and mine was seven pounds per annum, and his expenses never in any year exceeded his slender income. His temperance and frugality were every thing that could be wished." It is pleasing to con- template a picture such as this. We are now about to enter into the regions of romance. " I began," says Burns, " to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker of rhymes." The course of his life, hitherto, has shewn that his true vocation was neither the plough nor the heckle. He acquired, indeed, the common knowledge of a husbandman ; but that was all he knew, or cared to know, of the matter. " Farmer Attention," says the proverb, "is a good farmer all the world over:" and Burns was attentive as far as ploughing, sow- ing, harrowing, reaping, stacking, thrashing, winnowing, and selling, went ; he did all this by a sort of mechanical impulse ; but success in farming demands more. The farmer should know what is doing in his way in the world around ; he must learn to anticipate demand, and, in short, to time every thing. But he who pens an ode on his sheep, when he should be driving them forth to pasture — who stops his plough in the half-drawn furrow, to rhyme about the flowers which he buries — who sees visions on his way from market, and makes rhymes on them — who writes an ode on the horse he is about to yoke, and a ballad on the girl who shews the whitest hands and brightest eyes among his reapers — has no chance of ever growing opulent, or of purchasing the field on which he toils. The bard amidst his ripen- ing corn, or walking through his fields of grass and clover, beholds on all sides images of pathos or of beauty, connects them with moral influ- ences, and lifts himself to heaven: a grosser mortal sees only so many acres of promising corn or fattening grass, connects them with rising markets and increasing gain, and, instead of rising, descends into " Mammon's filthy delve." That poetic feelings and fancies such as these passed frequently over the mind of Burns in his early days, Ave have his oavii assurance ; Avhile labour held his body, poetry seized his spirit, and, unconsciously to himself, asserted her right and triumphed in her A'ictory. Some obey the call of learning, and become poets ; others fall, t\\ej know not how, into the company of the muse, and break out into num- bers. Loa'c Avas the A r oice which called up the poet in Burns ; his Parnassus was the stubble- field, and his inspirer that fair-haired girl from whose hands he picked the thistle-stings, and delighted to Avalk Avith when but some fifteen Burness, his children had, respectively, considerable claims upon his estate, on account of their services to him in the farm, which claims were preferable to those of the other creditors. They thus, with the perfect approbation of the law, and, we may add. of justice also, rescued a portion of his property from the " hell-hounds " alluded to. Chambers.] 12 LIFE OF BURNS. 1783. years old. The song which, he made in her praise he noted down in a little book entitled " Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, by Robert Burness ; a man who had little art in making money, and still less in keeping it." " I composed the song," he said, long after- wards, "in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and I never recollect it but my heart melts and my blood sallies." The passion which he felt failed to find its way into the verse ; there is some nature, but no inspiration : — " My Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, And what is best of a' — Her reputation is complete, And fair without a flaw. She dresses aye sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel ; And then there's something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel." These lines give little indication of future strength ; his vigour of thought increased with his stature ; before he was a year older, the language of his muse was more manly and bold :— " I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam, List'ning to the wild birds singing By a falling crystal stream ; Straight the sky grew black and daring, Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave, Trees, with aged arms are warring O'er the swelling drumlie wave." Few of the early verses of Burns are pre- served ; some he himself destroyed, others were composed, but not perhaps committed to paper ; while it is likely that not a few are entirely lost. In his nineteenth summer, the leisure season of the farmer, while studying mensura- tion at a school on the sea-coast, he met with the Peggy of one of his earliest songs. " Step- ping into the garden," he says, " one charming noon to take the sun's my angel altitude, there I met " Like Proserpine gathering flowers, Herself a fairer flower." It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remaining week I staid, I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless." On his return home, the harvest was commenced. To the fair lass of Kirkoswald, he dedicated the first fruits of* his fancy, in a strain of equal freedom and respect, beginning — " Now wastlin' winds and slaught'ring guns Bring Autumn's pleasant weather; The moorcock springs on whirring wings Amang th«r blooming heather; Now waving grain wide o'er the plain Delights the weary farmer, And the moon shines bright when I rove at night To muse upon my charmer." In a still richer strain he celebrates his nocturnal adventures with another of the fair ones of the west. Burns could now write as readily as he could speak, and pour the passion which kindled up his veins into his compositions. It is thus he sings of Annie — " I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear, I hae been merry drinkin' ; I hae been joyfu' gatherin' gear, I hae been happy thinkin'. But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, Tho' three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley." He who could write such lines as these had little to learn from the muse ; and yet he soon surpassed them in liquid ease of expression, and happy originality of sentiment. It is one of the delusions of his biographers that the sources of his inspiration are to be sought in English poetry ; but, save an image from Young, and a word or so from Shakspeare, there is no trace of them in all his compositions. Burns read the English poets, no doubt, with wonder and delight : but he felt he was not of their school ; the language of life with him was wholly different ; the English language is, to a Scottish peasant, much the same as a foreign tongue ; it was not without reason that Mur- ray, the oriental scholar, declared that the English of Milton was less easy to learn than the Latin of Virgil. Any one, conversant with our northern lyrics, will know what school of verse Burns imitated when he sang of Nannie, a lass who dwelt nigh the banks of the Lugar ; " Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors and mosses many, O ; The wintry sun the day has closed And I'll awa' to Nannie, O. " Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she 's bonnie, O ; The opening gowan, wat wi' dew, Nae purer is than Nannie, O." Such was the language in which the Poet addressed the rustic damsels of Kyle. Ladies are not very apt to be won by verse, let it be ever so elegant ; they set down the person who adorns them with the lilies and the roses of imagination as a dreamer, and look around for more substan- tial comfort. Waller's praise made Sacharissa smile — and smile only ; and another lady of equal beauty saw in Lord Byron a pale-faced lad, lame of a foot — and married a man who could leap a five-barred gate ; yet Burns was, or imagined himself, beloved ; he wrote from his own immediate emotions ; his muse was no visionary dweller by an imaginary fountain, but a substantial " Fresh young landart lass," .ETAT 24. whose charms had touched his fancy. Nor was he one of those who look high, and muse on dames nursed in velvet laps, and fed with golden spoons. "He had always," says Gilbert, "a particular jealousy of people w r ho were richer than himself; his love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this description. When he se- lected any one out of the sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was instantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own imagination ; and there was often a great dissimilitude between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed when invested with the attributes he gave her." His own words partly confirm the account of Gilbert. " My heart w r as completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other ; and, as in every other warfare in this world, my fortune was various, sometimes I was received with favour, and sometimes mortified with repulse." That his love was sometimes repulsed we have the assurance of a poem, now lost, in which, like Cowley, he had recorded his labours in the way of affection ; when doors were closed against him, or the Annie or Nannie of the hour failed in their promises, he added another verse to the ballad, the o'erword of which was " So I'll to my Latin again." If he sought consolation in studying the Latin rudiments, when jilted, his disappointments in that way could not be many, for his knowledge of the lan- guage was small. In his twenty-fourth year, his skill in verse enabled him to add the crowning glory to his lyric compositions ; who the lady was that inspired it we are not told, but she must have been more than commonly beautiful, or more than usually kind : as the concluding- compliment might have been too much for one, he has wisely bestowed it on the whole sex. The praise of other poets fades away before it. " There 's nought but care on every han', In ev'ry hour that passes, O ! What signifies the life o' man, An' 'twere na for the lasses, O ! " Auld nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O ! Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, O !" One of those heroines was servant in the household of General Stewart, of Stair and Afton ; Burns, during a visit with David Sillar, left, it is said, one of his songs, which was soon chanted in bower and hall, and attracted the notice of Mrs. Stewart, a lady both beautiful and accomplished, who sent for the Poet on his next visit, and by her remarks and praise confirmed his inclination for lyric verse. He afterwards alluded to these interviews in a con- versation with Anna Stewart, of Afton, and said 13 he should never forget with what trepidation of heart he entered the parlour and approached her mother : this early notice was also present to his mind in copying some of his later pieces of poetry : he addresses them — the original is now before me — to " Mrs. General Stew r art, of Afton, one of his first and kindest patronesses." The progress which Burns made in the more serious kind of verse, during this lyrical fit, was not at all so brilliant ; his attempts have more of the language of poetry, than of its simple force and true dignity. There are passages, indeed, of great truth and vigour, but no continued strain either to rival his after flights, or compare with the unity and finished excel- lence of " My Nannie, O," and " Green grow the Rashes." He had prepared himself, how- ever, for those more prolonged efforts ; nature had endowed him with fine sensibility of heart and grandeur of soul; he had made himself familiar w r ith nature, animate and inanimate ; wdth the gentleness of spring, the beauty of summer, the magnificence of autumn, and the stormy sublimity of winter ; nor was he less so with rural man and his passions and pursuits. Though indulging in no sustained flights, he had now and then sudden bursts in which his feelings over-mastered all restraint. The fol- lowing stanza, written in his twenty-fourth year, shows he had read Young, and felt the resemblance which the season of winter bore to his own clouded fortunes : — " The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast, The joyless winter day, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May ; The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join ; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine." " There is scarcely any earthly object," says Burns, " gives me more — I do not know that I should call it pleasure — but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood or a high plantation, in a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best sea- son for devotion : my mind is wTapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the pom- pous language of the Hebrew bard, ' walks on the wings of the wind.' " In another mood he wrote what he called "a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification, but full of the sentiment of my heart." This ditty wants harmony and vivid force of expression : but it breathes of the old ballad : — " My father was a farmer, Upon the Carrick border, And carefully he bred me up In decency and order : ©-: u LIFE OF BURNS. 1783. He bade me act a manly part, Though I had ne'er a farthing, For without an honest manly heart No man was worth regarding." In one of his desponding fits, when he " looked back on prospects drear," or beheld the future darkening, he wrote that Prayer, in which some have seen nothing but sentiments of contrition and submissiveness, and others a desire to lay on the Creator the blame of the follies with which he charges himself. I have beard his enemies quote the following verse with an air of triumph : — " Thou knowest that Thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong, And, listening to their witching voice, Has often led me wrong." Poetry had now become with Burns a dar- ling pursuit : he had no settled plan of study, for he composed at the plough, at the harrow, and with the reaping-hook in his hand, and usually had half-a-dozen or more poems in progress, taking them up as the momentary tone of his mind suited the sentiment of the verse, and laying them down as he grew careless or became fatigued. None of the verses of those days are in existence, save the " Death of Poor Mailie," a performance remarkable for genuine simplicity of expression ; and " John Barleycorn," a clever imitation of the old ballads of that name, a favourite subject with the minstrels of Caledonia. His mode of com- position was singular : when he hit off a happy verse, in a random fit of inspiration, he sought for a subject suitable to its tone of language and feeling, and then completed the poem. This shows a mind full of the elements of poetry. " My passions," he said, " when once lighted up, raged like so many devils till they got vent in rhyme, and then the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet." When Burns succeeded in evoking the demon of passion by the spell of verse, he had leisure, or at least peace, for a time ; but he could not be idle : he turned his attention to prose. His boyish feelings had been touched, he tells OS, on reading the Vision of Mirza, and many passages in the Bible ; he had read too, with attention, a collection of letters, by the wits of Queen Anne's reign. This improved his taste ; and as he grew up, and correspondence was forced upon him by business or by friendship, he was pleased to see that he could express himself with fluency and ease. He thought so well of those performances that he made copies of them, and, in moments of leisure or vanity, BOUght, and found, satisfaction in comparing them \siih the compositions of his companions. lie observed, he said, liis own superiority. Nay, he says, he carried the whim so far that, though he had not three farthings' worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought him as many letters, as if he had been a plodding son of the day-book and ledger. He now extended his reading to the Specta- tor, the Man of Feeling, Tristram Shandy, Count Fathom, and Pamela : he studied as well as read them, and endeavoured to form a prose style, uniting strength and purity. There are passages of genuine ease and unaffected sim- plicity in his early, as well as his later, letters ; yet there is too much of a premeditated air, and a too obvious desire of showing what fine, bold, vigorous things he could say. No one, however, can peruse his prose of those days without wonder ; it shows a natural vigour of mind, and a talent for observation : there are out-flashings, too, of a fiery impetuosity of spirit worthy of a genius cultivated as well as lofty, and passages of great elegance and feeling, In his common-place book, his rhymes are accompanied with explanations in prose, and, as he commenced these insertions in April 1783, he has afforded us the means of measuring the extent of his acquirements in early life. He seemed not unconscious that he could say some- thing worth the world's attention. — "As he was but little indebted," he said, "to scholastic education, and bred at a plough-tail, his per- formances must be strongly tinctured with his unpolished, rustic way of life ; but it may be some entertainment, to a curious observer of human nature, to see how a ploughman thinks and feels under the pressure of love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, however diversified by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much alike on all the species." In these compositions we may continually trace thoughts and images, which growing taste and increasing vigour enabled him, afterwards, to beautify and expand. The following pas- sage suggested the fine stanza on happy love in the "Cotter's Saturday Night :"—" Not- withstanding all that has been said against love, respecting the folly and wickedness it leads a young inexperienced mind into, still I think it, in a great measure, deserves the highest encomiums that have been passed upon it. If any thing on earth deserves the name of rapture or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen, in the company of the mistress of his heart, when she repays him with an equal return of affection." In the same strain he traces, elsewhere, the connexion between love, music, and poetry, and points out, as a fine touch in nature, that passage in a modern love composition — " As toward her cot he jogged along, Her name was frequent in his song." " For my own part," he observes, " I never had the least thought, or inclination, of turning .2ETAT. 24. HIS EARLY MODELS. 15 poet till I once got heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were, in a manner, the sponta- neous language of my heart." No one has accounted more happily for the passionate eloquence of his songs than he has done himself. That he extended his views, and desired, after having sung of the maidens of Carrick and Kyle, to celebrate their streams and hills, and statesmen and heroes, we have evidence enough in other parts of his works. — "I am hurt," he says in his Memoranda, " to see the other towns, rivers, woods, haughs, &c, of Scotland immortalized in song, while my dear native country, the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunningham, famous, both in an- cient and modern times, for a gallant and warlike race of inhabitants — a country where civil, and particularly religious, liberty, have ever found their first support and their last asylum — a country, the birth-place of many famous philosophers, soldiers, and statesmen, and the scene of many important events re- corded in history, particularly a great many of the actions of the glorious Wallace — yet we have never had one Scottish poet of any emi- nence to make the fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes of Ayr, and the heathy, mountainous source and winding sweep of the Doon, emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, and Tweed. This is a complaint I would gladly remedy ; but alas ! I am far une- qual to the task both in genius and education." No one ever remedied an evil of this kind with such decision and effect. The Ayr, the Doon, the Irvine, and the Lugar are now flowing in light, nor have their heroes and their patriots been forgotten. In another passage, in his common-place book, he acquaints us with the models his muse set up for imitation : — " There is a noble sublim- ity, a heart-melting tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which shew them to be the work of a masterly hand, and it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect that such glorious old bards — bards who very pro- bably owed all their talents to native genius, yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — that their very names — O, how mortifying to a bard's vanity ! — are now ' buried among the wreck of things which were.' O, ye illustrious names unknown ! who could feel so strongly, and describe so well — the last, the meanest * of the muses' train — one who, though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and, with trem- bling wing, would sometimes soar after you ; a poor rustic bard unknown pays this sympathetic pang to your memory. Some of you tell us, with all the charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate in the world, unfortunate in love : he, too, has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the woman he loved. Like you, all his consolation was his muse ; she taught him in rustic measures to complain : happy could he have done it with your strength of imagination and flow of verse ! May the turf lie lightly on your bones, and may you now enjoy that solace and rest which the world rarely gives to the heart tuned to all the feel- ings of poesie and love !" Much of the man and the poet is visible in this remarkable pas- sage ; it prepares us for his approaching sun- burst of poetry, which lightened more than Carrick and Kyle. Those who imagine Burns to have been only a rhyming, raving youth, who sauntered on the banks of streams, in lonely glens, and by castles grey, musing on the moon, and woman, and other inconstant things, do him injustice ; a letter in 1783 to his cousin, James Burness, writer in Montrose, shews something of the world around him. — " This country, till of late, was flourishing incredibly in the manu- facture of silk, lawn, and carpet- weaving ; and we are still carrying on a good deal in that way, but much reduced from what it was. We had also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a starving condition on account of it. Farming is also at a very low ebb with us. Our lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and bar- ren ; and our landholders, fall of ideas of farming, gathered from England, and the Lothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance for the odds in the quality of land, and consequently stretch us much beyond what in the event we will be found able to pay. We are also much at a loss for want of proper methods, in our improvements of farm- ing. Necessity compels us to leave our old schemes, and few of us have opportunities of being well informed on new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate beginning of this American war, and its still more unfortu- nate conclusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very fast." Here the poet is sunk, and the observing fanner rises: in the same letter he touches on a theme which had its influence on his own character and habits — at least he imagined so. "There is a great trade of smuggling carried on along our coasts, which, however destructive to the interests of the kingdom at large, cer- tainly enriches this comer of it, but too often at the expense of our morals. However, it enables individuals to make, at least for a time, a splendid appearance ; but fortune, as is usual with her when she is uncommonly lavish of her favours, is generally even with them at the last: and happy were it for numbers of them, if she would leave them no worse than when she found them." At the period to which this rotors, many farmers on the sea-coast woro engaged in the contraband trade : their horses and 'servants i9 16 LIFE OF BURNS. 1783. were frequently employed in disposing, before the dawn, of importations, made during the cloud of night ; and though Burns, perhaps, took no part in the traffic, he associated with those who carried it on, and seemed to think that insight into new ways of life, and human character, more than recompensed him for the risk he ran. It is dangerous for a bare hand to pluck a lily from among nettles ; men of few virtues and many follies are unsafe companions. " I have often observed," he says, " in the course of my experience of human life, that every man, even the worst, has something good about him, though very often nothing else than a happy temperament of constitution inclining him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no man can say in what degree any other per- son, besides himself, can be with strict justice called wicked. Let any of the strictest cha- racter for regularity of conduct among us examine, impartially, how many vices he has never been guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but for want of opportunity; and how many of the weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, because he was out of the line of such temptation. I say, any man who can thus think will scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of mankind around him with a brother's eye. I have often courted the ac- quaintance of that part of mankind, commonly known by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes further than was consistent with the safety of my character. Those who, by thoughtless prodigality or headstrong passions, have been driven to ruin, though disgraced by follies, I have yet found among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friend- ship, and even modesty." All this is true ; but men of evil deeds are not, till they have puri- fied themselves, fit companions for the young and the inflammable. There is no human being so depraved as to be without something which connects him with the sympathies of life. Dirk Hatteraick, before he hung himself, made out a balanced account to his owners, shewing that, though he had cut throats and drowned bant- lings as a smuggler, he could reckon with the house of Middleburg for every stiver. It is more pleasing to perceive, in the Poet's early prose, sentiments similar to those which he afterwards more poetically expressed in his " Address to the Rigidly Righteous." " Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman ; Tho' they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human. One point must still be greatly dark, The reason why they do it ; And just as lamely can ye mark, How far, perhaps, they rue it." The people of Kyle were slow in apprecia- ting this philosophy. When they saw him hand-and-glove with roving smugglers, or sit- ting with loose comrades, who scorned the de- cencies of life, or looking seriously at a horde of gypsies huddled together in a kiln, or musing among " randie, gangrel bodies " in Poosie Nancie's, they could not know that, like a painter, he was studying character, and making sketches for future pictures of life and man- ners : they saw nothing but danger to him- self from such society. And here lies the secret of the complaint he has recorded against the world, in his twenty-fourth year. — " I don't well know what is the reason of it, but, some- how or other, though I am pretty generally beloved, yet I never could find the art of com- manding respect. I imagine it is owing to my being deficient in, what Sterne calls, the under- strapping virtue of discretion." No doubt of it. The sober and sedate saw that he respected not himself; they loved him for his manliness of character, and eloquence, and independence ; but they grieved for a weakness out of which they could not see that strength and moral beauty would come. The glory of his poetry was purchased at a price too dear for himself. " In Irvine," says Gilbert, "he had contracted some acquaint- ance of a freer manner of thinking, whose society prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue, which had hitherto restrained him." — " The principal thing which gave my mind a turn," says Burns to Dr. Moore, "was a friendship I formed with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a napless child of misfortune. He was the son of a simple me- chanic ; but a great man, taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with a view of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying, just as he was ready to launch out into the world, he Avent to sea in despair. His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and, of course, strove to imitate him ; in some measure I succeeded. I had pride before ; but he taught it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than myself, where woman was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with horror. Here his friendship did me a mis- chief." Richard Brown, to whom this refers, survived the storms which threatened ship- wreck to his youth, and lived and died re- spected. When spoken to on the subject, he exclaimed, " Illicit love ! levity of a sailor ! The Poet had nothing to learn that way when I saw him first." That Burns talked and thought too freely and indiscreetly, in his early years, we have evidence in verse. In his memorandum-book .ETAT. 24. MOSSGIEL— TARBOLTON CLUB. 17 there are entries which, amid all their spirit and graphic beauty, contain levities of expression which may be tolerated when the wine is flow- ing and the table in a roar, but which look not so becoming on the sober page which reflec- tion has sanctioned. In May, 1785, he wrote the lively chant called " Robin," in which he gives an account of his birth : " There was a lad was born in Kyle, But what'n a day o' what'n a style I doubt its hardly worth our while To be sae nice wi' Robin. " The gossip keekit in his loof, Quo' she, wha lives will see the proof, This waly boy will be nae coof — I think we'll ca' him Robin. "But sure as three times three mak nine, I see, by ilka score and line, This chap will dearly like our kin', So leeze me on thee, Robin." In these lines he approaches the border-land between modesty and impropriety — we must quote no farther, nor seek to shew the Poet in still merrier moods. Burns, in all respects, arose from the people : he worked his way out of the darkness, drudgery, and vulgarities of rus- tic life, and, in spite of poverty, pain, and dis- appointment, emerged, into the light of heaven. He was surrounded by coarse and boisterous companions, who fit for admiring the ruder sallies of his wit, but incapable of un- derstanding those touches of moral pathos and exquisite sensibility with which his sharpest things are accompanied. They perceived but the thorns of the rose — they felt not its fine odour. The spirit of poesie led him, in much peril, through the prosaic wilderness around, and prepared him for asserting his right to one of the highest places in the land of song. As the elder Burness was now dead, the Poet had to exercise his own judgment in the affairs of Mossgiel : at first all seemed to prosper. — " I had entered," he says, " upon this farm with a full resolution — ' Come, go to, I will be wise ;' I read farming books ; I calculated crops ; I attended markets ; and, in short, in spite of the devil, the world and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately buying bad seed, the second from the late harvest, Ave lost half our crops. This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, 'like the dog to his vomit, and the sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire.' " — " The farm of Mossgiel," says Gilbert, "lies very high, and mostly on a cold, wet bottom. The first four years that we were on the farm were very frosty, and the spring was very late. Our crops, in conse- quence, were very unprofitable, and, notwith- standing our utmost diligence and economy, we found ourselves obliged to give up our bar- gain, with the loss of a considerable portion of our original stock." The judgment could not be great which selected a farm that lay high, on a cold, wet bottom, and purchased bad seed- corn. That Burns put his hand to the plough and laboured incessantly there can be no doubt — but an unsettled head gives the hands much to do : when he put pen to paper, all thoughts of crops and cattle vanished ; he only noted down ends of verse and fragments of song : his copy of Small's Treatise on Ploughs is now before me ; not one remark appears on the margins ; but on the title-page is written " Robert Burns, Poet." He had now decided on his vocation. This study of song, love of reading, wan- derings in woods, nocturnal excursions in matters of love, and choice of companions, who had seen much and had much to tell, was, unconsciously to himself, forcing Burns upon the regions of poesie. To these may be added the establishment of a club, in which subjects of a moral or domestic nature were discussed. The Tarbolton club consisted of some half- dozen young lads, sons of farmers ; the Poet who planned it was the ruling star ; the place of meeting was a small public-house in the vil- lage 5 the sum expended by each was not to exceed three-pence, and, with the humble cheer which this could bring, they were, when the debate was concluded, to toast their lasses and the continuance of friendship. Here he found a vent for his own notions, and as the club met regularly and continued for years, he disci- plined himself into something of a debater and acquired a readiness and fluency of language 5 he was never at a loss for thoughts. Burns drew up the regulations. — "As the great end of human society," says the exor- dium, to become wiser and better, this ought, therefore, to be the principal view of every man in every station of life. But, as experience has taught us that such studies as inform the head and mend the heart, when long continued, are apt to exhaust the faculties of the mind, it has been found proper to relieve and unbend the mind, by some employment or another, that may be agreeable enough to keep its powers in exercise, but, at the same time, net so serious as to exhaust them. But, super- added to this, by far the greater part of man- kind are under the necessity of earning the sustenance of human life, by the labour of their bodies, whereby not only the faculties of the mind, but the sinews and nerves of the body, are so fatigued that it is absolutely necessary to have recourse to some amusement or diver- sion, to relieve the wearied man, worn down with the necessary labours of life." The first meeting was held on Halloween, in the year 1780. Burns was president, and the question of debate was, " Suppose a young man, bred a farmer, but without any fortune, lias if in his power to marry either of two women, the one a girl of large fortune, but neither handsome 18 LIFE OF BURNS. 1785. in person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm well enough ; the other of them a girl . way agreeable, in person, conversation, and behaviour, bat without any fortune: which of them Bhall he choose?" Other questions similar tendency were discussed, and many matters regarding domestic duties and social obligations were considered. This rustic in- stitution united the means of instruction with happiness ; but, on the removal of the poet a Lochlea, it lost the spirit which gave it life, and, dissensions arising, the club was scat- tered, and the records, much of them in Burns' hand-writing, destroyed. No sooner ^as the Poet settled at Mossgiel, than he was requested to aid in forming a similar club in Mauchline. The regulations of the Tarbolton institution suggested those of the other ; but the fines for non-attendance, instead of being spent in drink, were laid out in the purchase of hooks ; the first work thus obtained the Mirror, the second the Lounger, and the time was not distant when the founder's genius was to supply them with a work not 'If- tined soon to die. This society subscribed for the first edition of the poems of its cele- brated associate. The members were originally country lads, chiefly sons of husbandmen — a ■iption of persons, in the opinion of Burns, more agreeable in their manners, and more de- sirous of improvement, than the smart, self- conceited mechanics of towns, who were ready to wrangle and dispute on all topics, and whose \anitv would never allow that they w( re confuted. One of the biographers of Burns has raised what the Poet calls'' a } hilosophic reek," on the propriety of refining the minds of* hinds and tanner-, h\ means of works of elegance and delicacy: without believing, with Currie, that if not a positive evil, it is a doubtful blessing, may question whether more than a dozen, out often thousand hinds and mechanics, would feel inconvenience from increased delicacy of ;i ■ number such lessons would be rly lost, lor no polish can convert a com- mon pebble into a diamond ; while, from the minds of many, it would remove the weeds with the same discriminating hand that the Poet cleared his rig| rn, and ki spared the symbol & b cottish thistle. En ti the danger which Currie dreaded has been en- countered and overcome ; more than all the he enumerated, as forming the reading of Burns, are to be found in the hands of the i" asantrj of Scotland. .Milton, Thorn Young, poets of the highest order and of poll*] [ known to the b i the Bible is: yet no one has com- plains d that a furrow more Or ]< • ha been drawn in ace, that Our shepherds i >o delicate a Hi and that our rustics are oppressed by a fastidi- ous nicety of taste. It would have been better for the Poet if he had maintained that purity in himself, which, in the regulations of his clubs, he desired to see in others. The consequences of keeping company with the free and the joyous, were now to be manifested. Soon after his father's death, one of his mother's maids, in person not at all attractive, produced his "Sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess," and furnished him with the opportunity of standing, as a sinner, on the stool of repentance, and commemorating the event in rhymes, licen- tious as well as humorous. He had already sung of his own birth in a free and witty way, and he now put a song into the mouth of the partner of his folly, in which she cries, with rather more of levity than sorrow — " Wha will own he did the fau't, Wha will buy the groanin-maut, Wha will tell me how to ca't? The rantin' dog, the daddie o"t. " When I mount the creepie chair, Wha will sit beside me there ? Gie me Rob, I'll ask nae mair, The rantin' dog, the daddie o't." Nor can any one applaud the taste of "Rob the Rhymer's Address to his Illegitimate Child :" he glories in a fault which, he imagines, perplexed the church ; for, he sought not to conceal from himself, that both the minis- ter and elders were all but afraid of meddling with a delinquent, who could make the country merry at their expense. In a third poem, he gives a ludicrous account of his appearance before the session, and of the admonition he received. Instead of promising amendment, he draws consolation from Scripture with equal audacity and wit :— " King David, o' poetic brief, Wrought 'mang the lasses such mischief, As fill'd his after life with grief, An' bluidy rants, An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief O' lang-syne saunts. " And maybe, Tarn, for a' my cants, My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, I'll gi'e auld cloven Clootie's haunts An unco slip yet, An' snugly sit amang the saunts At Davie's hip yet." It is painful to touch, even with a gentle band, on the moral sores of so fine a genius, but his character cannot be understood other- wise : almost any other erring youth would have resigned himself, without resistance, to the discipline of the kirk, and bowed to its rebuke : Burns was not to be so tamed— stricken, he Btruck again, and, instead of courting silence and^ seclusion, sung a, new song, and walked out into the open sunshine of remark and ol> '& jETAT, 2G. OLD AND NEW LIGHT FACTIONS. 19 servation. I cannot set this regardlessness down to growing hardness within, nor to petri- fied feeling : it arose from a want of taste in seeking distinction. " The mair they talk, I'm kenn'd the better," he had already adopted as a motto ; he knew that folly such as his was not uncommon, and he hoped, for one person who censured, there would be two who thought him a clever fellow, with wit at will — a little of a sinner, but a great deal of a poet. This desire of distinction was strong in Burns. In those days he would not let a five pound note pass through his hands, without bearing away a witty endorsement in rhyme : a drinking-glass always afforded space for a verse : the blank leaf of a book was a favourite place for a stanza ; and the windows of inns, and even dwelling-houses, which he frequented, exhibit to this day lively sallies from his hand. Yet, perhaps, a love of fame was not stronger in him than in others. In his time magazines were few, and newspapers not numerous ; into the daily, weekly, or monthly papers, aspirants in verse can now pour their effusions : but Burns had no such facilities when he started, and was obliged to take the nearest way to notice. He began, likewise, to talk of his exploits over the pint-stoup : he gave to him- self, in one of his rhymes, the name of " drunken ranter," and, with ordinary powers, and but a moderate inclination, desired to be numbered with five - bottle debauchees, who saw three horns on the moon, and had " A voice like the sea, and a drouth like a whale." He went farther: he asserted, with Meston, good rhyme to be the product of good drink, and sung — " I've seen me daizet upon a time I scarce could wink, or see a styme, Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime, Ought less is little ; Then back I rattle on the rhyme As gleg's a whittle." This vaunted insobriety in verse must not be taken literally. We have seen Burns passion- ately in love in rhyme — we know that he was not less so with his living goddess of the hour ; but it was otherwise with him in the matter of strong drink. He was no practised toper, but thought it necessary to look a gay fellow in poetry. Inspiration, in both ancient and mo- dern times, has been imputed to wine, and Burns wished to be thought inspired. Wine was out of his reach ; his muse found her themes among humble and familiar things, and it Mas his boast that the Ferintosh could work intellectual wonders as well as the Falerniau. For others, he wished Parnassus a vineyard ; but for himself, he preferred the banks of the Ayr or the Lugar, to those of Helicon, and the juice of barley to that of the grape. When he had neither money to spend on liquor, nor health to relish it, he was chanting songs in honour of tippling ; putting himself down in the list of topers, and recording that whiskey was the northern ambrosia, too good for all, save gods or Scotsmen. This is not unlike the madness of Johnson from poverty, at College. In the case of Burns, there was something national as well as personal : whiskey and ale are the offspring of the Scottish vales, and he preferred them to " dearthfu' wine or foreign gill." Liquor was not then, and I believe never was, a settled desire of soul with the Poet. When Burns supposed that his "drunken rants" and nocturnal excursions among the lasses of Kyle had made him " Slander's common speech, A text for infamy to preach," he found, to his surprise, that in another way he had won the approbation of certain minis- ters of the kirk of Scotland. How this came about may be briefly described. Calvinism, at that time, was agitated with a schism among its professors, and the factions were known in the west by the names of Old Light and New Light. The Old Light enthusiasts aspired to be ranked with the purest of the Covenanters ; they patronized austerity of manners and hu- mility of dress, and stigmatized much that the world loved, as things vain and unessential to salvation. The New Light countenanced no such self-denial ; men were permitted to gallop on Sunday, to make merry and enjoy them- selves ; and women were indulged in the article of dress, and failings or follies were treated with mercy at least, if not indulgence. The former refused to lean on the slender reed of human woiks, thought a good deed savoured of selfishness, and that faith, and faith alone, was the light which led to heaven : the latter thought a cheerful heart was an acceptable thin*' with God 5 that good works helped to make a good end, and that faith, and faith alone, was not religion, but a false light, which led to perdition. Like the writers in the late singular controversy on Art and Nature in Poetry, the divines of the west of Scotland perhaps never concluded that faith and works were both essential to salvation, and that, in truth, Christianity required them. Each side thundered from the pulpit ; their sermons partook of the character of curses, and their conversation in private life had the hue of controversy. Their parishioners, too, raised up their voices — for, in Scotland, the meanest pea- sant can be eloquent and puzzling on speculative theology— and the whole land rung with mys- tical discussions on effectual calling, free grace, and predestination, when Burns precipitated himself into the midst o\' the conflict. The Poet sided with the New Light faction. For this several reasons may be assigned — ho was not educated closely in the tenets of Cal- z-- '20 LIFE OF BURNS. 1785. vinism ; and his own good taste and sense taught him that faith without works was folly. His experience in church discipline, in the case of "Sonsie Bess," had not tended to increase his for the Old Light professors, among whom " Daddie Auld." his parish pastor, was a Leader. Moreover, Gavin Hamilton, of whom lit- held his land, was not only a New-Light- b it a friend of the Poet, and a martyr in the cause of free-agency. We may add to all this, that the Poet naturally fell into the ranks of those who allowed greater liherty of speech, and a wider longitude of morals. Perhaps the chiefs of the Old"" Light Association would have regarded little an attack in prose, as to such missiles they were accustomed; but their new enemy assaulted them with a weapon against which the armour of dulness was no defence. He attacked and vanquished them with witty verse, much to the joy of the children of the New Liu lit. and greatiy to the amusement of the country. Of the effect of these satiric attacks, the Poet himself gives an account to Moore : — " The first of my poetic offspring which saw the light was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel be- tween two reverend Cah inists, both of them dwamatia persona in my ' Holy Fair.' I had a notion myself that the piece had some merit: but, to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to ;i friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess who was the author of it. hut that I thougdit it pretty clever. With a certain de-eription of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. • Holy Wilbe^s Prayer' next made its appear- ance, and alarmed the kirk -session so much that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery — if haply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers." This is al- most ull t!::it the Poet s;iys of his satiric labours in aid of the New Light. The poem to which he first alludes is called ''The lloly Tuilzie," and relates the bickering and battling which between Moodie, minister of Kiccarton, and Russel, minister of Kilmarnock — both child- ren of the Old Light. The noetic merit of the i- -mall; the personalities marked and strong. "The Ordination" succeeded, and is in a better vein. There is ancommon freedom of l a ng uage and happiness of expression in al- most everj verse. The crowning satire of the whole i- •• Holy Willie's Prayer," a daring work, personal, poetical, and profane. The hero of the piece wasa weal country pretender perktive godliness : one of the' Old Light •''i elder .,f toe kirk a man with man; failings, u ho made himself busj in search- ing tor faults iii the Sock. Hum"-, firsi sig- nalized him in mi epitaph, in which he consigns him to reprobation, and then warns the de\ il ■ aine-tailed cat? on such b con- temptible delinquent would br little to his own credit. Then he makes Willie honestly confess his own backslidings, and explain predestination in a way that causes us to shudder as well as to smile : — " O Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for onie guid or ill They 've done afore thee !" He next bethinks him of his own glory and errors 5 the latter, it is quite plain, he considers but as spots in the sun — specks in the cup of the cowslip. He claims praise in the singular, and acknowledges folly in the plural : — ■ " And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, Vile self gets in ; But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd in sin." Nor can Burns be said to have overlooked his own interest ; he compliments Hamilton of Mossgiel as one — " Who has so many taking arts, Wi' great and sma', Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts, He steals awa'." In a similar strain of poetry and wit, he, in another poem of the same period, congratulates Goudie of Kilmarnock on his work respecting revealed religion. The reasoning and the learn- ing of the essayist are slumbering with all for- gotten things ; but the verses they called into life are not fated soon to die : — " O Goudie ! terror of the Whigs. Dread of black coats and reverend wigs, Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, Girning looks back, Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues Wad seize you quick." Iii after-life the poet seemed little inclined to remember the verses he composed on this ridi- culous controversy ; and I have heard that he was unwilling to talk about the subject. Per- haps he felt that he had launched the burning darts of verse against men of blameless lives, and honesty, and learning ; that his muse had wasted some of her time on a barren and pro- fitless topic, and had sung less from her own heart than for the gratification of others. Of all these poems, he admitted but the "Ordina- tion" into his works, willing, it would seem, to let the rest die with the controversy which occasioned them. The New Light professors seemed to care little what sort of weapon they employed : the verse of Burns has two edges, like a Highland sword, and Presbyterianism Buffered us well as the Old Light. It is almost incredible that venerable clergymen applauded those profane sallies, learned them by heart, car- ried copies in their pockets, and quoted and re- JET AT. 26. HIS PERSON AND MANNERS. 21 cited them till they grew popular, and were on every lip. Even " Holy Willie's Prayer" was countenanced by the New Light pastors. Among the Poet's papers was found an epistle to the Rev. John Mac Math, enclosing a copy of the Prayer which he had requested ; the date of this communication, Sept. 17, 1785, fixes the season of this western dispute. It seems, however, to approach the close ; the Poet is grown weary of his work, as well he might : — " My musie, tir'd with mony a sonnet, On gown, and band, and douce black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she's done it, Lest they should blame her, An' rouse their holy thunder on it, And anathem her." Burns, during this drudgery, was strengthen- ing his hands for higher and purer duties. In labouring to accommodate his thoughts, and " Riving the words to gar them clink," in unison with the technicalities of mystical controversy, he was acquiring an almost auda- cious vigour of expression, and a ready skill in handling subjects either of fact or of fancy. It is true that he learned to speak profanely, but then this was in the service of the kirk ; he learned something more when he dined with drunken lawyers, and grew tipsy among godly priests. The muse of Kyle helped to extinguish the Old Light, but she left predestination where she found it. A Mauchline mason said to the Poet, when he read him " Holy Willie's Prayer," " It's a' very weel and veiy witty, and I have laughed that shouldna have laughed ; but ye'll no hinder me from thinking that Pro- vidence kenn'd weel what he was doing when he made man — foresaw the upshot — wha was to be good and wha was to be bad ; and know- ing this, and making man a fallible creature still, looks as like predestination as ought I ever heard of." These satiric rhymes established the fame of Burns in his native place ; his company was now courted by country lairds, village lawyers, and parish school-masters, and by all persons who had education above common, or kept some state in their households. He was always wel- come to Gavin Hamilton and his family ; equally so to Robert Aiken, a worthy writer in Ayr ; and now he became so to all who had any relish for wit, or any soul for poetry. He was at once the companion of the grave and of the giddy ; noAV dining with the minister and a douce friend or two at the manse ; then presiding in a Mason- meeting, chanting songs, and pushing about tho punch with the " brethren of the mystic level," or communing on the severity of the ex- cise laws with a " blackguard smuggler," or some Highland envoy from the dominions of Ferintosh, whose " cousin did as good as keep a small still." When he appeared in company 6: he was expected to say something clever or shrewd ; he was pointed out at church and at market, and peasant spoke of him to peasant as a wild, witty lad, who lived at Mossgiel, and had all the humour of Ramsay, and more than the spirit of Fergusson. It is humiliating to think that works which Burns seemed willing to forget brought him first into notice. Some of the most exqui- site lyrics ever said or sung failed to do for him what " The Holy Tuilzie" and " The Ordina- tion" accomplished at once : and there can be no question that " Holy Willie's Prayer" and the " Epistle to Goudie" prepared the minds of the people around him for admiring his " Hal- loween" and his "Cotter's Saturday Night." In truth, poetry, which only embodies senti- ments and feelings common to our nature, can- not compete, in the race of immediate fame, with verse appealing to our passions and our pre- judices, and glowing with the heat of a passing dispute. Time settles and explains all. The true Florimel is found to be of delicate flesh and blood, breathing of loveliness and attraction, and adorned by nature ; while the false Duessa, is discovered to be a thing of shreds and patches, with jewels of glass, and an artificial complex- ion. Nature and truth finally triumph, and to nature and truth Burns accordingly returned. He left the agitated puddles of mysticism to drink at the pure springs with the muse of love, and joy, and patriotism. Of the person and manners of the Poet, at this important period of his life, we have various accounts ; but the portraits, although differing in posture as well as in light and shade, all express the same sentiment. He was now grown up to man's estate, and had taken his station as such in society : he was the head, too, of his father's house, and though his ex- penses were regulated upon a system of close economy, his bargains, as a farmer, controlled by his brother Gilbert, and his demeanour at the fire-side under the mild influence of his mother, he had in all other matters his own will. He has recorded much of himself at this period both in verse and prose, nor can this be set down to egotism : from all the world, save the little community of Kyle, lie was completely shut out, and he turned his eyes on himself, and wrote down his own hopes and aspirations. He has even recorded his stature in rhyme : — " O ! why the deuce should I repine, Or be an ill foreboder ? I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine, I'll go and be a sodgcr." His large dark expressive ryes : his swarthy visage ; his broad brow, shaded with black waving hair ; his melancholy look, and his well-knit frame, vigorous and active — all united to draw men's eyes upon him. He affected, too, a certain oddity of dress and manner. lit •2-2 LIFE OF BURNS. 1785. was clever in controversy ; but obstinate, and even fierce, when contradicted, as most men are who have built up their opinions for themselves. He used with much taste the common pithy saws and happy sayings of his country, and in- vigorated his eloquence by apt quotations from old songs or ballads. He courted controversy, and it was to this period that Murdoch, the accomplished mechanic, referred, when he told in ■ that he once heard Burns haranguing his fellow-peasants on religion at the door of a change-house, and so unacceptable were his re- marks that some old men hissed him away. Nor must it be supposed that, even when listened to, he was always victorious. — " Burns, sir," said one of his old opponents, " was a 'cute chield and a witty ane, but he didna half like to have my harrow coming owrc his new-fangled notions." The early companions of the Poet were men above the common mark. Smith, to whom he addressed some of his finest poetic epistles, was a person of taste and sagacity ; David Sillar, a good scholar, and something of a poet; Ranken, an out-spoken, ready-witted man, and a little of a scoffer ; Lapraik lived at a distance ; he had written at least one song worthy of notice. Hamilton was open-hearted and open-handed, and of a good family ; Aiken seems to have abounded in good sense and good feeling; Bal- luntyne was much of a gentleman ; Parker, kind and generous ; Mackenzie, of Irvine, a skilful surgeon and a good scholar, who intro- duced the Poet to Dugald Stewart, Whiteford, Kr-kine, and Blair ; — but his chief comrade and confidant was his brother Gilbert, who at an early age distinguished himself for sense and discernment. " Gilbert," says Mackenzie, "partook more of the manner and appearance of the father, and Robert of the mother. In the first inter- \ lew I had with him at Lochlea, he was frank, mode t, well - informed, and communicative. The Poet Beemed distant, suspicious, and with- out any wish to interest or please. He kept himself very silent in a dark corner of the room, and, before he took any part in conversation, I fri quentlj observed him scrutinizing me, while ed with hifl father and his brother. Prom the period of which I speak, I took a lively interest in Robert Burns. Eventhenhis ition was rich in well-chosen figures, animated and energetic, Indeed, 1 have always thought that no person could have a jusl idea of the extent of Burns' talents who had not heard him converse. His discrimination of cha- jreatl} beyond that of any person [ ever knew, and I have often observed to him thai it Be med to be intuitive. I seldom ever knew him mal timate of character when be formed the opinion from his own observation." '' he -' etcn drawn by Sillar is of another kind : " B >b rl Burns was Bome time in the P irin ■' ", prior i" my acquaintance with him. His social disposition easily pro- cured him acquaintance ; but a certain satirical seasoning with which he and all poetical geniuses are in some degree influenced, while it set the rustic circle in a roar, was not unaccompanied with suspicious fear. I recollect hearing his neighbours observe, he had a great deal to say for himself, but that they suspected his prin- ciples. He wore the only tied hair in the parish ; and in the church his plaid, which was of a particular colour (I think fillemot), he wrapped in a peculiar manner round his should- ers. These surmises, and his exterior, made me solicitous of his acquaintance. I was intro- duced by Gilbert not only to his brother, but to the whole of that family, where, in a short time, I became a frequent, and, I believe, not unwelcome, visitant. After the commencement of my acquaintance with the bard, we fre- quently met upon Sundays at church ; when, between sermons, instead of going with our friends or our lasses to the inn, we often took a walk in the fields. In these walks, I have often been struck with his facility in addressing the fair sex : many times when I have been bashfully anxious how to express myself, he would have entered into conversation with them, with the greatest ease and freedom ; and it was generally a death-blow to our conversation, how- ever agreeable, to meet a female acquaintance. Some of the few opportunities of a noon-tide walk that a country life allows her laborious sons, he spent on the banks of the river, or in the woods, in the neighbourhood of Stair. Some book or other he always carried, and read, when not otherwise employed ; it was likewise his custom to read at table." A third hand completes the sketch : — " Though Burns," says Professor Walker, " was still un- known as a Poet, he already numbered several clergymen among his acquaintance : one of these communicated to me a circumstance which con- veyed, more forcibly than many words, an idea of the impression made upon his mind by the powers of the Poet. This gentleman had re- peatedly met Burns in company, when the acuteness and originality displayed by the latter, the depth of his discernment, the force of his expressions, and the authoritative energy of his understanding, had created in the former a sense of his power, of the extent of which he was unconscious till revealed to him by accident. The second time that he appeared in the pul- pit, he came with an assured and tranquil mind ; and though a few persons of education were present, he advanced some length in the ser- vice with his confidence and self-possession un- impaired. But when he observed Burns, who was of a, different parish, unexpectedly enter the church, he was instantly affected with a tremour and embarrassment, which apprized him of the impression his mind, unknown to itself, had previously received." MTAT. 26. THE HOLY FAIR, &c. 23 Authorities such as these confute the incon- siderate assertions of Heron, respecting the " opening character" of the Poet. We have no proof that he became discontented in early life with the humble labours to which he saw him- self confined, and with the poor subsistence he was able to earn by them — that he could not help looking upon the rich and great whom he saw around, witli an emotion between envy and contempt, as if something had still whis- pered to his heart that there was injustice in the external inequality between his fate and theirs. The early injuries of fortune oppressed him at times ; but, till he was thirty years old, his spirit was buoyant and unbroken, and he looked with an unclouded brow on the world around him. In " The Holy Fair," the Poet, accidentally or purposely, rose out of the lower regions of personal invective into the purer air of true poetry, and gave us a picture of singular breadth and beauty. The aim of the poem is chiefly to reprehend, by means of wit and humour, those almost indecent festivities which, in many western parishes, accompany the administration of the sacrament. Instead of preaching to the staid and the pious under the roof of the kirk, the scene is transferred to the open church-yard, where a tent or pulpit is erected for the preachers ; while, all around, the people of the parish seat themselves on graves or grave-stones, decorously to look and listen. In the earlier days of the church, when men were more in earnest, there is no doubt that a scene such as this in the open air was attended with nothing of an objection- able nature ; nay, at present, the thoughtful and the serious contemplate it as something edify- ing and impressive ; but with the pious and the orderly come swarms of the idle and the pro- fligate ; bevies of lads and lasses keep moving about, in search of better seats or finer points of view, and tiring, or affecting to tire, of the ser- mon, which is sometimes of the longest, retire to a neighbouring change-house, or to the open door of an ale-booth, where, as they empty the glass, they may hear the voice of the preacher. There is no doubt that these " Holy Fairs," as they were scoffingly called, afforded scenes more than justifying serious as well as sarcastic re- proof. In the poem, Burns here and there shews he had been reading other poets. His allegorical personages are partly copied from Fergusson, and the hares that hirpled down the furs did the same for Montgomery. "The farcical scene the Poet there describes," says Gilbert, " was often a favourite field for his observation, and most of the incidents he men- tions had actually passed before his eyes." Burns now openly took upon himself the name of Poet ; he not only wrote it in his books, but wrought it into his rhymes, and be- gan to entertain hopes of distinction in the realms of song. But nothing, perhaps, marks the character of the man more than the alteration which he made in his own name. He had little relish for by-gone things ; there are few gazings back at periods of honour or of woes in all his strains. The name he had hitherto borne was of #ld standing, the Poet sat in judgment upon it, concluded that it had a barbarous sound, and threw away Burness — a name two syllables long, and adopted that of Burns in its stead. Had his father been alive, this might not have happened. On the 20th of March, 1786, he says to one of his Correspondents : — " I hope some time before we hear the gouk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend having a gill between us in a mutchkin stoup, which will be a great comfort and conso- lation to, dear Sir, your humble servant, Robert Burness." — This is the latest time that I find his original name in his own hand-writing ; it is plain, that up to this period, he imagined he had achieved nothing under that of his father deserving to live. On the 20th of April he wrote his name "Burns" in a letter enclosing to his friend Kennedy that beautiful poem the "Mountain Daisy," headed "The Gowan." This was with the Poet a season of changes. Burns commenced emblazoning his altered name with all that is bright and lasting in verse. From the day that he entered upon Mossgiel with the resolution of becoming rich, till the dark hour on which he quitted it, re- duced well nigh to beggary, he continued to pour forth poem after poem, and song succeed- ing song, with a variety and rapidity truly won- derful. His best poems are the offspring of those four unfortunate years, and the history of each has something in it of the curious or the romantic. "The Death and dying words of poor Mailie," and, better still, " Poor Mailie's Elegy," suggested to him probably by " The Ewie wi' the crooked horn " of Skinner, were written before the death of his father — at least the former was. The Poet had, it seems, bought a ewe with two lambs from a neighbour, aud tethered her in a field at Lochlea. " He and I," says Gilbert, " were going out with our teams, and our two younger brothers to drive for us, at mid-day, when Hugh Wilson, a cu- rious-looking awkward boy, clad in plaiding, came to us with much anxiety in his face, with the information that the ewe had entangled her- self in the tether, and was lying in the ditch." The "Elegy" has much of the Poet's latter freedom and force. He had caressed this four- footed favourite till she followed at his heels like a dog : — "Through a' the town she trotted hy him, A lang half-mile she could descry him, Wi' kindly lilcat. when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed ; A friend mair faithfu' ne'er come nigh him, [ [ailie dead." One of the rejected verses ought to be remem- 24 LIFE OF BURNS. 1785. bered in Kyle, were it but for the honour done to the lambs of Fairlee : — ■ "She was nae get o' runted rams, Wi' woo' like goats, an' legs like trams, She was the flower o' Fairlee lambs, A famous breed ; Now Robin, greetin' chews the hams O' Mailie dead." The image in the two last lines is out of har- mony with the sentiment of the poem ; and Bums, whose taste was born with him, omitted the verse in consequence. The " Epistle to David Sillar " was written some time in the summer of 1784. Burns was in the habit of composing verse at the plough or the harrow : — he turned it over in his mind for several days, and when he had polished it to his satisfaction, or found a moment's leisure, he committed it to paper. Gilbert relates that lie was weeding with Robert in the kail-yard, when he repeated the principal part of the Epistle. The first idea of his becoming an author was then started. " I was much pleased," says his brother, "with the Epistle, and said to him that I was of opinion it would bear be- ing printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste : that I thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ram- say's epistles, and that the merit of these, and much other Scottish poetry, seemed to consist principally in the knack of the expression ; but here there was a train of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarcely seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the poet; that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the consolations that were in store for him when he should go a-begging. Robert seemed pleased with my criticism, and we talked of sending it i ■ magazine." If we credit the accuracy of the verse, and the memory of Gilbert, the Poet was, in 1784, acquainted with Jean Armour, and had become her admirer and lover. But it is more likely that the verse to which her name occurs was added afterwards, unless we believe that he had made an inroad among the " Mauchline belles," almosl ;■ boos as he went to Mossgiel. His Epistles are of high merit. They are, perhaps, the finest compositions of the kind in the lan- airy, elegant, and philosophic — with more nature than Prior's Epistle to " Fletwood Shepherd," and equal power of illustration. He had already begun to take those serious looks at human life of v. hich his poems are full ; nor did he fail to perceive how unequally the gifts of fortuni . as u. II as those of -ruins, are divided. it's hardly in a bodj '■ power, p ;it. time* from being "our, To -■ ft How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And kenna how to wair't." He lived long enough to think more deeply and more darkly on this topic. At present the world was brightening before him — the mist seemed rolling away from his path, and he felt disposed to enjoy life without murmuring. The epistolary form was a favourite way with Burns of giving air to his opinions and feelings ; when he had doubts of fame — was o'ermastered with his passions — or disgusted with " The tricks of knaves and fash of fools," he lifted the pen and indited an epistle to a friend, and poured out the loves, the cares, the sorrows, the joys, the hopes, and fears of the passing moment. It is truly wonderful with what ease and felicity — nay, with what elegance, he twines the garlands of his fancy round a barren topic. Much of his history may be sought for in these compositions. In his " Epistle to James Smith," he alludes to his Poems : intimates that he had thoughts of printing them, pretends to take alarm at the sight of moths revelling on the pages of authors : — " Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters." and philosophically exclaims, as well as poeti- cally — " Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs To garland my poetic brows : Henceforth I'll rove where busy plough Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lonely heights an' howes My rustic sang." _ Burns takes a loftier view of the matter in his epistle to Lapraik, written on the first of April, 1785. He intimates that he is no poet, in the high acceptation of the word j but a rhymer, who deals in homely words, and has no pretence to learning. He pulls himself down, but he refuses to let any one else up ; he prefers a spark of nature's fire to all the arti- ficial heat of education, and speaks contemptu- ously of " critic folk," and learned judges : — " What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; If honest Nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars ? Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers. " A scto' dull, conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes ! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak : An' syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o'Greekl" in a second epistle to the same person, Burns claims for "the ragged followers of the Nine" a life of immortal light, and presents to their contemplation the sordid sons of Mammon suffering under the transmigration of souls: — M MTAT 26. ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 25 " Though here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl, Their worthless neivefu' of a soul May in some future carcase howl, The forest's fright ; Or in some day-detesting owl May shun the light." In a poetic letter to another of his com- panions, while exalting in the idea of making the rivers and rivulets of Kyle flow bright in future song, he lets us into the secret of his own mode of musing : — "The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, Till by himseP he learned to wander Adown some trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang ! O ! sweet to stray, an' pensive ponder A heartfelt sang ! ' ' Of these poems, we are informed that the first epistle to John Lapraik was written in con- sequence of a clever song, which that indifferent rhymer had made, under the inspiration of ad- versity. The epistle to Ranken carries its own explanation with it : we may allow it to remain half concealed in the thin mist of allegory. The epistle to Smith is perhaps the very best of all these compositions : the singular ease of the verse ; the moral dignity of one passage ; the wit and humour of a second ; the elegance of compliment in a third ; and the life which animates the whole, must be felt by the most ordinary mind. One of the verses was frequent on the lips of Byron during the darkening down of his own day : " When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,' Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin,' Au' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin,' A.n' social noise ; An' fareweel, dear, deluding woman ! The joy of joys !" In the winter of 1785, Burns composed his "Address to the Deil." His sable majesty is familiar to the imagination of every Scottish peasant, and there are few wild glens in which he has not been heard or seen. The Satan of Milton was a favourite with the Poet 5 he admired his fortitude in enduring what could not be remedied, and pitied a noble and ex- alted mind in ruins. This feeling he united to the traditions of shepherds and husbandmen, and treated the Evil Spirit with much of the respect due to fallen royalty. " It was, I think," says Gilbert, " in the winter, as we were going together with carts for coal to the family fire — and I could yet point out the particular spot — that the author first repeated to me the i Address to the Deil.' " That Burns was now acquainted with Jean Armour, the variations of this poem sufficiently prove : — " Lang syne, in Eden's happy scene, When strappin' Adam's days were green, And Eve was like my bonny Jean, My dearest part, A dancin', sweet, young, handsome quean, Wi' guileless heart." The evil spirit of religious controversy was now fairly out of him : he makes no allusions, though the temptation was great, to the clergy, but treats the subject with natural truth and vigour. All northern natures sympathize in the follow- ing fine stanza : — " I've heard my reverend grannie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray ; Or where auld ruin'd castles gray, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wahd'rer's way Wi' eldritch croon." There is something of serious jocularity in the verse which expresses the Poet's fears and hopes of futurity : — "An' now, auld Cloots, I ken y're thinkin,' A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin' To your black pit ; But, faith ! he'll turn a corner, jinkin', An' cheat you yet." In the contemplated repentance of Satan, Burns seems to hint at universal redemption — a finish- ing touch of fine and unexpected tenderness. The " Halloween" is a happy mixture of the dramatic and the descriptive, and bears the im- press of the manners, customs, and superstitions of the people. We see the scene, and are made familiar with the actors ; we not only see them busied in the mysteries of the night, but we hear their remarks ; nor can we refrain from accom- panying them on their solitary and perilous errands to " winnow wechts of naething, sow hemp-seed, pull kale-stocks, eat apples at the glass;" or, more romantic still, "wet the left sleeve of the shirt where three lairds' lands meet at a burn." The whole poem hovers between the serious and the ludicrous : in delineating the superstitious beliefs and mysterious acts of the evening, Burns keeps his own opinion to him- self. The scene is laid in the last night of har- vest, as the name implies, at a husbandman's fire-side, whose corn is gathered into the stack- yard and the barn ; and the hands which aided in the labour are met — " To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, An' haud their Halloween." They seem not unaware that while they are merry, or looking into futurity, fames are dancing on Cassilis-Downans, and witches are mounted on their " rag-weed nags," hurrying to some wild rendezvous, or concerting, with the author of mischief, fresh woes for man. It is the most equal of all the Poet's compo- sitions. A singular poem, and in its nature personal, was also the offspring of the same year. This is " Death and Doctor Hornbook." The hero of the piece was John Wilson, school-master of the parish of Tarbolton : a person of blame- less life, fond of argument, opinionative, and 26 LIFE OF BURNS. 1785. obstinate. At a mason-meeting, it seems, he provoked the Poet by questioning some of his positions, in a speech stuffed with Latin phrases, and allusions to pharmacy. The future satire dawned on Burns at the moment, for he ex- claimed twice, " Sit down, Doctor Hornbook !" On his way home he seated himself on the parapet of a bridge near "Willie's Mill," and, in the moon-light, began to reflect on what had passed. It then occurred to him that Wilson had added to the moderate income of his school, the profit arising from the sale of a few com- mon medicines ; this suggested an interview with " Death," and all the ironical commenda- tions of the Dominie, which followed. He composed the poem on his perilous seat, and, when he had done, fell asleep ; he was awakened by the rising sun, and, on going home, com- mitted it to paper. It exhibits a singular union of fancy and humour ; the attention is arrested at once by the ludicrous difficulty felt, in counting the horns of the moon, and we expect something to happen when his shadowy majesty comes upon the stage, relates his experience in "nicking the thread and choking the breath," and laments how his scythe and dart are rendered useless by the skill of Dr. Hornbook. On the appearance of the poem, Wilson found the laugh of Kyle too much for him — " The weans haud out their fillers laughin'." So he removed to Glasgow, where he engaged with success in other pursuits. He lives, but loves no one the better, it is averred, for naming the name of the Poet, or making any allusion to the poem. Burns repeated the satire to his brother, during the afternoon of the day on which it was composed. " I was holding the plough," said Gilbert, "and Robert was letting water off the field beside me." 'I he patriotic feelings of the bard were touched when he took up the song of "Scotch Drink," against the government of the day, and uttered his " Earnest cry and prayer to the Scottish representatives in the House of Commons." \h bitter as he sometimes is, and overflowing with humorous satire, these poems abound with natural and noble images; nay, he scolds him- self into a pleasant mood, and scatters praise "M the "chosen Five-and-Forty," with much skill and discrimination. His praise of whiskey is strangely mingled with sadness: — " Pood (ills the wanic, an' keeps us livin' ; fh life's a (;i('r no worth receivin' \ When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin*, But, oil'd by thee, The ■* hi 1 1 o' liir gae down hill, scrievin', WV rattlin' glee. " Thou dean the head <>' doited Lear, Thou < been t!i<- heart s and beautv : — ©: 28 LIFE OF BURNS. 1786. " Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' speckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east." He suddenly turns from the fate of the flower to his own, and draws the same dark conclu- sions as he did in the " Mouse ;" " Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date ; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate, Full on thy bloom ; Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! " His poetry abounds in melancholy predictions about himself; he had visions of beauty and of grandeur, but along with them came darker visions : want and ruin, sorrow and neglect, death and the grave. The immortality con- ferred on this humble flower escaped not the observation of Wordsworth as he passed, in 1833, through the " Land of Burns." '• Myriads of Daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the One That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love." The fine poem of " Man was made to Mourn" was composed by Burns for the purpose of bringing forward a favourite sentiment. — ■" He used to remark to me," says Gilbert, " that he could not well conceive a more mortifying pic- ture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this senti- ment might be illustrated, the elegy of ' Man was made to Mourn ' was composed." The germ of the composition may be found in "The Life and Age of Man," which the Poet's mother was wont to sing to his grand-uncle. The same sentiment is common to both 5 the same form of expression, and the same words may be traced in every verse 5 " Man is made to mourn," is the introductory exclamation of tin; old ; " Man was made to mourn" is the chorus of the new. Nor is the earlier poem without pathos and force; the periods of man's lit'-' are compared to the months of the year: thr child is horn in January, liourishes in July, and dies in December: the parallel is well maintained : — " Then cometh May, gallant and gay, When fragrant Bowen do thrive, The child ii then become a man, ■ twentie~and-five. tubei foil, both hharp and unell, 1 ep to the ground ; Then maa'i threescore, both aick and sore, No toundneM in him found." To make each month of 1 h<- year correspond with five yean of ;> man's life, the moralizing bard of the year sixteen hundred and fifty-three extinguished the faculties of man at sixty ; the bard of seventeen hundred and eighty-six says nothing of life's duration, but sings the sorrows of him who, overwrought and abject, has to beg leave to toil, from a lordly fellow-worm, who scorns his poor petition, and turns him over to idleness and woe. The question which the Poet asks is one not easily answered by the oppressor : — " If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave, By Nature's law design'd, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn ? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn ?" The sage of the banks of Ayr intimates to the indignant bard that a future state, where the great and the wealthy cease from troubling, is the only hope and refuge of those — " who weary laden mourn." His own desolate condition and dreary prospects raised those darksome ideas. In the truly noble poem of the "Vision" Burns imagines himself seated, in a winter night, by his fire, which burns reluctantly ; wearied with the flail, he proceeds to muse on wasted time. In his sight the scene is dark enough ; he has spent the prime of youth in making rhymes for fools to sing ; he has neg- lected advice which would have placed him at the head of a market ; and now, " half-mad, half-fed, half-sarket," he is sitting undistin- guished and poor. Stung with these reflec- tions, he starts up, and is about to swear to refrain rhyme till his latest breath, when the door opens, the fire flames brighter, and a strange and lovely lady comes blushing to his side : — " Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs, Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ; I took her for some Scottish muse, By that same token ; An' come to stop those reckless vows Wou'd soon been broken." His surmise was just : she was the Muse of Kyle — his own inspirer ; nay, she had a hand- some leg like his Mauchline Jean, and looked the express image of his own mind : — "A hair-brain'd, sentimental trace, Was strongly marked in her face, A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her ; Her eye, cv'n turn'd on empty space, Beam'd keen with honour." On her mantle were pictured the district and heroes of Kyle ; but she came to speak, and not to be looked at. She claimed Burns for her own bard ; told him to lament his luckless lot no longer ; that he was there to fulfil the social plan of Nature, and form a not uriim- =0 JETA.T. 27. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 29 portant link in the great chain of being. She was intimate with all his outgoings. Her words are useful to the biographer ; they exhibit the Poet in his studious moods : — " I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar, Or when the North his fleecy store Drove through the sky ; I saw grim Nature's visage hoar Struck thy young eye." She observed, too, that beauty agitated his frame — communicated to his tongue words of persuasion and grace, and inspired him with musical and voluntary numbers : she saw more — " I saw thy pulse's maddening play Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray, By passion driven— But yet the light that led astray Was light from heaven." His visiter assured him that the wealth of Potosi, or the regard of monarchs, could not at all equal the pleasure he would feel as a rustic poet, and entreated him to fan the tuneful flame, preserve his dignity, and trust for protection to the universal plan of the Creator : — " ' And wear thou this,' — she solemn said, And bound the holly round my head ; The polish'd leaves and berries red Did rustling play ; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away." Frequent bursts of religious feeling, and a fine spirit of morality, are visible in much that Burns wrote ; yet only one of his poems is expressly dedicated to devotion — " The Cotter's Saturday Night." The origin of this noble strain is related by his brother: — "Robert had frequently remarked to me that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, ' Let us worship God,' used by a decent sober head of a family, introducing family worship. The hint of the plan and title of the poem were taken from Fergusson's c Far- mer's Ingle.' When Robert had not some pleasure in view, in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday afternoons (those precious breath- ing times to the labouring part of the commu- nity), and enjoyed such Sundays as would make us regret to see their number abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing the Author repeat ' the Cotter's Saturday Night.' " The poem is a picture of cottage devotion, by a hand more solicitous about accuracy than effect ; for no one knew better than Burns that invention could not heighten, nor art em- bellish, a scene in which man holds intercourse with heaven. His natural good taste told him that his work-day burning impetuosity of lan- guage, and intrepid freedom of illustration, were unsuitable here ; he calmed down his style into an earnest and touching simplicity, whicli has been mistaken by critics for tame- ness ; but the strength of the poem is proved by the numerous and beautiful images, all of a devotional character, which it impresses on the mind. Religion is the leading feature of the whole ; but love in its virgin state, and patri- otism in its purity, mingle with it, and give a gentle tinge, rather than a decided colour to the performance. The scene is peculiar to Scotland. With what natural art the Poet introduces us to the Cotter, and to his happy home, and gradually prepares us, by a succes- sion of solemn images, for the opening of the Bible and the pouring out of prayer ! The winter day is darkening into night, the blackening trains of crows seek the pine-tree tops, and the toil-worn cotter lays together his spades and hoes, and, (< hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend," walks homewards over the moor : — " At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant wee-things, todlin', stacher through, To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee, His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnilie ; His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wine's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil." Presently the elder children, released by Saturday night from their weekly servitude among the neighbouring farmers, come "drap- ping in ; " and Jenny, their eldest hope, now woman grown, shews a " braw new gown," or puts her wages into her parents' hands, to aid them, should they require it. Amid them the anxious and shears, " Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new. The father mixes a' with admonition due." The admonition of this good man to his chil- dren is, to be obedient to those above them ; to mind their labours, nor be idle when unob- served ; and chiefly to fear the Lord, and duly. morn and night, implore his aid and counsel. While this is going on, a gentle rap is heard at the door, and a strappan youth, who " takes the mother's e'e," is introduced by Jenny as a neighbour lad, who, among other things, had undertaken to see her safely home. The visit is well taken, for he is neither wild nor worth- less, but come of honest parents, and is, more- over, blate and bashful, and tor inward joy can scarce behave himself. The mother knows well what makes him so grave : the father converses about horses and ploughs, while the supper- table is spread, and milk from her only 30 LIFE OF BURNS. 1780. cow, and a "well-hained cheese," of a pecu- liar flavour, and a twelvemonth old, " sin lint was in the bell," are placed by the frugal and happy mother before the lothful stranger. " The chcerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha' bible, ance his father's pride : His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care ; And ' Let us worship God ! ' he says, with solemn air. The canker-tooth of the most envious criti- cism cannot well fasten on a work in every respect so perfect ; nor, in expatiating upon it, are we going out of the direct line of biography : it is known to be, in part, a picture of the household of William Burness. From pictures of national manners and sentiment we must turn to matters more personal. Of the maidens of Kyle, who contributed by their charms of mind, or person, to the witch- ery of the love songs of Burns, I can give but an imperfect account. The young woman who " had pledged her soul to meet him in the field of matrimony, yet jilted him with peculiar cir- cumstances of mortification," he has not named 5 and I suspect her charms, real or imaginary, have remained unsung. The Tibbie who scorn- ed the advances of the Poet, and " spak na, but gade by like stoure," was a neighbouring laird's daughter, with a portion of two acres of peat-moss, and twenty pounds Scots. The Peggy who inspired some of his early lyrics the sister of a Carrick farmer, a girl pru- dent as well as beautiful. The Nannie, who lived among the mosses near the Lugar, was a farmer's daughter, Agnes Fleming by name, and charmed unconsciously the sweet song of " My Nannie O " from him, by the elegance of her person and the melody of her voice. "Green grow the Hashes," was a general tribute paid to the collective charms of the lasses of Kyle ; there were lew with whom he had not held tryste " Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the cv'ning gale." Some of those maidens were but, perhaps, the chance inspirers of his lyric strains. "High- land Mary," and "Mary in Heaven," of whom he has bo passionately sung, was a native of Ard- in. Those who think that poetry embalms high BSIIies alone, ladies of' birth and rank, must prepare to be disappointed, for Mary Campbell was a peasant's daughter, and lived, when she captivated the Poet, in the humble situation of dairy-maid in "The ( Sastle of Mont- That she was beautiful, wo have other testimony than that of Burns: her charms PS, If QOt WOOerS, and she was ed i" the allurements of wealth. She & withstood all temptation, and returned the affection of the Poet with the fervour of in- nocence and youth. "After a pretty long trial," says Burns, "of the most ardent, reciprocal affection, we met, by appointment, on the se- cond Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot on the banks of the Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell, before she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the autumn following, she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed, when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave in a few days, before I could even learn of her illness." — " This adieu was per- formed, " says Cromek, " in a striking and moving way ; the lovers stood on each side of a small brook, they laved their hands in the stream, and, holding a Bible between them, pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. They parted never to meet again ! " The Bible on which they vowed their vows was lately in the possession of the sister of Mary Campbell, at Ardrossan. On the first volume is written by the hand of Burns : " And ye shall not swear by my name falsely ; I am the Lord — Leviticus, chap, xix., v. 12." On the second volume, the same hand has written : " Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths. — St. Mat- thew, chap, v., v. 33." And on the blank leaves of both volumes is impressed his mark as a mason, and also signed below, "Robert Burns, Mossgiel." These are touching inser- tions, but not more so than the verses in which he has embodied the parting scene : — " How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom ! The gohlen hours, on angel M'ings, Flew o'er me and my dearie ; Vor dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary ! " To the same affectionate young creature, Burns addressed a strain of scarcely inferior beauty, beginning with " Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's shore ? " and fancy frequently travelled back to early scenes of joy and sorrow. A tress of her hair is still preserved : it is very long and very light and shining. Who the Mary Morison was on whom he wrote one of his earliest songs, I have not been able to discover ; nor do I know the name of the heroine of " Cessnock Banks." Their beauty seems like that of many others, to have passed suddenly over him, touching his fancy without affecting his heart. The Eliza, .ZETAT. 27, HTS BONNY JEAN. 3] from whom be seems so loth to part, in one of his songs, was, I am told by John Gait, a re- lative of bis, and less beautiful than witty. To the charms of Jean Armour I have already^ alluded. This young woman, the daughter of a devout man and master-mason, lived in Mauchline, and was distinguished less for the beauty of her person, than for the grace of her dancing and the melody of her voice. Burns seems to have become attached to her soon after the loss of his Highland Maiy. In one of j his joyous moments, he warned the maidens of Mauchline against reading inflammatory no-vels. — "Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons" served only as snares, he said, for their in- nocence : — " Sucli witching books are baited hooks For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel." Who those maidens were he tells us in rhyme : — " In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles, The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a' ; — Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In Lon'on or Paris they 'd gotten it a'. — Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw ; There 's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'." How the Poet and his Jean became acquainted is easily imagined by those who know the faci- lities for meetings of the young, which fairs, races, dances, weddings, house-heatings, kirn- suppers, and bleaching scenes on burn-banks afford ; of the growth of affection between them it is less easy to give an account 5 we must trace it by the uncertain light of his poetry. [John Blane,* who was for four years and a half farm-servant in the Burns' family at Lochlea and Mossgiel, relates the following interesting- circumstances respecting the attachment of the poet to Miss Armour : — There was a singing school at Mauchline, which Blane attended. Jean Armour was also a pupil, and he soon be- came aware of her talents as a vocalist. He even contracted a kind of attachment to this young woman, though only such as a country lad of his degree might entertain for the daughter of a substantial country mason. One night there was a rocking at Mossgiel, where a lad named Ralph Sillar sung a number of songs in what was considered a superior style. When Burns and Blane had retired to their usual sleeping place in the stable-loft, the former [* This individual is now (1838) residing at Kilmarnock. With Robert Burns, who was eight years his senior, he slept for a long time in the same bed, in the stable loft, at Mossgiel. Burns had a little deal table with a drawer in it, which he kept constantly beside the bed, with a small desk on the top of it. The best of his poems were here written during the hours of rest; the table-drawer being the de- pository in which he kept them. The " Cotter's Saturday Night," the " Lament," and the " Vision,'' were thus composed in the poor garret over a small farmer's stable ! asked the latter what he thought of Sillar's singing, to which Blane answered that the lad thought so much of it himself, and had so many airs about it, that there was no occasion for others expressing a favourable opinion — yet, lie added, " I would not give Jean Armour for a score of him." "You are always talking of this Jean Armour/' said Burns, u I wish you could contrive to bring me to see her." Blane readily consented to do so, and next evening, after the plough was loosed, the two proceeded to Mauchline for that purpose. Burns went into a public-house, and Blane went into the singing school, which chanced to be kept in the floor above. When the school was dismissing, Blane asked Jean Armour if she would come to see Robert Burns, who was below, and anxious to speak to her. Having heard of his poetical talents, she said she would like much to see him, but was afraid to go without a female com- panion. This difficulty being overcome by the frankness of a Miss Morton — the Miss Morton of the Six Mauchline Belles — Jean went down to the room where Burns was sitting. " From that time," (Blane adds very naively) " I had little of the company of Jean Armour."] In the " Epistle of Davie" he alludes to Jean Armour by name, and calls her his own ; in the " Vision" he compliments the Muse of Kyle by comparing her clean, straight, and taper limbs to those of his bonny Jean ; and, in one of his lyrics, he speaks of the sighs and vows which have passed between them among the sequestered hills. It would seem, however, that during the season of their courtship the Poet felt less sure of the continuance of her affection than he had looked for, and something like change may be inferred from his omitting a verse in the "Ad- dress to the Deil," in which he likened Eve to Jean Armour : — "A dancin', sweet, young, handsome quean, Wi' guileless heart." Gilbert charges his brother with seeing charms in some of the maidens of Kyle which others could not observe ; but that may be said of all beautiful things. The ladies whom he cele- brated, in the latter days of his inspiration, were — some of them at least — eminently lovely ; and we all know that he has imputed no more merit to his Jean than what she possessed. Burns assured Professor Walker that his iirst desire to excel as a poet arose from the influence of the tender passion ; and he informed others that all He used to employ Blane to read the poems to him, imme- diately after their composition, that he might be able the more effectually to detect faults in them. When dis-atistud with a particular passage, he would stop the reading, make an alteration, and then desire his companion to proceed. Blane was often wakened by him during the night, that he might serve him in this capacity. The bard of Kyle was a most rigid critic of his own compositions, and burned many with which he was displeased. Chambers.] 32 LIFE OF BURNS. 1786. the heroines of his songs were real, and not imaginary. He dealt in " No idly feign'd poetic pains, No fabl'd tortures quaint and tame." As the Poet rose, and the lover triumphed, the farmer sunk. The farm of Mossgiel lies high, on a cold, wet bottom. During the first four years of the lease, instead of kindly and congenial seasons, the springs were frosty and late, the summers moist and cold; and to this the Poet glances when he makes the old dame, in Halloween, relate her experiences: — ■ " The simmer had been cauld and vvat, And stuff was unco green." Frosty springs and late cold summers could not be foreseen, but any one might have known high lying land on a wet bottom. Seasons in which the sun is almost scorching other grounds are most congenial for such soils, and no one should venture upon a farm which requires something like a miracle in the weather to render it productive. That Burns took plea- sure in the labours of agriculture we have the assurance of many a voice: he often alludes to the holding of the plough, the turning of a handsome furrow ; and he rejoices, too, in the growing corn, sees it fall before the sickle, with something of a calculating eye, and raises the rick, and coats it over with broom against sleet and snow, with all the foresight of a farmer. Of his prowess with the flail, he says : — "The threshcr"s weary flinging tree The lee-lang day had tir'd me." And Gilbert says, with the scythe Robert ex- celled all competitors : he had the sleight which is necessary with strength and activity. In ploughing he was likewise skilful: in the " Farmer's Address to Iiis Mare," evidently alluding to himself, he says: — " Aft thee and I in aught-hours gaun, In guid March weather, Ilae turned sax rood beside our ban' For days thegithcr." I where the Poet speaks of his toil in com- mitting the Beed-corn to the furrow, and makes the muse plead it as an excuse for declining labouring on Parnassus in the month of April: — " Foijeakit Mir, Wl' weary legs, K.ittlih' the com v our guide : — " Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle. My lan-afore's a gude auld has-been, An' wight and wilfu' a' his days been. My lan-ahin's a weel gaun fillie,' That aft has borne me hame frae Killie. An' your auld burro' mony a time, In days when riding was nae crime. My fur-ahin's a worthy beast As e'er in tug or tow was trae'd. The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie ! Forbye a cowt, o' cowts the wale, As ever ran afore a tail." Of his milk-cows and calves, ewes and lambs, the mandate required no specification ; the Poet proceeds to his farming implements : they are far from numerous : — " Wheel carriages I ha'e but few, Three carts, an' twa are feckly new ; An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, Ae leg and baith the trams are broken." Ploughs, harrows, sh el-bands, rollers, spades, hoes, and fanners were not taxed, and are omitted, which I am sorry for ; we come now- to the members of his household : — " For men I've three mischievous boys, Run deils for rantin' and for noise ; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t' other, Wee Davoc hauds the nowt in fother." Nor is the Bard unmindful of maintaining rule and spreading information amongst his me- nials : — " I rule them as I ought, discreetly, An' aften labour them completely; And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, I on the questions targe them tightly." With respect to maid-servants, as his mother and sisters managed the in-door economy of the house, he had no occasion for any : he desired besides, lie said, to be kept out of temptation ; neither had he a wife, and as for children, one more had been sent to him than he desired : — "My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddie in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace." Burns saw in the failure of the farm the coming ruin of his mother's household, and, despairing of success in agriculture, revived a notion which he had long entertained of going out as a sort of steward to the plantations, a situation which, for a small salary, requires the presence of many high qualities. Nor did he take this resolution one moment too soon : his poetic account of his condition and sufferings is not at all poetical : — " To tremble under Fortune's cummock, On scarce abellyfu' o' drummock, For his proud, independent stomach, Could ill agree." But bodily discomfort was not all : lie might, 5-:tat. "Zi. HIS BONNIE JEAN. 33 to use his own language, have braved the bitter blast of misfortune, which, long mustering over his head, was about to descend ; but sorrows of a tender nature, from which there was no escape, came pouring upon him in a flood. This part of the Poet's history has been painted variously : delicacy towards the living, and respect for the dead, seemed to call for gentle handling ; but this could not always be obtained ; for rude hands were but too ready to aggravate the outline, and darken the colours. The courtship between Burns and Jean Armour continued for several years : and there is no question, had fortune permitted, but that they would have been man and wife the first year of their acquaintance. But Burns was not poor only — he had no chance of becoming rich, and the day of marriage was placed at the mercy of fortune. There were other obstacles : Jean was not only the daughter of a man rigid and de- vout, but the favourite child of one of the believers in the glory of the Old Light. Her father discountenanced the addresses which " a profane scoffer" and "irreligious rhymer" w r as making to his child, and the lovers, denied the sanction of paternal care, and the shelter of the domestic roof, had recourse to stolen meetings under the cloud of night, to twilight interviews under the green-wood tree ; to the solace of "a cannie hour at e'en," and those " sighs and vows among the knowes" of which the Poet has sung with so much passion. In protracted courtship there is always danger ; prudence seldom takes much care of the young and the warm-hearted : Jean was not out of her teens, and thought more of her father's ungentleness than of her own danger ; the Poet's respect for sweetness and innocence protected her for a while — but he was doomed to feel what he afterwards sung : — " Wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him ? Wha can prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am ?" These convoyings home in the dark, and meetings under " the milk-white thorn," ended in the Poet being promised to be made a father before he had become a husband. This, to one so destitute and utterly poor as Burns, was a stunning event : but that was not the worst ; — the father of Jean Armour heard, with much anguish, of his favourite daughter's condition ; and when, on her knees before him, she im- plored forgiveness, and shewed the marriage lines — as the private acknowledgment of mar- riage, without the sanction of the kirk, is called — his anguish grew into anger which over- flowed all bounds, and heeded neither his daughter's honour nor her husband's fame. He snatched her marriage certificate from her, threw it into the fire, and commanded her to think herself no longer the wife of the Poet. It must be accepted as a proof of paternal power that Jean trembled and obeyed : she forgot that Burns was still her husband in the sight of Heaven, and according to the laws of man : she refused to see him, or hearken to aught he could say ; and, in short, was ruled in every- thing by the blind hatred of her father. [Another event occurred to add to the tor- ments of the unhappy poet. Jean, to avoid the immediate pressure of her father's displea- sure, went about the month of May (1786) to Paisley, and took refuge with a relation of her mother, one Andrew Purdie, a wright. There was at Paisley a certain Robert Wilson, a good looking young weaver, a native of Mauchline, and who was realising wages to the amount of perhaps three pounds a-week by his then flourishing profession. Jean Armour had danced with this " gallant weaver" at the Mauchline dancing-school balls, and, besides her relative Purdie, she knew no other person in Paisley. Being in much need of a small supply of money, she found it necessary to apply to Mr. Wilson, who received her kindly, although he did not conceal that he had a sus- picion of the reason of her visit to Paisley. When the reader is reminded that village life is not the sphere in which high-wrought and romantic feelings are most apt to flourish, he will be prepared in some measure to learn that Robert Wilson not only relieved the necessities of the fair applicant, but formed the wish to possess himself of her hand. He called for her several times at Purdie's, and informed her that, if she should not become the wife of Burns, he would engage himself to none while she remained unmarried. Mrs. Burns long- after assured a female friend that she never gave the least encouragement to Wilson ; but, nevertheless, his visits occasioned some gossip, which soon found its way to Mauchline, and entered the soul of the poet like a demoniac possession. He now seems to have regarded her as lost to him for ever, and that not purely through the objections of her relations, but by her own cruel and perjured desertion of one whom she acknowledged as her husband. These particulars are requisite to make us fully understand much of what Burns wrote at this time, both in prose and verse. Long after- wards, he became convinced that Jean, by no part of her conduct with respect to Wilson, had given him just cause for jealousy : it is not im- probable that he learned in time to make it the subject of sport, and wrote the song, " Where Cart rins rowing to the sea," in jocular allusion to it. But for months — and it is distressing to think that these were the months during which he was putting his matchless poems tor the first time to press — he conceived himself the victim of a faithless woman, and life was to him, as he himself describes it, a weary dream, The dream of one that never wauks." Chambers.] I) @-- 34 LIFE OF BURNS. 1786. What the Poet thought of all this we have abundance of testimony. Though his indig- nation against Mr. Armour could not but be high, it is to his honour that he refrained from giving him further pain than he had inflicted already : he spoke, too, of Jean, more in sorrow than in anger. In the first outburst of passion, on finding that she refused to call herself his wife, and had allowed her marriage lines to be burnt, he indulged in a sort of bitter mirth ; and, in a poem of great merit, and greater freedom of expression, sang of the vexation which Kyle and her maidens must feel at part- ing with one who could doubly soothe them with love-making and song. He alludes to the cause of his departure to the West Indies — " He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west, Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; A Jillet brak his heart at last, 111 may she be ! So took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea." He speaks, too, of his way of life, and ac- counts for the poverty of a poet with a clear income of seven pounds a year ! — " He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding, He dealt it free ! The Muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owrt the sea." This mirthful mood did not last long ; there is little gaiety in his letter to David Bryce, of June 12th, 1786.— " I am still in the land of the living, though I can scarcely say in the place of hope. What poor ill-advised Jean thinks of her conduct, I don't know ; but one thing I do know — she has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman more than I did her ; and, to confess a truth between you and me, I do still love her to distraction after all. My poor dear unfortu- nate Jean ! It is not the losing her that makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel most severely : I foresee she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal ruin. May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from my very soul forgive her ; and may his grace be with her and bless her in all her future life ! J can have no nearer idea of the place of eter- nal punishment than what I have felt in my <>•.', ii breast on her account. I have tried often to forg< t her ; I have run into all kinds of dis- sipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking- matches, and other mischief, to drive her out ot'lny head, hut all in vain. And now for a jgrand cure ■ the ship is on her way home that ia to take me ont to Jamaica; and then fare- \-. , Look was like the morning's eye, II' r air like nature's vernal smile, Perfection whisper' d, passing by, ' Jit-hold the lass of Ballochmyle !'" As he proceeds with his song, the Bard re- collects thai Loveliness is scut into the world for other purpo ea than to be gazed at, and ex- claim-, much to the distress of gentle critics and fastidious spinsters who looked, it seems, for a chivalry instead of nature : — " 01 bad sbe been a country maid, tbe bappj country twain, I or direct purpose of thia letter bai been die- Dr. Currie, in consequence • ntence, in which the Pool Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed That ever rose on Scotland's plain, Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, With joy, wilh rapture, I would toil, And nightly to my bosom strain The bonny lass of Ballochmyle." He copied this fine lyric out in a fair hand, and sent it to Miss Alexander, accompanied by a letter, the composition of which, it is said, cost him more labour than the song. It has not, however, all the happy ease of the verse. Of the song he says : — " 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 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 ver- dant 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 way, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station. 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 converse with aerial beings. Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an ob- ject. What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! it would have raised plain dull historic prose into metaphor and measure. The enclosed song was the work of my return home ; and, per- haps, it but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a scene."* What the lady thought of the song we are not told — what Burns thought of her silence he has informed us. She paid no attention to his effusions, and wounded his self-love by her un- gracious neglect. Currie and Lockhart have united in defending the "Lass of Ballochmyle." " Her modesty," says the first, "might prevent her from perceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet, and that her beauty was awakening strains destined to im- mortality on the banks of the Ayr. Burns was at that time little known, and, where known at all, noted rather for the wild strength of his humour than for those strains of tenderness in which he afterwards so much excelled. To the lady herself, his name, perhaps, had never been mentioned." — "His verses," says the latter, " written in commemoration of that passing glimpse of her beauty, are conceived in a strain requested Miss Alexander's permission to print the verses in tbe second edition of his poems. This was an c bject to which the I'oct attached some importance. Wilson.] o, iETAT. 27. DR. BLACKLOCK. of luxurious fervour, which, certainly, coming from a man of Burns' station and character, must have sounded very strangely in a delicate maiden's ear." These remarks might have been spared ; the man and his poems were well known to all in the west country long before the 18th of November, 1786 : we must not suppose Miss Alexander more fastidious and difficult to please, than Mrs. Stewart of Catrine, Mrs. Stewart of Stair, or Mrs. Dunlop, with whom he was living on terms of friendship before that time. He who had written and published " Man was made to mourn," " The Daisy," " The Mouse," and " The Cotter's Saturday Night," was known for more than the wild strength of his humour ; nor can we imagine that any lady of education could feel much alarm at the fervour of the song : Miss Alexander knew that poetry and love are brothers, and that the latter ac- knowledges no other merit than what is per- sonal. The Poet chose, rather than " raise a mortal to the skies," to " bring an angel down." The heroine lived till lately — but she lived to think the honours of the muse the highest that could be conferred on her; the song, elegantly framed, was hung in her chamber, and was carried with her wherever she travelled. This was the last of his efforts to obtain notice in his native district. He now wrote to his friends, Hamilton and Aiken, saying, he was afraid that his follies would prevent him from enjoying a situation in the Excise, even if it could be procured ; he was pining in secret wretchedness ; disappointment, pride, and re- morse were settling on his vitals like vultures, and in an hour of social mirth his gaiety was the madness of an intoxicated criminal, under the hands of the executioner. — " All these rea- sons," he says, " urge me to go abroad, and to all these reasons I have only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am in, overbalances everything that can be laid in the scale against it." He wrote in the same strain to others. This was on the 19th of November ; on the 20th he enclosed a copy of "Holy Willie's Prayer" to his comrades, Chalmers and M'Adam, desiring it might be burnt, as a thing abominable and wicked, at the Cross of Ayr ; and on the twenty-second, he wrote, as he imagined, the last song he was to measure in Caledonia : — " The gloom)' night is gatli'ring fast, Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast. Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain ; Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, — I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr." It was well for the world, and, perhaps, unfortunate for Burns, that, when he had bid farewell to his friends, put his chest on the way to Greenock, and was about to follow, a letter from Dr. Blacklock overthrew all his schemes. The way this came about has something in it of the romantic. Laurie, minister of Loudon, a kind and steadfast friend, sent a copy of the poems to his friend Dr. Blacklock, a middling poet, but a most wor- thy man, with unbounded kindness of nature and generosity of soul. Blacklock was blind, and, as he could not read for himself, an almost fatal delay took place : the ship was unmooring, and the Poet on the wing, when his opinion of the poems, and the steps which he advised the author to take, reached the hands of Laurie. The letter was instantly for- warded to Burns, who read it with surprise not unmingled with tears. The blind bard was none of your cold formal men who give guarded opinions — he said what he felt; and, as his heart was in the right place, spoke out with a warmth and an ecs-tasy new in the province of criticism : " Many instances have I seen," he says, "of nature's force or beneficence exerted under nu- merous and formidable disadvantages ; but none equal to that with which you have been kind enough to present me. There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of wit and humour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired nor too warmly approved : and I think I shall never open the book without feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. It has been told me, by a gen- tleman to whom I showed the performances, and who sought a copy with diligence and ar- dour, that the whole impression is already ex- hausted. It were, therefore, much to be wished, for the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more numerous than the former, could immediately be printed ; as it appears certain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertions of the author's friends, might give it a more uni- versal circulation than anything of the kind which has been published in my memory." — "This encouragement," says Burns, "fired me so much, that away I posted to Edinburgh, without a single acquaintance or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star that had so long shed its blasting influence on my zenith for once made a revolution to the nadir : and a kind Providence placed me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencaim. That he was personally unknown to any one of influence in Edin- burgh, save Dugald Stewart, and that he took letters of introduction to no one, is per- fectly true. Pride had something to do in this. He had begun to feel that a warm dinner and a kind word were to be his chief portion in Kyle ; and the silence of one. and the coldness of another, stung him, it is Said, deeper than he was willing- to allow. He de- 40 LIFE OF BURNS. 1787. termined to owe his future fortune, whatever it might be, to no one around ; he turned his face to Arthur's Seat, and sung with much buoy- ancy of heart, as he went, a soothing snatch of an old ballad : — " As I came in by Glenap, I met with an aged woman, She bade me cheer up my heart, For the best of my days was coming." PART II.— EDINBURGH. The first appearance of Burns in Edinburgh was humble enough. The money, reserved to waft him to the West Indies, had been laid out on clothes for this new expedition, or on the family at Mossgiel ; and, having little in his pocket, he found his way to his friend Rich- mond, a writer's apprentice, and accepted the offer of a share of his room and bed, in the house of a Mrs. Carfrae, Baxter's-close, Lawn- market. Though he had taken a stride from the furrowed field into the land of poetry, and abandoned the plough for the harp, he seemed for some days to feel, as in earlier life, unfitted with an aim, and wandered about, looking down from Arthur's Seat, surveying the palace, gazing at the castle, or contemplating the win- dows of the booksellers' shops, where he saw all works, save the Poems of the Ayr-shire Ploughman. He found his way to the lowly grave of Fergusson, and, kneeling down, kissed the sod : he sought out the house of Allan Ram- say, and, on entering it, took off his hat ; and, when he was afterwards introduced to Creech, the bibliopole remembered that he had before heard him inquiring if this had been the shop of the author of " The Gentle Shepherd." In one of these excursions he happened to meet with an Ayr-shire friend, Mr. Dalrymple, of ( )r;nigefield ; others say Mr. Dalzell — and some Bay both — by whom he was introduced to James Eurl of Glencairn, who took him by the hand, and with small persuasion prevailed on Creech to become the publisher of the contemplated edition, on terms favourable to Burns. The Poet stipulated to receive one hundred pounds for the copyright of one edition, with the profits of the subscription copies. A prospectus was drawn out, a vast number printed and circulated over the island, and subscriptions came pouring in with a rapidity unknown in the history of Scottish genius. It is honourable to the patricians of the north thai thej welcomed the Poet with much cor- diality, and subscribed largely : it is honourable to the stately literati of Edinburgh that they not only received their rustic brother gladly in- to their ranks, but spoke everywhere of his fine genius with andissembled rapture, and intro- duced him wherever introductions were benefi- cial : but it is still more honourable to the @: husbandmen, the shepherds, and the mechanics of Scotland, that, though wages were small, and money scarce, they subscribed for copies in fifties and in hundreds, and thus extended the patronage always the most welcome, since it implies admiration. Of the noblemen, the most active was the Earl of Glencairn : through his influence the association called the Caledonian Hunt, consisting of the chiefs of the northern aristocracy, consented to accept the dedication of the new edition, and to subscribe individu- ally for copies : the gentlemen, too, of the west, proud that their district, long unproduc- tive in high genius, had ceased to be barren, vied with each other in promoting the interest of the Bard of Kyle ; while Blair, Robertson, Blacklock, Smith, Fergusson, Stewart, Mac- kenzie, Tytlcr, and Lords Craig and Monboddo — all men distinguished in the world of letters, lent their still more effectual aid ; nay, some of them carried the subscription-lists in their pockets, and obtained names through all their wide range of acquaintance. Burns arrived in Edinburgh at the close of November, 1786 ; and before, as he poetically said, the cry of the cuckoo was heard, no less than two thousand eight hundred and odd copies were subscribed for by fifteen hundred and odd subscribers. His genius was already felt by high and low — lettered and unlettered. The Caledonian Hunt took one hundred copies ; Creech took five hundred ; the Earl of Eglin- ton, forty-two ; the Duchess of Gordon, twen- ty-one ; the Earl of Glencairn and his Countess, twenty-four ; the Scots College at Valladolid, the Scots College at Douay, the Scots College at Paris, the Scots Benedictine Monastery at Ratisbon, severally took copies; Campbell, of Clathick, subscribed for twelve ; Douglas, of Cavers, for eight; Dalrymple, of Orangefield, for ten ; Dunlop, of Dunlop, for six ; Sir Wil- liam Forbes, of Pitsligo, for eight ; Lord Gra- ham, for twelve ; Gray, of Gartcraig, for six ; Sir James Hunter Blair, for eight ; Hamilton, of Arcryle-square, Edinburgh, for eight. Sub- scriptions for four copies are very numerous : one-half, however of the list, is composed of humble names ; nor should the weavers of the west be forgotten. The sons of the shuttle went not more willingly from Kilmarnock to Mauch- line Holy Fair, than they poured in their names for their Poet's works. Of the manners and appearance of Burns in Edinburgh much has been written and said ; every step which he took to the right or to the left has been noted ; the company which he kept has afforded matter for philosophic specu- lation, and his sayings and doings have found a place in the memoranda of the learned, and in the memories of the polite. Even when weighed in the balance of acquired taste and artificial manners, the Poet was scarcely found wanting : he was come of a class who think strongly, fie M JETAT. 28. EDINBURGH. — DUGALD STEWART. 41 speak freely, and act as they think. The na- tural good manners, which belong to genius, were his ; but, accustomed to hold argument with his rustic compeers, and to vanquish them more by rough vigour, than by delicate persua- sion, he had some difficulty in schooling down his impetuous spirit, into the charmed circle of conventional politeness. That he sometimes observed and sometimes neglected this, is natural enough : the fervid impatience of his temper hurried him into the van, at times when his post was in the rear. He had too little tolerance for the stately weak and the learnedly dull : and, holding the patent of his own honours immediately from God, he scarcely could be brought to pay homage to honours arising from humbler sources. But if he refused to be tame in the society of the titled and the learned, he was another being in the company of the fair and the lovely. His poetry at first sprang from love ; and, though ambition now claimed its share, the softness and amenity of the purer passion triumphed, and with the lovely he was all pathos and per- suasion, gaiety and grace. His look changed, his eye beamed milder, all that was stern or contradictory in his nature vanished when he heard the rustle of approaching silks : charmed himself by beauty, he charmed beauty in his turn. In large companies, the loveliness of the north formed a circle round where he sat ; and, with the feathers of duchesses and ladies of high degree fanning his brow, he was all gentleness and attention. The Duchess of Gordon said that Burns, in his address to ladies, was ex- tremely deferential, and always with a turn to the pathetic or the humorous, which won their attention : and added, with much naivete, that she never met with a man whose conversation carried her so completely off her feet. He who was often intractable and fierce, in the presence of man, grew soft and submissive in the com- pany of woman : this was neither unobserved nor unrewarded. When, in his later days, many men looked on the setting of the star of Burns with unconcern or coldness, the fair and the lovely neither slackened in their admiration nor their friendship. [Dugald Stewart has given us the following account of the manners, character, and conduct of Burns at this period: — " The first time I saw Robert Burns was on the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayr-shire, toge- ther with our common friend Mr. John Mac- kenzie, surgeon, in Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaintance. I am enabled to mention the date particularly, by some verses which Burns wrote after he returned home, and in which the day of our meeting is recorded. I cannot positively say, at this distance of time, whether, at the period of our first acquaintance, the Kilmarnock edi- tion of his poems had been just published, or was yet in the press. I suspect that the latter was the case, as I have still in my possession copies, in his own hand-writing, of some of his favourite performances ; particularly of his verses ' On turning up a Mouse with his Plough/ ' On the Mountain Daisy,' and ' The Lament.' On my return to Edinburgh, I shewed the volume, and mentioned what I knew of the author's history to several of my friends, and, among others, to Mr. Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended him to public notice, in the ninety-seventh number of ' The Lounger.' At this time Burns's prospects in life were so extremely gloomy that he had seriously formed a plan of going out to Jamaica in a very hum- ble situation — not, however, without lamenting that his want of patronage should force him to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed at no higher an ob- ject than the station of an exciseman or gauger in his own country. He came/' says the Pro- fessor, " to Edinburgh early in the winter : the attentions which he received during his stay in town, from all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any head but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive any unfavourable effect which they left on his mind. He retained the same sim- plicity of manners and appearance, which had struck me so forcibly, when I first saw him in the country : nor did he seem to feel any addi- tional self-importance from the number and rank of his new acquaintance. His dress was perfectly suited to his station — plain' and un- pretending, with sufficient attention to neatness. If I recollect right, he always wore boots ; and, when on more than usual ceremony, buck-skin breeches. His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, manly, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and worth, but without anything that indicated forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. Lie took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to him ; and listened with appa- rent attention and deference, on subjects, where his want of education deprived him of the means of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in his temper, he would, I think, have been still more interesting ; but he had been accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary ac- quaintance, and his dread of anything approach* ing to meanness, or servility, rendered his manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable among his vari- ous attainments than the fluency, and precision, and originality of his language, when he spoke in company: more particularly as h<> aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided, more successfully than most Scotchmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. " In the course of the spring (1787), he called on me once or twice, at my request, early in the 12 LIFE OF BURNS. 1787. morning, and walked with me to Braid Hills, in the neighbourhood of the town, where he charmed me still more by his private conversa- tion, than he had ever done in company. He was passionately fond of the beauties of nature ; and I recollect he once told me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in one of our morn- ing walks, that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and worth which they contained. In his political principles he I was then a Jacobite ; which was, perhaps, owing partly to this, that his father was originally from the estate of Lord Mareschall. Indeed he did not appear to have thought much on such subjects, nor very consistently. He had a very strong sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at the levity with which he had heard it treated occasionally in some convivial meetings which he frequented. I speak of him as he was in the winter of 1786-7 ; for after- wards we met but seldom, and our conversa- tions turned chiefly on his literary projects, or his private affairs. I do not recollect whether it appears or not from any of your letters to me that you had ever seen Burns.* If you have, it is superfluous for me to add that the idea his conversation conveyed of the powers of his mind, exceeded, if possible, that which is sug- gested by his writings. Among the poets whom I have happened to know, I have been struck, in more than one instance, with the unaccount- able disparity between their general talents, and the occasional inspirations of their more favoured moments. But all the faculties of Burns' mind were, as far as I could judge, equally vigorous ; and his predilection for poetry was rather the result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned temper, than of a genius exclusively adapted to that species of composition. From his conversation, I should have pronounced him to be fitted to excel in whatever walk of ambi- tion he had chosen to exert his abilities. Among the subjects on which he was accustomed to dwell, the characters of the individuals with whom he happened to meet was plainly a fa- vourite one. The remarks he made on them were always shrewd and pointed, though fre- quently inclining too much to sarcasm. His praise of those he loved was sometimes indis- criminate and extravagant; but this, I suspect, proceeded rather from the caprice and humour of the moment than from the effects of attach- ment in blinding his judgment. His wit was ready, and always impressed with the marks of a vigorous understanding ; but to my taste, not often pleasing or happy. ^Notwithstanding various reports I heard, during the preceding winter, of Burns' predi- lection for convivial, and not very select, society, [* Dr. Cmric had seen and conversed with Burns.] I should have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under my own observation. He told me, indeed, himself, that the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him of any merit in his temperance. I was, however, somewhat alarmed about the ef- fect of his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he confessed to me the first night he spent in my house, after his winter's campaign in town, that he had been much dis- turbed when in bed by a palpitation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late become subject." The remainder of the learned Professor's com- munication to Dr. Currie is too valuable to be omitted here "In the summer, 1787, 1 passed some weeks in Ayr-shire, and saw Burns occa- sionally I think that he made a pretty long excursion that season to the Highlands, and that he also visited, what Beatty calls, the Ar- cadean ground of the Tiviot and the Tweed. In the course of the same season I was led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Mason- Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. He had occasion to make some short unpremeditated compliments to different individuals from w r hom he had no reason to expect a visit, and every- thing he said was happily conceived, and for- cibly, as w r ell as fluently, expressed. If I am not mistaken, he told me that, in that village, before going to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a small club of such of the inhabitants as had a taste for books, when they used to converse and debate on any interesting questions that oc- curred to them in the course of their reading. His manner of speaking in public had evi- dently the marks of some practice in extempore elocution. " I must not omit to mention, what I have always considered as characteristical in a high degree of true genius, the extreme facility and good-nature of his taste in judging of the com- positions of others, where there was any real ground for praise. I repeated to him many passages of English poetry with which he was unacquainted, and have more than once wit- nessed the tears of admiration and rapture with which he heard them. The collection of songs by Dr. Aiken, which I first put into his hands, he read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding his former efforts in that very difficult species of writing ; and I have little doubt that it had some effect in polishing his subsequent compo- sitions. " In judging of prose, I do not think his taste was equally sound. I once read to him a passage or two in Franklin's Works which I thought very happily executed, upon the model of Addison ; but he did not appear to relish or to perceive the beauty which they derived from their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them with indifference, when compared witn the point, and antithesis, and quaintness of Junius. :@ JET AT. 28. EDINBURGH.— PKOFESSOB, WALKER. 43 The influence of this taste is very perceptible in his own prose compositions, although their great and various excellencies render some of them scarcely less objects of wonder than his poetical performances. The late Dr. Robertson used to say that, considering his education, the former seemed to him the more extraordinary of the two. " His memory was uncommonly retentive, at least for poetry, of which he recited to me fre- quently long compositions with the most minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part of them (he told me) he had learned in his child- hood, from his mother, who delighted in such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude as it probably was, gave, it is presumable, the first direction to her son's genius. " Of the more polished verses which acci- dentally fell into his hands in his early years, he mentioned particularly the recommendatory poems, by different authors, prefixed to i Her- vey's Meditations ;' — a book which has always had a very wide circulation among such of the country-people of Scotland as affect to unite some degree of taste with their religious studies. And these poems (although they are certainly below mediocrity) he continued to read with a degree of rapture beyond expression. He took notice of this fact himself, as a proof how much the taste, is liable to be influenced by accidental circumstances. " His father appeared to me, from the account he gave of him, to have been a respectable and worthy character, possessed of a mind superior to what might have been expected from his sta- tion in life. He ascribed much of his own prin- ciples and feelings to the early impressions he had received from his instructions and example. ' I recollect that he once applied to him (and he added that the passage was a literal statement of fact) the two last lines of the following pas- sage in the ' Minstrel/ the whole of which he repeated with great enthusiasm : — " Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ; Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live? Is it for this fair virtue oft must strive With disappointment, penury, and pain ? No! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; And man's majestic beauty bloom again, Bright through th' eternal year of love's triumphant reign." " With respect to Burns' early education I cannot say anything with certainty. He al- ways spoke with respect and gratitude of the schoolmaster who had taught him to read En- glish ; and who, finding in his scholar a more than ordinary ardour for knowledge, had been at pains to instruct him in the grammatical prin- ciples of the language. He began the study of Latin, but dropped it before he had finished the verbs. I have sometimes heard him quote a few Latin words, such as omnia vincit amor, &c, but they seemed to be such as he had caught from conversation, and w r hich he repeated by rote. I think he had a project, after he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study under his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of the grammar-school here ; but I do not know that he ever proceeded so far as to make the attempt. He certainly possessed a smattering of French ; and, if he had an affec- tation in anything, it was in introducing occa- sionally a word or phrase from that language. It is possible that his knowledge in this respect might be more extensive than I suppose it to be ; but this you can learn from his more inti- mate acquaintance. It would be worth while to enquire whether he was able to read the French authors with such facility as to receive from them any improvement to his taste. For my own part I doubt it much, nor would I believe it but on very strong and pointed evidence. If my memory does not fail me, he was well-in- structed in arithmetic, and knew something of practical geometry, particularly of surveying. All his other attainments were entirely his own. The last time I saw him was during the winter, 1789-90, when he passed an evening with me at Drumseugh, in the neighbourhood of Edin- burgh, where I was then living. My friend Mr. Alison was the only other person in com- pany. I never saw him more agreeable nor interesting."] Nor is the testimony of Professor Walker less decided ; for him, as well as for Burns, Doon had poured all her floods — the rising sun had glinted gloriously over Galston Moors, and snow had lain untrodden on the hills of Ochiltree : he was a native of Kyle, and interested in all that added to its renown. "In conversation Bums was powerful : his conceptions and ex- pressions were of corresponding vigour, and on all subjects were as remote as possible from common-place. Though somewhat authorita- tive, it was in a way that gave little offence, and was readily imputed to his inexperience in those modes of smoothing dissent, and softening assertion, which are important characteristics of polished manners. After breakfast, I requested him to communicate some of his unpublished pieces, and he recited his farewell song to the *Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a description of the circumstances in which it was composed, more striking than the poem itself. He had left Dr. Laurie's family, and on his way home had to cross a wide stretch of solitary moor. His mind was strongly affected by parting for ever with a scene where he had tasted so much elegant and social pleasure. The aspect of nature harmonized with his feelings — it was a lowering and heavy evening : the wind was up, and whistled through the rushes and lone spear- grass, which bent "before it; the clouds were £-- a LIFE OF BURNS. 1787. driven across the sky, and cold pelting showers, at intervals, added discomfort of body to cheer- lessness of mind. His recitation was plain, slow, articulate, and forcible, but without any eloquence of art. He did not always lay the emphasis with propriety, nor did he humour the sentiment by the variations of his voice." As Heron — a man who rose by the force of his talents, and fell by the keenness of his pas- sions — is the least favourable to the Poet of all his biographers, we may quote him without fear . — " The conversation of Burns was, in comparison with the formal and exterior cir- cumstances of his education, perhaps even more wonderful than his poetry. He affected no soft airs or graceful motions of politeness, which might have ill accorded with the rustic plain- ness of his native manners. Conscious superi- ority of mind taught him to associate with the great, the learned, and the gay, without being over-awed into any such bashfulness, as might have made him confused in thought, or hesita- ting in elocution. In conversation, he displayed a sort of intuitive quickness and rectitude of judgment upon every subject that arose ; the sensibility of his heart and the vivacity of his fancy, gave a rich colouring to whatever reason- ing lie was disposed to advance, and his lan- guage in conversation was not at alJ less happy than his writings ; for these reasons he did not fail to please immediately after having been first seen. I remember that the late Dr. Robertson once observed to me, that he had scarcely ever met with any man whose conver- se ion discovered greater vigour and activity of mind than that of Burns." | Tin' recollections of Mr. John Richmond, writer in Mauchline, respecting Burns' arrival, and the earlier period of his residence, in Edin- burgh, an; curious. Mr. Richmond, who had been brought up in the office of a country writer, or attorney, and was now perfecting his studies in that of a metropolitan practitioner, occupied a room in the Lawnmarket, at the rent of three shillings a-week. His circumstances, as a youth just entering the world, made him willing to -hare hi- apartment and bed with any agree- able companion, who might be disposed to take part in the expense. These terms suited hi- ol.l Mauchline acquaintance, Burns, who accordingly lived with him, from his arrival in November till bis leaving town in May, on his southern excursion. Mr. Richmond mentions '!"• poet was BO knocked up, by his walk from Mauchline to Edinburgh, that he could not hi- room for the next two days. During hole lime of his re-idence there, his habits '' mperate and regular. Much of his time necessarily occupied in preparing his poems '" r ,l "' prei :> task in which, us Uu- as tran- oncernedj Mr. Richmond aided In. ,i. when not engaged n, his own office duties. rogh frequentlj invited out into com- pany, usually returned at good hours, and went soberly to bed, where he would prevail upon his companion, by little bribes, to read to him till he fell asleep. Mr. Lockhart draws an un- favourable inference from his afterwards remov- ing to the house of his friend Nicol : but for this removal Mr. Richmond supplies a reason which exculpates the bard. During Burns' absence in the south and at Mauchline, Mr. Richmond took in another fellow-lodger ; so that, when the poet came back, and applied for re-admission to Mrs. Carfrae's humble me- nage, he found his place filled up, and was compelled to go elsewhere. The exterior of Burns, for some time after his arrival in Edinburgh, was little superior to that of his rustic compeers. " What a clod-hopper I" was the descriptive exclamation of a lady to whom he was abruptly pointed out one day in the Lawnmarket. In the course of a few weeks, he got into comparatively fashionable attire — a blue coat with metal buttons, a yellow and blue striped vest (being the livery of Mr. Fox), a pair of buckskins, so tight that he seemed to have grown into them, and top-boots, meeting the buckskins under the knee. His neckcloth, of white cambric, was neatly arranged, and his whole appearance was clean and respectable, though the taste in which he was dressed was still obviously a rustic taste. Though his habits during the winter of 1786-7 were upon the whole good, he was not alto- gether exempt from the bacchanalianism which at this period reigned in Edinburgh. Mr. William Nicol of the High School, and Mr. John Gray, City-clerk, were among his most intimate convivial friends. Nicol lived in the top of a house over what is called Buccleuch Pend, in the lowest floor of which there was a tavern, kept by a certain Lucky Pringle, hav- ing a back entry from the pend, through which visiters could be admitted, unwotted of by a censorious world. There Burns was much with Nicol, both before and after his taking up his abode in that gentleman's house. He also attended pretty frequently the meetings of the Crochallan Fencibles, at their howfF in the Anchor Close ; and of Johnnie Dowie's tavern, in Libberton's Wynd, he was also a frequent visiter. Mr. Alexander Cunningham, jeweller, and Mr. Robert Cleghorn, farmer at Saughton Mills, may be said to complete the list of Burns's convival acquaintance in Edinburgh. The inti- macy he formed with Mr. Robert Ainslie, then a young writer's apprentice, appears to have been of a different character. Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield, and the Hon. Henry Erskine, may be mentioned as indivi- duals who exerted themselves in behalf of Burns, immediately after his arrival in Edin- bnrg. Dr. Adam Fergusson, author of the History of the Roman Republic, may also be added to Dr. Currie's list of his literary and JETAT. 28. EDINBURGH. — N ASM YTH'S PICTURE. 45 philosophical patrons. At the house of the lat- ter gentleman, Sir Walter Scott met with Burns, of whom he has given his recollections in the following interesting letter to Mr. Lockhart : — " As for Burns, I may truly say, Virgilium vidi tantum. I was a lad of fifteen in 1786-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and feeling enough to be much interested in his poetry, and would have given the world to know him ; but I had very little acquaintance with any literary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two sets whom he most frequented. Mr. Thomas Grierson was at that time a clerk of my father's. He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to his lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to keep his word ; otherwise I might have seen more of this distinguished man. As it Avas, I saw him one day at the late venerable Professor Fer- gusson's, where there were several gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remem- ber the celebrated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course, we youngsters sate silent, looked, and listened. The only thing I remember, which was remarkable in Burns's manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bun- bury's, representing a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog sitting in misery on one side, — on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These lines were written beneath : M Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain — Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery baptized in tears." " Burns seemed much affected by the print, or, rather, the ideas which it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the lines were, and it chanced that nobody but my- self remembered, that they occur in a half- forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising title of ' The Justice of Peace.' I whispered my information to a friend present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a word, which, though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect, with very great pleasure. "His person was strong and robust; his manners rustic, not clownish ; a sort of dig- nified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its effect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture; but to me it conveys the idea that they are di- minished, as if seen in perspective. I think his countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sagacious country farmer of the old Scotch school ; i. e. none of your modern agriculturists, who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gudeman who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments ; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed (I say literally glowed) when lie spoke with feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men w r ho were the most learned of their time and country, he ex- pressed himself with perfect firmness, but with- out the least intrusive forwardness ; and w r hen he differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet, at the same time, with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conversation distinctly enough to be quoted ; nor did I ever see him again, except in the street, where he did not recognize me, as I could not expect he should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what literary emo- luments have been since his day) the efforts made for his relief were extremely trifling. "I remember, on this occasion, I thought Burns's acquaintance with English poetry was rather limited, and also, that having twenty times the abilities of Allan Ramsay and of Fergusson, he talked of them with too much humility as his models : there was, doubtless, national predilection in his estimate. ' ' This is all I can tell you about Burns. I have only to add, that his dress corresponded with his manner. He was like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the laird. I do not speak in malam partem, when I say, I never saw a man in com- pany with his superiors in station and informa- tion, more perfectly free from either the reality or the affectation of embarrassment. I was told, but did not observe it, that his address to fe- males was extremely deferential, and always with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged their attention particularly. I have heard the late Duchess of Gordon remark this. — I do not know any thing I can add to these recollections of forty years since."] The more generous looked with wonder on the bold Peasant, who had claimed and taken place with the foremost, and who seemed to have endowments of every kind equal to his ambition ; while other geniuses, raised by the artificial heat of colleges and schools, glanced with scorn or envy on one who had sprang into fame, through the genial warmth of nature. Henry Mackenzie was not of the latter; as soon as he read the poems of Burns, lie per- ceived that the right inspiration was in them, and recommended them and their author to public notice, in a paper in "The Lounger/' written with feeling and truth. 1 1 is poems dis- cover a tone of feeling, a power and energy i»t expression, particularly and strongly eharao- 46 LIFE OF BURNS. 1787. teristic of the mind and voice of a poet. The critic perceives, too, passages solemn and sub- lime, touched, and that not slightly, with a rapt and inspired melancholy : together with sentiments tender, and moral, and elegiac. . Of "The Daisy," he says, " I have seldom met with an image more truly pastoral than that of the lark in the second stanza. Such strokes as these mark the pencil of the poet, which delineates nature with the precision of intimacy, yet with the delicate colouring of beauty and of taste. Bums possesses the spirit as well as the fancy of a poet ; that honest pride and independence of soul, which are sometimes the muses' only dower, break forth on every occasion in his works." The criticism struck the true note of his peculiar genius, and, with something like prescience, claimed the honours of " National Poet," which have since been so strongly conceded." This was regarded by some as not a little rash, on the part of Mackenzie ; the rustic harp of Scotland had not been for centuries swept by a hand so forcible and free ; the language was that of humble life, the scenes were the clay-cottage, the dusty barn, and the stubble- field, and the characters the clouterly children of the pen fold and the plough. There was nothing in the new prodigy which could be called classic, little which those who looked through the vista of a college reckoned poetical ; and his verses were deemed rather the effusions of a random rhymer than a true poet. Speak- ing from his heart, Mackenzie spoke right ; and, in claiming for Burns the honours due to the elect in song, he did a good deed for genius. The Poet now stood at the head of northern song, and with historians, and philo- sophers, and critics applauding, he looked upon himself as "owned" by the best judges of his country. The well-timed kindness of Mackenzie was never forgotten by Burns ; from this time he prized the " Man of Feeling" as a book next in worth to the Bible ; he never mentioned the author save in terms of affectionate admiration, and ranked him among his benefactors : — " Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace, As Rome ne'er saw.' 1 H'- felt bis high, and, to his fancy, dangerous elevation :— " You are afraid," he thus writes, January 15, 1787, to Mrs. Dunlop, "I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! madam, 1 know myself and the world too well. I do not mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am willing to believe that my abilities deserve some notice; but in a most enlightened age and nation, when poetry is and baa been the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite company— to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on my head — I assure you, madam, I do not dissemble when I tell you, I tremble for the consequences. I have studied myself, and know what ground I occupy ; and, however a friend, or the world, may differ from me in that particular, I stand for my own opinion, in silent resolve, with all the tenaciousness of property. I mention this to you once for all to disburthen my mind, and I do not wish to hear or say more about it. — But "When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes," you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated, with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking forward, with rueful resolve, to the hastening time, when the blow of calumny should dash it to the ground with all the eagerness of venge- ful triumph." The Poet speaks, about the same time, in a similar strain to the Rev. Mr. Laurie, who, it seems had warned him to beware of vanity, and of prosperity's spiced cup. A tone of de- spondency, too, is visible in his letters to Dr. Moore : — " Not many months ago," he ob- serves, " I knew no other employment than following the plough, nor could boast anything higher than a distant acquaintance with a coun- try clergyman. Mere greatness never embar- rasses me ; I have nothing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their judgment ; but genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of the world, this, of late, I frequently meet with, and tremble at its approach. I scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit I do not deny ; but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest national pre- judice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities." Burns indicates the station to which he must soon descend, still more plainly to another cor- respondent. The Earl of Buchan had advised him to visit the battle-fields of Caledonia, and, firing his fancy with deeds wrought by heroes, pour their deathless names in song. When the prophet retired to meditate in the desert, he was miraculously fed by ravens ; but the peer forgot to say how the poet was to be fed when musing on the fields of Stirling, Falkirk, and Bannockburn. That Heaven would send food while he produced song seems not to have en- tered into his mind : for he says — " My Lord — in the midst of these enthusiastic reveries, a long - visaged, dry, moral - looking, phantom strides across my imagination, and pronounces these emphatic words : — ' I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, I do net come to open the ill-closed wounds of your follies and mis- fortunes, merely to give you pain. 1 have given JETAT. 28. EDINBURGH.— DUCHESS OF GORDON. you line upon line, and precept upon precept ; and while I was chalking out to you the straight way to wealth and character, with audacious effrontery you have zig-zagged across the path, contemning me to my face. You know the consequences. Now that your dear -loved Scotia puts it in your power to return to the situation of your forefathers, will you follow these will-o'-the wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you once more to the brink of ruin ? I grant that the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a step from the veriest poverty — still it is half a step from it. You know how you feel at the iron-gripe of ruthless oppression — you know how you bear the galling sneer of contumelious greatness. I hold you out the conveniences, the comforts of life, independence, and character, on the one hand ; I tender you servility, dependence, and wretchedness, on the other. I will not insult your understanding by bidding you make a choice/ " He intimated his intention of returning to the plough still more publicly, when, in the new edition of his works, April, 1787, he thus addressed the noblemen and gentlemen of Scot- land : — " The poetic genius of my country fouiid me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plough — and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my natal soil, in my native tongue. I tuned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired. — She whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis of Caledonia, and lay my songs under your honoured protection. I do not approach you, my lords and gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed, by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this address with the venal soul of a servile author, looking for a continuation of those favours. I was bred to the plough, and am independent." This bold language sounded strangely in noble ears. It was set down by some as approaching to arrogance — was re- garded by others as the cant of independence ; or considered by a few as rude and vulgar, and remembered, when the Poet looked for some better acknowledgment of his genius than a six-shilling subscription, or an invitation to dine. Silence, perhaps, would have been best ; but if it were necessary to speak, I cannot see that he could have spoken better. The Poet spent the winter and spring of 1787, in Edinburgh, much after his own heart ; he loved company, and was not unwilling to shew that nature sometimes bestowed gifts, against which rank and education could scarcely make good their station. This was, perhaps, the unwisest course he could have pursued : a man with ten thousand a year will always be con- sidered, by the world around, superior to a man whose wealth lies in his genius ; the dullest can estimate what landed property is worth, but who can say what is the annual value of an estate which lies in the imagination ? In fame there was no rivalry ; and in station, what hope had a poet with the earth of his last turned furrow still red on his shoon, to rival the Mont- gomerys, the Hamiltons, and the Gordons, with counties for estates, and the traditional eclat of a thousand years accompanying them ? In the sight of the great and the far-descended, he was still a farmer, for whom the Grass-market was the proper scene of action, and the hus- bandmen of the land the proper companions ; his company was sought, not from a sense that genius had raised him to an equality with lords and earls, but from a wish to see how this wild man of the west would behave himself, in the presence of ladies, plumed and jewelled, and lords, clothed in all the terrors of their wealth and titles. The beautiful Duchess of Gordon was, in those days, at the head of fashion in Edin- burgh ; a wit herself, with some taste for music and poetry ; she sought the acquaintance of Burns, and invited him to her parties. Lord Monboddo, equally accomplished and whimsi- cal, gave parties, after what he called the classic fashion ; he desired to revive the splendid sup- pers of the ancients, and placed on his tables the choicest wines, in decanters of a Grecian pattern, adorned with wreaths of flowers : painting lent its attraction as well as music, while odours of all kinds were diffused from visible or invisible sources. Into scenes of this kind, and into company coldly polite and sen- sitively ceremonious, the brawny Bard of Doon, equally rash of speech and unceremonious in conduct, precipitated himself; but rich wines and lovely women, like the touch of the goddess which rendered Ulysses acceptable in the sight of a princess, brightened up the looks of the Poet, and inspired his tongue with that conquer- ing eloquence w r hich pleased fastidious ladies. In fine company, where it was imagined lie would have failed, he triumphed. The fame of all these doings flew into Ayrshire. — " There is a great rumour here," said one of his friends, " concerning your intimacy with the Duchess of Gordon ; I am really told that " Cards to invite fly by thousands each night ; " and if you had one, I suppose there would be also ' bribes for your old secretary.' It seems that vou are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, a good maxim to thrive by : you seemed to despise it while in this country, but probably some philosopher in Edinburgh has taught you better sense." Of his own feelings on these occasions the Poet has said but little: Lord Momboddo'a table had other attractions than wine called Falemian, and dishes like those praised in 48 LIFE OF BURNS. 1787. Latin verse. The beauty of his daughter is celebrated by Burns both in prose and poetry — " Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own his work indeed divine ! " "I enclose you," he says to his friend Chalmers, "two poems which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, ' fair B— ' is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter of Lord Mon- boddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been any thing 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." Those who were afraid that amid feasting and flattery — the smiles of ladies and the applauding nods of their lords — Burns would forget him- self, and allow the mercury of vanity to rise too high within him, indulged in idle fears. When he dined or supped with the magnates of the land, he never wanted a monitor to warn him of the humility of his condition. When the company arose in the gilded and illuminated rooms, some of the fair guests — perhaps " Het grace, Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass," took the hesitating arm of the Bard ; went smiling to her coach, waved a graceful good- night with her jewelled hand, and, departing to her mansion, left him in the middle of the street to grope his way through the dingy alleys of the " gude town" to his obscure lodging, with his share of a deal table, a sanded floor, and a chaff bed, at eighteen pence a week. That his eyes were partly open to this, we know ; but he did not perceive that these invitations arose from a wish to relieve the ennui of a supper-table, where the guests were all too well-bred to utter any thing strikingly original or boldly witty. Had Burns beheld the matter in this light, he would have sprung up like Wat Tinlinn, when touched with the elfin bod- kin ; and, overturning silver dishes, garlanded decanters, and shoving opposing ladies and staring lords aside, made his way to the plough- tail, and recommenced turning the furrows upon his cold and ungenial farm of Mossgiel. — "I have formed many intimacies and friendships here," he observes, in a letter to Dr. Moore ; " but I am afraid they are all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the fashion- able, (lie polite, I have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid my meteor appearance will by no menu-, entitle me to a settled correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent lights of genius and literature." In these words he expressed his fears : they were prophetic. While his volume was passing through the press, he added "The Brigs of Ayr," the "Ad- dress to Edinburgh," and one or two songs and small pieces. The first poem, " The Brigs of Ayr," seems to have been written for the two- fold purpose of giving a picture of old times and new, and honouring in rhyme those who befriended him on the banks of Doon ; and, like Ballantyne, to whom it is inscribed, had " Handed the rustic stranger up to fame." There were two poems which some of his friends begged him to exclude from his new volume. On the score of delicacy, they re- quested the omission of " The Louse ;" and on that of loyalty and propriety, "The Dream." He defended the former, because of the moral with which the poem concludes, and main- tained the propriety of the latter with such wit and indiscretion that cautious divines and cool professors shrugged their shoulders, and talked of the folly of the sons of song. Mrs. Dunlop seems to have taken the matter much to heart. — " Your criticisms, madam," says the Poet, nettled a little by her remonstrance, " I under- stand very well, and could have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your guess that I am not very amenable to counsel ; I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, and critics, as all those respective gentry do by my bardship. I know what I may expect from the world by-and-bye — illiberal abuse, and, per- haps, contemptuous neglect." In this sarcastic Dream, there was much to amuse and more to incense a king, who endured advice as little as he did contradiction. The life of George the Third was pure and blame- less ; but the young princes of his house had already commenced their gay and extravagant courses. The song of the Bard is prophetic of the two elder ones : — " For you, young Potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, I'm tauld ye 're driving rarely ; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, That e'er ye brak' Diana's pales, Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie. " For you, Right Rev'rend Osnaburg, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug, Wad been a dress completer : As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys o' Peter, Then swith ! an' get a wife to hug, Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre." The "Address to Edinburgh" contains some noble verses. I have heard the description of the castle praised by one, whose genius all but exempted him from error : — O)- jEtat. 28. EDINBURGH— ANECDOTES. 49 " There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar, Like some bold vet'ran, grey in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar : The pond'rous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing War, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock." When Burns told Mrs. Dunlop that he was determined to flatter no created being, she might have smiled ; for in his " Earnest Cry and Prayer," he scattered praise as profusely as ever he scattered corn over his new-turned fur- rows. He, who could see Demosthenes and Cicero in half-a-dozen northern members of Parliament, was inclined to flatter : Dempster, Cunningham, the Campbells, — " And ane, a chap that's damn'd auld-farran, Dundas his name," were respectable debaters, but not eloquent. " Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie," came nearer to the comparison, and almost reconciles us to the lavish waste of honours on the others. Burns' taste, which in all things resembled his genius, was almost always correct : he de- pended on its accuracy, and, as he used no words at random, was unwilling to alter aught. In the " Cotter's Saturday Night" he called Wallace the " unhappy," in allusion io his fate ; he hesitated now to change the word to " undaunted," in compliance w T ith the criticism of Mrs. Dunlop. — " Your friendly advice" — he says to that lady, " I will not give it the cold name of criticism, I receive with reverence. I have made some small alterations in what I be- fore had printed. I have the advice of some very judicious friends among the literati here : but with them I sometimes And it necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, does me the honour of giving me his strictures ; his hints, with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow implicitly." During the spring, he sat to Alexander Nasmy th for his portrait ; it was engraved by Beugo, whose boast it was that he had added to the merit of the likeness by inducing Burns to give him a sitting or two while he touched up the plate. He also allowed his profile to be taken in small : the brow is low, the hair hangs over it, and there is a short queue behind. The portrait by Nasmyth is the best, though want- ing a little in massive vigour and the look of inspiration. He sat to whoever desired him, nor seemed to be aware that genius went to such works as well as to the manufacture of rhyme. He took pleasure in presenting proof impressions of this portrait to his friends : some- times the gift was accompanied by verse, and it has been remarked that he imagined he looked very well on paper, and expected some notice to be taken of his face as well as of his poetry. :<-V Of his verse, indeed, the notice was not always taken that he desired. On the death of Dundas of Arniston, Lord President of the Court of Session, he wrote a " Lamentation," forty lines in length. There are vigorous pas- sages ; the Poet affects an excess of grief ; he complains to the hills, the plains, and the tem- pests, of the too early removal of one who redressed wrongs, restrained violence, defeated fraud, and protected innocence. He copied the poem into a volume now before me, and pre- sented it to Dr. Geddes, with the following note, describing the success of his " Lamenta- tion." — " The foregoing poem has some tolera- ble lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct or even to peruse it. I sent a copy of it, with my best prose letter, to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the hands, too, of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alex. Wood, surgeon ; when, behold ! his solicitorship took no more notice of my poem or me than I had been a strolling fiddler, who had made free with his lady's name, over the head of a silly new reel ! Did he think I looked for any dirty gratuity V' Some of the anecdotes related of the Poet and his proof-sheets are amusing enough. When he had made up his mind to retain a line in the words of its original inspiration — such as " When I look back on prospects drear," — he stated his reasons briefly for re- fusing to make any change, and then sat, like his own heroine, "deaf as Ailsa Craig" to all persuasion or remonstrance. Nor did he lose his serenity of mind, though the way in which he unconsciously, perhaps, crumpled up the sheet in his hand, till he almost made it illegible, shewed what was passing within him. It was on one of these occasions that a clergyman, stung with the irreverent way that Burns had handled the cloth, in some of his earlier pieces, hazarded some stern remarks on the " Holy Fair ;" not, he said, but that the poem was a clever picture, he only wished to shew that it was not constructed according to the true rules of composition. The reverend censor did not acquit himself well in his perilous undertaking : the eye of the Poet began to lighten, and his lips to give a sort of twitching announcement that something sarcastic was coming. All pre- sent looked towards him ; he spoke as thej expected, saying, " No, by heaven ! I'll not touch him — ' Dulness is sacred in a souna divine.' ' — " I'll find you as apt a quotation as that." said the aggressor, " and from a poet whom I love more — ■ ' Corbies and Clergy area shot right kittle.' " Burns laughed, held out his hand, ssq "Then we are friends again." 50 LIFE OF BURNS. 1787. He did not always come off so happily : on another occasion, Cromek tells us that, at a breakfast, where a number of the literati were present, a critic, one of those fond of seeming very acute and wise, undertook to prove that Gray's Elegy in a country Church-yard, a poem of which Burns was enthusiastically fond, violated the essential rules of verse, and trans- gressed against true science, to which he held true poetry to be amenable. He failed, how- ever, in explaining the nature of his scientific gauge, and he also failed in quoting the lines correctly, which he proposed to censure ; upon which Burns exclaimed with great vehemence, " Sir, I now perceive a man may be an excel- lent judge of poetry by square and rule, and, after all, be a d d blockhead." One of those critical scenes is well described by Professor Walker, who happened to be pre- sent ; it occurred at the table of Dr. Blair, who was fond of hearing the Poet read his own verses. — " The aversion of Burns," he observes, " to adopt alterations which were proposed to him, after having fully satisfied his own taste, is apparent from his letters. In one passage, he says that he never accepted any of the corrections of the Edinburgh Literati, except in the instance of a single word. If his ad- mirers should be desirous to know this ' single word/ I am able to gratify them, as I hap- pened to be present when the criticism was made. It was at the table of a gentleman of literary celebrity (Dr. Blair), who ooserved, that in two lines of the ' Holy Fair,' beginning — ' For Moodie speels the holy door, Wi' tidings of salvation.' The last word, from his description of the preacher, ought to be damnation. This change, both embittering the satire, and introducing a word to which Burns had no dislike, met with his instant enthusiastic approbation. ' Excel- lent !' he exclaimed with great warmth, ' the alteration shall be made, and I hope you will allow me to say, in a note, from whose sugges- tion it proceeds;' a request which the critic with great good humour, but with equal deci- sion, refused." The Poet had not yet disco- vered what was due to clerical decorum. I must copy another of Professor Walker's pic- tures of the Poet andthe Edinburgh Literati:— "The day after my introduction to Burns," the Pro lessor, " I supped in company with liim at Dr. Blair's. The other guests were very few; and, as each had been invited chiefly to have an opportunity of meeting with the Poet, tlic Doctor endeavoured to draw him out, and mak<- Ji i in the central figure of the groupe. Though lie, therefore, furnished the greatest proportion of the eon vernation, he did no more than what he saw v as evidently expected. Men of genius have often been taxed with a proneness to commit blunders in company, from that ignorance or negligence of the laws of conversation, which must be imputed to the absorption of their thoughts on a favourite sub- ject, or to the want of that daily practice in attending to the petty modes of behaviour, which is incompatible with a studious life. From singularities of this sort, Burns was unusually free : yet, on the present occasion, he made a more awkward slip than any that are reported of the poets or mathematicians, most noted for absence. Being asked from which of the public places of worship he had received the greatest gratification, he named the high church, but gave the preference as a preacher to (the Rev. Robert Walker) the colleague (and most formidable rival) of our worthy en- tertainer — whose celebrity rested on his pulpit eloquence — in a tone so pointed and decisive as to throw the whole company into the most foolish embarrassment. The Doctor, indeed, with becoming self-command, endeavoured to relieve the rest by cordially seconding the en- comium so injudiciously introduced ; but this did not prevent the conversation from labouring under that compulsory effort which was una- voidable, while the thoughts of all were full of the only subject on which it was improper to speak. Of this blunder Burns must instantly have been aware, but he shewed the return of good sense by making no attempt to repair it. His secret mortification was indeed so great that he never mentioned the circumstance until many years after, when he told me that his silence had proceeded from the pain which he felt in recalling it to his memory." It must be mentioned, to the honour of Blair, that this mortifying blunder had no influence over his well-regulated mind, and that he ap- pears, from his correspondence, to have aug- mented rather than lessened his kindness for the Poet ; the strong sense of propriety which is visible in all that Blair ever said or wrote pre- served him from this : yet he probably thought of the Poet's preference when he first saw the fragment on America, beginning : — "When Guilford good our pilot stood ;" and said, " Burns' politics always smell of the smithy." The Bard disapproved of the war waged with America ; the world at large has shared in his feelings, and the sarcasm of the Doctor falls harmless on this little hasty, though not very happy production. It was likely to Blair that Burns glanced when, in reply to the question if the critical literati of Edinburgh had aided him with their opinions, — "The best of these gentlemen," said he, "are like the wife's daughter in the west — they spin the thread of their criticism so fine, that it is fit for neither warp nor waft." He was never at a loss for illustrations drawn from do- mestic life or rural affairs. -12TAT. 28. EDINBURGH— LAWYERS. [No one lias equalled Lockhart's account of Burns among the literati and lawyers of Edin- burgh : — " It needs no effort of imagination to conceive what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all either clergymen or pro- fessors) must have been in the presence of this big -boned, black - browed, brawny stranger, with his great flashing eyes, who, having forced his way among them from the plough-tail, at a single stride, manifested, in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorough conviction that, in the society of the most eminent men of his nation, he was exactly where he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their notice ; by turns calmly measured himself against the most cultivated understandings of his time in discussion ; over- powered the bon mots of the most celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment, im- pregnated with all the burning life of genius ; astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the thrice-piled folds of social reserve, by compel- ling them to tremble — najr, to tremble visibly — beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos ; and all this without indicating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those profes- sional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid in money and smiles, for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed of doing in their own persons, even if they had the power of doing it ; and — last, and probably worst of all, — who was known to be in the habit of enlivening societies, which they would have scorned to approach, still more frequently than their own, with eloquence no less magnifi- cent ; with wit, in all likelihood, still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom he fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had, ere long, no occa- sion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves. "The lawyers of Edinburgh, in whose wider circle Burns figured at his outset, with at least as much success as among the professional lite* rati, were a very different race of men from these, they would neither, I take it, have par- doned rudeness, nor been alarmed by wit. But being, in those days, with scarcely an exception, members of the landed aristocracy of the coun- * [The fact is, those who accuse Burns of drunkenness know nothing about the history of drunkenness in Scotland at all. Let them look at the character of the Baron of Bradwardine in one age, and of High Jinks in another, by Sir Walter Scott, and they will find the epitome of drinking in those ages drawn to the very life. About the beginning of the last century, and for some time previous, drinking, among the nobility and first-rate gentry of Scotland, was carried to a very great height. The late' Provost Creech of Edinburgh told many good stories illustrative of that age, and among others was the following : — There was one Angus- shire laird went to visit a neighbour, whose christian name was George. The visitor was the laird of Balnamoon. com- monly called Bonnymoon ; he would drink nothing but claret : so his friend, George, made up a great number of bottles of half-brandy and half-claret, knowing that the laird would stick to his number. He did so, and commended the try, and forming by far the most influential body (as, indeed, they still do) in the society of Scotland, they were, perhaps, as proud a set of men as ever enjoyed the tranquil pleasures of unquestioned superiority. What their haughti- ness, as a body, was, may be guessed, when Ave know that inferior birth was reckoned a fair and legitimate ground for excluding any man from the bar. In one remarkable instance, about this very time, a man of very extraordi- nary talents and accomplishments was chiefly opposed in a long and painful struggle for ad- mission, and in reality, for no reasons but those I have been alluding to, by gentlemen, who, in the sequel, stood at the very head of the Whig party in Edinburgh ; and the same aristocra- tical prejudice has, within the memory of the present generation, kept more persons of emi- nent qualifications in the back-ground, for a season, than any English reader would easily believe. To this body belonged nineteen out of twenty of those " patricians," whose stateliness Burns so long remembered, and so bitterly re- sented. It might, perhaps, have been well for him had stateliness been the worst fault of their manners. Wine-bibbing appears to be in most regions a favourite indulgence with those whose brains and lungs are subjected to the severe exercises of legal study and forensic practice. To this day, more traces of these old habits linger about the inns of courts than in any other sections of London. In Dublin and Edinburgh, the barristers are even now emi- nently convivial bodies of men ; but among the Scotch lawyers of the time of Burns, the prin- ciple of jollity was indeed in its " high and palmy state." He partook largely in those tavern scenes of audacious hilarity, which then soothed, as a matter of course, the arid labours of the northern noblesse de la robe (so they are well called in Red Gauntlet), and of which we are favoured with a specimen in the " High Jinks" chapter of Guy Mannering. The tavern-life is now-a-days nearly extinct every where ; but it was then in full vigour in Edinburgh, and there can be no doubt that Burns rapidly familiarized himself with it during his residence. He had, after all, tasted but rarely of such excesses while in Ayr-shire.*] wine greatly ; but sat on with his friend three days and two nights without perceiving it, he being all that time in the highest glee. At the end of the third day Bonnymoon failed, grew pale, and sunk back on his chair. " Come, laird, fill your glass; this will never do." " O, — George, — lean — do — no more — for you." "Then you had beft?r go to bed." " O, no ! — I never sleep— from — home. Never — stav from home a — night :— never !" So off went the laird with his servant behind him — both on capital horses. The night was dark and stormy, and, in riding over a waste, off went the laird's hat. John galloped after it, and seized it, loaning on a furze bush. " John, this is not my hat at all ; go and look for the right one.'" " There is very little wale o' cockit hats here the night, your honour." " 1 say. John, thw is not my hat. It would hold two heads like mine. I'll be d d but it has taken the wig away with it."' After long groping, John got the wig on another furze bus'), and handed it to his K -J §>- LIFE OF BURNS. 1787. Towards the close of April the subscription volume " On wings of wind came flying all abroad," and -was widely and warmly welcomed. All that coterie influence and individual exertion — all that the noblest or the humblest could do, Mas done to aid in giving it a kind reception ; Creech, too, had announced it through the booksellers of the land, and it was soon diffused over the country, over the colonies, and where- ever the language was spoken. The literary men of the south seemed even to fly a flight be- yond those of the north. Some hesitated not to call him the northern Shakspeare; criticism at that period had not usurped the throne, and as- sumed the functions of genius ; reviews were few in number, and moderate in influence, and followed opinion rather than led it. Had he lived in a later day, with what a triumphant air of superiority would the two leading critical journals have crushed him ! They would have agreed in this, though in nothing else, to trample down a spirit which wrote not as they wrote, and felt not as they felt; they would have assumed the air of high philosophy and searching science, and buried him, as he did the Daisy, under the weight of a deep-drawn critical furrow. The Whig of the north would have pounced on his poetical jacobitism ; the Tory of the south upon his love of freedom ; and both would have tossed him to the meaner hounds of the kennel of criticism, after they had dissected the soul and heart out of him. Much of this these journals tried to do at a later period, when the Poet was low in the dust, and his fame as high as Heaven, and beyond their rancour or their spite. While Burns lodged with his Mauchline friend, Richmond, he kept good hours and sober company. In the course of the spring he be- came acquainted with William Nicol, one of the masters of the High-school, who lived in the Buccleugh-road, and found more suitable ac- commodation under his roof. This has been considered as a symptom that the keeping of good hours was growing irksome. The poverty of the Poet made him live frugally — nay, meanly, when he arrived in Edinburgh; but \\ lien money came pouring in, and gentlemen oi note called on him, it did not become him to remain in an apartment of which he had but a Bhare. I Bee little harm in this, or proof of in- cr< asing uregularity. Nicol, it is true, was of a quick, fierce temper- loose and wavering in DM religious opinions -fond of social company, and n,,u and tlnn Indulged in excesses, though ' my wig) juRt look at it: this in ' ■"' •■" he had pntttonwith the wrong side \ hl I ' Mth. your honour, if there's Tlittle wale <" wi« here, this night." roue on, and on coming to the North E«k, the laird'e hMM Owned down 1.1. head to drink, and off went the laird '> his situation required sobriety. Lockhart, who charges the imputed irregularities of Burns on the example of Nicol, supports his conclusion by the testimony of Heron. But Heron is a doubtful evidence ; he was himself not only in- clined to gross sensual indulgence, but has been regarded as one not at all solicitous about the truth. — " The enticements of pleasure," says Heron, " too often unman our virtuous resolu- tions, even while we wear the air of rejecting them with a stern brow. We resist, and resist, and resist ; but at last suddenly turn and em- brace the enchantress. The bucks of Edinburgh accomplished, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of Ayr-shire had failed. After resid- ing some months in Edinburgh, he began to estrange himself, not altogether, but in some measure, from graver friends. Too many of his hours were now spent at the tables of persons who delighted to urge conviviality to drunken- ness." Heron knew not what resolutions Burns formed, nor how much he resisted : and to push conviviality to intoxication was common in those days at the tables of the gentlemen of the north. The entertainer set down the quantity to be drunk, locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and the guests had either to swallow all his wine, or fill the landlord tipsy, steal the key, and escape. Though Burns had expressed doubts to Lord Buchan on the prudence of a pennyless poet visiting the battle-fields, and fine natural scenery of Scotland, and intimated to many of his friends his resolution to return to the plough, he longed to pull broom on the Cowden-knowes, look at the Birks on the Braes of Yarrow r , and see whe- ther Flora smiled as sweetly on the Tweed as Crawford had represented. On the third of May he wrote to Dr. Blair — "I leave Edin- burgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, patronage, and friendship which you have shown me." The Doc- tor answered his farewell at once, and his words weigh those of Heron to the dust. — "Your situation was indeed very singular ; and, being brought out all at once from the shades of deep- est privacy to so great a share of public notice and observation, you had to stand a severe trial. I am happy you have stood it so well ; and, as far as I have known or heard — though in the midst of many temptations — without reproach to your character and behaviour. You are now, I presume, to retire to a more private walk of life, and I trust you will conduct yourself there with industry, prudence, and honour. You have laid the foundation for just public esteem. head foremost, into the river, with a prodigious plunge. He •soon, however, set up his head. "John, what was that?" " I dinna ken. I thought it had been your honour." " John, I dinna understand this." " Oct up, your honour, you'll maybe understand it by and by." Hogg.] ~M A1TAT. 28. BORDER TOUR. 53 In the midst of those employments which your situation will render proper, you will not, I hope, neglect to promote that esteem by cultivating your genius, and attending to such productions of it, as may raise your character still higher. At the same time, be not in too great haste to come forward. Take time and leisure to im- prove and mature your talents ; for, on any second production you give the world, your fate, as a poet, will very much depend." Burns, it is said, received this letter when about to mount his horse on his Border excursion ; he read as far as I have transcribed, then crumpled up the communication, and, thrusting it into his pocket, exclaimed, " Kindly said, Doctor ; but a man's first-born book is often like his first-born babe — healthier and stronger than those which fol- low." In this mood he quitted Edinburgh, after a residence of five months and some odd days. Burns was accompanied in this tour by Robert Ainslie, a young gentleman of talents and edu- cation, whose friendship his genius had procured, and who is still living to enjoy the esteem and some of the applause of the world. The Poet directed his course by Lammermoor — whose hills he pronounced dreary in general, but at times picturesque — through Peebles, where he chanted a stave of the old song of " The Wife of Peebles ;" passed Coldstream, where he thought of Monk and his " reformadoe saints," and from Lanton-Edge gazed on the Merse, which he pronounced "glorious." [Of this tour, Burns kept a journal ; it is now before me : the entries are brief, but generally to the point.— " May 6th, 1787. Reach Berrywell ; old Mr. Ainslie an uncommon character ; his hobbies — agriculture, natural philosophy, and politics. In the first, he is unexceptionably the clearest-headed, best-informed man I ever met with ; in the other two, very intelligent : as a man of business he has uncommon merit, and by fairly deserving it, has made a very decent independence. Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sen- sible, cheerful, amiable woman. Miss Ainslie, her person a little embonpoint, but handsome, her face, particularly her eyes, full of sweetness and good humour. She unites three qualities rarely to be found together ; keen penetration, sly witty observation and remark, and the gentlest, most unaffected, female modesty. — Douglas, a clever, fine, promising young fellow. — The family-meeting with their brother, my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; par- ticularly the sister. The whole family remark- ably attached to their menials — Mrs. A. full of * [" During the discour-e Burns produced a neat im- promptu, conveying an elegant compliment to Miss Ainslie. Dr. B. had selected a text of Scripture that contained a heavy denunciation against obstinate sinners. In the course of the sermon Burns observed the young lady turning over the leaves of her Bible, with much earnestness, in search of the text. He took out a slip of paper, and with a pencil stories of the sagacity and sense of the little girl in the kitchen. — Mr. A. high in the praises of an African, his house servant — all his people old in his service — Douglas's old nurse came to Berrywell yesterday to remind them of its being his birth-day." Here he met with the author of " The Maid that tends the Goats," of whom he says, — " Mr. Dudgeon — a poet at times, a wor- thy, remarkable character, natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty." In the pulpit of Dunse church, he found a character of another stamp. -*— " Dr. Bowmaker, a man of strong lungs, and pretty judicious remark ; but ill skilled in pro- priety, and altogether unconscious of his want of it." He preached a sermon against " obsti- nate sinners." " I am found out," whispered the Poet to a friend, Ci wherever I go."* On reaching the Tweed, Ainslie requested Burns to pass the stream, that he might say he had been in England. The following brief entry is all the memoranda he makes of this event : — " Coldstream — went over to England — glorious river Tweed, clear and majestic." His compa- nion has enabled me to complete the picture — "The Poet accompanied me on a horseback excursion from Edinburgh to Peebles, down the Tweed, all the way to Coldstream, and thence to Berrywell, near Dunse, the resi- dence of my father. The weather was charm- ing ; both parties then youthful and in good spirits ; and the Poet delighted with the fine scenery, and the many poetical associations connected with it. When we arrived at Cold- stream, where the dividing line between Scot- land and England is the Tweed, I suggested our going across to the other side of the river by the Coldstream bridge, that Burns might have it to say he 'had been in England. ' We did so, and were pacing slowly along on English ground, enjoying our walk, when I was aston- ished to see the Poet throw away his hat, and, thus uncovered, look towards Scotland, kneel- ing down with uplifted hands, and, apparently, in a state of great enthusiasm. I kept silence, uncertain what was next to be done, when Burns, with extreme emotion, and an expres- sion of countenance which I will never forget, prayed for and blessed Scotland most solemnly, by pronouncing aloud, in accents of the deepest devotion, the two concluding verses of ' The Cotter's Saturday Night:' — 1 O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! wrote the following lines on it, which he immediately pre- sented to her : ' Fair maid, you need not take the bint, Nor idle texts pursue : 'Twas guilty sinners that he meant, Not ajigels such as you 1 ' " Cromek] 54 LIFE OF BURNS. 1787. And, Oh ! may Heav'n their simple lives prevent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. ' O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part ; (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard !' " At Lenel-House he drank tea with Brydone the traveller ; of this he makes a brief record. — " Mr. Brydone is a man of an excellent heart, kind, joyous, and benevolent ; but a good deal of the French indiscriminate com- plaisance — from his situation, past and present, an admirer of everything that bears a splendid title, or that possesses a large estate ; Mrs. Bry- done, a most elegant woman in her person and manners; the tones of her voice remarkably sweet — my reception extremely flattering." He slept at Coldstream, and then proceeded to Kelso, of which he pronounced the situation charming. — " Fine bridge over the Tweed — enchanting views and prospects on both sides of the river, particularly the Scottish side ; introduced to Mr. Scott of the Royal Bank — an excellent, modest fellow." He walked on to the ruins of Roxburgh castle ; and wrote in his journal : — " A holly- bush growing where James II. of Scotland was accidently killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small old religious ruin, and a fine old garden, planted by the religious, rooted out and de- stroyed by an English Hottentot, a waitre d'hotel of the duke's, a Mr. Cole. Climate and soil of Berwick-shire, and even Roxburgh- shire, superior to Ayr-shire — bad roads. Turnip and sheep husbandry, their great improvements. Mr. M'Dowal, of Caverton-Mill, a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, with whom I dined to day, sold his sheep, ewe and lamb together, at two guineas a piece. They wash their sheep before shearing ; seven or eight pounds of washen wool in a fleece. Low markets, consequently low rents ; fine lands not above sixteen shillings a Scotch acre : magnificence of farmers and farm-houses." On his way up the Tiviot and the Jed, he visited an old gentleman, whose boast it was that he possessed an arm-chair which had belonged to Thomson the poet Burns reverently examined the relique, could scarcely be prevailed to sit in it, and seemed to feel inspiration from its touch. I n Jedburgh, the Poet found much to interest him.- -" Breakfast with Mr. , a squabble between the old lady, a crazed, talkative slat- * [After teeing this remark in print, Dr. Somerville never Panned more. He wu the author of two substantial works on the history of England between the Restoration and the accession of the Brunswick dynasty. lie died, May 16 1B30 tern, and her sister, an old maid, respecting a relief minister — Miss gives Madam the lie ; and Madam, by way of revenge, upbraids her for having laid snares to entangle the said minister in the net of matrimony. Go about two miles out of the town to a roup (sale) of parks ; meet a polite soldier-like gentleman, a Captain Ruth- erford, who had been many years in the wilds of America, a prisoner among the Indians. Charming, romantic situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards intermingled among the houses. Fine old ruins ; a once magnificent cathedral, and strong castle. All the towns here have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but the people extremely idle. Jed, a fine ro- mantic little river." Burns dined with Captain Rutherford — the Captain a polite fellow, fond of money in his farming way ; shewed a par- ticular respect to my hardship — his lady a proper matrimonial second part of him — Miss Ruther- ford a beautiful girl, but too much of a woman to expose so much of a fine swelling bosom — her face very fine. Return to Jedburgh — walk up Jed with some ladies to be shewn Love-lane and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, a very clever fellow ; and to Mr. Somerville, the minister of the place; a man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning."*] Here he met with something not unlike a love adventure : in one of his walks he was ac- companied by several ladies : — " Miss Hope, a pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun ; Miss Lindsay, a good-humoured, amiable girl ; rather short, et embonpoint, but handsome, and ex- tremely graceful ; beautiful hazel eyes full of spirit, and sparkling with delicious moisture ; an engaging face, nn tout ensemble that speaks her of the first order of female minds ; her sister, a bonny strappan, rosy, sonsie lass." The Poet, would, perhaps, have contented himself with silently admiring this dangerous companion ; but two venerable spinsters persecuted him so with their conversation that he took refuge with Miss Lindsay, who was touched, as he imagined, with his attentions. — " My heart," he says in his record, " is thawed into melting pleasure after being so long frozen up in the Greenland bay of indifference, amid the noise and nonsense of Edinburgh. Miss seems very well pleased with my Bardship's distinguishing her, and after some slight qualms, which I could easily mark, she sets the titter round at defiance, and kindly allows me to keep my hold ; and when parted by the ceremony of my introduc- tion to Mr. Somerville, she met me half, to re- sume my situation. Noia Bene. — The Poet within a point and a half of being damnably in love ; I am afraid my bosom is still nearly as at the age of ninety years, sixty-four of which had hecn passed in the clerical profession. A son of Dr. Somerville is husband to a lady distinguished in the scientific world. 1 __© 2ETAT. 28. BORDER TOUR 55 much tinder as ever ; I find Miss Lindsay would soon play the devil with me. The old. cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slanderous Miss , with all the poisonous spleen of a dis- appointed, ancient maid, stops me, very unsea- sonably, to ease her bursting breast, by falling abusively foul on the Miss Lindsays, particu- larly on my Dulcinea ; — I hardly refrain from cursing her to her face for daring to mouth her calumnious slander on one of the finest pieces of the workmanship of Almighty Excellence ! Sup at Mr. 's ; vexed that the Miss Lind- says are not of the supper party, as they only are wanting. Mrs. and Miss still improve infernally on my hands. Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat of my corres- pondent, Mrs. Scott ; — breakfast by the way with Dr. Elliott, an agreeable, good-hearted, climate-beaten, old veteran, in the medical line ; now retired to a romantic, but rather moorish place, on the banks of the Roole — he accom- panies us almost to Wauchope — we traverse the country to the top of Rochester, the scene of an old encampment, and Woolee Hill. Wau- chope — Mr. Scott exactly the figure and face commonly given to Sancho Panca — very shrewd in his farming matters, and not unfrequently stumbles on what may be called a strong thing rather than a good thing. Mrs. Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, and bold, criti- cal decision, which usually distinguish female authors. — Sup with Mr. Potts — agreeable party. — Breakfast next morning with Mr. Somerville — the bruit of Miss Lindsay and my hardship, by means of the invention and malice of Miss . Mr. Somerville sends to Dr. Lindsay, begging him and family to breakfast if conve- nient, but at all events to send Miss Lindsay ; accordingly Miss Lindsay only comes — I met with some little flattering attentions from her. Mrs. Somerville an excellent, motherly, agree- able woman, and a fine family. — Mr. Ainslie and Mrs. S , junrs., with Mr. , Miss Lindsay, and myself, go to see Esther, a very remarkable woman for reciting poetry of all kinds, and sometimes making Scotch doggerel herself — she can repeat by heart almost every thing she has ever read, particularly Pope's Homer from end to end — has studied Euclid by herself, and, in short:, is a woman of very ex- traordinary abilities. — On conversing with her I find her fully equal to the character given of her.* — She is very much flattered that I send for her, and that she sees a poet who has put out a book, as she says. — She is, among other things, a great florist — and is rather past the meridian of once celebrated beauty. I walk in Esther's garden with Miss Lindsay, and after * [" This extraordinary woman then moved in a very humble walk of life ; — the wife of a common working gar- dener. She is still living— her time is principally occupied in her attentions to a little day school, which not being suf- some little chit-chat of the tender kind, I pre- sented her with a proof print of my Nob, which she accepted with something more tender than gratitude. She told me many little stories which Miss had retailed concerning her and me, with prolonging pleasure — God bless her ! " He seems ready to burst into song as he proceeds with his journal. " Took farewell of Jedburgh with some melancholy, disagreeable sensations. Jed, pure be thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan banks ! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom unin- terrupted, except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love ! That love - kindling eye must beam on another, not on me : that grace- ful form must bless another's arms, not mine ! Was waited on by the magistrates, and hand- somely presented with the freedom of the town. " Kelso ; dine with the Farmer's Club ; all gentlemen talking of high matters : each of them keeps a hunter, of from thirty to fifty pounds' value, and attends the fox-huntings in the county. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep ; Mr. Ker, a most gentlemanly, clever fellow ; a widower, with some fine children ; his mind and manner astonishingly like my dear old friend, Robert Muir, in Kilmarnock ; he offers to ac- company me on my English tour : dine with Sir Alexander Don ; a pretty clever fellow, but far from being a match for his divine lady." On the thirteenth of May, Burns visited Dryburgh Abbey, and, though the weather was wild, spent an hour among the ruins, since hal- lowed by the dust of Scott ; he crossed the Leader, and went up the Tweed to Melrose, which he calls a " far-famed glorious ruin." Though desirous of musing on battle-fields, he seems to have left Ancram-moor unheeded; nor did he pause to look at the spot where " Gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear Reek'd on dark Elliot's border spear." He sat lor some time, indeed, among the broom of the Cowden-knowes, and had a chat with the Souters of Selkirk, concerning the field of Flodden ; but no one seems to have told him of Huntly-burn, where True Thomas flirted with the Fairy Queen ; nor of Philiphaugh, where Montrose and his cavaliers were routed by Lesly : nor of Carterhaugh, made memorable in song by the fine ballad of Tamlane. He was not in a pastoral mood ; for he says briefly, — " The whole country hereabout, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony." In the inspi- ration necessary for verse, there is none of the spirit of prophecy ; he passed over some broken ground and peat-haggs, where his mare, Jenny ficient for her subsistence, she is obliged to solicit the charity of her benevolent neighbours. 4 Ah, who would love the lyre ! ' " Cromek.] 50 LIFE OF BURNS. 1787. Geddes, kept her feet with difficulty, uncon- scious that on that desolate spot the Towers of Abbotsford would, ere long, arise, and those immortal romances be written which have made his own the second name in Scottish literature. The weather having settled, the Poet visited Inverleithing, a famous shaw, and in the vici- nity of the palace of Traquaid, " where/' says he, " I dined and drank some Galloway whey, and saw Elibanks and Elibraes on the other side of the Tweed." In the morning he continued his journey, and found other places made famous in tale and song. — " Dine at a country inn, kept by a miller in Earlston, the birth-place and re- sidence of the celebrated Thomas the Rhymer, and saw the ruins of his castle." He now shaped his course to Dunse, where he dined with the Farmers' -Club — found it impossible to do them justice — met " the Rev. Mr. Smith, a famous punster, and Mr. Meikle, a celebrated mechanic, and inventor of the threshing-mills." The next day, " breakfast at Berry well, and walk into Douse to see a famous knife made by a cutler there, and to be presented to an Italian prince. — A pleasant ride with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie, and his sister, to Mr. Thom- son's, a man who has newly commenced farmer, and has married a Miss Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert Ainslie's. — Company — Miss Jacky Grieve, an amiable sister of Mrs. Thomson's, and Mr. Hood, an honest, worthy, facetious farmer, in the neighbourhood. Ber- wick he looked on as i an idle town, rudely picturesque.' Meet Lord Errol in walking round the walls. — His Lordship's flattering no- tice of me. — Dine with Mr. Clunzie, merchant — nothing particular in company or conversa- tion. — Come up a bold shore, and over a wild country to Eyemouth — sup and sleep at Mr. Grieve's. Win. Grieve, the oldest brother, a joyous, warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow- takes a hearty glass, and sings a good song. — Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, a good fellow, but says little. Take a sail after dinner. — Fishing of all kinds pays tythcs at Eyemouth. The Miss Grieves very good girls. My Bardship's heart got a brush from Miss Betsey. Mr. William Grieve's attachment to the family-circle, so fond that when he is out, which by the bye is often the case, he cannot go to bed 'till he sec; if all his sisters are sleeping \\<> forth; hut all the while nourished, and as- luredly it would have boon most strange if he had not. the loud dream that the admiration of quent bvpochondriacism of the concluding pas- hi« letter called forth the commendation of Francis n in Scotland. purkablc thai Burns himself in the above letter, *n<\ some oi bis biographers, allude to Clarinda as being a tlutandina her husband was then living abroad. letters to her, -•« Your person is amapproaebableoj the laws oi rour country | and he loves you his country would e'er long present itself in some solid and tangible shape. His illness and confinement gave him leisure to concentrate his imagination on the darker side of his prospects ; and the letters which we have quoted may teach those who envy the powers and the fame of genius to pause for a moment over the annals of literature, and think wdiat superior capabi- lities of misery have been, in the great majority of cases, interwoven with the possession of those very talents from which all but their possessors derive unmingled gratification."] In December 30, 1787, Burns thus addresses his friend Richard Brown, mariner : — " I am just the same will-o'-wisp being I used to be : about the first and fourth quarters of the moon, I gene- rally set in for the trade-wind of wisdom ; but about the full and the change I am the luckless victim of mad tornadoes which blow me into chaos. All mighty love still reigns and revels in my bo- som, and I am at this moment ready to hang my- self for a young Edinburgh widow,f who has wit and wisdom more murderously fatal than the assassinating stiletto of the Sicilian banditti, or the poisoned arrow of the savage African. My Highland dirk, that used to hang beside my crutches, I have gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, the key of which I can- not command in case of spring-tide paroxysms. You may guess of her wit by the verses which she sent me the other day: — " Talk not of love ; it gives me pain : For love has been my foe ; He bound me with an iron chain, And plunged me deep in woe ! " But friendship'3 pure and lasting joys My heart was formed to prove, — There welcome, win, and wear the prize But never talk of love ! " Your friendship much can make me blest — O why that bliss destroy ? Why urge the odious one request You know I must deny ! ' ' This Edinburgh beauty was the Mrs. Mac of the Poet's toasts when the wine circulated — the accomplished Clarinda, to whom, under the name of Sylvander, he addressed so much prose and verse. This " mistress of the Poet's soul and queen of poetesses," could not be otherwise than tolerant in her taste, if she sympathized in the affected strains which he offered at the altar of her beauty. His prose is cumbrous, and his verse laboured : there are, it is true, passages of natural feeling and sentiments sometimes of a high order, but in general his raptures are ar- not as I do who would make you miserable." And again, he alludes emphatically to a circumstance, the occurrence of which would no longer separate them. The matrimonial connexion of this lady had proved, from no fault on her part, unhappy, and she then resided in Edinburgh, with two young children, while her husband was pushing his fortune in Ja- maica, where he ultimately became chief clerk of the Court of Common Picas, and died in 1812. — Chambers.] MTAT. 28. MRS. M'LEHOSE— CLARINDA. 71 tificial and his sensibility assumed. He puts himself into strange postures and picturesque positions, and feels imaginary pains to corres- pond ; he wounds himself, to shew how readily the sores of love can be mended ; and flogs his body like a devotee, to obtain the compassion of his patron saint. Nor is this all ; in his ad- dresses he is often audaciously bold ; he wants tenderness, too, and sometimes taste : — " In vain would Prudence with her decent sneer, Point to a censuring world, and bid me fear : Above that world on wings of love I rise, I know its worst, and can that worst despise. Wrong' d, slander'd, shunn'd, unpitied, unredrest, The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest, Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall — Clarinda, rich reward ! o'erpays them all !" These lines are sufficiently forward, and could not but be painful to Mrs. M'Lehose, unless she smiled on them as the fantastic effusions of a pastoral platonism. In another part of the same poem he vows, " By all on high adoring mortals know ! By all the conscious villain fears below! By your dear self ! the last great oath, I swear, Not life nor soul were ever half so dear," to love her while wood grows and water runs, according to the tenure of entailed property. It is some apology for the Poet, perhaps, that these compositions, which I am unwilling to regard as serious — and which formed, in the opinion of James Grahame, the poet, "a ro- mance of real platonic attachment" — were pro- duced in the painful leisure which a bruised limb afforded him ; the lady to whom they were addressed now and then wrote to the crippled Bard, and diverted him with her wit, though she refused to soothe hi»a with her presence. It is true that the poem from which these lines are extracted contains couplets presumptuous and familiar, and asserts that they were com- mended by his fair correspondent ; but this cannot well be believed by those who draw conclusions from the general spirit of the let- ters. Those who know Clarinda cannot but feel that Burns thought of her when he said, " People of nice sensibility and generous minds have a certain intrinsic dignity which fires at being trifled with or lowered, or even too closely approached." Yet cheered as he was by beauty, and praised as a poet from " Maidenkirk to John o' Groats," the poet was anything but happy. " I have a hundred times wished," he says in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, of the 21st of January, 1788, " that one could resign life as an officer resigns his commission ; for I would not take in any- poor ignorant wretch by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more con- spicuously wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for, though I do not want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or cunning, as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice." During the abode of Burns in Edinburgh, Johnson commenced his "Musical Museum," the object of which Avas to unite the songs and the music of Scotland in one general collection. The proprietor, a man of more enthusiasm than knowledge, inserted in his first volume, pub- lished in June, 1787, several airs of at least doubtful origin, and several songs of more than doubtful merit : before he commenced the se- cond volume, he had acquired the help of Burns ; indeed, the first bears marks of his hand. " Green grow the Rashes" is an ac- knowledged production, and " Bonnie Dundee" carries the peculiar impress of his genius : — " My blessings upon thy sweet wee lippie ; My blessings upon thy bonnie e'e bree ! Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, Thou's ay be dearer and dearer to me!" To the second volume, published in February, 1788, Burns contributed the preface, and no less than thirty lyrics. In the former he says, " The songs contained in this volume, both music and poetry, are all of them the work of Scotchmen. Wherever the old words could be recovered, they have been preferred ; both as generally suiting better the genius of the tunes, and to preserve the productions of those earlier sons of the Scottish muses. Ignorance and prejudice may, perhaps, affect to sneer at the simplicity of the poetry or music of some of these pieces ; but their having been for ages the favourites of nature's judges, the common people, was to the editor a sufficient test of their merit. Most of the songs which Burns contributed are of great merit. " To the Weavers gin ye go" is the homely song of a country lass who went to warp a web, and forgot her errand : for — " A bonnie westlin weaver lad Sat working at his loom, He took my heart as wi' a net, In every knot and thrum." It relates, I have heard, the story of one of his rustic sweethearts. " "Whistle an' I'll come to you, my lad" is an imperfect version of one of his happiest songs. The idea is old — and some of the words. The verse which he added will ever be new : — " Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me ; Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me ; Come down the back stairs, and let na« body see, And come as ye were na coming to me." He loved to eke out the old melodies of Cale- donia. " I'm o'er young to marry yet" is suiilt by a very young lady, who upbraids her suitor with a design to carry her from her mother, & LIFE OF BURNS. 17* and put her into the company of a strange man during the lonely nights of winter. She, how- ever, discovers a remedy : — " Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind, Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, sir ; But if ye come this gate again, I'll aulder be gin simmer, sir." " The Birks of Aberfeldy" originated in an old strain called the Birks of Abergeldie^ but surpasses it as far as sunshine excels candlelight. The same may be said of " Macpherson's Fare- well." Something of the rudiments of this bold rant may be found in old verses of the same name ; but they are, in comparison, as barley- chaff is to gold sand. The hero of the song, a musician and noted freebooter, was taken redhand, and hurried to execution. When the rope was round his neck, he sent for his favourite fiddle, played an air, called, after him, Macpherson's Rant, offered the instru- ment in vain to any one who could play the tune, then broke it over the hangman's head, and flung himself from the ladder. His song is in character, wild, daring, and revengeful : — " Oh ! what is death but parting breath ? On many a bloody plain I've dared his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again. Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword, And there's no man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a vord.'' The genius of the north had an influence over the Poet's musings in other compositions. In " The Highland Lassie," the lover com- plains of want of wealth, and the faithlessness of fortune, but, strong in affection, declares, " For her I'll dare the billows' roar, For her I'll trace the distant shore, That Indian wealth may lustre throw Around my Highland lassie, O.'' In " The Northern Lass" he utters similar sentiments : and in " Braw, braw lads of Galla Water," Lis hand maybe traced by the curious in Scottish song ; it is too kenspeckle to be denied : — " Sae fair her hair, sac brent her brow, Sae bonnie blue her een, my dearie, Sae white her teeth, sac sweet her mou', The mair I kiss, she's aye my dearie." •• Stay, my Charmer," if not of Highland ex- traction, owe- its air to the north. There are bat ci'^lit lines ; but he excelled in saying much iii -mall compass : — ■ " Bj inv love to ill requited : By the faith you fondly plighted, By tin- pang* of lovers alighted, l)') 00t, do ii"t. have mo so !" jacobite feeling we owe that line strain rathallan's Lament." "This air," says the Poet, "is the composition of one of the worthi- est and best men living, Allan Masterton. As he and I were both sprouts of jacobitism, we agreed to dedicate the words and air to that cause." The song is supposed to be the " Goodnight" of James Drummond, Viscount of Strathallan, who escaped to France from Culloden. Even in the days of Burns, the language which the exile is made to utter could not but be unacceptable to many : — " In the cause of right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens denied success." The amended songs are numerous. In his hastiest touches there is something always which no hand- but that of Burns could com- municate. " How long and dreary is the night !" is mostly his ; the last verse will go to many hearts : — " How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, As ye were wae and wearie I It was na sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie." The hoary wooer in " To daunton me/' is sketched with all the scornful spirit of a lady who has set her heart on a younger person : — " He hirples twa-fold as he dow, Wi' his teethless gab and his auld beld pow, And the rain dreeps down frae his red-bleer'd ee, That auld man shall never daunton me." " Bonnie Peggie Alison," the Poet in- in such license of language as may O: In dulge: startle the fastidious ; yet it is but the rapture of an enthusiastic heart : — ' When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure, I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share Than sic a moment's pleasure." Si The Dusty Miller" exhibits a few of his happy emendations. A young woman, in re- membering the attractions of a lover who wins a shilling before he spends a groat, sings with arch simplicity — " Dusty was the coat, Dusty was the colour, Dusty was the kiss I got frae the miller." He withheld his name from " Theniel Men- zies' bonny Mary." The buoyancy of the language, and the natural truth of the delinea- tion must be felt by all who know what lyric composition is : — " Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, Her haffet locks as brown 's a berry, And aye they dimpl'd wi' a smile, The rosy cheeks o' bonny Mary." " The Banks of the Devon," " Raving winds around her blowing," " Musing on the .ETAT. 29. EDINBURGH— MUSICAL MUSEUM. 70 roaring ocean," " A rose-bud by my early walk," and " Where braving angry Winter's storms," were all published in the Poet's name. In the first, he paid homage to the charms of Charlotte Hamilton ; and in the latter, to the gentle and winning graces of Margaret Chalmers. These are more finished and equal, yet scarcely so happy as some of the hasty and perhaps in- considerate snatches with which he eked out the fragmentary strains of the old minstrels. That his heart was much with this sort of work, we may gather from his letter to Mrs. Rose of Kilravock, Feb. 17th 1788:— "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 i 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." He wrote to his friends— east, west, north, and south, for airs and verses for the Museum. From his old comrade M'Candlish he begged " Pompey's Ghost," by the unfortunate Lowe — from Skin- ner of Linshart — from Dr. Blacklock he en- treated communications ; and he drew upon his own memory for some of those antique strains, picked up from the singing of his mother, or the maidens of Ayr-shire. To those who charge Burns with idleness or dissipation during this winter in Edinburgh, many will think thirty songs an answer suffici- ent, without taking into consideration his maimed limb, and his numerous letters to Clarinda. He had other matters, too, on his mind ; I have said that he exhibited early symptoms of jacobi- tism : his Highland tours and conversations with the chiefs and ladies of the north strengthened a liking which he seems to have inherited from his fathers. On the 31st of December previous, he was present at a meeting to celebrate the birth-day of the last of the race of our native princes, the unfortunate Charles Edward : he acted the part of laureate on the occasion, and recited an ode, lamenting the past, sympathizing in the present, and prophesying retribution for the future. Like almost all the verse for which Burns taxed his spirit, the ode is cumbrous and inflated ; neither the fiery impetuosity of Gra- ham, nor the calm intrepidity of Balmerino inspired him — " Ye honoured mighty dead ! Who nobly perished in the glorious cause, Your king, your country, and your laws : From great Dundee, who, smiling, victory led, [* The sum paid was £5 10, as appears from the following extract of an original letter, in Burns 'a hand-writing, now in the possession of Geo. H. King, Esq , of Glasgow. To Mr. Peter HiU, Bookseller, Edinburgh. — Dumfries, February 5th, 179-' — My dear friend, I send you by the bearer. Mr. Clark, a particular friend of mine, six pounds and a shilling, which you will dispose of as follows : — five pounds ten shillings, per account, I owe to Mr. Robert Burn, Architect, And fell a martyr in her arms ; What breast of northern ice but warms To bold Balmerino's undying name? Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high flame, Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim!" Who were the Poet's associates at this anni- versary no one has told us. The white rose of jacobitism was worn in those days by many people of rank and condition : it was the sym- bol of all who regretted that Scotland had ceased to be a separate kingdom, had lost the dignity of her parliament, the honours of her monarchy, and was compelled to send hei children "into another land to represent her in- terests, where they were exposed to the scoffs | and insults of a "proud and haughty people. I This was the jacobitism of Burns ; though he j sung of the woes of Drumossie, and the suffer- ings of Prince Charles, he had no desire to see the ancient line restored, and the Hanoverian dynasty expelled, since he knew that every step towards the throne would be on a bloody corse. His heart clung to the immediate descendants of Bruce, and it is probable that he never studied the mystery of a constitution Avhich, to secure our freedom, raised a prince to the throne who could neither speak our language, nor com- prehend the genius of the people. His whole affections were concentrated on his native land : his whole object was to do it honour : for this he sacrificed his time ; to this he dedicated his genius ; and on this, though poor, he laid out some of the little wealth he had. He saw with sorrow that the dust of Fergusson, the poet, lay among the ignoble dead, and desired to raise a | memorial, such as might guide the steps of the | lovers of Scottish song to the grave of his bro- | ther bard. This humble wish was graciously j granted by the authorities of the Canongate | kirk, and 'he raised a monumental stone, which is still to be seen among the thick-piled grave- stones of the burial-ground. A communication from Delhi informs me that the price paid by the Poet was 5/., and that the work was ex- ecuted by Mr. Burn, father of the present distinguished architect. * That Burns could write so many songs is to ' be marvelled at, when we reflect that, during most of the time, a sort of civil war existed be- tween him and his bookseller, of which many symptoms are visible in his printed and manu- script correspondence. — " I have broke mea- sures," he says, " with Creech, and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. He replied in terms of chastisement, and promised me, upon for erecting the stone over the grave of poor Fergusson. He was two ^e.trs in erecting it, alter 1 had commissioned him for it ; and I have been two years in paying him, after he sent me his account ; so he and 1 are quits. He had the hardiess? to ask me interest on the sum. but, considering the money was due by one poet for putting a tombstone over an- other, he may. with grateful surprise, thank Heaven that he ever saw a farthing of it. It. B.J LIFE OF BURNS. 1788. his honour, that I should have the account on Monday ; but this is Tuesday, and yet I have not heard a word from him. God have mercy on me ! a poor, damned, incautious, duped, un- fortunate fool ! The sport, the miserable victim of rebellious pride, hypochondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility, and bedlam passions ! ' I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to die.' I have this moment got a hint — I fear I am something like undone ; but I hope for the best. Come stubborn pride and unshrinking resolu- tion ; accompany me through this, to me, miser- able world ! You must not desert me ! Your friendship I think I can count on, though I should date my letters from a marching regi- ment. Early in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seri- ously, though, life at present presents me with but a melancholy path ; but my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on." These expressions refer to whispers which had reached his ear about the solvency of Creech, and are contained in a letter to Margaret Chal- mers : the conduct of his bookseller dwelt long on his mind ; we find him, sometime after- wards, thus writing to Dr. Moore. — " I cannot boast about Creech's ingenuous dealing ; he kept me hanging on about Edinburgh from the 7th of August, 1787, until the 13th of April, 1788, before he would condescend to give me a state- ment of affairs ; nor had I got it even then, but for an angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his pride. I could not a * tale,' but a detail, 1 unfold ;' but what am I that I should speak against the Lord's anointed bailie of Edin- burgh ! I give you this information, but I give it to yourself only, for I am still much in the gentleman's mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea I am sometimes tempted to have of him — God forbid I should ! A little time will try, for in a month I shall go to town to wind up the business, if possible." That Creech, after long evasion, behaved honourably and liberally to the impatient Poet is well enough known to the world ; I record these complaints to vindi- cate the latter from the charge of having loitered needlessly in Edinburgh, and refrained from putting the ploughshare in the ground which w;i> offered for his acceptance. " His publisher's accounts," says Lockhart, " when they were at last made out, must have given the impatient author a very agreeable Borprise; for, in his letter to Lord Glencairn, we find him expressing his hopes that the gross [* Nicol, the most intimate friend of Hums, writes to Mr. John Beware, excite-officer of Dumfries, immediately on bearing Of the poet's death. "He certainly told me that he received £000 for the Brat Edinburgh edition, and ^ioo arda for the copyright." Dr. Currie states the gross product of Creech'a edition at j£M)0, and Burns himself, in one of his I. mi-, at #400 Only. Nicol hints that Hums Dtracted debt* while In Edinburgh, which be might do i iriahto avow on all occasion*; ami if we are to hciievc profits of his book might amount to ' better than £200 ;' whereas, on the day of settling with Mr. Creech, he found himself in possession of £500, if not of £600."* Burns now set seriously about considering his future prospects. Having settled with Creech, he wrote to Mr. Miller that he would accept his offer with regard to the farm ; he lent two hun- dred pounds to his brother Gilbert, to enable him to mend himself in the world and support his mother, whom he tenderly loved ; and, with five hundred pounds in his pocket, he resolved to unite himself to Jean Armour, carry her to the banks of the Nith, and follow the plough and the muses. What he had seen and endured in Edinburgh, during his second visit, admonished him regarding the reed on which he leant, when he hoped for a place of profit and honour from the aristocracy on account of his genius. On his first appearance the doors of the nobility opened spontaneous, " on golden hinges turn- ing," and he ate spiced meats and drank rare wines, interchanging nods and smiles with " high dukes and mighty earls." A colder reception awaited his second coming ; the doors of lords and ladies opened with a tardy courtesy ; he was received with a cold and measured stateli- ness, was seldom requested to stop, seldomer to repeat his visit ; and one of his companions used to relate with what indignant feeling the Poet recounted his fruitless calls and his uncordial receptions in the good town of Edinburgh. That he had high hopes is well known ; there were not wanting friends to whisper that lordly, nay, royal, patronage was certain ; nor were such expectations at all unreasonable, — but genius is not the passport to patronage ; he was allied to no noble family, and could not come forward under the shelter of a golden wing ; he was unconnected with any party which could pretend to political influence, and who had power either to retard or forward a ministerial measure; moreover, he was one of those " whim-inspired" persons of whom he sings in his inimitable " Bard's Epitaph :" — " Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool." His case was, therefore, next to hopeless ; he asked for nothing, and nothing was offered, though men of rank and power were aware that he Avas unfitted with an aim in life — that poetry alone could not sustain him, and that he must go back to the flail and the furrow. He went to Edinburgh, strong in the belief that this, which is prohable, and that the expense of printing the subscription edition should, moreover, he deducted from the d.'/\)0 stated by Nicol, the apparent contradictions in these statements may be pretty nearly reconciled. There appears to he reason for thinking that Creech subsequently j>:iid more than .£'100 for the copyright. If he did not, how came Burns to realise, as Currie states, " nearly nine hun- dred pounds in all by his poems'/" Lockhart.] JETXT. 29. HIS APPOINTMENT TO THE EXCISE. genius such as his would raise him in society ; but he came not back without a sourness of spirit and a bitterness of feeling. The pride of Burns, which was great, would not allow him to complain, and his ambition, which was still greater, hindered him from re- garding his condition as yet hopeless. When he complained at all, he did not make his moan to man ; his letters to his companions or his friends are sometimes stern, fierce, and full of defiance ; he uttered his lament in the ear of woman, and seemed to be soothed with her at- tention and her sympathy. — " "When I must escape into a corner," he says bitterly to Mrs. Dunlop, " lest the rattling equipage of some gaping blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim, What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had, in some state of pre-existence, that he is ushered into this state of being with the sceptre of rule and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I am kicked into the world the sport of folly or the victim of pride ? I have read somewhere of a monarch who was so out of humour with the Ptolomean system of astronomy that he said, had he been of the Creator's council, he could have saved him a great deal of labour and absurdity. I will not defend this blasphemous speech ; but often, as I have glided with hum- ble stealth through the pomp of Prince's-street, it has suggested itself to me, as an improve- ment on the present human figure, that a man, in proportion to his own conceit of his conse- quence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we draw out a perspective. This trifling alteration, not to mention the pro- digious saving it would be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb — sinews of many of his Majesty's liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head and tip-toe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast advantage in enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or making way to a great man, and that, too, within a second of the precise spherical ano;le of reverence, or an inch of the particular point of respectful distance, which the import- ant creature himself requires ; as a measuring- glance at his towering altitude would deter- mine the affair like instinct." The condition of the Poet made, we fear, such bitter reflec- tions matters of frequent occurrence. The learned authors — and Edinburgh swarmed with them — claimed rank above the inspired clod of the valley ; the gentry asserted such superiority, as their natural inheritance ; the nobility held their elevation by act of parliament or the grace of majesty ; and none of them were pre- pared to accept the brotherhood of one who held the patent of his honours immediately from nature. _ In the course of the winter Burns resolved, since no better might be, to unite the farmer with the poet ; some one persuaded him that to both he could join the gauger. So soon as this possessed his fancy, he determined to beg the humble boon from his patrons, and, as no one seemed more likely to be kind than the Earl of Glencairn, he addressed him anxiously : — " I have weighed — long and seriously weighed — my situation. I wish to get into the excise : I am told your lordship's interest will easily pro- cure me the grant from the commissioners • and your lordship's patronage and goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, wretch- edness, and exile, embolden me to ask that in- terest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie of home that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters from destruction. I am ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solici- tation, and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as the cold denial." What the earl did in this matter is unknown ; his conduct seems to have satisfied Burns, for at his death, which soon followed, he poured out a po- etic lament full of the most touching sensibility. The Excise commission came in an unlooked- for way. While Burns was laid up with his crushed limb, he was attended by Alexander Wood, surgeon, a gentleman still affectionately remembered as "kind old Sandy Wood :" to him the Poet had mentioned his desire to ob- tain a situation in the Excise. Wood went to work, and so bestirred himself that Graham of Fintray put his name on the roll of Excise- men at once. The Poet, who, like the hero of his own inimitable song, was "Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' inair," communicated this stroke of what he called good fortune to Margaret Chalmers in these words: — "I have entered into the Excise. I go to the west for about three weeks, and then return to Edinburgh for six weeks' instructions.'' [The following is the letter of instructions given, by the Board of Excise, to the worthy individual under whom Burns was trained for the duties of his new office : — " Mr. James Fincllay, Officer, Tarholton. " The Commissioners order, That you instruct the Bearer, Mr. Robert Burns, in the Art of Gauging, and practical Dry gauging Casks and Utensils ; and that you fit him for survey- ing Victuallers, Rectifiers, Chandlers, Tanners, Tawers, Maltsters, &c. ; and when he has kept books regularly for Six Weeks at least, and drawn true Vouchers, and Abstracts therefrom, (which Books, Vouchers, and Abstracts most be signed by your Supervisor and yourself, a;< well as the said Mr. Robert Burns,)* and sent to the Commissioners at his expense ; and when lie is furnished with proper instruments, and well in- structed and qualified for an Officer, then (and not before, at your perils) you and your Super- visor are to certify the same to the Board, ex- & LIFE OF BURNS. 1788. pressing particularly therein the date of this letter ; and that the above Mr. Robert Burns hath cleared his Quarters, both for Lodging and Diet ; that he has actually paid each of you for his Instructions and Examination ; and that he has sufficient at the Time to purchase a Horse for his Business. I am, your humble Servant, " A. Pearson." "Excise Office, " Edinburgh, 31st March, 1/88."] " I have chosen this, my dear friend, after mature deliberation. The question is not at what door of fortune's palace shall we enter in, but what doors does she open for us. I was not likely to get anything to do. I got this without hang- ing-on or mortifying solicitation ; it is imme- diate bread, and, though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life." Nor did he withhold the tidings of his ap- pointment from Mrs. Dunlop : — "I thought thirty-five pounds a year no bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if Fortune, in her jade tricks, should kick him down from the little eminence to -which she has lately helped him up." Gau- ger is a word of mean sound, nor is the calling a popular one ; yet the situation is neither so humble, nor the emoluments so trifling, as some of the Poet's southern admirers have supposed. A gauger's income in those days, on the banks of Nith; was equal to three hundred a year at present in London ; an excise officer is the com- panion of gentlemen ; he is usually a well-in- formed person, and altogether fifty per cent, above the ordinary excise officers on the banks of the Thames. It is true that Burns some- times speaks with levity of his situation, but that is no proof of his contempt for it ; he loved in verse to hover between jest and earnest; and, if he thought peevishly about it at all, it was in comparison of a place such as his genius merited. Having secured the excise appoint- ment, and, on the 13th of March, 1788, bar- gained with Mr. Miller of Dalswinton for the farm of Ellisland, in Nithsdale, he. resolved to bid Edinburgh farewell. The Poet, it is Eaid, visited the graves of Ramsav and Fergusson, then took leave of some friends— the Earl of Glencairn was one — by Letter, and waited upon others: among the latter wen; Blair, Stewart, Tyfler, Mackenzie, and Blacklock. I have heard that his recep- tion was not so cordial as formerly; it would Been that his free way of speaking and free waj of living had touched them somewhat. Thai Barns wrote joyous letters, uttered un- guarded speeches when the wine-cup went round, and was now and then to be found in the companj of writers' clerks, country lairds, and v, c-t country farmers, is very true, and Could not well he otherwise. Jle was educated in a lest courtly school than professors und di- vines : mechanics and farmers had been his as- sociates from his cradle. The language of a farmer's fire-side is less polished and more na- tural than that of the college ; he spoke the language of a different class of people, and he kept their company because he was one of thern. Genius had ranked him with the highest ; but it was the pleasure of fortune or his country to keep him at the plough. The man who got his education in the furrowed field — whose elo- quence sprung from the barn and the forge, " When ploughmen gather with their graith," and who wrote not classic verse, but " hamely western jingle," could not by any possibility please, by his conversation or his way of life, the polished, the polite, and the fastidious. That Burns appeared fierce and rude in their eyes is as true as that they seemed to him " white curd of asses' milk," — learnedly dull and hypocritically courteous. It was not unknown to the literati, and the lords of Edinburgh, that Burns kept a memo- randum-book, in which he not only noted down his Border and his Highland tours, but intro- duced full length portraits of all the eminent persons whom he chanced to meet or with whom he associated. " As I have seen a good deal of human life in Edinburgh," he says, " a great many cha- racters which are new r to one bred up in the shades of life as I have been, I am determined to take down my remarks on the spot. Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, i half a word fixed upon or near the spot is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't know how it is with the world in general ; but with me, mak- ing my remarks is by no means a solitary plea- sure : I want some one to laugh with me ; some one to be grave with me ; some one to please me, and help my discrimination, with his or her own remark, and, at times, no doubt, to admire my acuteness and penetration. The world are so busied with selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth their while to make any observation on what passes around them, except where that observation is a sucker or branch of the darling plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental flights of novel writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we are capable of so in- timate and cordial a coalition of friendship as that one man may pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very inmost soul, with unreserved confidence to another, without hazard of losing part of that respect which man deserves from man ; or, from the unavoidable imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his confidence. "For these reasons, I am determined to make these pages my confidant. I will sketch every character, that any way strikes me, to the best JETAT. 29. HIS SKETCH-BOOK. W of my power, Avith unshrinking justice. I will insert anecdotes and take down remarks in the old law-phrase, without feud or favour. Where I hit on any tiling clever, my own applause will, in some measure, feast my vanity ; and, begging Patroelus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a security at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever. My own private story likewise, my love adventures, my rambles ; the frowns and smiles of fortune on my hardship ; my poems and fragments, that must never see the light, shall be occasionally inserted." [" How perpetually," says Lockhart, " Burns was alive to the dread of being looked down upon as a man, even by those who most zealously applauded the works of his genius, might per- haps be traced through the whole sequence of his letters. When writing to men of high sta- tion, at least, he preserves, in every instance, the attitude of self-defence. But it is only in his oavii secret tables that we have the fibres of his heart laid bare, and the cancer of this jealousy is seen distinctly at its painful work."] " There are few," continues the Poet, "of the sore evils under the sun give me more un- easiness and chagrin than the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of avowed worth, is re- ceived every where, with the reception which a mere ordinary character, decorated with the trappings and futile distinctions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his breast glowing with honest pride, conscious that men are born equal, still giving honour to whom, honour is due ; he meets at a great man's table a Squire Something, or a Sir Somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes beyond perhaps any one at table ; yet how will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abilities would scarcely have made an eight- penny tailor, and whose heart is not worth three farthings, meet with attention and notice, that are withheld from the son of genius and poverty ? The noble Glencairn has wounded me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He showed so much attention, engrossing attention, one day, to the only blockhead at table (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunderpate, and my- self) that I was within half a point of throwing down my gage of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevolently good at parting. God bless him ; though I should never see him more, I shall love" him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so capable of "the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other virtues." Burns kept this formidable book so little of a secret that he allowed a visiter sometimes to take a look at his gallery of portraits, and, as he distributed light and shade with equal freedom and force, it was soon bruited abroad that the Poet had drawn stern likenesses of his chief friends and benefactors. This book is not now to be found ; it was carried away from the Poet's lodgings by one of his visiters, who refused to restore it — enlisted in the artil- lery — sailed for Gibraltar, and died about the year 1800. From what remain, the following characters are extracted ; they make us regret the loss of the rest : — " With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease ; I never respect him with humble veneration ; but when he kindly interests himself in my welfare — or, still more, when he descends from his pinnacle and meets me on equal ground in conversation, my heart overflows with what is called liking. When he neglects me for the mere carcase of greatness, or when his eye measures the difference of our points of eleva- tion, I say to myself, with scarcely any emotion, what do I care for him or his pomp either ? It is not easy forming an exact judgment of any one, but, in my opinion, Dr. Blair is merely an astonishing proof of what industry and application can do. Natural parts, like his, are frequently to be met with ; his vanity is proverbially known among his acquaintance ; but he is justly at the head of what may be called fine writing ; and a critic of the first, the very first, rank, in prose ; even in poetry, a bard of nature's making can alone take the pas of him. He has a heart not of the very finest water, but far from being an ordinary one. In short he is truly a worthy and most respectable character." Other characters were sketched with still greater freedom. Here is his satiric portrait of a celebrated lawyer : — " He clench' d his pamphlets in his fist, He quoted an' he hinted, Till in a declamation-mist His argument he tint [lost] it ; He graped for't, he gaped for't, He found it was awa', man ; But what his common-sense came short, He eked it out wi' law, man." The above portrait of the Lord Advocate is admirable for breadth and character : the fol- lowing of Harry Erskine is not so happy. He was a wit, a punster, and a poet ; and one of the most companionable, intelligent, and elo- quent men of his time : — " Collected Harry stood a wee, Then open'd out his arm, man ; His lordship sat, wi' ruefu' eV, And ey'd the gathering storm, man : Like wind-driv'n hail, it did assail, Or torrents owrc a linn, man ; The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, Half-wakcn'd wi the din, man." The literati of Edinburgh were not displeased, it is likely, when he went away : nor were the titled part of the community without their share in this silent rejoicing; his presence was a re- proach to them. " The illustrious of his native £ "8 LIFE OF BURNS. 1788. land, from whom he looked for patronage," had proved that they had the carcase of great- ness, but wanted the soul : they subscribed for his poems, and looked on their generosity as " an alms could keep a god alive." He turned his back on Edinburgh, and from that time for- ward scarcely counted that man his friend who spoke of titled persons in his presence. Whilst sailing on pleasure's sea in a gilded barge, with perfumed and lordly company, he was, in the midst of his enjoyment, thrown roughly over- board, and had to swim to a barren shore, or sink for ever. Burns now turned his steps westward. In one of his desponding moods he had lately said to a correspondent, " There are just two crea- tures that I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe ; the one has not a wish without enjoyment, the other has neither wish nor fear." In the same mingled spirit of despair and pleasure he com- plains — " I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, light-armed, well-mounted banditti, under the banners of imagination, whim, caprice and passion ; and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wisdom, prudence, and forethought, move so very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and, alas ! frequent defeat." The thoughts of home, of a settled purpose in life, gave him a silent gladness of heart, such as he had never before known ; and, to use his own words, he moved homeward with as much hi- larity in his gait and countenance " as a May- frog, leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed earth after the long-expected shower." He reached Mauchline towards the close of April : he was not a moment too soon ; the intercourse which, in his visits to Ayr-shire, he had renewed with Jean Armour, exposed her once more to the reproaches of her family ; — she might say, in the affecting words of one whose company had brought botli joy and woe — " My father put me fraehis door, My friends they hae disovvn'd rac a' ; But I hae ane will take my part — The bonnie lad that's far awa." On his arrival he took her by the hand, and was re-married according to the simple and ef- fectual form of the laws of Scotland : — " Daddie Auld," and his friends of the Old-light, felt every wish to be moderate with one whose powers of derision had been already proved, lie next introduced Mrs. Burns to his friends, both in person and by letter. Much of his correspondence of this period bears evidence of the peace of mind and gladness of heart which this two-fold act of love and generosity had brought to him, To Mrs. Dunlop, he says, " Your surmise, .Madam, is just j I am indeed a husband. I found a once much-loved, and still much-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements ; but I enabled her to purchase a shelter : — there is no sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or misery. The most placid good-nature and sweetness of dis- position ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health, and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best ad- vantage by a more than commonly handsome figure ; these, I think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should never have read a page but the Scriptures, nor have danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding. To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger : my preservative from the first is the most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, and her attachment to me ; my antidote against the last is my long and deep - rooted affection for her. In housewife matters — in aptness to learn and activity to execute, she is eminently mistress ; and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is regularly and constantly ap- prentice to my mother and sisters in their dairy, and other rural business. The Muses must not be offended when I tell them the concerns of my wife and family will, in my mind, always take the pas ; but, I assure them, their lady- ships will ever come next in place. You are right that a bachelor state would have in- sured me more friends ; but, from a cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoy- ment of my own mind, and unmistrusting con- fidence in approaching my God, would seldom have been of the number." On the same interesting topic he writes to Margaret Chalmers : — " Shortly after my last return to Ayr-shire, 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 sick- ened and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school affectation ; and I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and kindest heart in the country. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnete hommc in the universe ; although she scarcely ever in her life, except the scriptures, and the Psalms of David, in metre, spent five minutes together on either prose, or verse. I must except also from this last a certain late publication of Scots poems which she has pe- rused very devoutly ; and all the ballads in the country, as she has (Oh ! 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." '% iETAT. 29. HIS MARRIAGE. 79 These letters, and others in the same strain, have misled Walker into the belief that Bums married Jean Armour from a sentiment of duty rather than a feeling of love ; no belief can be more imaginary. The unfortunate story of his affection had been told to the world both in prose and verse ; he was looked upon as one deserted by the object of his regard, under cir- cumstances alike extraordinary and painful. That he forgave her for the sad requital of his love, and her relations for their severity, and sought her hand and their alliance, required something like apology to his friends. I see nothing in these matters out of harmony with affection and love. — " That he originally loved his Jean," says the Professor, "is not to be doubted ; but, on considering all the circum- stances of the case, it may be presumed that, when he first proposed marriage, it was partly from a desire to repair the injury of her repu- tation, and that his distress, on her refusal, proceeded as much from wounded pride as from disappointed love." The best answer to this is afforded by the words of the Poet. He loved her, he never had ceased to love her ; he con- sidered her sacrifice of him as made to the pious feelings and authority of her father : — " I can have no nearer idea," he says, " of the place ot eternal punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her account. Never man loved, or rather adored, a woman more than I did her, and I do still love her to distraction after all." If this is not the language of ardent love, I know not what it means. But the Professor seems desirous of proving that this change in the Poet's affections was the necessary result of being exposed to the allure- ments of the high-bred dames of Edinburgh. — " The three years that succeeded," he ob- serves, " had opened to him a new scene : and the female society to which they had intro- duced him was of a description altogether dif- ferent from any which he had formerly known." — " Between the man of rustic life," said Burns to some one after his arrival in Edinburgh, " and the polite world, I observed little differ- ence. In the former, though unpolished by fashion, and unenlightened by science, I had found much observation and much intelli- gence. But a refined and accomplished woman was a being altogether new to me, and of which I had formed but a very inadequate idea." It is plain that the Poet, when he uttered these words, was close at the ear of one of those "high-exalted courteous dames," and making himself acceptable to her by flattery and by eloquence. It is also evident that the Profes- sor's notions of love were not at all poetic. To regulate our affections according: as knowledge raises woman m the scale is paying a very pretty compliment to education ; but it is most unjust to nature. True love pays no regard to such distinctions. We see a form — we see a face, which awaken emotions within us never before felt. The form is not perhaps the most perfect, nor the face the most fair, in the land ; yet we persist -in admiring — in loving them : — in short, Ave have found out, by the free-masonry of feeling, the help-mate which Heaven de- signed for us, and we woo and win our object. But in what were the ladies of the polished circles of the land superior to a well-favoured, well-formed, well-bred lass of low degree, who had a light foot for a dance, a melodious voice for a song, two witching eyes, with wit at will, and who believed the man who loved her to be the greatest genius in the world ? These are captivating qualities to all, save those who weigh the merits of a woman in a golden balance. Nay, in the very thing on which the Professor imagines a high and polished dame to be strong, she will be found weak. The shepherd maidens and rustic lasses of Scotland feel, from their unsophisticated state of mind, the beauty of the poetry of Burns deeply and devoutly ; for once that a song of his is heard in the lighted hall, it is heard fifty times on the brook-banks and in the pastoral valleys of the land. His marriage reconciled the Poet to his wife's kindred : there was no wedding-portion. Armour was a most respectable man, but not opulent. He gave his daughter some small store of plenishing ; and, exerting his skill as a mason, wrought his already eminent son-in- law a handsome punch-bowl in Inverary marble, which Burns lived to fill often, to the great pleasure both of himself and his friends. To make bridal presents is a practice of long stand- ing in Scotland ; and it is to the credit of the personal character of the Poet that he was not forgotten. Mis. Dunlop bethought her ot Ellisland, and gave a beautiful heifer : — another friend contributed a plough. The young couple, from a love of country, ordered their furniture — plain, indeed, and homely — from Morison, a wright in Mauchline : the farm servants, male and female, were hired in Ayr-shire, a matter of questionable prudence ; for the mode of culti- vation is different from that of the west, and the cold humid bottom of Mossgiel bears no resemblance to the warm and stonv loam of Ellisland. PART III.— ELLISLAND. In the month of May, 1788, Burns made his appearance as a farmer in Nithsdale ; his fame had flown before him, and his coming was expected. Ellisland is beautifully situated on the south side of the Nidi, some six miles above Dumfries ; it joins the grounds of Friars- Carse on the north-west — the estate of Isle towards the south-east — the great road from Glasgow separates it from the hills of Dun- score ; while the Nith, a pure stream running 80 LIFE OF BURNS. 1788. over the purest gr.ivel, divides it from the holms and groves of Dalswinton. The farm amounts to upwards of a hundred acres, and is part holm and part croft-land ; the former, a deep rich loam, bears fine tall crops of wheat ; the latter, though two-thirds loam and one- third stones on a bottom of gravel, yields, when carefully cultivated, good crops, both of potatoes and corn ; yet to a stranger the soil must have looked unpromising or barren ; and Burns declared, after a shower had fallen on a field of new-sown and new-rolled barley, that it looked like a paved street ! Though he got possession of the farm in May, the rent did not commence till Martin- mas, as the ground was uninclosed and the houses unbuilt. By the agreement, Miller granted to Burns four nineteen years' leases of Ellisland, at an annual rent for the first three years of fifty pounds, and seventy pounds for the remaining seventy-three years of the tack ; the Poet undertook, for a sum not exceeding three hundred pounds, to build a complete farm onstead, consisting of dwelling-house, barn, byre, stable, and sheds, and to permit the proprietor to plant with forest trees the scaur or precipitous bank along the side of the Nith, and a belt of ground towards Friars- Carse, of not more than two acres, in order to shelter the farm from the sweep of the north- west wind. Burns was assisted in the choice of the farm, and the terms on which it was taken, by Tennant of Glenconner, one of his Ayr-shire friends : there were other farms to be let of a superior kind on the estate, and those were pointed out by my father, steward to the proprietor — a Lothian farmer of skill and ex- perience — but the fine romantic look of Ellis- land induced Burns to shut his eyes on the low-lying and fertile Foregirth ; upon which my father said, " Mr. Burns, you have made a poet's — not a farmer's — choice." I was very young when I first saw Burns, lie came to see my lather ; and their conversa- tion turned partly on farming, partly on poetry, in both of which my father had taste and skill. Hiu-!)-, had just come to Nithsdale ; and I think lie appeared a shade more swarthy than he does in Nasmyth's picture, and at least ten years older than he really was at the time. His face was deeply marked' with thought, and the habit- ual expression intensely melancholy. His frame v. a very muscular and well proportioned, though be had a shorl neck, and something of a plough- man's Stoop: he was strong, and proud of his strength. I saw him one evening match him- self w ith a number of masons ; and out of five- and-twenty practised hands, the most vigorous young men in the parish, there was only one thai could lift the same weight as Burns. He had a very manly faee, and ;i very melan- • Holm i- t!.:.t rich meadow-land, intervening between a choly look ; but on the coming of those he es- teemed, his looks brightened up, and his whole face beamed with affection and genius. His voice was very musical. I once heard him read Tarn O'Shanter. — I think I hear him now. His fine manly voice followed all the undula- tions of the sense, and expressed, as well as his genius had done, the pathos of humour, the hor- rible and the awful, of that wonderful perform- ance. As a man feels, so will he write ; and in proportion as he sympathizes with his author, so will he read him with grace and effect. 1 said that Burns and my father conversed about poetry and farming. The Poet had newly taken possession of his farm of Ellisland, — the masons were busy building, — the applause of the world was with hjm, and a little of its money in his pocket, — in short, he had found a resting- place at last. He spoke with great delight about the excellence of his farm, and particularly about the beauty of its situation. "Yes," my father said, "the walks on the river banks are fine, and you will see from your windows some miles on the Nith ; but you will also see farms of fine rich holm,* any one of which you might have had. You have made a poet's choice, rather than a farmer's." If Burns had much of a farmer's skill, he had little of a farmer's prudence and economy. I once inquired of James Come, a sagacious old farmer, whose ground matched with Ellisland, the cause of the Poet's failure. " Faith," said he, " how could he miss but fail, when his ser- vants ate the bread as fast as it was baked ? I don't mean figuratively, I mean literally. Con- sider a little : at that time close economy was necessary to have enabled a man to clear twenty pounds a year by Ellisland. Now, Burns' own handy work was out of the question ; he neither ploughed, nor sowed, nor reaped, at least like a hard-working farmer ; and then he had a bevy of servants from Ayr-shire. The lasses did no- thing but bake bread, and the lads sat by the fire-side, and ate it warm, with ale. Waste of time and consumption of food would soon reach to twenty pounds a year." "The truth of the case is, that, if Bobert Burns liked his farm, it was more for the beauty of its situation than for the labours which it re- quired. He was too wayward to attend to the stated duties of a husbandman, and too impa- tient to wait till the ground returned in gain the cultivation he bestowed upon it. During the prosperity of his farm, my father often said that Burns conducted himself wisely, and like one anxious for his name as a man, and his fame as a poet. He went to Dunscore kirk on Sundays, though he expressed oftener than once his dis- like to the stern Calvinism of that strict old di- vine, Mr. Kirkpatrick ; — he assisted in forming a reading club, and at weddings, and house- stream and the general elevation of the adjoining country. .ETAT. 29. ELLISLAND. 81 heatings, and kirns,* and other scenes of festi- vity, he was a welcome guest, universally liked by the young and the old. ["The situation in which Burns now found himself," says Currie, "was calculated to awaken reflection. The different steps he had of late taken were in their nature highly im- portant, and might be said to have, in some measure, fixed his destiny. He had become a husband and a father ; he had engaged in the management of a considerable farm, a difficult and laborious undertaking ; in his success the happiness of his family was involved ; it was time, therefore, to abandon the gaiety and dis- sipation of which he had been too much ena- moured ; to ponder seriously on the past, and to form virtuous resolutions respecting the future. That such was actually the state of his mind, the following extract from his common -place book may bear witness :— 'Ellisland, Sunday, 14th June, 1788. ' This is now the third day that I have been in this country. ' Lord, what is man ! ' What a bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, ideas, and fancies ! And what a capricious kind of existence he has here ! * * * There is indeed an elsewhere, where, as Thomson says ' virtue sole survives.' ' Tell us, ye dead ; Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be? A little time Will make us wise as you are, and as close.' ' I am such a coward in life, so tired of the service, that I would almost at any time, with Milton's Adam, gladly lay me in my mother's lap, and be at peace. ' But a wife and children bind me to strug- gle with the stream, till some sudden squall shall overset the silly vessel, or, in the listless return of years, its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell now to those giddy follies, those varnished vices, which, though half-sanc- tified by the bewitching levity of wit and hu- mour, are at best but thriftless idling with the precious current of existence ; nay, often poi- soning the whole, that, like the plains of Jericho, the vmter is naught and the ground barren, and nothing short of a supernaturally-gifted EJisha can ever after heal the evils. ' Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me hardest to care, if virtue and religion were to be anything with me but names, was what in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in my present situation it was absolutely necessary. Humanity, [* Kirns. — The harvest-home dances in Scotland. Such entertainments were always given by the landlords in those days ; but this good old fashion is fast wearing out. It belonged to a more prudent, as well as humane, style of man- ners than now rinds favour. [t Burns, in his happy days at Ellisland, had scrawled on the windows, with his diamond, his own and his wife's generosity, honest pride of character, justice to my own happiness for after life, so far as it could depend (which it surely will a great deal) on internal peace ; all these joined their warmest suffrages, their most powerful solicitations, with a rooted attachment, to urge the step I have taken. Nor have I any reason on her part to repent it. I can fancy how, but have never seen where, I could have made a better choice. Come, then, let me act up to my favourite motto, that glorious passage in Young — On reason build resolve, That column of true majesty in man ! ' " Under the impulse of these reflections, Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding the dwell- ing-house on his farm, which, in the state he found it, was inadequate to the accommodation of his family. On this occasion, he himself re- sumed at times the occupation of a labourer, and found neither his strength nor his skill im- paired. Pleased with surveying the grounds lie was about to cultivate, and with the rearing of a building that should give shelter to his wife and children, and, as he fondly hoped, to his own grey hairs, sentiments ot independence buoyed up his mind, pictures of domestic con- tent and peace rose on his imagination ; and a few days passed away, as he himself informs us, the most tranquil, if not the happiest, which he had ever experienced. f"] The Poet was now a busy and a happy man. He had houses to build, and grounds to en- close : — that he might be near both, he sought shelter in a low smoky hovel on the skirts of his farm. I remember the house well : the floor was of clay, the rafters were japanned with soot : the smoke from a hearth fire streamed thickly out at door and window, while the sunshine which struggled in at those apertures produced a sort of twilight. There he w r as to be found by all who had curiosity or taste, with a table, books, and drawings before him ; sometimes writing letters about the land, and the people, among whom he had dropt like a slung stone ; sometimes giving audience to workmen who were busy at dyking or digging foundations ; and not unfrequently brushing up, as Mrs. Burns was wont to say, an old song for Johnson's Musical Museum.— -" The hovel which I shelter in," said the Poet to Mar- garet Chalmers, "is pervious to every blast that blows, and every shower that falls : and I am onty preserved from being chilled to death by being suffocated with smoke. 1 clo not find my farm that pennyworth I was taught to ex- initials, in many a fond and fanciful shape, where they still remain, interspersed with such mnrceaux as the following: — <; An honest woman's the noblest work of God." Poor fellow! — His own noble spirit was at rest with and all the world at this time.] G 82 LIFE OF BURNS. 1788. pect, but I believe in time it may be a saving bargain." If Burns had little comfort in his lodging- place, he seems to have been unfortunate in finding society to render it endurable. — " I am here," he says, on the 9th of September, " on my farm busy with my harvest; but for all that pleasurable part of life called social com- munication, I am at the very elbow of ex- istence. 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 own capricious, but good-natured hussey of a muse — 1 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 Ayr-shire with my ( darling Jean ;' and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my be- cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her hand across the spokes of her spinning-wheel." In the same strain — half serious and half-humourous — he thus addresses his friend Hugh Parker : — " In this strange land, this ui.eouth clime, A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; Where words ne'er crost the Muse's heckles, Nor limpit in poetic shackles ; A land that prose did never view it, Except, when drunk, he stacher't through it. Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — The red peat gleams a fiery kernel, Enhusked by a fog infernal : Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, I sit and count my sins by chapters : For life and spunk, like ither Christians, I'm dwindled down to mere existence, Nae converse but wi' Gallowa' bodies, Wi' nae ken'd face but— Jenny Geddes." Nor did his neighbours gain on him by a closer acquaintance. "I was yesterday," he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, "at Mr. Miller's, to dinner for the first time. My reception was quite to my mind— from the lady of the house quite flat- tering. 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 flic belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored household gods, in- dependence of spirit and integrity of soul ! In the course of the conversation. Johnson's Mu- sical Museum, a collection of Scottish songs, with the music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsiehord, beginning: — ' Raving winds around her blowing.' 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 chaff is better than other folk's corn.' I was going to make a New Testament quotation about ' casting pearls ;' but that would be too viru- lent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste." The sooty shealing in which the Poet found refuge seems to have infected his whole atmos- phere of thought ; the Maxwells, the Kirk- patricks, and Dalzells were fit companions for any man in Scotland in point of courtesy and information, and they were almost his neigh- bours ; Kiddell, of Friars-Carse, an accom- plished antiquarian, lived next door ; and Jean Lindsay, and her husband Patrick Miller, were no ordinary people. The former was beautiful and accomplished ; wrote easy and graceful verses, and had a natural dignity in her man- ners which became her station ; the latter was one of the most remarkable men of his time ; an improver and inventor, and the first who applied steam to the purposes of navigation. Burns was resolved to be discontented — at least on paper — for in his conversation he exhibited no symptoms of the kind ; but talked, laughed, jested, and visited, with the ease and air of a man happy and full of hope. The walls of the Poet's onstead began now to be visible from the North side of the Nith, and the rising structures were visited by all who were desirous of seeing how he wished to house himself. The plans were simple: the barn seemed too small for the extent of the farm, and the house for the accommodation of a large family. It contained an ample kit- chen, which was to serve for dining room ; a room to hold two beds, a closet to hold one, and a garret, coom-ceiled, to contain ^ others for the female servants. One of the windows looked down the holms, another opened on the river, and the house stood so nigh the lofty bank that its afternoon shadow fell across the stream upon the opposite fields. The garden was a little way from the house ; a pretty footpath led southward along the river side ; another ran northward, affording fine views of the Nith, and of the groves of Friars-Carse and Dals- winton ; while, half way down the steep de- clivity, a fine, clear, cool spring supplied water to the household. The situation was picturesque, and at the same time convenient for the purposes of the farm. During the progress of the work, Burns was often to be found walking among the men, urging them on, and eyeing with an anxious look the tedious process of uniting lime and stone. On laying the foundation he took off his hat, and asked a blessing on the home ^TAT. 29. ELLISLAND. b& which was to shelter his household gods. I inquired of the man who told me this, if* Burns did not put forth his hand and help him in the progress of the work ? — " Ay, that he did mony a time. If he saw us like to be beat wi' a big stane he would cry, ' bide a wee !' and come rinning. We soon found out when he put to his hand — he beat a' I ever met for a dour lift." When the walls rose as high as the window-heads, he sent a note into Dumfries ordering wood for the interior lintels. Twenty carpenters flocked round the messenger, all eager to look at the Poet's hand-writing. In such touches the admira- tion of the country is well expressed. These days have been numbered by Currie among the golden days of Burns. Few of his days were golden, and most of them were full of trouble ; but his period of truest hap- piness seems to have been that which pre- ceded and followed the first Edinburgh edition of his poems. Those were, it is true, days of feverish enjoyment ; but the tide of his for- tune, or at least of his hopes, was at the full. The way before him was all sunshine ; and, as his ambition was equal to his genius, he indulged in splendid visions of fame and glory. The neglect of the Scottish nobles rebuked his spirit ; he came to Dumfries-shire a sad- dened and dissatisfied man ; he saw that his bread must be gained by the sweat of his brow; that the original curse, from which men without a moiety of his intellect were relieved, had fallen heavy upon him ; and that he must plod labour's dull weary round, like an ox in a threshing-mill. The happi- ness present to his fancy now, was less bright and ethereal than before ; he had to hope for heavy crops, rising markets, and fortunate bargains. At a harvest-home or penny-wed- ding he might expect to have his health drunk, and hear one of his songs sung ; but this was not enough to satisfy ambition such as his. Among the rising walls of his onstead, he " Cheep'd like some bewilder' d chicken, Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin By hoodie craw." and complained to Mrs. Dunlop of the un- couth cares and novel plans which hourly insulted his awkward ignorance. These un- couth cares were the labours of a farm, and the novel plans were the intricate and labori- ous elegancies of a plain onstead ! I have heard my father allege that Burns looked like a man restless and of unsettled purpose. — " He was ever on the move," said he, " on foot or on horseback. In the course of a single day he might be seen holding the plough, angling in the river, sauntering, with his hands behind his back, on the banks, look- ing at the running water, of which he was very fond, walking round his buildings, or over his fields ; and, if you lost sight of him for an hour, perhaps you might see him re- turning from Friars-Carse, or spurring his horse through the Nith to spend an evening in some distant place, with such friends as chance threw in his way." The account which he gave of himself is much to the same purpose. — " There is," said he, "a foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the hour of care, which makes the dreary objects seem larger than life. Extreme sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy side, by a series of misfortunes and disappointments, at that period of my existence, when the soul is lay- ing in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this unhappy frame of mind." He loved to complain: — "My increasing cares," he says, " in this as yet strange country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futu- rity — consciousness of my own inability for the struggle of the world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and children — I could in- dulge these reflections, till my humour should ferment in the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life." These are the sentiments of one resolved not to be com- forted,, — " The heart of the man and the fancy of the poet are the two grand considerations," he observed, "for which I live. If miry ridges and dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the functions of my immortal soul, 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." To Margaret Chalmers he writes in a mood a shade or so brighter : — " Ellisland, September, 14th, 1788. " 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 Vegard de moi, I sit down to beg the continuation of your goodness. 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 anybody I meet with in eight years ; when I think on the im- probability of meeting you in this world again — I could sit doAvn and cry like a child. If ever you honoured me with a place in your es- teem, I trust I can now plead more desert. I am secure against that crushing grasp of iron poverty, which, alas ! is less or more fatal to the native worth and purity of, 1 tear, the no- blest souls ; and a late important step in my lite has kindly taken me out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities which, however overlooked in fashionable license, or varnished in fashion- G 2 84 LIFE OF BURNS. able phrase, are indeed but lighter and deeper shades of Villany." After this we are scarcely prepared for his saying, " you will be pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle eclat, and bind every day after my reapers." The domestic sketch of one great master has been completed by the hand of another : Sir Egerton Brydges thus relates an interview which he had with Burns on the banks of the Nith : — " I had always been a great admirer of his genius and of many traits in his character ; and I was aware that he was a person moody and somewhat difficult to deal with. I was resolved to keep in full consideration the irrita- bility of his position in society. About a mile from his residence, on a bench, under a tree, I passed a figure, which from the engraved portraits of him I did not doubt was the Poet ; but I did not venture to address him. On ar- riving at his humble cottage, Mrs. Burns opened the door ; she was the plain sort of humble woman she has been described ; she ushered me into a neat apartment, and said that she would send for Burns, who was gone for a walk. In about half an hour he came, and my conjecture proved right : he was the person I had seen on the bench by the road-side. At first I was not entirely pleased with his counte- nance. I thought it had a sort of capricious jealousy, as if he was half inclined to treat me as an intruder. I resolved to bear it, and try if I could humour him. I let him choose his turn of conversation, but said a few words about the friend whose letter I had brought to him. It was now about four in the afternoon of an autumn day. While we were talking, Mrs. Burns, as if accustomed to entertain visit- ers in this way, brought in a bottle of Scotch whiskev, and set the table. I accepted this hospitality. I could not help observing the curious glance with which he watched me at the entrance of this signal of homely entertain- iii* nt. He was satisfied ; he filled our glasses. " Here's a health to auld Caledonia \" The fire sparkled in his eye, and mine sympathetically met his. He shook my hand with warmth, and we were friends at once. Then he drank "Erin lor ever !" and the tear of delight burst from his eye. The fountain of his mind and bis heart now opened at once, and flowed with abundant force almost till midnight. He had amazing acuteness of intellect, as well as glow of Bentunent. I do not deny that he said some absurd things, and many coarse ones, and that hi- knowledge was very irregular, and some- times too presumptuous, and that he did not endure contradiction with sufficient patience. His pride, and perhaps his ranity, was even morbid. I carenilly avoided topics in which he could ii"t take an active part. Of literary ip be knew oothing, ana therefore I kept aloof from it; in the technical parts of litera- ture big opinions were crude and uninformed: but whenever he spoke of a great writer whom he had read, his taste was generally sound. To a few minor writers he gave more credit than they deserved. His great beauty was his manly strength, and his energy and elevation of thought and feeling. He had always a full mind, and all flowed from a genuine spring. I never con- versed with a man who appeared to be more Avarmly impressed with the beauties of nature ; and visions of female beauty and tenderness seemed to transport him. He did not merely appear to be a poet at casual intervals ; but at every moment a poetical enthusiasm seemed to beat in his veins, and he lived all his days the inward, if not the outward, life of a poet. I thought I perceived in Burns's cheek the symp- toms of an energy which had been pushed too far; and he had this feeling himself. Every now and then he spoke of the grave as soon about to close over him. His dark eye had at first a character of sternness ; but as he became warmed, though this did not entirely melt away it was mingled with changes of extreme softness." Between the farm of Ellisland and the vil- lage of Mauchline lies a dreary road, forty-six miles long : and along this not very romantic path Burns was in the habit of riding more frequently than was for the advantage of his pocket or his farm. It is true that it was Mrs. Burns who made him look to the west, and it is also true that a man should love and honour his wife ; but it seems not to have occurred to the Poet that strict economy — a vigilant look-out upon his farming operations — was the most substantial way of paying respect to her. His jaunts were frequent ; he tarried long, and there were pleasant lingerings by the way — brought about by inclination sometimes, and sometimes by wind and rain. All this was much to be regretted, and it arose mainly from want of a residence for Mrs. Burns and his children near the farm which he superintended. He complains to Ainslie of want of time. He was not one of those who could sit quietly and let matters take their course : he had all the impatience of genius, and not a little of its irri- tability. In one of his excursions to Ayr-shire, he found the inn at which he usually got a night's lodging filled with mourners conveying the body of a lady of some note in the west to her family tomb ; he was obliged to ride ten miles to another inn. The fruit of his vexation was an ode lavish of insult : — " Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark Who in widowed weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years. Note that eye — 'tis rheum o'erflows — Pity's flood there never rose : See those hands, ne'er stretched to save ; Hands that took, but never gave." JETAT. 29. FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE. 85 In these words, and others bitterer still, the Poet avenged himself on the memory of a frugal and respectable lady, whose body unconsciously deprived him of a night's sleep. Some will like better, some worse, the reproof which he gave to Kirkpatrick, the minister of Dunscore, for preaching down " the bloody and tyrannical house of Stuart." The Poet went to the Parish church to join in acknowledge- ments for the Revolution to which we are in- debted for civil and religious rights. The stern and uncompromising divine touched the yet lin- gering jacobitical prejudices of Burns so sharp- ly, that he seemed ready to start from his seat and leave the church. On going home he wrote thus to the London Star : — " Bred and educated in revolution principles — the principles of reason and com- mon sense — it could not be any silly prejudice which made my heart revolt at the abusive manner in which the reverend gentleman threatened the house of Stuart. We may re- joice 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 author of those evils. The Stuarts only contended for prero- gatives which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contempo- raries enjoying ; but these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness of a nation, and the rights of subjects. Whether it was owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, or to the jostling of parties, I cannot pretend to deter- mine ; but, 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 in- consistent with the covenanted terms which placed them there. Let every man who has a tear for the many miseries incident to hu- manity feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, and unfortunate beyond historic pre- cedent ; and let every Briton, and particularly every Scotchman, who ever looked with re- verential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings of his forefathers." The eloquent humanity of this appeal was thrown away, perhaps, upon an intrepid Cal- vinist, to whom the good things of this world were as dust in the balance compared with what he deemed his duty to God and his conscience. — "You must have heard," says Burns in a letter to Nicol, " how Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded by Kirkpatrick of Dun- score, and the rest of that faction, have ac- cused, in formal process, the unfortunate Heron of Kirkgunzeon, that, in ordaining Neilson to the cure of souls in Kirkbean, he feloniously and treasonably bound him to the Confession , of Faith, as far as it was agreeable to reason and the word of God." The Poet was un- fortunate in his respect for those Galloway apostles : for worth and true nobleness of mind, Lawson and Kirkpatrick were as high above them as Criffel is above Solway. He was wayward, and scarcely to be trusted in his arguments on religious topics : — a Cameronian boasted to me how effectually Burns interposed between him and two members of the esta- blished kirk, who were crushing him with a charge of heresy. — " The Poet," said he, " proved the established kirk to be schismatic, and the poor broken remnant to be the true light. Never believe me if he wasna a gude man !" A secluded walk, or a solitary ride, were to Burns what the lonely room and evening lamp are said to be to others who woo the muse. Though sharp and sarcastic in his correspon- dence, he was kindly and obliging in other matters. He had formed a friendship with the family of Friars- Carse, and was indulged with a key which admitted him when he pleased to the beautiful grounds — to the rare collections of antique crosses, troughs, altars, and other inscribed stones of Scotland's elder day — and to, what the Poet did not love less, a beautiful hermitage, in the centre of the grove next to Ellisland. He rewarded this indulgence by writing an inscription. At first the poem was all contained on one pane of glass 5 but his fancy overflowed such limits : — " Thou whom chance may hither lead ; Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Grave these maxims on thy soul : — Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; Hope not sunshine every hour ; Fear not clouds will always lour. * * * Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! Quod the Beadsman of Nithside." These sentiments show the colour of the Poet's mind rather than its original vigour. He was happier in a poem addressed to Gra- ham of Fintry ; it is rich in observation, and abounds with vivid pictures, some of them darkening into the stern and the sarcastic : — " Thee, Nature ! partial Nature ! I arraign ; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, Th' envenom' d wasp, victorious, guards his cell ; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The priest and hedge-hog in their robes are snug. But, oh ! thou bitter step-mother, and hard To thy poor fenceless naked child — the Bard I A thing unteachable in worldly skill, And half an idiot, too — more helpless still ; No nerves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich Dullness' comfortable fur, In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears the unbroken blast on every side; Vampyre booksellers drain him to (he heart. And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 86 LIFE OF BURNS. 176U. Critics !— appall'd I venture on the name ; Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame, Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Munroes ! He hacks to teach — they mangle to expose." The fine satire and graceful application of these lines make us regret that they were ad- dressed to one who had nothing better in his gift than situations in the Excise. In lyrical verse the muse of Burns was at this time somewhat sparing of her inspiration ; she who loved to sing of rustic happiness in her own country tongue was put out in her musings by the sound of mason's hammers and carpen- ters' saws. The first of his attempts is the ex- quisite song called "The Chevalier's Lament ;" it was partly composed on horseback, on the 30th of March previous. — "Yesterday," he says to Kobert Cleghorn, "as I was riding through a track of melancholy, joyless moors, between Galloway and Ayr -shire, it being Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms and hymns and spiritual songs ; and your favourite air, ' Cap- tain O'Keane,' coming at length into my head, I tried these words to it : — " The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the vale, The hawthorn-tree blows in the dew of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale ; But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are numbered by care? No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyle.ss despair." He contributed some dozen songs or so this season to Johnson : — " I can easily see that you will very probably," he says, " have four vo- lumes. 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 upon themselves as highly indebted to your public spirit. I see every day new musical publications advertised, but what are they ?— gaudy butterflies of a day : but your work will outlive the momentary neg- lectB of idle fashion, and defy the teeth of time." Of the new songs which he wrote, " Beware of bonnie Ann" was the first ; Ann, the daughter of Allan Masterton, was the heroine. — "The Gardener wi' his Paidle" is another ; the first ireree is natural and flowing : — " When rony May comes in wi' flowers, T'> dock the gay green spreading bowers, Then buy, busy are his hours, The gardener wi' his paidle. 'I'll'- ebiyitel watorn gently fa', The iiurry birds are lovers a', The scented breezes round him blaw, The gardener wi' his paidle." "On ;t Bank of Flowers" was written by de- lire of Johnson, to replace a son-- of greater merit, but less delicacy, published by Ramsay. "The da j returns, mj bosom burn, ,J was com- posed in compliment l<> tin; bridal-day of the laird of Friars-Carse and his lady ; it is very beautiful : — " The day returns, my bosom bums, The blissful day we twa did meet ; Though winter wild in tempest toil'd, Ne'er simmer sun was half sae sweet." " At their fire-side," says the Poet, " I have enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the houses of fashionable people in this country put together." " Go fetch to me a pint o' wine " Burns introduced to his brother Gilbert as an old song which he had found among the glens of Nithsdale, and asked if he did not think it beautiful. — " Beautiful !" said Gilbert : " it is not only that, but the most heroic of lyrics. Ah, Robert ! if you would write oftener that way, your famcwould be surer." He also co- pied it out as a work of the olden muse, to Mrs. Dunlop ; the second verse is magnificent : — " The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody : But it's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me longer wish to tarry, Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary." He was fond of passing off his own composi- tions as the labours of forgotten bards. "Auld lang syne" he spoke of to Mrs. Dunlop as a song that had often thrilled through his soul : nor did he hesitate to recommend it to Thomson as a lyric of other days which had never been in print, nor even in manuscript, till he took it down from an old woman's singing. Many a Scottish heart will respond in far lands to the following lines : — " We twa hae run about the braes, An' pou'd the gowans fine, But we've wandered mony a weary foot Since auld lang syne. We twa hae paidlet i' the burn Frae morning sun till dine, But seas between us braid hae roar'd Since auld lang syne." The desponding spirit of the Poet is visible in the song of "The lazy Mist." — "I'll never wish to hear it sung again," said a farmer to me once ; "it is enough to make one quit plough-hilts and harrow, and turn hermit." " Of a' the airts the wind can blaw" is as cheerful as the other is sorrowful. — " I com- posed it," said the Poet, out of compliment to Mrs. Burns : — it was," he archly adds, " during the honey-moon." This was the fruit of one of his horseback meditations, when riding to Mossgiel from Ellisland, with hi: rising onstead, his new-sown crop, and th- charms of Jean Armour's company in hi mind. He made it by the way, and sung if to his wife when he arrived. There are four verses altogether ; two of them are not com- monly printed, though both arc beautiful : — .ETAT. 30. ELLISLAND. ^7 " O blaw ye westlin' winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees, Wi' balmy gale frae hill an' dale, Bring hame the laden bees ; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat an' clean ; Ae smile o' her wou'd banish care, Sae charming is my Jean." These verses with which Burns eked out and amended the old lyrics are worthy of no- tice. There is some happy patching in "Tib- bie Dunbar :" — " I care na thy daddie, his lands and his money ; I care na thy kindred sae high and sae lordly ; But say thou wilt hae me, for better for waur, And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar." In "The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'," and in "Ay waukin, O," are two or three of the Burns' touches. In " My Love she's but a lassie yet" his hand is more visible : — " My love she's but a lassie yet, My love she's but a lassie yet ; We'll let her stand a year or twa. She'll no be half sae saucy yet ; I rue the day I sought her, O, I rue the day I sought her, O ; Wha gets her need na say he's wooed, But he may say he's bought her, O." Having cut and secured his crop, seen his stable for holding four horses, and his byre for containing ten cows, erected, and his dwelling house rendered nearly habitable, he went into Ayr-shire in the middle of November ; and, in the first week of the succeeding month, re- turned with Mrs. Burns, and some cart-loads of plenishing to Ellisland. He was visited on this occasion by many of his neighbours : the gladsome looks and the kindly manners of his young wife made a favourable impression on all ; and at his house-heating, " Luck to the roof-tree of the house of Burns !" was drunk by the men, and some of his songs sung by the lasses of Nithsdale. He was looked upon now as having struck root as a poet and a farmer, and, as both, was welcome to the people of the vale around. Yet his coining brought something like alarm to a few : the ruder part of the peasantry dreaded being pickled and preserved in sarcastic verse. An old farmer told me that, at a penny-pay wedding, when one or two wild young fellows began to quarrel and threatened to fight, Burns rose up and said, "Sit down and be damned to you! else I'll hing ye up like potatoe-bogles, in sang to-morrow." — "They ceased and sat down," said my informant, "as if their noses had been bleeding." In the letters and verses of the Poet at this period, we can see a picture of his mind and feelings. — In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, dated January 1, 1789, he writes : — " This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I came under the apostle James's description — the prayer of a righteous man availeth much. In that case, Madam, you should welcome in a year full of blessings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment should be re- moved, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste should be yours. I own myself so little of a presbyterian that I approve of set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on that habituated routine of life and thought which is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little superior to mere machinery. This day — New Year's day — the first Sunday in May ; a breezy, blue-skyed noon, sometime about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end, of autumn ; these, time out of mind, have been to me a kind of holiday. I believe I owe this to that glo- rious paper in the Spectator, 'The Vision of Mirza ; ' a piece that struck my young fancy, before I was capable of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : ' On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after hav- ing washed myself and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in me- ditation and prayer.' We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or structure of our souls ; so cannot account for those seeming- caprices in them that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a different cast make no extraordi- nary impression. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, the harebell, the fox-glove, the wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular de- light. I never heard the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plovers in an autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poe- try. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing? Are we a piece of machinery, which like the iEolian harp, passive, takes the impression of the passing accident, or do these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod/ I own myself partial to such proofs of those awful and important realities — a God that made all things — man's immaterial and immortal nature, ami a world of weal or woe beyond death and the grave." Thus elo- quently could Burns discourse upon his own emotions; he was willing to accept, as proofs of an immortal spirit within him. the poetic stirrings of his own sensibility. [" tew, it is to be hoped," Bays the eloquent Lockhart, " can read such things as these with- out delight; none, surely, that taste the ele- 88 LIFE OF BURNS. 1789. vated pleasure they are calculated to inspire can turn from them to the well-known issue of Burns's history without being afflicted. It is difficult to imagine anything more beautiful, more noble, than what such a person as Mrs. Dunlop might at this period be sup- posed to contemplate as the probable tenour of his future life. What fame can bring of happiness he had already tasted ; he had over- leaped, by the force of his genius, all the pain- ful barriers of society ; and there was probably not a man in Scotland who would not have thought himself honoured by seeing Burns under his roof. He had it in his power to place his poetical reputation on a level with the very highest names, by proceeding in the same course of study and exertion which had originally raised him into public notice. Surrounded by an affectionate family ; occupied, but not en- grossed, by the agricultural labours in which his youth and early manhood had delighted ; com- muning with nature in one of the loveliest dis- tricts of his native land ; and, from time to time, producing to the world some immortal addition to his verse, — thus advancing in years and in fame, with what respect would not Burns have been thought of ! How venerable in the eyes of his contemporaries ! How hallowed in those of after generations, would have been the roof of Ellisland, the field on which he 'bound eveiy day after his reapers/ the solemn river by which he delighted to wander ! The plain of Bannockburn would hardly have been holier ground."] That Burns imagined he had united the poet, farmer, and exciseman, all happily in his own person, was a dream in which he indulged only during the first season that he occupied Ellis- land. When he thought of his bargain with Miller, his natural engagement with the Muse, and of his increasing family, he was not un- conscious that he had taxed mind and body to the uppermost : poetry was not then, more than now, a productive commodity, and he could not expect a harvest such as he had reaped in Edin- burgh every year. A farm such as his re- quired the closest, nay, most niggardly, econo- my to make it pay ; and he was not, therefore, unwise in leaning to the Excise to help out with a little ready and certain money the defi- ciencies of his other speculations. As yet, how- ever, In- hopes were high, and his spirit un- touched vi hen he said " Come, firm Reiolve, take thou the van, ThOQ italic o' carlc-hcmp in man :" he waa bracing himself up for the contest. Such fits of thought generally with him ushered in verse. When visions of fame and honest bard-earned independence passed before his right, Burns slipl out to the ^ Scaur's red side," and pacing to and fro, indicated, to the hum- ming of some favourite tune, that he was busy with song. Nay, it was not unusual with him to go out, " attired as minstrels wont to be," with his head uncovered — his ancestor's broad sword buckled to his side ; and, traversing the river-bank in the glimpses of the moon, chant in a voice, deep, low, and melodious, the verses which rose on his fancy. [" On the Dalswinton side," says Lockhart, " the river washes lawns and groves ; but over against these the bank rises into a red scaur, of considerable height, along the verge of which, where the bare shingle of the precipice all but but overhangs the stream, Burns had his fa- vourite walk, and might now be seen striding alone, early and late, especially when the winds were loud, and the waters below him swollen and turbulent. ^For he was one of those that enjoy nature most in the more severe of her aspects ; and throughout his poetry, for one allusion to the liveliness of spring, or the splen- dour of summer, it would be easy to point out twenty in which he records the solemn delight ! with which he contemplated the melancholy grandeur of autumn, or the savage gloom of winter. Indeed, I cannot but think that the ; result of an exact inquiry into the composition i of Burns's poems, would be, that ' his vein/ like that of Milton, flowed most happily ' from the autumnal equinox to the vernal : ' — Of Lord Byron, we know that his vein flowed best at midnight ; and Burns has himself told us that it was his custom ' to take a gloamin' shot at the Muses.' "1 Nith side was a favourite place for study : southward lies a pretty walk among natural clover : northward the bank is rough with briar and birch, while, far below the stream, roughened by the large stones of Fluechar- Ford, may be heard — " Chafing against the Scaur's red side." Here, after a fall of rain, the poet loved to walk " listening to the dashing roar," or looking at the river, chafed and agitated, bursting impe- tuously from the groves of Friar' s-Carse against the bridling embankment which fences the low holms of Dalswinton. Thither he walked in his sterner moods, when the world and its ways touched his spirit ; and the elder peasants of the vale still shew the point at which he used to pause and look on the red and agitated stream. In one of these moods he produced, " I hae a wife of my ain," a rather indecorous ditty, but full of the character of the man, and breathing of resolution and independence :— " I hae a wife o' my ain — I'll partake \vi' naebody ; I'll tak' cuckold frae nanc, I'll gie cuckold to narooly, I hae a penny to spend — there, thanks to naebody ; I hae naething to lend— I'll borrow frae naebody. " I am naebody's lord, — I'll be slave to naebody ; I hae a gude braid sword — I'll tak' dunts frae naebody. I'll be merry and free — I'll be sad for naebody; If naebody care for me, I'll care for naebody." ©- iETAT. 30. HE ESTABLISHES LIBRARIES. 89 Burns indulged in the wish to compose a work less desultory, and more the offspring of medi- tation, than those short and casual pieces which were rather the sport of his vacant hours than the result of settled study and deliberate thought. Something like the Georgics of Virgil, a kind of composition for which he was well fitted, both by genius and knowledge, seems to have hovered before his fancy. — " It is a species of writing," he observed, " entirely new to me, and has filled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation ; but, alas ! when I read the Georgics, and then survey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland pony drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter to start for the plate." These words were addressed to Mrs. Dunlop ; he afterwards says to Dr. Moore: — "The character and employment of a poet were formerly my pleasure, but are now my pride. I have no doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the Muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by Him who forms the secret bias of the sour; but I as firmly believe that excellence in the profession is the fruit of industry, atten- tion, labour, and pains ; at least, I am resolved to try my doctrine by the test of experience. Another appearance from the press 1 put off to a very distant day — a day that may never ar- rive ; but poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my vigour." The critics of those days seem not to have felt that he had alreadv taken Saturday Night," as " Orient pearls at random strung ;" and held that their worth had yet to be decided by future works of more sustained excellence. This seems to have perplexed Bums ; such opinions pointed to a school of verse in which he had never studied. The Poet did not flourish ; yet he seems to have done enough to ensure success as a farmer. He held the plough frequently with his own hands ; and he loved to lay aside his coat, and with a sowing-sheet slung across his shoul- der, stride over the new-turned furrows, and commit his seed-corn to the ground. — While his wife managed the cheese and butter depart- ment with something short of West country skill, he attended fairs where grain was sold, and sales where cattle were disposed of ; and, though not averse to a merry-making or a dance, he seems neither to have courted nor shunned them. — " Do you come and see me," he says to Richard Brown. "We must have a social day, and perhaps lengthen it out witli half the night before you go again to sea. You are the earliest friend I now have on earth, my brothers excepted ; and is not that an endearing circumstance ? When you and I first met, we were at a green period of human life. The twig could easily take a bent, but would as [* Letter to Sir John Sinclair, Bart., in the Statistical easily return to its former state. You and I not only took a mutual bent, but, by the me- lancholy, though strong, influence of being both of the family of the unfortunates, we were in- tertwined with one another in our growth to- wards advanced age ; and blasted be the sacri- legious hand that shall attempt to undo the union !" He loved old friendships to continue, and rejoiced in the happiness of his early com- panions. The diffusion of knowledge Mas a favourite object with Burns ; for this he had established his reading and debating-clubs in the west, and in the same spirit he now desired to excite a love of literature among the portioners and peasants of Dunscore. He undertook the management of a small parochial library, and wrote out the rules. His friend, Gordon, a writer, happened to drop in while he was busy with the regula- tions, and began to criticise the language — a matter on which the bard was sensitive. — " Come, come, sir," said he, " let me have my rules again. Had I employed a Dumfries law- yer to draw them out, he would have given me bad Latin, worse Greek, and English spoken in the fourteenth century." Mr. Riddell, of Friar's-Carse, and other gentlemen, contributed money and books. The library commenced briskly, but soon languished. The Poet could not always be present at the meetings ; the subscribers lived far separate ; disputes and dis- union crept in, and it died away like a flower which fades for want of watering. Burns al- ludes ironically to the scheme in one of his letters. Wisdom, he averred, might be gained by the mere handling of books. One night, he said, while he presided in the library, a tailor, who lived some mile or so distant, turned over and over the leaves of a folio Hebrew concord- ance, the gift of a clergyman. — " I advised him," said Burns, " to bind the book on his back — he did so ; and Stitch, in a dozen walks between the library and his own house, ac- quired as much rational theology as the priest had done by forty years' perusal of the pages." Such ironical sallies were not likely to allure subscribers or give knowledge to the ignorant. [Nevertheless, his letters to the booksellers on the subject of this subscription library do him much honour: his choice of authors, which business was actually left to his discretion, beino; in the highest decree judicious. Such • ' • -ill institutions are now common, indeed almost universal, in the rural districts of Southern Scotland; but it should never be forgotten that Burns was among the first, if not the very first, to set the example. " He was so good," -ay- Mr. Riddell, " as to take the whole manage- ment of this concern : he was treasurer, librarian. and censor, to our little society, who will Long have a grateful sense of his public spirit and ex- ertions tor their improvement and information.]* Account of Scotland — Parish of Punscoie.] ©I 90 LIFE OF BURNS. 1789. Some have hinted that his appointment in the Excise was unfortunate, as it led to the tempt- ations of pleasant company and social excess. There is no situation under the sun free from this ; even a farmer is as much exposed to such allurements as any one. The Poet, a good judge in all such matters, looked with a different eye upon it ; nor is there anything too roman- tic in the wish that journeying along the green vales, and among the fine hills of Nithsdale and Galloway, might inspire his muse, and aid him in poetic composition. " I do not know," he said to Ainslie, " if I nave informed you that I am now appointed to an Excise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. I know not how the word exciseman, or still more opprobrious, gauger, will sound in your ears. I, too, have seen the day when my auditory- nerves would have felt very delicately on this subject ; but a wife and children have a won- derful power in blunting these kind of sensa- tions. Fifty pounds a -year for life, and a provision for widows and orphans, you will allow, is no bad settlement for a poet. For the ignominy of the profession, I have the encou- ragement which I once heard a recruiting Serjeant give to a numerous,. if not a respect- able, audience in the streets of Kilmarnock : — ' Gentlemen, for your farther and better encou- ragement, I can assure you that our regiment is the most blackguard corps under the crown ; and, consequently, with us, an honest man has the surest chance for preferment.' " In the same strain he writes to his friend Blacklock : — " But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, I'm turned a gauger. — Peace be here ! Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye'll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a-year Will little gain me. " Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wlia, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Ye ken, ye ken, That Strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o' men. " I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies ; Ye ken yourscl my heart right proud is — I need na vaunt ; But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies Before they want." In these verses we read of the man as well as the poet ; Ik; put more of himself into all he Wrote than any other poet, ancient or modern. [• A writer in the Edinburgh Literary Journal for 1829 the following lively anecdote :—" It may be readily i with what interest 1 heard, one Thornhill fair-day, -it the market. Boy as I then was, an wakened In me respecting this extraordinary rhich \\:t* sufficient, In addition to che ordinary attrac- tion oi :i rillage fair, to command my presence in the mar- ket Bums actually entered the fair about twelve ; and man, ad las*, Wtn all on the OUtlooh for a peep of the Ayr- shire ploughman. J canfullj dogged him from stand to " On one occasion, however," says Lockhart, " he takes a higher tone. ' There is a certain stigma,' writes the Poet to Bishop Geddes, 'in the name of exciseman ; but 1 do not intend to borrow honour from my profession ;' which may, perhaps, remind the reader of Gibbon's lofty language, on finally quitting the learned and polished circles of London and Paris for his Swiss retirement : — ' I am too modest, or too proud, to rate my value by that of my associ- ates." — " His farm," says Currie, "no longer occu- pied the principal part of his care or his thoughts. It was not at Ellisland that he was now in general to be found. Mounted on horseback, this high-minded Poet was pursuing the defaulters of ihe revenue among the hills and vales of Nithsdale, his roving eye wander- ing over the charms of nature, and muttering his wayward fancies as he moved along." Currie means something like censure in this passage. The Poet had a duty, and an arduous one, to perform ; his district reached far and wide ; he was ever punctual in his attendance; and, though he might plough and sow, reap and graze Ellisland by deputy, it required his own eyes and hands to superintend the revenue in ten parishes. That he acquitted himself dili- gently, but gently, in his vocation, there is abundance of proof ; against the regular smug- glers his looks were stern and his hand was heavy, while to the poor country dealer he was mild and lenient. The Poet and a brother exciseman one day suddenly entered a poor widow's shop in Dunscore, and made a seizure of smuggled tobacco. — '" Jenny," said the Poet, " I expected this would be the upshot ; here, Lewars, take note of the number of rolls as I count them. Now Jock, did ye ever hear an auld wife numbering her threads before check- reels were invented? Thou's ane, and thou's no ane, and thou's ane a' out — listen." As he handed out the rolls, he went on with his hu- morous enumeration, but dropping every other roll into Janet's lap. Lewars took the desired note with much gravity, and saw as if he saw not the merciful conduct of his companion. On another occasion, information had been lodged against a widow who kept a small pub- lic-house in Thornhill ; it was a fair-day — her house was crowded — Burns came suddenly to the back door and said, " Kate, are ye mad 1 — the supervisor will be in on ye in half an hour ! " This merciful hint saved the poor woman from ruin.* stand, and from door to door. An information had been lodged against a poor widow of the name of Kate Watson, who had ventured to serve a few of her old country friends with a draught of unlicensed ale, and a lacing of whisky on this village jubilee. I saw him enter her door, and antici- pated nothing short of an immediate seizure of a certain grey-beard and barrel, which, to my personal knowledge, con- tained the contraband commodity our bard was in quest of. A nod, accompanied by a significant movement of the fore- finger, brought Kate to the door-way entrance, and I was 0fc MTAT. 30. HIS " WOUNDED HARE. 01 E The muse, as he expected, accompanied Burns in his gauging excursions. He had occasion to be at Lochmaben ; Maxwell, then provost of that very small but very ancient borough, was his correspondent : — he was also acquainted with that "worthy veteran in religion and good fellowship, the Reverend Mr. Jeffrey." At the manse of the latter he met " the blue- eyed lass" in his daughter Jean, then a rosy irl of seventeen, with winning manners and aughing blue eyes. The Poet drank tea and spent the evening in the manse ; and next morning, greatly to the increase of her blushes, sent her the song which has made her im- mortal : — " I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; I gat my death frae twa sweet een, Tvya laughing een o' bonny blue : She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd, She charm'd my soul, I wistnahow; But ay the stound, the deadly wound, Came frae her een sae bonny blue." In April, he wrote the poem of " The wounded hare : " he has himself described the circum- stances under which he composed it, in a letter to his friend Mr. Alexander Cunningham of Edinburgh : — " One morning lately, as I was out pretty early in the fields, sowing some grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from a neigh- bouring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded hare came crippling by me. You will guess my indignation at the inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at this season, when all of them have young ones. Indeed there is something in that business of destroying for our sport individuals in the animal creation that do not injure us materially, which I could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue." His account was confirmed to me by James Thomson, the son of a neighbouring farmer. — " I remember Burns," said he, " weel ; I have some cause to mind him — he used to walk in the twilight along the side of the Nith, near the march, be- tween his land and ours. Once I shot at a hare that was busy on our braird ; she ran bleeding past Burns : he cursed me and ordered me out of his sight, else he would throw me into the water. I'm told he has written a poem about it." — " Aye, that he has," I replied ; " but do you think he could have thrown you into the Nith ? "— " Thrown ! aye, I'll warrant could he, though I was baith young and strong." He submitted the poem — certainly not one of his best — to Dr. Gregory ; the result scared him from consulting in future professional critics. — Burns said, " I believe Dr. Gregory, in his iron justice, is a good man, but he crucifies me : like the devils, I believe and tremble. Such near enough to hear the following words distinctly Uttered: — " Kate, are ye mad? D'ye ken that the supervisor and me will he upon you in the course of forty minutes? Guid-by t' ye at present." — Burns was in the street, and in the midst criticisms but tend to crush the spirit out of man." The applause which his next attempt ob- tained afforded some consolation for such mer- ciless strictures ; this was the song, " O ! were I on Parnassus' hill ; " the heroine was Mrs. Burns ; the transition, from the " forked hill " and " fabled fount" of the heathen to a nearer stream and Scottish mount of inspiration, has been much admired. " O ! were I on Parnassus hill ! Or had o' Helicon my fill, That I might catch poetic skill, To sing how dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my muse's well, My muse maun be thy bonnie seF, On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell, And write how dear I love thee." He presented the song to Miss Staig, an ac- complished young lady of Dumfries, saying, " should the respectful timidity of any one of her lovers deny him power of speech, it would be charitable to teach him, * O ! were I on Parnassus' hill,' so that he might not lie under the double imputation of being neither able ' to sing nor say.' " The thoughts of Burns had travelled far from Corsincon, and the waters of the Nith, when he wrote "My heart's in the Highlands." The words suit a Gaelic air, and have much of the northern spirit in them : — " My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer, Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe ; My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go ! " Nor were his thoughts at his own fire-side when he penned his humorous and sarcastic ditty, " Whistle o'er the lave o't." Wedded infelicity is the theme of many of our old minstrels : — " Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Bonny Meg was Nature's child — Wiser men than me's beguil'd ; Whistle o'er the lave o't." " The Kirk's Alarm," a poem personal and satiric, with gleams of wit and poetry worthy of a subject less local, was the offspring of this season. It was composed at the request of some of his Ayrshire friends, to aid the Rev. Dr. Macgill, against whom the Kirk was di- recting its thunder for having written a heretical book. The reverend delinquent yielded, and was forgiven — not so the poet : so much more venial is it in devout men's eyes to be guilty of heresy than of satire ! . His fancy was now and then fond of u step- ping westward;" this is sufficiently indicated in his " Braes o' Ballochmyle," and with deeper of the crowd, in an instant, and I had aoc^ss to know that his friendly hint was not neglected, [t saved a poor lonely widow from a tine of several pounds."] 92 LIFE OF BURNS. 1789. feelings still in his "To Mary in Heaven," written near the close of September, 1789. The circumstances under which the latter lyric was composed pressed painfully on the mind of his wife. — "Robert," she said, "though ill of a cold, had busied himself all day with the shearers in the field, and, as he had got much of the crop in, was in capital spirits. But when the gloaming came, he grew sad about something — he could not rest. He wandered first up the water-side, and then went to the barn-yard ; and I followed him, begging him to come in, as he was ill, and the air was cold and sharp. He always promised, but still re- mained where he was, striding up and down, and looking at the clear sky, and particularly at a star that shone like another moon. He then threw himself down on some loose sheaves, still continuing to gaze at the star." When he came in he seemed deeply dejected, and sat down and wrote the first verse : — " Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher' st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? " On this touching topic he writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — " Can it be possible that, when 1 resign this frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself in conscious existence 1 When the last gasp of agony has announced that I am no more to those who knew me, and the few who loved me ; when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be the prey unsightly of reptiles, and to become in time a trodden clod, shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen — enjoying and enjoyed? If there is another life, it must be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and the humane. What a flattering idea, then, is a world to come ! Would to God I as firmly be- lieved it, as I ardently wish it ! There I should meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many bufferings of an evil world, against which he so bravely struggled. There should I, with speechless agony of rapture, again recognize my Lost —my ever dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love." few wives would interpret these mc- lancholy allusions into happiness for themselves. Mrs. Burns seems to have conducted herself with much gentleness. These melancholy moods seldom lasted long and they were generally relieved by verse. Poetry, therefore, hud some share in them. Nor was it unnatural, when the world pressed and the cloud descended, lor Burns to cheer the present by bright images of the past. Had Fortune been more kind, he would have looked 1' H at the f I ighland-.M ;try star, and indulged, probably, in strains of a more enlivening nature. In those days the Poet describes himself as the prey of nervous affections. — "I cannot reason," he says to the same respected lady, " I cannot think ; and but to you I would not venture to write any thing above an order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of the ills of life not to sympathize with a diseased wretch, who has impaired more than half of any faculties he possessed." Yet in the same season he wrote his joyous strain, " Willie brewed a peck o' maut. J ' The history of the song involves that of the Poet. Nicol, by the advice of Burns, bought the farm of Laggan in his neighbourhood, and in the autumn vacation came to look after his purchase. Allan Masterton accompanied him, and, summoning the bard, they resolved to have a " house-heating." Nicol furnished the table, Burns produced the song, and Masterton set it to music. All these lyrics, and others of scarcely inferior merit, were printed in the third volume of the Musical Museum. The song called "The banks of the Nith" partakes of the sobriety of verses written to please a friend. In vain the Poet thinks of the Thames flowing proudly to the sea, and of the Nith — " Where Comyns ance had high command." His muse will not be satisfied till he gives her license upon another strain — the song of " Tarn Glen." Thought flows free, and words " come skelpin' rank and file," in this happy lyric. The heroine has set her heart on honest Tarn, and, in spite of the persuasions and bribes of her relations, perseveres in her attachment. Besides his personal qualities, there are other reasons of weight : — " The last Halloween I was waukin', My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; His likeness came up the house staukin' — The very grey breeks o' Tam Glen." Burns went to a school in which the master caused his scholars to sing this song. The Poet was hard to please in matters of sentiment, and said, "Children can't do such things, sir; they sing, but it is without feeling." He had now made the acquaintance and acquired the friendship of some of the chief families of the vale of Nith ; the doors of Friars-Carse, Terraughty, Blackwood, Close- burn, Barjarg, Dalswinton, Glenae, Kirkconnel, and Arbigland were opened to receive and to welcome liim ; nor were those of Drumlanrig shut. The Duke of Queensbury was represented by John M'Murdo, who had taste to appreciate the merits of such a man as Burns. In one of his letters to that gentleman, he says, in his usual characteristic way, — " A poet and a beggar are in so many points of view alike, thai one might take them for the same individual character under different designations ; were it 2ETAT. 30. HIS PERAMBULATIONS. 93 not that though, with a trifling poetic license, most poets may be styled beggars, yet the con- verse of the proposition does not hold, that every beggar is a poet. In one particular, however, they remarkably agree : if you help either the one or the other to the picking of a bone or a mug of ale, they will very willingly repay you with a song. I feel myself indebted to you, in the style of our ballad printers, for ' five excel- lent new songs.' The enclosed is nearly my newest song, ' The Country Lass/ and one that has cost me some pains, though that is but an equivocal mark of its excellence. You see, sir, what it is to patronize a poet ; 'tis like being a magistrate in a petty borough ; you do them the favour to preside at their council for one year, and your name bears the prefatory stigma of bailie for life. With, not the compliments, but the best wishes, the sincerest prayers, of the season for you, that you may see many and harppy years with Mrs. M'Murdo and your family— two blessings, by the bye, to which your rank does not by any means entitle you ; a lov- ing wife and a fine family being almost the only good things of this life to which the farm-house and cottage have an exclusive right." In the midst of visits given and received — kindness done by gentlemen, and words of ap- plause, more welcome still, from ladies, Burns was thoughtful and unhappy. From the pur- suit of " pension, post, or place," he had with- drawn with embittered feelings to a farm, and now he found that the plough and the sickle failed to give even the rustic abundance he had contemplated. On Ellisland he had expended all his money in the first year of occupation : — in the second year he writes to Provost Max- well, of Lochmaben, - - " My poor distracted mind is so jaded, so torn, so racked, and be- deviled with the task of the superlatively damned — making one guinea do the business of three, that I detest, abhor, and swoon at the very word business, though no less than four letters of my very short sirname are in it." He felt, too, that he had laid out his money in vain. " He sus- pected his mistake early. It will be recollected that he had previously said, "I do not find my farm the pennyworth I was taught to expect ; but I believe in time it may be a saving bar- gain." To Dr. Moore, he afterwards says : — " I have married my Jean, and taken a farm : with the first step, I have every day more and more reason to be satisfied ; with the last, it is rather the reverse." Still he did not despair ; nay, he sometimes saw in imagination the poet-farmer high in the scale of opulence as well as fame. — " I am here in my old way," he writes to Mr. Macauley, " holding the plough, marking the growth of my corn, or the health of my dairy, and at times sauntering by the delightful windings [* These particulars are from a letter of David Maculloch, Esq., who being at this period a very young gentleman, a passionate admirer of Burns, and a capital singer of many of the Nith, on the margin of which I have built my numble domicile, praying for season- able weather, or holding an intrigue with the muses, the only gipsies with whom I have now any intercourse." [Burns, in his perpetual perambulations over the moors of Dumfries-shire had every tempta- tion to encounter which bodily fatigue, the blandishments of hosts and hostesses, and the habitual manners of those who acted along with him in the duties of the Excise, could present. He was, moreover, wherever he went, exposed to perils of his own, by the reputation which he had earned, and by his extraordinary powers of entertainment in conversation ; and he pleased himself with thinking, in the words of one of his unpublished letters to the Lady Harriot Don (dated Ellisland, December 23rd, 1789), that "one advantage he had in this new business was the knowledge it gave him of the various shades of character in man — consequently as- sisting him in his trade as a poet." — From the castle to the cottage, every door flew open at his approach ; and the old system of hospitality, then flourishing, rendered it difficult for the most soberly inclined guest to rise from any man's board in the same trim that he sat down to it. The farmer, if Burns was seen passing, left his reapers, and trotted by the side of Jen- ny Geddes, until he could persuade the bard that the day was hot enough to demand an ex- tra libation. If he entered an inn at midnight, after all the inmates were in bed, the news of his arrival circulated from the cellar to the gar- ret ; and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the land- lord and all his guests were assembled round the ingle ; the largest punch-bowl was pro- duced ; and ' Be our's this night — who knows what conies to-morrow?' was the language in every eye in the circle that welcomed him.* The highest gentry of the county, whenever they had especial merriment in view, called in the wit and eloquence of Burns to enliven their carousals.] The new -year's -day of 1790 wrought a change in his mind, or rather confirmed his worst suspicions : he had now brought two years' crop to the flail, and was thus enabled to weigh the certain past against future hope. We may gather the result from his words to Gil- ! bert : — "I have not, in my present frame of mind, much appetite for exertion in writing : my nerves are in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochondria pervading every atom of both body and soul. This farm lias undone my enjoyment of myself ; it is a ronions affair on all hands. But' let it go — I'll fight it out and be off with it." Though Ellisland promised of his serious Bongs, used often, in his enthusiasm, to ac- company the Poet on Ins professional eXCUl -iiakt/ -^ 94 LIFE OF BURNS. 1790. before the fourth of the lease was done to be a saving bargain, there is no doubt that at first it was a losing one. The heart had been wrought out of the ground by preceding tenants, and the crops of grass or corn which it yielded to the Poet afforded but a bare return for labour and outlay. The condition of a farmer in Nithsdale was in those days sufficiently humble ; his one-story house had a clay floor ; his furniture was made by the hands of a ploughwright ; he presided at meals among his children and domestics ; performed family worship, " duly even and morn ;" and only put on the look of a man of substance when he gave a dinner to a douce neighbour. Out of doors all was rude and slo- venly : his plough was the clumsy old Scotch one : his harrows had oftener teeth of wood than of iron ; his carts were heavy and low- wheeled — the axles were of wood; he win- nowed his corn by means of the wind, between two barn-doors ; and he refused to commit his seed to the earth till, seating himself on the ground at mid-day, it gave warmth instead of receiving it. He was too poor to make ex- periments, and too prejudiced to speculate. He rooted up no bushes, dug up no stones ; neither did he drain or enclose ; the dung which he be- stowed on the soil was to raise a crop of pota- toes : now and then it received a powdering of lime. His crops corresponded with his skill and his implements ; they were weak, and only enabled him to pay his rent and lay past a few pounds Scots, annually. Much of the ground in Nithsdale was leased at seven, ten, and some fields of more than or- dinary richness, at fifteen, shillings an acre. The farmer differed little in wealth and condi- tion from the peasants around him. The war, which soon commenced, raised him in the scale of existence ; the army and navy consumed much of his produce ; for a hundred thousand soldiers, in time of war, require as much provi- sion as two hundred thousand in times of peace. With the demand, the price of corn augmented; the farmer rose on the wings of sudden wealth above his original condition ; his house obtained a slated roof and sash windows ; carpets were laid on tin; floors, instruments of music were placed in the parlours: he wore no longer a coat of home-made cloth ; he sat no longer at meals among his servants; family devotion was relinquished as a thing unfashionable, and he became a sort of rustic gentleman, who rode a blood-hone, and galloped home on market- nights at the peril of his own neck and to the terror of all humble pedestrians. His sons were educated at college, and went to the bar or got commissions in the army : his daughters changed their Linsey-woolse) gowns for others of silk; carried their heads high, and blushed for their relations who were cumbered among the w rights, masons, and shoemakers of the land. When a change like this took place among the farmers of the vale, the dews of wealth would have fallen at the same time on the tenant of Ellis- land ; but Burns was too poor and too impa- tient to wait long for better times, he resolved to try another year or two, and then abandon farming for ever, if it refused to bring the wealth to him which it did to others. Having made this covenant to himself, he resumed his intercourse with the muse, and pro- duced one of the best as well as the longest of all his poems — " Tarn O'Shanter." For this noble tale we are indebted to something like accident. Grose, the antiquarian, was on a visit to Rid- dell of Friars-Carse, who, like himself, had a collection " Of auld nick-nackets, Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets A towmont gude." The Poet was invited to add wings to the even- ing hours, and something like friendship was established between him and the social English- man, which both imagined would be lasting. In conversing about the antiquities of Scotland, Burns begged that Grose would introduce Al- loway kirk into his projected work ; and, to fix the subject on his mind, related some of the wild stories of devilry and witchcraft with which Scotland abounds. The antiquarian listened to them all, and then said, " Write a poem on it, and I'll put in the verses with an engraving of the ruin." Bums set his muse to work ; he could hardly sleep for the spell that was upon him, and with his " barmy noddle working prime," walked out to his favourite path along the river-bank. u Tam O'Shanter" was the work of a single day ; the name was taken from the farm of Shanter in Carrick, the story from tradition. Mrs. Burns relates that, observing Robert walk- ing with long swinging sort of strides and ap- parently muttering as he went, she let him alone for some time ; at length she took the children with her and went forth to meet him ; he seem- ed not to observe her, but continued his walk ; "on this," said she, "I stept aside with the bairns among the broom — and past us he came, his brow flushed and his eyes shining; he was reciting these lines : — ' Now Tam ! O Tam ! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens, Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-vvhite seventeen hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies ! For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies !' I wish ye had but seen him ! he was in such ecstacy that the tears were happing down his cheeks." The Poet had taken writing mate- rials with him, and, leaning on a turf fence JSTAT. 31. TAM O' SHANTER. 95 which commanded a view of the river, he com- mitted the poem to paper, walked home, and read it in great triumph at the fire-side. It came complete and perfect from his fancy at the first heat ; — no other work in the language con- tains such wondrous variety of genius in the same number of lines. His own account of his rapture in composition confirms the description of Mrs. Burns : — " I seized," said he to a cor- respondent, "my gilt - headed Wangee rod in my left hand — an instrument indispensably ne- cessary — in the moment of inspiration and rap- ture ; and stride, stride — quick and quicker, — out skipt I among the broomy banks of the Nith to muse." Burns found his tale in several prose tradi- tions. One stormy night, amid squalls of wind and blasts of hail — in short, on such a night as the devil would choose to take the air in, a far- mer was plashing homewards from the forge with plough-irons on his shoulder. As he ap- proached Alloway kirk, he was startled by a light glimmering in the haunted edifice ; he walked up to the door, and saw a cauldron sus- pended over a fire, in which the heads and limbs of unchristened children were beginning to sim- mer. As there was neither fiend nor witch to protect it, he unhooked the cauldron, poured out the contents, and carried his trophy home, where it long remained an evidence of the truth of his story. We may observe in the poem the use made by Burns ot this Kyle legend. Ano- ther story supplied him with two of his chief characters. A farmer having been detained by business in Ayr, found himself crossing the old bridge of Doon about the middle of the night. When he reached the gate of Alloway kirk- yard, a light came streaming from a Gothic window in the gabel, and he saw with surprise a batch of witches dancing merrily round their master the devil, who was keeping them in mo- tion by the sound of his bag-pipe. The farmer stopt his horse and gazed at their gambols ; he saw several old dames of his acquaintance among them; they were footing it in their smocks. Unfortunately for him, one of them wore a smock too short by a span or so, which so tickled the farmer that he burst out with " Weel luppen, Maggie wi' the short sark!" He recollected himself, turned his horse's head and spurred and switched with all his might towards the brig of Doon, well knowing that — " A running stream they darena cross." When he reached the middle of the arch, one of the hags sprang to seize him, but nothing was on her side of the stream saving the horse's tail, which gave way to her grasp as if touched by lightning. In a Galloway version of the tradition, it is recorded that the witch, seizing the horse by the tail, stopt it in full career in the centre of the bridge ; upon winch the farmer struck a back- handed blow with his sword that set him free, and enabled him to pass the stream without fur- ther molestation. On reaching his own house he found, to his horror, a woman's hand hanging in his horse's tail ; and next morning was in- formed that the handsome wife of one of his neighbours was dangerously ill, and not ex- pected to live. He went to see her — she turned away her face from him, and obstinately refused to say what ailed her ; upon which he forcibly bared her wounded arm, and, displaying the bloody hand, accused her of witchcraft and dealings with the devil ; thereupon she made a confession, and was condemned and burnt. The Galloway legend was too tragic for the aim of the Poet ; it would have jarred with the wild humour of the scene in the kirk, and prevented him from displaying his wondrous powers of uniting the laughable with the serious, and the witty with the awful. Cromek, a curious in- quirer, was informed on the spot that the places where the packman was smothered in the snow — where drunken Charlie broke his neck — where the murdered child was found by hunters — and where the mother of poor Mungo hanged herself, were no imaginary matters. The poe- try of Burns is full of truth. 11 Tam O'Shanter" was received with all the applause to which it is richly entitled. " I have seldom in my life," says Lord Woodhous- lee, " tasted of higher enjoyment from any work of genius than I have received from this com- position ; and I am much mistaken if this poem alone, had you never written another syllable, would not have been sufficient to have trans- mitted your name down to posterity with high reputation." Of this " happiest of all mixtures of spirituality and practical life," as Sir Egerton Brydges calls the tale, the poet was justly proud. He carried it in his pocket, and read it willingly to those in whose taste he had any trust. He read it to my father. His voice was deep, man- ly, and melodious, and his eye sparkled as he saw the effect of his poem on all around — young and old. A writer who happened to be present on business, stung, perhaps, with that sarcastic touch on the brethren — " Three lawyers' tongues turn' J inside out, With lies seam'd, like a beggar's clout," remarked that he thought the language de- scribing the witches' orgies obscure. " Obscure, sir," said Burns, " ye know not the language of that great master of your own art— the devil. If you get a witch for a client, you will not be able to manage her defence." " The Whistle" is another poem of this hap- py season. The meeting, it seems, for deciding the ownership of the musical relique should have taken place sooner. — " Big "with the idea,' 1 said Burns to Riddell, " of this important day (October 1(5, 1789,) at Friars -('arse, 1 have watched the elements and skies, in the full per- 96 LIFE OF BURNS. 1790. suasion that they would announce it to the as- tonished world by some phenomena of terrific portent. The elements, however, seem to take the matter very quietly ; they did not even usher in this morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes and the mighty claret-shed of the day. For me, as Thomson, in his Winter, says of the storm, I shall ' Hear astonish'd and astonish'd sing.' " The story of the " Whistle" is curious : — A Dane came to Scotland with the Princess of Denmark, in the reign of our sixth James, and challenged all the topers of the north to a con- test of the bottle. A Whistle of ebony was to be the prize of the day ; this he. had blown in triumph at the courts of Copenhagen, Stock- holm, Moscow, and Warsaw, and was only pre- vented from doing the same at the Scottish conrt by Sir Robert Laurie of Maxwellton, who, after a contest of three days and three nights, left the Dane under the table, "And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill." On Friday, 16th October, 1790, the Whistle was again contended for in the same element by the descendants of the great Sir Robert: — " Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw ; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; And trusty Glenriddel, so skilled in old coins, And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines." And, that their deeds might not be inglorious, they chose an inspired chronicler to attend them : — " A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day : A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been." This is one of the most dramatic of lyrics ; all is in character, and in the strictest propriety of sentiment and language. The contest took place at Friars-Carse, a place of great natural beauty ; but the combatants closed the shutters against the loveliness of the landscape, either up i he Nith or down, and, lighting the dining- room, ordered the corks of the claret to be drawn. They had already swallowed six bot- tles a-piece, and day was breaking, when Fer- guson, decanting a quart of wine, dismissed it at B draught. Upon tibia Glenriddel, recollect- ing thai ae was an elder, and a ruling one in the kirk, and feeling lie was waging an ungodly Btrife, meekly withdrew from the contest, and " Left the foul business to folks less divine." Though Sir Robert could QOt well contend both with hie and quart bumpers, he fought to the last, and fell not till the buii arose. Not so ason, and not so Hums 5 the former Bounded b note of triumph on his Whistle : " Next up rose our bard, like a prophet In drink :— ' Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ! But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come — one bottle more— and have at the sublime !" In truth, it is said that the Poet drank bottle for bottle in this arduous contest, and, when daylight came, seemed much disposed to take up the conqueror. Though Burns had ten large parishes to look after as exciseman, and though the inclination of husbandmen for smuggling in those clays kept him busy, his fields seemed as well culti- vated, and his crops little less luxuriant, than those of his neighbours. But he felt that his plough was held without profit, and his dairy managed without gain, and remained for weeks at a time at home, intent on other matters than " Learning his tuneful trade from every bough." How he demeaned himself as ganger, farmer, and poet, has been related by an able and ob- servant judge: — "I had an adventure with him/' said Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " when pass- ing through Dumfries-shire in 1790, with Dr. j Stewart of Luss. Seeing him pass quickly near Closeburn, I said to my companion, ' that is Burns.' On coming to the inn (Brownhill), the ostler told us he would be back in a few hours to grant permits ; that where he met with anything seizable he was no better than any other gauger : in everything else he was a per- fect gentleman. After leaving a note to be de- livered to him on his return, I proceeded to his house, being curious to see his Jean, &c. I was much pleased with his uxor Sabina qualis, and the Poet's modest mansion, so unlike the habi- tation of ordinary peasants. In the evening, he suddenly bounced in upon us, and said as he en- tered, ' I come, to use the words of Shakspeare, stewed in haste.' In fact he had ridden incredibly fast. We fell into conversation directly, and soon got into the mare magnum of poetry. He told me he had now gotten a story for a drama, which he was to call " Rob Macquechan's Elshin," from a popular story of King Robert the Bruce being defeated on the water of Cairn, when the heel of his boot having loosened in the flight, he applied to Rob to fix it on, who, to make sure, ran his awl nine inches up the king's heel. We were now going on at a great rate, when Mr. S popped in his head, which put a stop to our discourse, which had become very inter- esting. Yet in a little while it was resumed ; and such was the force and versatility of the bard's genius, that he made the tears run down Mr. S.'s cheeks, albeit unused to the poetic strain. Poor Burns ! from that time I met him no more." The Poet had imagined a drama com- mencing with the early vicissitudes of the for- tunes of Bruce — recording his strange, his heroic and sometimes laughable, adventures, till all ended in the glorious consummation at Ban- nockburn. He allowed, as was his wont, the JETAT. 31. RAMSAY OF OCHTERTYRE. 97 subject to float about in bis mind, and drew out no plan nor list of cbaracters on paper. " Those who recollect," says Sir Walter Scott, " the masculine and lofty tone of martial spirit which glows in the poem of Bannockbum will sigh to think what the character of the gallant Bruce might have proved under the hand of Burns ! " We find Burns at this period informing Gra- ham of Fintry that the Excise business went on much smoother with him than he had expected, owing to the generous friendship of Mitchell the collector, and Findlater the supervisor. — " I dare to be honest," said he, " and I fear no la- bour. Nor do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to my correspondence with the muses : I meet them now and then as T jog among the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks of Ayr." Of the lyrical fruit of this intercourse, I must render some account. In the composition of a song, Burns went to work like a painter : what a fine living model is to an artist forming a Venus or a Diana, a lovely woman was to the Poet. He was fasci- nated through the eye ; he thought of the looks of the last fair one he had met, and mused on her charms till the proper inspiration came ; and then he laid out colours worthy of a goddess, on " Fair or foul, it maks na whether." Jean Lorimer, "The lass of Craigie-burn- wood," had levity at least equal to her beauty. When the first song in her praise was written she lived at Kemmis-hall in Nithsdale ; she was extremely handsome, with uncommon sweetness in her smile, and joyousness in the glance of her eye. The Poet measured his verse over her charms to gratify a gentleman of the name of Gillespie, who was contending in vain with a military adventurer of the name of Whelpdale for the honour of her love. In " My tocher's the jewel," he expresses the scorn which a young lady feels at the selfish sentiments of her lover : " It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee : My laddie's sae mickle in love wi' the siller, He carina hae luve to spare for me." From love he went to wine ; nothing came wrong to him. In this his poetic power resem- bled his conversational ability. " Gudewife, count the lawin' and glee : — " Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light ; For ale and brandy's stars and moon, And blude-rcd wine's the rising sun." A little jacobitism was in his heart when he wrote " There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ;" a little humour when he penned " What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? " and in "Yon wild mossy mountains" his mind wan- dered back to a part of his early history, which s the very essence of sociality he says " is of no consequence to the world to know." In a happier mood of mind Bums composed " Wha is that at my bower door?" — "It was suggested," said Gilbert, " to my brother, by the Auld man's Address to the Widow, printed in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany." A vein of nawkie simplicity runs through it. " Wha is that at my bower-door ? O wha is it but Findlay ? Then gae yere gate, ye'se no be here — Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. " What mak ye sae like a thief? O come and see, quo' Findlay; Before the morn ye'll work mischief — Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. " Here this night, if ye remain — I'll remain, quo' Findlay; I dread ye'll ken the gate again — ■ Indeed will I, quo' Findlay." "'The bonnie wee thing' was composed," says the Poet, " on my little idol, the charming- lovely Davies." In a letter to the lady her- self, he lets us a little into the mystery of his ballad-making. — "I have heard of a gentle- man of some genius who was dexterous with his pencil ; wherever this person met with a character in a more than ordinary degree con- genial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, he said, as a nota-bene to point out the agreeable recollection to his memory. What this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my muse to me ; and the verses which I do myself the honour to send you are a memento exactly of the same kind that he indulged in. When I meet with a person after my own heart, I positively feel what an orthodox Protestant would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspiration ; and I can no more resist rhyming on the impulse than an iEolian harp can refuse its tones to the streaming air." No poet has offered prettier reasons for writing love-songs. These complimental moods gave way to a feeling more serious, when the Poet wrote "Ae fond kiss, and then we sever." The song, I have heard, alludes to Clarinda, and is supposed to embody the sentiments of the Bard when he bade farewell to that Edinburgh beauty. It says all in a few words that can be said on the subject : — " Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him ? Me — nae cheerful twinkle lights me : Dark despair around benights mc. Had we never loved sac kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly — Never met, or never parted. We had ne'er been broken-hearted." The heroine of the " Banks and braes o' bon- nie Doon," was Miss Kennedy oi' Dalgarrock, in Ayr-shire, a young creature beautiful, ac- H 98 LIFE OF BU11NS. 1791. complished, and confiding ; the song was alter- ed, from its original simple measure, to suit music, accidentally composed by a writer in Edin- burgh, whom a musician told to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord and preserve some- thing like rhythm, and he would produce a Scots air. He did so, and this fine air, with a few touches from Clarke, was the result. The despair of " Ae fond kiss, and then we sever," gave way to the gentler sorrows of the " Banks and braes o' bonnie Doon ;" and, in its turn, " Love will venture in," asserted the dignity of successful love. This is a very beautiful lyric : the Poet thinks on his mistress, and, looking at all manner of fine flowers, sees her, emblemati- cally, in each : the lily, for purity ; the daisy, for simplicity ; and the violet, for modesty ; are woven into this fragrant and characteristic chaplet. Having obeyed the impulses of sorrow and serious love, mirth touched the strings of his harp, his heart brightened up, and he poured out, " ! for ane-and-twenty, Tam." The name of the heroine is lost ; but her story is true to nature, and cannot be soon forgotten : there is a dance of words in the song suitable to the liveliness of the sentiment. " Sic a wife as Willie had," resembles the ironical and sarcastic chaunts of the old rustic ballad-makers : the picture of Willie's Spouse is not painted in kindly colours : — " She has an ee — she has but ane, The cat has twa the very colour, Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, A clapper-tongue wad cleave a miller ; A whiskin' beard about her mou', Her nose and chin they threaten ither : Sic a wife as Willie had I wad nae gie a button for her." This unsonsie dame dwelt in Dunscore, at no great distance from Ellisland ; her descendants nave none of her unlovesome qualities. If Burns looked to living loveliness for the Bake of making new songs, he looked also with affectionate eyes on the old mutilated lyrics of Scotland, and repaired them with unequalled skill. To the ballad of " Hughie Graham," lie added some characteristic touches, as also to "Cock up your beaver." Into the latter he has infused ajacobite feeling: — " Cock up your beaver and cock it fu' sprush, We'll over the Border and gie them a brush ; There*! somebody there we'll teach better behaviour ; Hey ! my brave Johnnie lad, cock up your beaver." 1I<- softened a little the rudeness of "Eppie Macnab," added bitterness to "The weary pound o' tow ; sonic of his fine feeling found ir- w;iv into "The Collier laddie," and much acid ii-"ii\ was infused into "The carle of Kel- 1\ 1 > 1 1 1- 1 1 - brae -.'" Cromek informed me that, when he consulted Mrs. Burns respecting the changes which the genius of her husband had efFected in the old songs, she ran her fingers along the pages of the Museum, saying, " Ro- bert gave that one a brushing — this one got a brushing, too : — aye, I mind this one weel, it got a gay good brushing ! " But when she came to " The carle of Kellyburn-braes," she said, " He gave this one a terrible brushing." Of these dread additions one specimen will suffice : " The devil he swore by the edge of his knife, He pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell." The winter-time, which brings much leisure to the farmer, brought little or none to Burns. When he # saw his corn secured against rain or snow; his " Potatoe bings weel snuggit up frae skaith ;" his plough frozen in the half-drawn furrow, and heard the curler's roaring play intimating that winter reigned over the vale, he had to mount his horse and do duty as a gauger, leaving El- lisland to the skill of his wife and the activity of his servants. As early as the harvest of 1790, it was visible to those acquainted with such matters that, as a farmer, the Poet was not thriving ; the crop promised, in the eyes of the calculating, to make but a small return, compared with the demand of the rent ; and, when he ploughed his ground in the following winter and spring, it was whispered that he would do so no more. He regretted this the less as he now looked upon the Excise as sure bread, and an improving appointment. Some time during the year 1791, his salary was raised to seventy pounds, and he was promised a more compact and less laborious district. This eased his mind amid the loss which he knew he should sustain, in turning the utensils and stock of El- lisland into money. He did not communicate his intentions to any one, though he hesitated not to say that he was losing by his bargain. This year he was doomed to lose old friends without acquiring new ones. The death of the Earl of Glencairn he regarded as a sore misfor- tune. That nobleman was not rich, nor was his influence great ; but he had a sympathy with poetic feelings not common to men of rank. When he died, the hopes of the Poet seemed to have died also; his "Lament," on the occa- sion, was a sincere one ; the words require only to be uttered by a young bard instead of an old one, to apply, in all respects, to himself. The verse is lyrical, and the sentiments those of nature : — " The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been ; The mother may forget the child That smiles sac sweetly on her knee ; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that (hcu hast done forme!" -"O) iETAT. 32. EARL OF BUCIIAN. Ofi This is the language of a man who thought himself obliged. He wrote nothing half so tender or so touching on the death of the beau- tiful Miss Burnet, which happened about this time : he tried, but the words came with re- luctance : — " Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; Nor envious death so triumph 'd in a blow As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low." Some will like better the compliment which he paid her in prose. On returning from a first visit to Lord Monboddo, his friend Geddes, of Leith, said, "Well, and did you admire the young lady?" — "I admired God Almighty more than ever," said the Poet; " Miss Burnet is the most heavenly of all His works !" He did not hesitate to use expressions bordering on profanity when speaking of female charms. " As to my private concerns," he says to Dr. Moore, " I am going on a mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have lately had the inter- est to get myself ranked on the lists of the Excise as a supervisor. I had an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn, the pa- tron from whom all my fame and good fortune took its rise ; independent of my grateful attach- ment 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, my getting for- ward in the Excise would have been an easier business than otherwise it will be." In these modest hopes the Poet indulged. He had already numbered himself with the "prince's friends ;" but the prince was far from power ; and had Burns lived till " the dog had," as he said " got his day," he might have found rea- son to say with Scripture, " put not your trust in princes." In addition to the sorrow which he felt for the loss of valuable friends, his horse fell with him and broke his arm ; and his farm having swept away all his ready money, visions of poverty began to hover in his sight. "Poverty !" he exclaimed, " thou half-sister of Death — tliou cousin - german of hell ! oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable and polite, mustsee, in suffering silence, his remarks neglect- ed and his person despised : while shallow great- ness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet with countenance and applause." In such sarcastic sentiments as these Bums began more and more to indulge : — " How wretched is the man," he says, " that hangs upon the favours of the great ! — to shrink from every dignity of man at the approach of a lordly piece of self-consequence, who, amid all his tinsel and glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a creature formed as thou art — and, perhaps, not so well formed." He could scarcely resist, however, the request of one of the vainest of those "lordly pieces of ^ b-,1 ' 0. — self -consequence," the Earl of Buchan — to come to the coronation of the bust of Thomson on Ednam-hill, at Dryburgh, on the 22nd of Sep- tember, 1791. — " Suppose Mr. Burns," so runs the mandate, "should, leaving the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm — and, wandering along the pastoral banks of Thomson's pure parent-stream, catch inspiration in the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh ; there the Commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Caledonian virtue." The Poet had the sickle in his hand when the invi- tation came ; he laid it down, took a walk along the banks of the Nith, composed the verses " to the Shade of Thomson," and sent them to apologize for his absence. If his poetic feelings were awakened by the invitation of Lord Buchan, his jacobitical par- tialities were gratified by the present of a valu- able snuff-box from Lady Winifred Maxwell, the last in direct descent of the noble family of Nithsdale. This was an acknowledgment for his " Lament of Mary Queen of Scots." There was a picture of that ill-starred princess on the lid. — " In the moment of poetic composition," said Burns, " the box shall be my inspiring- genius." — The ballad is a pathetic one. He imagines the queen in an English prison ; she hears the birds sing — feels the odours of flowers, and her heart swells with the season : " Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae ; , The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae : The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang ; But I, the queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison Strang!" He had been reading Percy's ballads, and his verses caught the olden hue and tone of those affecting compositions. The great Glasgow road ran through the Poet's ground, and the coach often set down west-country passengers, who, trusting to the airt they came from, and the accessibility of the bard, made their sometimes unwelcome appear- ance at the door of Ellisland. Such visitations — from which no man of genius is free — con- sumed his time and wasted his substance — for hungry friends could not be entertained on air. A neighbour told me that he once found a couple of Ayr-shire travellers, plaided, capped, and over-ailed, seated at the door of Burns — their sense of etiquette not allowing them to enter the house in such trim. They were drinking punch, toasting Ayr— auld town and new vowing that Mauchline was the Loveliest of all spots, and Kyle the heart of Scotland. They found their way into Dumfries some time during the night. h 2 100 LIFE OF BURNS. 1791. In the course of this summer two English gen- tlemen, who had met Barns in Edinburgh, paid him a visit at Ellisland. On calling at the house, they were told he had walked out on the hanks of the Nith. They proceeded in search of him, and found him — " In sooth it was in strange array." On a rock that projected into the stream they saw a man angling ; he had a cap of fox-skin on his head, a loose great-coat fixed round him by a belt from which hung an enormous High- land broadsword ; — it was Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked them to share his humble dinner. On the table they found boiled beef, with vegetables and barley- broth, of which they partook heartily. After dinner, the bard told them he had no wine to offer, nothing better than Highland whiskey, of which Mrs. Burns set a bottle on the table, and placed his punch-bowl of Scottish marble before him. He mixed the spirit with water and sugar, filled their glasses, and invited them to drink. They were in haste — whiskey, to their southern stomachs, was scarcely tolerable ; but the ardent hospitality of the Poet prevailed — the punch began to disappear, and his con- versation was unto them as a charm. He ranged over a great variety of topics, illumina- ting whatever lie touched. He related the tales of his infancy and of his youth; he recited some of the gayest and some of the tenderest of his poems ; in the wildest of his strains of mirth he threw in some touches of melancholy, and spread around him the electric emotions of his powerful mind. The Highland whiskey im- proved in its flavour; the marble bowl was again and again emptied and replenished ; the Poet's guests forgot the flight of time and the prudence becoming visiters, at the hour of midnight, lost their way returning to Dumfries, and could scarcely count its three steeples assisted by the morning dawn Burns still maintained Ids intercourse with (lie literati of Scotland. He visited Edinburgh 'me more, and finally arranged his affairs with the difficult Creech ; called on some of his former intimates, ami left: his card at the door of several lords; but his reception seems, save from one or two, to have been uncordial. What the learned thought of the grasp of the Poet's mind may he gathered from the surprise which Dm; of them expresses at his comprehending the meaning of Alison's work on the principles of ' l I own, ar," said the Poet to tin; philosopher, " that at first glance several of your propositions startled me as paradoxical. That the martial clangour of a trumpet had some- thingin it vastly more grand, heroic, and sub- than the twingle-twanffle of a .lew's harp ; that tli' 1 delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, was iiifinii, Ij more beautiful and elegant than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that from something innate and independent of all association of ideas ; — these I had set down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until perusing your book shook my faith." "This," says Dugald Stewart, I remember to have read with some degree of surprise at the distinct concep- tion he appeared from it to have formed of the general principles of the law of association." It would seem, however, that the Poet, if con- vinced, was convinced against his will : he was slow in believing that at any time a burdock was esteemed equal in loveliness to a rose, or the chirp of a hedge-sparrow reckoned as noble as the cry of an eagle*. ["It may naturally excite some surprise," says Lockhart, " that of the convivial conver- sation of so distinguished a convivialist, so few specimens have been preserved in the Memoirs of his Life. The truth seems to be that those of his companions who chose to have the best memory for such things happened also to have the keenest relish for his wit and his humour, when exhibited in their coarser phases. Among a heap of MS. memoranda with which I have been favoured, I find but little that one could venture to present in print ; and the following specimens of that little must, for the present, suffice. " A gentleman who had recently returned from the East Indies, where he had made a large fortune, which he showed no great alacrity about spending, was of opinion, it seems, one day, that his company had had enough of wine, rather sooner than they came to that conclusion : he offered another bottle in feeble and hesitating terms, and remained dallying with the cork- screw, as if in hopes that some one would inter- fere, and prevent further effusion of Bordeaux. ' Sir,' said Burns, losing temper, and betraying in his mood something of the old rusticity — 1 Sir, you have been in Asia, and for aught I know, on the Mount of Moriah, and you seem to hang over your tappit-hen as remorsefully as Abraham did over his son Isaac. — Come, Sir, to the sacrifice ! ; — "At another party, the society had suffered considerably from the prosing of a certain well- known provincial Bore of the first magnitude ; and Burns as much as any of them ; although overawed, as it would seem, by the rank of the nuisance, he had not only submitted, but con- descended to applaud. The grandee being suddenly summoned to another company in the same tavern, Burns immediately addressed him- self to the chair, and demanded a bumper. The president thought he was about to dedicate his toast to the distinguished absentee : ' I give,' said the Bard, ' I give you the health, gentle- men all, — of the waiter that called my Lord out of the room !"] If his poems of this year are not numerous, the "Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson" ' /ETAT. 32. HEROIC SONG OF DEATH. 101 is one of tlic sweetest and most beautiful of his latter compositions. He calls on nature, ani- mate and inanimate, to lament the loss of one who held his honours immediately from God : — " Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; Ye grouse that crap the heather-bud ; Ye curlews calling thro* a chid ; Ye whistling plover : An' mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood — He's gane for ever !' : He copied out the poem, andsending it to his friend, M'Murdo, said, " You knew Hender- son ; I have not flattered his memory." The hero of this noble poem was a soldier of fortune : one who rose by deeds, and not by birth : he was universally esteemed in the northern circles for the generosity of his nature, his courtesy and gentlemanly bearing : he died young. Burns wrote several new songs, and amended some old ones, during this season, for his friend Johnson's work. " Afton water" was an offering of other days to the accomplished lady of Stair and Afton. " Bonnie Bell " is in honour of the charms of a Nithsdale dame, and ''The deuk's dang o'er my daddie" had its origin in an old chant, some of the words of which the song still retains. "She's fair and fause" records the unfortunate termination of a friend's courtship ; there is all or more than the bitter- ness of disappointed love in the concluding verse : — " Whoe'er ye be that woman love, To this be never blind, Nae ferlie 'tis, tho' fickle she prove, A woman has't by kind. O woman ! lovely woman fair ! An angel form's fa'n to thy share, 'Twad been o'er meikle to gi'en thee mair — I mean an angel mind." " The Deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman" is at once witty and ludicrous. It harmonized with the feelings of the north, where a gauger was long looked on as a national grievance, or rather insult. " The Song of Death " is the last lyric which the rural walks of Ellisland inspired. On the 17th of December, 1791, he copied it for Mrs. Dunlop, and said,— "I have just finished the following song, which, to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, and herself the _ mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology." He imagines a field of battle, and puts his truly heroic song into the mouths of men wounded and dying ; the senti- ments uttered were those of his heart : — ■ "In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save, — While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, Oh ! who would not die with the brave !" " This hymn," says Currie, "is worthy of the Grecian muse, when Greece was most 'con- spicuous for genius and valour." Burns thought of printing it separately with the air, which i.> a fine old Highland one ; some one whom lie consulted advised him against this, and so pre- vented him from making his country acquainted with his unaltered feeling, at a time when his character was beginning to be maligned by the secret whisperer and the pensioned spy. Burns briefly, in his letters to his brother and others, intimates the loss he endured by continu- ing in Ellisland : but he has no where assigned reasons, nor entered into explanations. This has been misinterpreted to his injury. He alludes to his own trials, when he says to Mrs. Dun- lop : — "I wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisition to his family : I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as a farmer. ,r fis, as a farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, ' a cursed life V As to a laird farming his own property, sowing his own corn in liope, and reaping it in spite of brittle weather, in glad- ness, knowing that none can say unto him, ' What dost thou V — fattening his herds, shearing his flocks, rejoicing at Christmas, and begetting sons and daughters, until he be the venerated, grey - haired leader of a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life ! but devil take the life of reap- ing the fruits that another must eat !" When it was made known in December, 1791, that Burns was about to relinquish the lease of Ellisland, his merits as a farmer were eagerly canvassed by the husbandmen around. One imputed his failure to the duties of the Excise ; to his being compelled to gallop two hundred miles per week, to inspect yeasty barrels, when Ins farm required his presence ; another said that Mrs. Burns was intimate with a town life, but ignorant of the labours of barn and byre ; while a third observed that Ellisland was out of heart, and, in short, was the dearest farm on Nithsdale. The failure of his farming projects, and the limited income with which he was compelled to support an increasing family and an expensive station in life, preyed upon his spirits; and, during these fits of despair, he was willing too often to become the companion of the thoughtless and the gross. I am grieved to say that, besides leaving the book too much for the bowl, and grave and wise friends for lewd and reckless companions, he was also in the occasional practise of composing sings, in which he surpassed the licentiousness, as well as the wit and humour, of the old Scottish muse. These have unfortunately found their way to the press, and I am afraid they cannot be recalled. " The reader," says Lockhart, ••must be sufficiently prepared to hear that, from the time when lie entered on his « . duties, the Poet more and more neglected lie concerns of his form : occasionally he might be seen holding the plough, an exercise in which he excelled, and was proud o\' excelling, or stalking down his furrows, with the white sheet of grain wrapt about him, a 'tei 102 LIFE OF BURNS. 1792. but he was more commonly occupied in far different pursuits." Had Mr. Miller of Dalswinton been on the same friendly terms with the Poet as when, in a fit of generous feeling, he offered him the choice of his farms at a rent of his own fixing, Burns might have lived long, and, perhaps, prosperously, in Ellisland. But they were too haughty in their natures to continue friends ; .Miller required respect and submission, which the Poet was not disposed to pay ; and I have heard it averred by one who was in a situation to know, that the former was not loth to get rid of a tenant by whose industry he had no chance of being enriched, from whom he could not well exact rent, and whose wit paid little respect to persons. The Poet dispersed his stock and implements by auction, among many eager purchasers ; restored the land and onstead to the proprietor ; and, paying him one pound fourteen shillings for dilapidations in thatch, glass, and slating, moved off with his house- hold to Dumfries, leaving nothing at Ellisland but a putting-stone, with which he loved to exercise his strength — a memory of his musings which can never die, and three hundred pounds of his money sunk beyond redemption, in a speculation from which all augured happiness. PART IV.— DUMFRIES. Burns removed his wife and children, with his humble furniture, to a house near the lower end of the Bank-Vennel in Dumfries. The neigh- bourhood was to his mind ; and, as this was near the stamp-office, it is probable that John Syme, the " Stamp-office Johnnie/' of the Poet's election ballad, influenced his choice. He had other neighbours whom he could not but esteem: Captain Hamilton lived on the opposite side of the way ; Provost Staig, with whose family Burns was already intimate, was but a few doors off, while Dr. Maxwell, a skilful physician, an accomplished gentleman, and a confirmed republican, dwelt in the next street. The Sands, where cattle are bought and sold, was beside him, the Nith was within a good stone's cast — the town too is compact und beautiful. The Poet bad no expensive acquaintance to entertain ; and his wife, with a single servant, WB frugal, and anxious to make the little they had go far. But he had no longer the rough abundance of a farm to resort to; his meal, his malt, his butter, and his milk, were all to buy, mid his small salary required the guidance of u considerate head and hand. To calculate wras easy, had it been possible to lay down an exact system of expenditure; as a man of genius, he was liable to the outlay of eonri pondence, distant and often unexpected'; he was exposed to the inroads of friends and admirers, who consumed his time and his sub- stance also ; he longed for knowledge, which, to obtain, he had to buy ; he desired to see by books what the republic of literature, of which he was a member, was about, and this required money ; and he was, moreover, of a nature kindly and hospitable, and could not live in that state of frugal circumspection which a gentleman who kept a house, and sometimes a horse, on seventy pounds per annum, required. Even the wandering poor were to the Poet a heavy tax ; he allowed no one to go past his door without a halfpenny or a handful of meal. He was kind to such helpless creatures as are weak in mind, and saunter harmlessly about : a poor half-mad creature — the Madge Wildfire, it is said, of Scott/ — always found a mouthful ready for her at the bard's fire-side ; nor was he unkind to a crazy and tippling prodigal named Quin. "Jamie," said the Poet one day, as he gave him a penny, "you should pray to be turned from the evil of your ways ; you are ready to run now to melt that into whiskey." " Turn," said Jamie, who was a wit in his way, " I wish some one would turn me into the worm o' Will Hyslop's whiskey-still, that the drink might dribble continually through me." " Well said, Jamie !" answered the Poet, " you shall have a glass of whiskey once a week for that, if you'll come sober for it." A friend rallied Burns for indulging such creatures : — " You don't understand the matter," said he, " they are poets : they have the madness of the muse, and all they want is the inspiration — a mere trifle !" The labours of the excise now and then led him along a barren line of sea-coast, extending from Caerlaverock-Castle, where the Maxwells dwelt of old, to Annan water. This district fronts the coast of England ; and, from its vici- nity to the Isle of Man, was in those days infested with daring smugglers, who poured in brandy, Holland-gin, tea, tobacco, and salt, in vast quantities. Small farmers, and persons engaged in inland traffic, diffused these com- modities through the villages ; they were gene- rally vigorous and daring fellows, in whose hearts a gauger or two bred no dismay. They were well mounted, acquainted with the use of a cutlass, an oak-sapling, or a whip loaded with lead ; and, when mounted between a couple of brandy- kegs, and their horses' heads turned to the hills, not one exciseman in ten dared to stop them. To prevent the disembarkation of run- goods, when a smuggling craft made its appear- ance, was a duty to which the Poet was liable to be called, and many a darksome hour he was compelled to keep watch, that the pea- santry might not have the pleasure of drinking tea or brandy duty free. There was something which suited his fancy in all this. He had, galloping from point to point, much excitement of mind, and hopes of golden booty, but not without blows. JETAT. 33. GEORGE THOMSON. 103 In whatever adventure he was engaged, "still his speech was song." Mounted on the successor of Jenny Geddes, whose mortal career closed at Ellisland, he " muttered his wayward fancies as he roved," and sang the beauty of the maidens of the land, and the pas- toral charms of the country. It was in one of his expeditions against the smugglers that he wrote the brief but exquisite lyric, " Louis, what reck I by thee V To say much in a few words is one of the characteristics of his muse : — "Louis, what reck I by thee, Or Geordie on his ocean ? Dyvor, beggar loons to me, — I reign in Jeannie's bosom !" " Out over the Forth " is another of his short and lucky compositions. "The carding o't" belongs to the same class ; nothing in all the compass of lyric verse is more truly natural: — " I coft a stane o' haslock woo' To make a coat to Johnnie o't ; For Johnnie is my only jo, I lo'e him best of ony yet. For though his locks be lyart grey, And though his brow be beld aboon, Yet I hae seen him on a day The pride of a' the parishen." One day, during the month of August, he was surprised by a visit from Miss Lesley Baillie, after- wards Mrs. Cuming of Logie, a beauty of the west of Scotland. — " On which," says Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, " I took my horse, though God knows I could ill spare the time, accom- panied her father and her fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and spent the day with them, 'Twas about nine, I think, when I left them, and, riding home, I composed the following ballad." Some of the verses of this song are in his best manner : — " To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever : For nature made her what she is, And never made anither ! The deil he couldna skaith thee, Nor aught that wad belang thee, He'd look into thy bonny face, And say, ' I canna wrang thee.' " Most of the songs which I have hitherto noticed were written for the Museum of John- son. A candidate of higher pretence now made his appearance : this was George Thomson. " I have," said he, in a letter to Burns, " em- ployed many leisure hours in selecting and collecting the best of our national melodies for publication. I have engaged Pleyel, the most agreeable composer living, to put accompani- ments to these, and also to compose an instru- mental prelude and conclusion to each air. To render this work perfect, I am desirous of hav- ing the poetry improved, wherever it seems unworthy of the music ; and that it is so, in many instances, is allowed by every one con- versant Avith our musical collections. To remove this reproach would be an easy task to the author of ' the Cotter's Saturday Night ; ' and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would fain hope he may be induced to take up the pen." An application such as this appealed to too many associations for Burns to resist ; he replied with something like the enthusiasm of a lover when his mistress asks a favour, " As the request you make," said the Poet, September 16, 17 ( J2, "will positively add to my enjoyments in com- plying with it, I shall enter into your under- taking with all the small portion of abilities I have, strained to their utmost exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. If you are for English verses, there is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only hope to please myself in being allowed, at least, a sprinkling of our native tongue. As to any remuneration, you may think my songs either above or below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest enthusiasm in which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of money would be downright prostitution of soul !" To stipulations such as these Thomson could have no objections to offer : he was glad to get the Bard on his own romantic terms. The first fruits of the bargain was "The Lea Big." Though a beautiful song, it seems not to have been to the satisfaction of the Poet. " I tried my hand on the air," he says, " and could make nothing more of it than the verses which I enclose. Heaven knows they are poor enough ! All my earlier love songs were the breathings of ardent passion ; and though it might have been easy, in after times, to have given them the polish, yet that polish would have defaced the legend of my heart which was so faithfully in- scribed on them." "Highland Mary" followed this. The lyrical flow of the verse, and the truth and pathos of the sentiments, make it a favourite with all who have voices or feelings. " I think," says the Poet, "the song is in my happiest manner : it refers to one of the most interesting passages in my youthful days ; and I own I should be much nattered to see the verses set to an air which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the composition." He makes inani- mate nature a sharer in his rapture : " How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk ! How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! As underneath their fragrant shade I claap'd her to my bosom ! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my Bweet Highland Mary I" This exquisite lyric proves how much the passionate affections of his youth s : ;il moved I ©E 104 LIFE OF BURNS. 1792. him. He was ready, when Mary's image rose on his fancy, to pour out his feelings in song : he was more than usually inspired whenever he thought of her. The thorn, under whose shade the lovers sat, is still pointed out and held sacred by the peasantry. The season of winter was propitious to the muse of Burns : there was something of old habit in this : the long evenings bring leisure to the tanner, and the farmer was still strong in him. "Auld Rob Morris" was written in November ; the idea is taken from an earlier song, but the Burns-spirit soon gained the ascend- ant : he has painted the portrait of his heroine in similes : — " She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; She's sweet as the evening amang the new hay ; As blythe and as artless as lambs on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e." " Duncan Gray " came to the world in Decem- ber , had he come in summer, he could not have been more " a lad of grace ; " he went a wooing in a pleasant time, on glide Yule night, when all were joyous — but " Maggie coost her head fu' high, Looked asklcnt and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh." He was not however to be daunted with this : he knew woman better : — " Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd, Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig ; Duncan sigh'd baith out and in ; Grathis cen baith blccr'dand blin' ; Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn !" She relented. — " Duncan Gray," said the Poet, 1 ' is a light horse-gallop of an air which precludes sentiment — the ludicrous is its ruling feature." u O ! poortith, cauld and restless love" is a song full of other feelings : the heroine is said to have been Jean Lorimer, the lass of Craigie- burn wood ; and this is countenanced b\ the sentiment of one impassioned verse : — " Her cen sae bonny blue betray How she repays my passion ; J',ut prudence is her o'crword ay She talks of rank and fashion. O wha can prudence think upon, And tic a lassie by him? wha c:u\ prudence think upon, And sae in love as I am ?" A being of a more celestial nature inspired that magnificent Lyric, ''The Vision." The ruined College of Lincluden, which stands among on :i beautiful plot of rising groun !. where the Cluden unites with the Niih, a little above Dumfries, wa • a favourite haunt, of ih<- Poet, as ii i- of all Lovers of landscape beauty. On ;■ moonlight evening he imagined himself among the splendid ruin., : the : i prince s, and the bone-, of one: of the intrepid Douglasses brought recollections of ancient independence to his mind, while the quiet and beautiful scenery around awakened inspiration. For liquid ease of language and heroic grandeur of conception " The Vision " is unequalled : the commencing verse prepares us for the coming of something more than human : — " As I stood by yon roofless tower, _ Where the wa' flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care — The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot along the sky, The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant-echoing glens reply." While enjoying the scene, and looking on the northern streamers, the Vision of Liberty descended or arose before him : not the blood- stained nymph of that name beloved by the Jacobin Club, but a Liberty of Scottish extrac- tion, stern and stalwart, of the rougher sex, attired like an ancient minstrel, carrying a harp, and wearing the symbol of freedom. The ma- jestic apparition touched his harp, and chanted a strain which spoke of former joys and present sorrows, in language which the Poet durst only describe. This fine lyric was intended, with some modifications, to be wrought into the drama of " The Bruce," a subject never wholly out of the Bard's fancy. From musing on woman's love and man's freedom, Burns was rudely awakened. An inquiry regarding the sentiments which he enter- tained, and the language in which he had in- dulged concerning "Thrones and Dominions," was directed to be made by the Commissioners of Excise, pursuant to instructions, it is said, received from high quarters. It will probably never be known who the pestilent informer against the Poet was : some contemptible wretch who had suffered from his wit, or who envied his fame, gave the information on which the Board of Excise acted, and he was subjected to a sort of inquisition. The times indeed in which he lived were perilous, and government found it no easy thing to rule or tranquillize the agitated passions of the people. A new light had arisen on the nations : freedom burst out like a sum- mer's sun in France ; monarchy was trampled \i\h\vv foot; democracy arose in its place; equality in all, save intellect, was preached up, and the true order of nature was to be restored to the delighted world. This doctrine was welcomed widely in Scot- land : it resembled, in no small degree, the constitution of the Calvinistic kirk, which is expressly democratic ; and it accorded with the sentiments which education and knowledge awaken — for who is so blind as not to see that idols, dull and gross, occupy most of the high places which belong to genius as a birthright? It. corresponded wondrously too with the notions of Burns: it harmonised with the plan which iETAT. 33. BOARD OF EXCISE. 105 he perceived in nature, and was in strict keep- ing with his sentiments of free-will and inde- pendence. " He was disposed," says Professor Walker, " from constitutional temper, from education, and from accidents of life, to a jea- lousy of power, and a keen hostility against every system which enabled birth and opulence to intercept those rewards which he conceived to belong to genius and virtue." That he desired to see true genius honoured, and wealthy presumption checked — that he wished to take his place on the table-land among peers and princes, and obtain station and importance — to adorn which his high powers, he believed, were given — were desires natural to a gifted mind ; and it could not be but galling for him to see men who had not a tithe of his talent rolling in luxury, while he was doomed to poverty and dependence. That these sentiments were in the heart of Burns I know ; that he ever sought to give them full utterance, or entertained them farther than as theories grateful to his mind, it would be difficult to find proof. From these charges Burns strove to defend himself: he addressed his steady friend Gra- ham, of Fintry, on the subject ; the letter is dated December, 1792. — " I have been sur- prised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mit- chell, the collector, telling me that he has re- ceived an order from your Board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person disaffected to government. Sir, you are a husband — and a father. You know what you would feel to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world, degraded and dis- graced from a situation in which they had been respectable and respected. I would not tell a deliberate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors— if worse can be than those I have mentioned — hung over my head : and I say that the allegation, whatever villain has made it, is a lie ! To the British Constitution, on revolution principles, next, after my God, I am most devoutly attached. Fortune, sir, has made you powerful and me impotent — has given you patronage and me dependence. I would not, for my single self, call on your humanity ; I could brave misfortune — I could face ruin — for, at the worst, ' Death's thousand doors stand open ; ; but the tender concerns which I have mentioned — the claims and ties which I see at this moment, and feel around me — how they unnerve courage and wither resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. To these, sir, permit me to appeal ; by these may I adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me; and which, with my latest breath I will say it, I have not deserved." These are the words of his private letter: it enclosed another, intended for the eye of the commissioners, and which was laid before the Board. In the second epistle, Bums disclaimed all idea of setting up a republic, and declared that he stood by the constitutional principles of the revolution of 1688 : at the same time lie felt that corruptions had crept in, which every patriotic Briton desired to see amended. — "This last remark," says the Poet, in his celebrated letter to John Francis Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar, " gave great offence ; and one of our supervisors-general, a Mr. Corbet, was instruct- ed to inquire on the spot, and to document me — ' That my business was to act, not to think • and that whatever might be men or measures, it Avas for me to be silent and obedient.' Mr. Corbet was my steady friend ; so, between Mr. Graham and him, I have been partly forgiven ; only I understand that all hopes of my getting officially forward are blasted." The above words were written by the Poet, April 13, 1793; yet Mr. Findlater, then his superior officer, says, " I may venture to assert that when Burns Avas accused of a leaning to democracy, and an inquiry into his conduct took place, he was subjected, in consequence thereof, to no more than perhaps a private or verbal caution, to be more circumspect in future. Neither do I believe his promotion was thereby affected, as has been stated." Burns, I appre- hend, knew best how this was ; an order to act, and not to think ; and, whatever might be men and measures, to be silent and obedient, seems a sharp sort of private caution. That the re- cords of the Excise-office, as some one assured Lockhart, exhibit no traces of this too memor- able matter, is not to be wondered at : expul- sions alone are entered — or, if the records say more, memoranda, so little to the honour of the commissioners, will neither be eagerly sought for, nor willingly found. That Burns never got forward is certain ; that he ceased to speak of his hopes of advancement, is also true. What was the cause of this? That it did not arise from his want of skill or his inattention to his duties, Findlater furnishes undeniable testi- mony, and other evidence can readily be found : nor was it because death slipt too early in and frustrated the desire of the Board to advance him, for he survived their insulting and crush- ing inquiry more than three years and a half. He survived, indeed, but he was no longer the bright and enthusiastic being who looked for- ward with eager hope ; who ascended in fancy the difficult steeps of fame, and who set coteries in a roar of laughter, or moved them to tears. Reasons for this harshness on the part of Go- vernment — for the Hoard o{' Excise was but the acting servant — have been anxiously sought, in the words and dvaU of Burns. - "He stood," says Walker, u on a lofty eminence, surrounded by enemies as well as 1>\ friends, and no indis- cretion which he committed was Buffered to escape." His looks were watched ; his words 106 LIFE OF BURNS. 1793. weighed ; and, wheresoever lie went, the eyes of the malignant and the envious were on him. I have been told, by one incapable of misleading me, that Burns sometimes made his appearance in a club of obscure individuals in Dumfries, where toasts were given, and songs sung which required closed doors. I have also been in- formed that when invited to a private dinner, where the entertainer proposed ' ' the health of William Pitt," the Poet said sharply, " Let us drink the health of a greater and better man — George Washington ; " and it is also true that when Dumourier, the republican general, de- serted the cause of his country, and joined her enemies, Burns rashly chanted that short song, beginning " You are welcome to despots, Dumourier." Nay more, I have the proof before me that he wrote a scoffing ballad on the foreign sovereigns who united to crush French liberty ; but then all these matters happened after, not before, he was "documented" by the Board of Excise. That he forgot now and then what was due to the dignity of his genius, is no new admission. The club which sung songs with closed doors, did so to hinder the landlady, not the landlord, from hearing ; the dinner where he toasted Wash- ington, and was sullen because it was not drunk, took place in 1793. In Midsummer the same year, Dumourier forsook the standard of his country, and was welcomed by despots ; and with regard to the ballad on the sovereigns, I am sure the gravest of them all would have laughed heartily at the vivid but indecorous wit of the composition. That Burns was nevertheless very indiscreet, it would be vain to deny. " I was at the play in Dumfries, October, 1792," thus writes, in 1835, a gentleman of birth and talent, "the Caledonian Hunt being then in town — the play was ' As you like it ; ' Miss Fontenelle, Rosa- lind — when * God save the King ' was called for and sung ; we all stood up, uncovered — but Burns sat still in the middle of the pit, with his hat on his head. There was a great tumult, with shouts of ' Turn him out!' and 'Shame, Burns!' which continued a good while, at last he was either expelled or forced to take off his hat — I forget which." A more serious indiscretion has been imputed to him. Lockhart relates that, on the 27th of February, 179-2, a smuggling brig entered the Solway, and Burns was one of the party of officers appointed to watch her motions. It bassoon discovered that her crew were nume- rous, wrll armed, and likely to resist; upon which Lewars, a. In-other exciseman, galloped O^tO Dumfries, and Crawford, the superintend- ent, went to Ecclefechan for military assistance. Burns manifested much impatience at being left f.n a cold exposed beach, with a force unequa to cope with those to whom he was opposed and exclaimed against the dilatory movements of Lewars, wishing the devil might take him. Some one advised him to write a song about it ; on which the Poet, taking a few strides among the shells and pebbles, chanted "The deil's awa' wi' the exciseman." The song was hardly composed, when up came Lewars with his soldiers, on which Burns, putting himself at their head, his pistols in his pockets, and his sword in his hand, waded mid-waist deep into the sea, and carried the smuggler. She was armed. The Poet, whose conduct was much commended, purchased four of her brass guns, and sent them as a present to the French Di- rectory. These, with the letter which accom- panied them, were intercepted on their way to France. The suspicions of government were awakened by this breach of decorum, and men in power turned their eyes on the bard, and opened their ears to all his unguarded sayings. That the smuggler was captured chiefly by the bravery of Burns I have been often told ; but I never heard it added that he purchased her guns and sent them to the Directory. The biographer seems to have had his information from persons connected with the Excise ; but I suspect the story is not more accurate than that, when accused of a leaning to democracy, " he was subjected to no more than perhaps a verbal or private caution to be more circumspect in future." Burns felt humbled and hurt : he was de- graded in his own eyes ; he was pushed rudely down from his own little independent elevation, and treated like an imbecile, whose words and actions were to be regulated by the ungentle members of the Board of Excise. — " Have I not," he says to Erskine, " a more precious stake in my country's welfare than the richest dukedom in it ? I have a large family of chil- dren, and the prospect of many more. I have three sons, who, I see already, have brought into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the bodies of slaves." It is pleasing to escape with the Poet from the racks of the Board of Excise, and accom- pany him on his excursions along the banks of the Nith, where he soothed his spirit by com- posing songs for the publications of Thomson or Johnson. In Januarv, 1793, he wrote "Lord Gregory;" in March, "Wandering Willie " and "Jessie," and in April, "The Poor and Honest Sodger." The first is bor- rowed in some measure from the exquisite old ballad of "The Lass of Lochroyan," the second is more original : — " Loud blew the cauld winter winds nt our parting ; It was na the blast brought the tear to my ee ; Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my Willie ; The simmer to nature — my Willie to me." The third was written in honour of the young and the lovely Jessie Staig of Dumfries; and JETAT. 34. DUMFRIES— SONGS 10; the fourth was awakened by the prospect of coming war, which ended not till it laid many kingdoms desolate, and put the half of Britain into mourning. In the remarks of Thomson on his songs he was not always acquiescent. — " Give me leave," he says, "to criticise your taste in the only thing in which it is reprehen- sible. You know I ought to know something of my own trade ; of pathos, sentiment, and point you are a complete judge : but there is a quality more necessary than either in a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, I mean simplicity. Now, if I mistake not, this last feature you are apt to sacrifice to the fore- going." He Avas as anxious about the purity of Scottish music as about the simplicity of the verse. " One hint," he says to Thomson, "let me give you : whatever Pleyel does, let him not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs ; let our national music preserve its native fea- tures. They are, I own, frequently wild and irreducible to the more modern rules, but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect." The beauties whom Burns met on Nithside inspired many of the sweetest of his songs : the daughters of his friend, John M'Murdo, were then very young ; but they were also very lovely, and had all the elegance and simplicity which poets love. To Jean M'Murdo we owe the ballad of " Bonnie Jean." " I have some thoughts," he says to Thomson, " of inserting in your index, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, the themes of my songs. I do not mean the name at full, but dashes or asterisms, so as ingenuity may find them out. The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M , daughter of Mr. M of D , one of your subscribers. I have not painted her in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager." He thought very well of this composition ; he asks if the image in the fol- lowing sweet verse is not original : — "As in the bosom o' the stream The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en : So trembling, pure, was faithful love Within the breast o' bonnie Jean." Her sister Phillis, a young lady equally beau- tiful and engaging, inspired the Poet also ; though he imputes the verses in which he sings of her charms to the entreaty of Clarke, the musician. The first of these lyrics begins : — " While larks, with little wingr, Fann'd the pure air, Tasting the breathing spring, Forth I did fare." The other contains that fine verse : — " Her voice is the song of the morning, That wakes through the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, On music, and pleasure, and love." Ideal loveliness sometimes appeared to him in his solitary wanderings. Autumn he reckoned a propitious season for verse : he wrote thus to Thomson in the month of August : — "I roved out yestreen for a gloam in- shot at the muses ; when the muse that presides over the shores of Nith, or, rather, my old inspiring clearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the following : I have two reasons for thinking that it was my early, sweet, simple inspirer that was by my elbow, ' smooth gliding without step,' and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her ; so I more than suspect she has followed me hither, or, at least, makes me occasional visits." The song which this celestial lady of the west awakened commences thus : — " Come, let me take thee to my breast, And pledge we ne'er shall sunder, Ann I shall spurn as vilest dust The world's wealth and grandeur." From lower sources other lyrics of this pe- riod are said to have sprung. To the winning looks of a young girl who " brewed gude ale for gentlemen," and was indulgent even to rakish customers, we owe the song of " The golden locks of Anna," of which there are several versions, and none quite decorous, though a clerical biographer of the Bard has said otherwise. A purer song, " The mirk night of December" had its origin in a similar quarter : — " O May ! thy morn was ne'er so sweet, As the mirk night of December, For sparkling was the rosy wine, And private was the chamber : And dear was she I dare na name, But I will ay remember." Burns was as ready with his verse to solace the woes of others, as to give utterance to his own. " You, my clear sir," he says to Thom- son, " will remember an unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cunningham's story, which happened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice as follows." — The song expressing the sentiments of his friend is that sublime one — "Had I a cave on some wild distant shore." The concluding verse, a lady told me, always made her shudder : — " Falsest of womankind ! canst thou declare, Ml thy fond plighted vows — tlecting as air.' To thy new lover hie, Laugh o'er thy perjury : Then in thy bosom try What pence is there !" To the influence of thunder, lightning, and rain we owe, we are told, the heroic address of 108 LIFE OF BURNS. 1793. Bruce at Bannockburn. I abridge the legend of John Syme, who accompanied the Poet on a tour in Galloway : — " I got Burns a grey Highland sheltie to ride on. We dined the first day, July 27, 1793, at Glendinning's of Par ton — a beautiful situation on the banks of the Dee. In the evening we walked out and viewed the Alpine scenery around ; immediately opposite, we saw Airds, where dwelt Lowe, the author of Mary's Dream. This was classic ground for Burns ; he viewed ' the highest hill which rises o'er the source of Dee/ and would have staid till the ' passing spirit' appeared, had we not resolved to reach Kenmore that night. We arrived as ' the Gordons' were sitting down to supper. Here is a genuine baron's seat ; the castle, an old building, stands on a large natural moat, and in front the Ken winds for several miles through a fertile and beautiful holm. We spent three days with i The Gordons,' whose hospitality is of a polished and endearing kind. We left Kenmore and went to Gatehouse. I took him the moor road, where savage and de- solate regions extended wide around. The sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of the soil ; it became lowering and . dark — the winds sighed hollow — the lightnings gleamed — the thunders rolled. The Poet enjoyed the awful scene ; he spoke not a word, but seemed rapt in meditation. In a little while the rain began to fall ; it poured in floods upon us. For three hours did the wild elements rumble their belly- ful upon our defenceless heads. We got utterly wet ; and, to revenge ourselves, the Poet in- sisted, at Gatehouse, on our getting utterly drunk. I said that in the midst of the storm, on the wilds of the Kenmore, Burns was rapt in meditation. What do you think he was about? He was charging the English army along with Bruce at Bannockburn. He was engaged in the same manner in our ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next day he produced me the Address of Bruce to Iris troops, and gave me a copy for Dalzell." Two or three plain words, and a stubborn date or two, will go far, I fear, to raise this pleasing legend into the regions of romance. The Galloway adventure, according to Syme, happened in July; but in the succeding Sep- tember, the Poet communicated the song to Thomson in these words : — "There is a tra- dition which I have met with in many places in Scotland, that the old air of 'Hey, tuttie taitie,' was Robert Brace's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my yester- niahfs evening walk, wanned me to a pitch or enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and inde- pendence, which I threw into a kind of Scot- tish ode, lilted jo the air, that one might sup- pose io be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful mom- ing. 1 shewed (lie air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with it, and begged me to make soft verses for it : but I had no idea of giving myself any trouble on the subject, till the accidental recollection of that glorious struggle for freedom, associated with the glow- ing ideas of some other struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, roused up my rhyming mania." Currie, to make the letter agree with the legend, altered " Yesternight's evening walk" into " solitary wanderings." Burns was, indeed, a remarkable man, and yielded, no doubt, to strange impulses : but to comnose a song " In thunder, lightning, and in rain," intimates such self-possession as few possess. He thus addressed the Earl of Buchan, to whom he sent a copy of the song : — " Independent of my enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I have rarely met with anything in history which interests my feelings as a man, equal to the story of Ban- nockburn. On the one hand, a cruel, but able, usurper, leading on the finest army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of freedom among a greatly-daring and greatly -injured people ; on the other hand, the desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting themselves to rescue their bleed- ing country, or perish with her. Liberty ! thou art a prize truly ; never canst thou be too dearly bought !" The simplicity and vigour of this most heroic of modern lyrics were injured by lengthening the fourth line of each verse to suit the air of Lewie Gordon. The " Vision of Liberty," and " Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled," were to form part of the long-meditated drama of "The Bruce." This the Poet intimated to his friends in con- versation, and also in pencil memoranda on one of the blank leaves of Collins's poems. Several lines of verse are scattered among the prose — all shewing on what topic he was musing : — "Where Bannockburn's ensanguined flood, Swell'd with mingling hostile blood, Saw Edward's myriads struck with deep dismay, And Scotia's troop of brothers win their way. O glorious deed, to brave a tyrant's band ' O heavenly joy, to free our native land !" [As the letter of Mr. Syme, written soon after the excursion took place, gives an ani- mated picture of the Poet, by a correct and masterly hand, the remainder is now presented to the reader : — " From Gatehouse, we went next day to Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But here I must tell you that Burns had got a pair of jemmy boots for the journey, which had been thoroughly wet, and which had been dried in such a manner that it was not possible to, get them on again. The brawny Poet tried force, and tore them to shreds. A whiffling vexation of this sort is more trying to the temper than a serious calamity. Ave were going to Saint Mary's Isle, the seat of the Earl of Selkirk, and the forlorn Burns was discomfited at the thought of his ruined boots. A sick stomach @ ®- ^ETAT. 34. THE FIVE CARLINS. - -n 109 and a head-ach lent their aid, and the man of verse was quite accable. I attempted to reason with him. Mercy on us, how he did fume and rage ! Nothing could reinstate him in temper. I tried various expedients, and at last hit on one that succeeded. I showed him the house of * * * *, across the bay of Wigton. Against * * * * ? with whom he was offended, he ex- pectorated his spleen, and regained a most agreeable temper. He was in a most epigram- matic humour indeed ! He afterwards fell on humbler game. There is one * * * * * * whom he does not love. He had a passing blow at him : — ' When * * * * *, deceased, to the devil went down, 'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown : Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear never* I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.' " Well, I am to bring you to Kirkcudbright along with our poet, without boots. I carried the torn ruins across my saddle in spite of his fulminations, and in contempt of appearances ; and what is more, Lord Selkirk* carried them in his coach to Dumfries. He insisted tjiey were worth mending. " We reached Kirkcudbright about one o'clock. I had promised that we should dine with one of the first men in our country, J. Dalzell. But Burns was in a wild and obstre- perous humour, and swore he would not dine where he should be under the smallest restraint. We prevailed, therefore, on Mr. Dalzell to dine with us in the inn, and had a very agreeable party. In the evening we set out for St. Mary's Isle. Robert had not absolutely re- gained the miikiness of good temper, and it occurred once or twice to him, as he rode along, that St. Mary's Isle was the seat of a Lord ; yet that Lord was not an aristocrat, at least in his sense of the word. We arrived about eight o'clock, as the family were at tea and coffee. St. Mary's Isle is one of the most delightful places that can, in my opinion, be formed by the assemblage of every soft, but not tame, ob- ject which constitutes natural and cultivated beauty. But, not to dwell on its external graces, let me tell you that we found all the htdies of the family (all beautiful) at home, and some strangers ; and, among others, who but Urbani ! The Italian sung us many Scottish songs, accompanied with instrumental music. The two young ladies of Selkirk sung also. We had the song of Lord Gregory, which I asked for, to have an opportunity of calling on Burns to recite Ms ballad to that tune. He did recite it, and such was the effect that a dead silence ensued. It was such a silence as a mind of feeling naturally preserves when it is touched with that enthusiasm which banishes every other thought but the contemplation and indulgence of the sympathy produced. * This was the same Lord Selkirk, of whom Sir Walter Scott ®: " We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord Selkirk's. We had, in every sense of the word, a feast, in which our minds and our senses were equally gratified. The Poet was delighted with his company, and acquitted himself to admira- tion. The lion that had raged so violently in the morning was now as mild and gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to Dumfries, and so ends our peregrination."] The Poet now and then inclined to dramatic composition, and hovered between the serious and the comic. — " I have turned my thoughts," he says to Lady Glencairn, " on the drama. I do not mean the stately buskin of the tragic muse. Does not your Ladyship think that an Edinburgh theatre would be more amused with the affectation, folly, and whim of true Scottish growth, than by manners which by far the greatest part of the audience can only know at second-hand?" There is no question that dialogues, characters, and songs, such as Burns could conceive and write, would have been welcome to a northern, and perhaps a southern, audience. His inimitable poem, "The Jolly Beggars" shews dramatic powers of a high order. Burns, in his earlier days, lent his muse as an auxiliary to the western clergy ; nor can it be forgotten that she fought the battle with a bold- ness which was only endured because the cause was thought to be a pious one. In Nithsdale she became a volunteer in a more worldly strife, and lent her breath to augment or allay the flame of a contested election. When Sir James Johnston of Westerhall, in the year 1790, offered himself as a candidate for the Dumfries district of burghs, he was opposed by Patrick Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton. The for- mer was a good man of an old family, and a determined Tory ; the latter was a captain in the army, had the promise of youth upon him. and was a resolute Whig. Burns, through the impulse of his genius, was somewhat of a re- publican. Old jacobitical prejudices, and the kindness of Graham of Fintray, inclined his feelings towards the Tories ; while his con- nexion with Miller, his regard for M'Murdo, his respect for Staig, and his affection for Syme, all combined to draw him towards the Whigs. His election-ballads of this period shew how prudently he balanced the various interests. The first of these compositions is not inap- propriately called "The Five Carlins." The burghs of Dumfries, Lochmaben, Annan. Kirk- cudbright, and Sanquhar are cleverly personi- fied in the second verse : — " There was Maggie by the banks o' Nith, A dame \\i' pride eneugh ; And Marjorie o' tin- mony Lochs, A carl in aulfl and teugfa ; And blinkin' Ucss o' Annaiu'-de, That dwell liy Solway aide ; relates an amusing anecdote in liis Malagrowthcr Letters. @= 110 — Coj LIFE OF BURNS. 1793. And whiskey Jean, that took her gill In Galloway sae wide ; And black Joan, frae Crichton-Peel, O' gipsey kith and kin : Five weighter carlins were na found The south countrie within." The Border dames hesitate whether to send " The belted knight" or " The sodger youth to Lunnun town, to bring them tidings :" — " Then out spak' mim-mou'd Meg of Nith, And she spak' up wi' pride ; And she wad send the sodger youth, Whatever might betide." Not so honest Kirkcudbright : — "Then whiskey Jean spak' owre her drink — ' Ye weel ken, kimmers a', The auld gudeman o' Lunnun court, His back's been at the wa' ; And mony a friend that kissed his caup Is now a frcrait wight, But it's ne'er be said o' whiskey Jean — I'll send the Border Knight.' " I have heard Sir Walter Scott recite the verse which personifies Lochmaben, and call it " uncommonly happy :" — " Then slow rose Marjorie o' the Lochs, And wrinkled was her brow ; Her ancient weed was russet grey, Her auld Scots blood was true." " The five Carlins/' says one of Burns's biographers, " is by far the best-humoured of these productions." He had not seen the Poet's Epistle on the same election, addressed to Graham of Fintray. The original is before me : the measure was new to Burns : the poem is, I believe, new to the reader. The contest was now decided. — " The Sirens of Flattery," as the Poet said to M'Murdo, "the Harpies of Corruption, and the Furies of Ambition — those infernal deities that preside over the villanous business of politics" — had retired from the field :— " Fintray, my stay in worldly strife, Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, Are ye as idle's I am ? Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, And ye shall see me try him. " I'll bing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, Who left the all-important cares Of princes and their darlin's, And bent on winning borough-touns, Came shaking hands wi' wabster loons, And kissin' barefit carlins. " Combustion through our boroughs rode, Whittling hia roaring para abroad ot Doadf unmuzzled lions; As Qoeeniberry'i ' buff and blue' unfurl'd, Bold Wetterba' and Hopetoun hurl'd To every Whig defiance." The Poet then proceeds to relate how liis Grace of Queensberrj forsook the contending ranks — " The unmanner'd dust might soil his star, Besides, he hated bleeding :" but left his friends, soft and persuasive, behind, to maintain his cause and Miller's : — " M'Murdo and his lovely spouse (The enamour'd laurels kiss her brows !) Led on the Loves and Graces ; She won each gaping burgess' heart, While he, all-conquering, play'd his part Amang their wives and lasses. " Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps, Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour Like Hecla streaming thunder ; Glenriddel, skill' d in rusty coins, Blew up each Tory's dark designs, And bar'd the treason under." Assistance, of a kind equally effective in all such contests, it seems, was resorted to : — " Miller brought up the artillery ranks, The many-pounders of the banks." The commotion which ensued, when the con- tending parties met in the streets of old Dum- fries is well described : — " As Highland crags by thunder cleft, When light'nings fire the stormy lift, Hurl down with crashing rattle ; As flames among a hundred woods ; As headlong foam a hundred floods — Such is the rage of battle ! " The stubborn Tories dare to die, — As soon the rooted oaks would fly Before the approaching fellers ; The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan-Bullers." Forms were present, it seems, visible only to tne eyes of the inspired : on the Whig side appear- ed an ominous personage — " The muffled murderer of Charles." Purer spirits, those of the Grahams, were seen on the side of the Tories. But neither the wit of woman, the might of man, nor even the pre- sence of the celestials could hinder the defeat of Johnston and the triumph of Miller: the Poet makes his lament : — " O that my een were flowing burns! My voice a lioness, that mourns Her darling cubs' undoing ! That I might weep, that I might cry, While Tories fall, while Tories fly, And furious Whigs pursuing ! " Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow, And Thurlow growl a curse of woe, And Melville melt in wailing ! Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! And Burke shall sing ' O Prince, arise I Thy power is all prevailing !' " " With regard to your poor Bard," says Hums, "he is only a spectator of what he relates. Amid the hurly-burlv of politics he '7" 2ETAT. o4. THE HERON BALLADS. Ill resembles the redbreast in the storm, which shelters itself in the hedge and chirps away securely." In the four years which intervened between this borough contest and the county election, in which Heron of Kerroughtree was opposed by Gordon of Balmaghie, the temper of Burns seems to have suffered a serious change. In his lyrics he stills sings with gentleness, and with all the delicacy which becomes true love ; but in his election lampoons he is fierce and stern, and even venomous. Heron had erected an altar to Independence, and, through the agency, it is said, of Syme, prevailed on the Poet to bring verse to the aid of his cause. The first of thes6 effusions is a parody on " Fye ! let us a' to the bridal." The Poet numbers the friends of the candidates, and as he names them gives us a sketch, personal and mental. The portrait of Heron is happy : — " And there will be trusty Kerroughtree, Whose honour was ever his law; If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel, His worth might be sample for a'." The best stanzas are the personal ones ; the following verse is very characteristic : — " And there will be maiden Kilkerran, And also Barskimmins' guid knight ; And there will be roaring Birtwhistle, Wha, luckily roars in the right." He continues his catalogue; he brings " the Maxwells in droves" from the Nithsdale bor- der ; the lairds of Terraughty and Carruchan — " And also the wild Scot of Galloway, Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair." In spite of the Poet's song and the exertions of friends, Heron lost his election : he was not, however, daunted : he contested soon after with more success the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright against the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. Burns had still the same belief in the influence of his wit, and was ready with unpremeditated verse. He accordingly imagined himself a pedlar or troggar, and, declaring that his whole stock consisted of "The broken trade of Broughton," proceeded to sell, to all who ventured to buy, the characters of those who supported Stewart. Some of the descriptions of the facetious pedlar are comical enough ; lie disliked John Stewart. Earl of Galloway, and assailed him, with all the inveteracy of satiric verse: — " There's a noble earl's Fame and high renown, For an auld sang — It's thought the gudes werestown." Against the Bushbys he bent the bitterest shafts in his quiver; he allowed them talent: in a former satire he says of one, — " He has gotten the heart of a Bushby, But, Lord! what's become of the head?" He is equally unkind in the present lampoon. 1 Of John Bushby, of Tinwald-downs, the most accomplished of the name, and Maxwell of Cardoness, he says, — " Here's an honest conscience Might a prince adorn, Frae the Downs of Tinwald — Sae was never worn : Here's the stuff and lining, O' Cardoness's head ; Fine for a sodger A' the wale o' lead." Muirhead, minister of Urr, had an apple for his crest : — " Here's armorial bearings Frae the manse of Urr, The crest — an auld crab apple, Rotten at the core." The minister of Buittle was a Maxwell : — " Here's that little wadset, Buittle's scrap o' truth, Pawn'd in a gin-shop, Quenching holy drouth." To conclude these sharp and personal things, the Poet offers for sale the worth and wisdom of Copland of Collieston, and, more curious still,— " Murray's fragments O' the ten commands." But customers seem scarce, upon which he ex- claims, — " Hornie's turning chapman, He'll buy a' the pack." And so ends his last and bitterest lampoon. — " I have privately," lie says to Mr. Heron, "print- ed a good many copies of both ballads, and have sent them among friends all about the country. You have already, as your auxiliary, the sober detestation of mankind on the heads of your opponents ; and I swear, by the lyre of Thalia, to muster on your side all the votaries of honest laughter, and fair, candid ridicule!" Heron, on whose side the Poet promised to muster the votaries of mirth-, was victorious in the contesl : but his return was petitioned against : a Com- mittee of the Commons declared him unduly elected ; and, worn in body, and harrassed in mind, he fell ill at York, and died before he reached Scotland. The wit of Burns, like his native thistle, though rough and sharp, suited the multitude better than more smooth and polished things : he had not the art of cutting blocks with a razor, but dragged his victims rudely along the ground at the tail of his Pegasus. Pointed and elegant satire, while it affected the edu- cated gentlemen against whom it was directed, 112 LIFE OF BURNS. ~=@) would have made no impression on the shep- herds and husbandmen whose scorn it was the Poet's wish to excite. The laughter and ridi- cule which his muse awakened had a local in- fluence only ; the satire which drove Dr. Horn- book from the parish, and made Holy Willie think of suicide, had a wider range : the linea- ments by which he desired we should know his Stewarts, Maxwells, Murrays, Muirheads, and Bushbys, belonged to private life — were acci- dents of character or matters of imagination, and pertained not to general nature. I turn gladly to his lyrics. All his songs bear the impress of nature ; he himself tells us in what way he made them. — " Until I am com- plete master of a tune, in my own singing, such as it is, I can never compose for it. My way is this : I consider the poetic sentiment corres- pondent to my idea of the musical expression ; then choose my theme ; begin one stanza ; when that is composed, which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects in na- ture around me that are in unison and harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my bosom ; humming, every now and then, the air with the verses I have framed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fire-side of my study, and there com- mit my effusions to paper ; swinging, at inter- vals, on the hind-legs of my elbow chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures as my pen goes on. Seriously, this at home is almost invariably my way." He who desires to compose lyric verse according to the character and measure of an air will find the plan of Burns an useful one. The poet must either chant the tune over to himself, or be under its influence while writing, else he will fail to get the emphatic words to harmonize with the em- phatic notes. In the art of uniting gracefully the music ond words, Burns was a great master; the song which he wrote in October, 1793, to the tune of "The Quaker's Wife," echoes the music so truly that the words and air seem to have sprung from his fancy together : — " Thine am I, my faithful fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy; Every pulse along my veins, Every roving fancy." The inspiration which produced " Lovely Nancy" runic from Edinburgh; that which gave " Wilt thou be my dearie" to the air of the " Sutor's daughter" belonged to Dumfries. The former is written with warmth — the latter with respect. He delighted little in distant modes or salutation, and was prone to imagine the subject of his song beside him, and sharing in his rapture: now and then, however, he ex- hibited ull the polite respect which the school of chivalrous courtship could desire: — " Lassie, 'say thou lo'es me ; Or if thou wilt na be my ain, Say na thou'lt refuse me ; If it winna, canna be, Thou for thine may choose me, Let me, lassie, quickly die, Trusting that thou lo'es me." The Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, inspired the " Banks of Cree," — less by the charms of her person, than by the music, which is her own composition. Cree is a stream beautiful and romantic : — Cluden is another stream, which runs not smoother down the vale of Dalgonar than it runs in the song of " My bonnie dearie." — " Hark ! the mavis' evening sang, Sounding Cluden woods amang, Then a faulding let us gang, My bonnie dearie ; We'll gae down by Cluden side, Thro' the hazels spreading wide, O'er the waves that sweetly glide To the moon sae clearly." When Burns had done searching old -wives' barrels, or galloping under the light of the moon along the sands of Solway in search of smugglers, he retired to the solitude of his own humble dwelling, or to some lonely place, and, imagining beauty to be present, sung of its influence with equal truth and elegance. The Lass of Craigie-burn-wood seems to have been a favourite model for his heroines ; he advises Thomson to adopt his song in her praise, and observes — " The lady on whom it was made is one of the finest women in Scotland ; and, in fact, is to me what Sterne's Eliza was to him — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. I assure you, that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of my best songs. Do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence, could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy — could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your book ? No ! no ! Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs— do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation ? Tout ait contraire ! I have a glorious recipe — the very one that, for his own use, was invented by the god of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring a fine woman, and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon ! " The offspring of one of these interviews, real or imaginary, was that fine lyric — " She says she lo'es me best of a'." The lady's portrait is limned with the most exquisite skill ; and the last verse contains a landscape such as the JETAT. 34. SONGS. — THOMSON. 113 goddess of love might desire to walk in. The lonely valley, the fragrant evening, and the rising moon were frequent witnesses of his poetic rapture : — " Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon, Gi'e me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon ; Fair beaming, and streaming Her silver light the boughs amang, While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes his sang ; There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows of truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a'." The influence of this lady's charms was not of short duration.—" On my visit the other day/' Burns says, " to my fair Chloris, she suggested an idea which I, in my return from the visit, wrought into the following song : — ' My Chloris, mark how green the groves, The primrose banks how fair ; The balmy gales awake the flowers, And wave thy flaxen hair.' " Having composed another pastoral song in praise of the same lady to the tune of " Rothe- murche's Rant," he says — " This piece has at least the merit of being a regular pastoral ; the vernal morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are regularly rounded. If I can catch myself in more than an ordinary propitious moment, I shall write a new ' Craigie-burn-wood ' altogether : my heart is much in the theme. The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished a figure in your collection ; and I am not a little proud that I have it in my power to please her so much." The air of "Lumps of Pudding" suggested enjoyments of a less ethereal kind than those arising from beauty. On the 19th of November the frost was dry and keen. The Poet took a morning walk before breakfast, and produced one of his most delightful songs : " Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, I gie them a skelp as they're creeping alang Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang. " I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought, But man is a sodger, and life is a faught ; My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch, And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch." When his spirit was in the right mood for song, Burns generally remembered his country : in- deed, the glory of Scotland was as dear to his heart as his own fame. This sentiment he gave full utterance to in his song of " Their groves o' sweet myrtle." He muses on the bright sum- mers and perfumed vales of Italy, and then turns to the glen of green breckan, where the burn glimmers under the yellow broom, on whoso banks he had held tryste with his Jean. The conclusion which he makes is at once national and affectionate : — " Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave, Tlieir sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they ? the haunt of the tyrant and slave. The slave's spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains The brave Caledonian views with disdain ; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save love's willing fetters — the chains of his Jean. : ' That the Poet loved his country he has shewn in many a lasting verse ; but when he thought of the splendid possessions of the mean and the sordid, and of the gold descending in showers on the heads of the dull and the undeserving, it required all his poetic philosophy to hinder him from repining. He had sung in other days of the honest joys and fire - side happiness of husbandmen : he now endeavoured to pour the healing balm of verse upon the wounded spirits of the poor, the humble, and the unhappy. The song of " For a' that, and a' that," must have been welcome to many. It flew like wild- fire over the land : the sentiments accorded with the natural desire of man to be free and equal ; and, though not permitted to be sung in the streets of some of our northern borough- towns, it was chanted among the hills and dales by every tongue. Burns introduced it in these words to Thomson : — "A great critic on song, Aikin, says that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The following is on neither subject, and consequently is no song ; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme." There are five verses in all, and every one strikes the balance against rank in favour of poverty : — " A king can mak' a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he maunna fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that, Our toil's obscure and a' that ; The rank is but the guinea-stamp. The man's the gowd for a' that !" Those who jud^e of the peace of mind and happiness of the Poet by the sentiments of af- fection and rapture which he expresses so easily and so elegantly in his songs, would imagine that he lived in a sort of paradise, besot by temptation certainly, yet triumphing alike over political hatred and social allurements. His bright outbursts of verse flashed like sunshine amid a winter storm ; they were fever-fits of gladness and joy — came too seldom, and their coming could not be calculated upon. The in- quisitorial proceedings of the Commissioners of Excise had a deep share in the ruin of Burns. lit' was permitted to continue on his Beventy pounds By-year, with the chance of rising to the station of Supervisor by seniority; but 114 LIFE OF BURNS. 1793. hope of becoming Collector could no more be indulged — it was a matter of political patronage. From that time forward, something seemed to prey on the Poet's mind : he believed himself watched and marked ; he hurried from company into solitude, and from solitude into company ; when alone, he was melancholy and desponding — when at table, his mirth was often wild and obstreperous ; he had passionate bursts of pathos and unbridled sallies of humour, more than were natural to him. He had for some time looked on men of rank with jealousy ; he now spoke of them in a way that amounted to dislike. — "Let me remind you," he thus writes to David Maculloch, Esq. of Ardwell, June 21, " of your kind pro- mise to accompany me to Kerroughtree ; I will need all the friends I can muster; for I am in- deed ill at ease whenever I approach your honourables and right honourables." In a let- ter to his friend Cunningham, he speaks of the conceited dignity which even Scottish lordlings, of seven centuries' standing, display, when they mix accidentally with the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. — " I remember," he says, " in ray plough-boy days, I could not conceive it possible that a noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man could be a knave : how ignorant are plough-boys ! " He says to another corres- pondent, "In times like these, sir, when our commoners are barely able, by the glimmer of their own twilight understandings, to scrawl a frank, and when our lords are what gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to whom shall a sink- ing country call for help ? To the independent country gentleman ! to him who has too deep a stake in his country not to be earnest for her welfare : and who, in the honest pride of man, can view, with equal contempt, the insolence of office, and the allurements of corruption." Something of the same stern spirit may be found in many places of his correspondence. He seemed to imagine that he could not be in the company of men of rank without having to acknowledge his own inferior condition in life; lie did not feel so much as he ought that his genius raised him to an equality with peers, and • veil princes ; or, if he felt it folly, he certainly foiled to act up to it. He appeared, too, to apprehend that courtesy on his part might be taken for servility, and he desired to shew, by silent and surly naughtiness, that he might be broken, but would not bend. Even his most intimate friends he now and then put at arms- length ; and, if he made u present of a song or B new edition of his poems to nuy one, he gene- rally recorded it as a gift of affection, and Dot as an ad of homage. " Will Mr. M'Murdo," he thus writes on the introductory leaf of u new edition of hi- poems published at this time, "do me the favour to accept of these volumes 1 ;t trifling, but sincere, murk of the very high respect I bear for his worth as a man, his manners as a gentleman, and his kindness as a friend. However inferior now or afterwards I may rank as a poet, one honest virtue, to which few poets can pretend, I trust I shall ever claim as mine — to no man, whatever his station in life or his power to serve me, have I ever paid a compliment at the expense of truth." [" There was a great deal of stately toryism," says Lockhart, " at this time in Dumfries, which was the favourite winter retreat of many of the best gentlemen's families of the south of Scotland. Feelings that worked more violently in Edinburgh than in London acquired addi- tional energy still in this provincial capital. All men's eyes were upon Burns. He was the standing marvel of the place ; his toasts, his jokes, his epigrams, his songs, were the daily food of conversation and scandal; and he, open and careless, and thinking he did no great harm in saying and singing what many of his supe- riors had not the least objection to hear and to applaud, soon began to be considered, among the local admirers and disciples of the good King and his great Minister, as the most dan- gerous of all the apostles of sedition, and to be shunned accordingly."] The witty boldness of his remarks, and the sarcastic freedom of his opinions in matters both of church and state, it must be confessed, were such as to startle the timid and alarm the devout. He was numbered among those who were possessed with a republican spirit, and all who had any hopes of rising, through political influence, were more willing to find Burns by chance, than seek his company of their own free will. This will account for the coldness with which many of the stately aristocracy of the district regarded him. Mr. David Maculloch, a son of the Laird of Ardwell, has been heard to relate that, on visiting Dumfries one fine evening, to attend a ball given during the week of the races, he saw Bums walking on the south side of the " plain-stanes," while the central part was crowded with ladies and gen- tlemen, drawn together for the festivities of the night. Not one of them took any notice of the Poet ; on which Mr. Maculloch went up to him, took his arm, and wished him to join the gentry. — " Nay, nay, my young friend," he said, " that's all over with me now ;" and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's pathetic ballad : — " His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, His auld ane look'd better than raony ane's new ; Hut now he lets't wear ony way it will hing. And casts himself dowie upen the corn-bmg "01 were we young now as we ance hae been, We should hae been galloping doun on yon green, And linking it owre the lily-white lea, — And were na my heart light I wad die." ["It was little in Burns's character," says Lockhart, " to let his feelings on certain subjects i cape in this fashion. He, immediately after JETAT. 3-1. DUMFRIES. 11. citing these verses, assumed the sprightliness of his most pleasing manner."] He took his friend home ; and while Mrs. Burns, with her sweet and melodious voice, sung one of her husband's latest lyrics, the Poet prepared a bowl of social punch, which they discussed with no little mirth and glee till the hour of the ball arrived. A gentleman, the other day, told me that when he visited Dumfries in the year 1793, he was warned by one or more of the leading men of the county to avoid the society of Burns, who neither be- lieved in religion as the kirk believed, nor took the fashion of his politics from the government. Burns imputed his disgrace in the Excise to the officers of a regiment then lying in Dum- fries, some of whom, he believed, informed the government of his rash language. That he seldom spoke of them but with bitterness and scorn, his correspondence will in some places witness. — " I meant," he thus writes to Mrs. Riddel, " to have called on you yesternight ; but, as I edged up to your box-door, the first object which greeted my view was one of those lobster - coated puppies, sitting like another dragon guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, I shall certainly make my rustic phiz a part of your box furniture on Tuesday." His dislike of soldiers found its way into his conversation. — "When I was at Arbigland in 1793," said my accomplished friend Mrs. Basil Montagu, " I was introduced to Burns. His con- versation pleased me much, and I saw him often. I was at a ball given by the Caledonian Hunt in Dumfries, and had stood up as the partner of a young officer in the dance, when the whisper of ' There's Burns ! ' ran through the assembly. I looked round, and there he was — his bright dark eyes full upon me. I shall never forget that look — it was one that gave me no pleasure. He soon left the meeting. I saw him next day. He would have passed me, but I spoke. I took his arm, and said, Come, you must see me home. ' Gladly, madam,' said he ; 'but I'll not go down the plain-stanes, lest I have to share your company with some of those epauletted puppies with whom the street is full. Come this way.' We went to Captain Hamilton's. Burns, I remember, took up a newspaper in which some of the letters of a man of genius lately dead were printed. ' This is sad,' he said : ' did I imagine that one- half of the letters which I have written would be published when I die, I would this moment recal them, and burn them without redemp- tion.'" Colonel Jenkinson, who commanded the Cinque-Ports Cavalry, inherited, it would seem, the dislike of his brother soldiers to the Poet ; he refused to be introduced to Burns, and never even spoke to him. This was not in keeping with the character of the mild and gentle Earl of Liverpool. Of his situation as an Exciseman, Burns seldom spoke with much cordiality. He gene- rally introduced it with an apology, and coupled it with something which carried the mind into a new train of thought. "Amid all my hurry of business," he writes to Cunningham, " grinding the faces of the publican and the sinner on the merciless wheels of the Excise — making ballads, and then drinking and singing them, I might have stolen five minutes to dedi^ cate to one of the first of friends and fellow- creatures." Two years afterwards he writes with some bitterness : — " I am a miserable hur- ried devil, and for private reasons, am forced, like Milton's Satan, ' To do what yet, though damn'd, I would abhor.' " Of his prospects as a revenue officer we have his own account given to Patrick Heron, whom he had aided at the hustings with elec- tion squibs. — ■" I am on the supervisor's list ; and, as we come on there by precedency, in two or three years I shall be at the head of the list, and be appointed, of course. Then a Friend might be of service to me in getting me into a part of the kingdom which I would like. A supervisor's income varies from about one hun- dred and twenty to two hundred a-year ; but the business is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar to every species of literary pursuit. The moment I am appointed supervisor in the common routine, I may be nominated on the collector's list, and this is al- ways a business purely of political patronage. A collectorship varies from better than two hundred a-year to near a thousand. They also come forward by precedency on the list, and have, besides a handsome income, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a decent competence, is the summit of my wishes. It would be the prudish affectation ot silly pride in me to say that I do not need, nor would not be indebted to, a political friend. At the same time, sir, I by no means lay my affairs before you thus to hook my dependent situation on your benevolence." This modest vision of literary independence might have been realized had the Poet been prudent, and government liberal. During this period of the life of Burns, and indeed as early as the close of the year 1792, some of his friends, hearkening to rumours in- jurious to his name, volunteered counsel or re- proof. The wreck of all his speculations and hopes preyed on his mind, and he sought to escape in company from his own reflections. To one of his sensibility of mind, the future loured ominous and dark. The company of a man of his eminence) and wonderful colloquial powers, was much in request ; for many loved his genius, and many did not tear the frowns ot* men in office. Mrs. Dunlop was the first that admonished. — " You must not think, as vou i •-> 110 LIFE OF BURNS. 1793. seem to insinuate/' replied the Poet, a tliat in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough : but occasional hard-drinking is the devil to me. Against this I have again and again bent my resolution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns I have totally abandoned. It is the private parties in the family way, among the hard-drinking gentlemen of this county, that do me the mischief — but even this I have more than half given over.''" The view which Burns takes of his situation is illustrated by an apology tendered to Mrs. Riddel, after a social bout at her too hospitable table. — " I write you," he says, " from the regions of hell, amid the horrors of the damned. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled and cruel, called Recollec- tion, with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. I wish I could be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle, whom my conduct last night so much offended ! To the men of the company I will make no apology. Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me, and the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt." The Poet erred as others erred. It must have surprised Burns not a little when William Nicol lifted up his voice and admonished him. The Poet answered, in a manner so cutting and ironical that the irascible pedant was silent ever afterwards. — " O ! thou, st among the wise, meridian blaze of pru- dence, full moon of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely is thy rattle- headed, wrong-headed slave indebted to thy super-eminent goodness, that, from the luminous path of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple copula- tiou of units up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! From the cave of my ignorance, amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential fumes of my political heresies, I look up to thee 'ili a toad through the iron-barred lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon to the cloudless of B summer's sun! Sorely sighing, in bitterness of soul, I say, when shall my name be the quotation of the wise, and my counte- nance be the delight of the godly, like the illus- trious lord of Laggan's many hills — that father of proverbs and master of maxims — thatanti- pode of folly and magnet among the sages, the and witty Willie Nicol? As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy lips are holy — never did the unhallowed breath of the powers of darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky -descended and heaven-bound desires. 01 that like thine wire the tenor of my life I like thine the tenor of my cnnv( nation then should no friend fear for trength, no enemy rejoice in my Weakni I The indifferent success of Nicol seems not to have awed John Syme, who, in his parlour at Ryedale, one afternoon, when the wine flowed, and the Poet was gracious and confidential, took upon him the ungentle task of admonishing his guest. — " I might have spoken daggers," said he, " but I did not mean them : Burns shook to the inmost fibres of his frame, and drew his sword-cane, when I exclaimed, 'What! wilt thou thus, and in mine own house V The poor fellow was so stung with remorse that he dashed himself down on the floor." Syme told the story, in a rather darker manner, to Sir Walter Scott, who thus related it in one of his criticisms. — " It is a dreadful truth, that, when racked and tortured by the well-meant and warm expostulations of an intimate friend, he started up in a paroxysm of frenzy, and, draw- ing a sword-cane which he usually wore, made an attempt to plunge it into the body of his adviser — the next instant he was with difficulty withheld from suicide." I have heard a much gentler version of the story : indeed it has several variations, and a biographer has some latitude of choice. This is the last and mildest. — " When I expostulated with Burns," says Syme, " he stared at me, and with such fury of look that, had a sword been in his hand, I am sure he would have run me through." I cannot disprove the story, nor yet can I alto- gether believe it. The Poet was far more likely, when deeply moved, to draw his sword upon himself than on his friend : but though only, perhaps, a sort of theatrical flourish, the impression on Syme was that he meant mischief. This strange tale induced some to believe that Burns was capable of drawing his sword on the unarmed and defenceless ! Those who are persuaded of that will feel disposed to doubt his courage in a dispute into which he was precipitated, during a drinking bout at a friend's table. " I was, I know," he says, " drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. From the expressions Captain made use of to me, had I nobody's welfare to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according to the manner of the world, to the necessity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such as gene- rally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I did not risk the peace and welfare of a wife and children in a drunken squabble. You know that the report of certain political opinions being mine has already brought me to the brink of destruction. I dread last night's business might be inter- preted the same way. You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for my welfare with that of waiting, as soon as possible, on every gentleman who was present, and state this to him, and, as you please, shew him this letter. What, after all, was the obnoxious toast ! ' May our success in the present war be MTAT. 34. MRS. RIDDEL OF WOOD LEE-PARK. 117 equal to the justice of our cause.' A toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to." I know not what the import of those words were at that period : they seem harmless enough now ; but a disloyal meaning seems to have been attached to them by some gunpow- der captain, who desired to find that practice at home among civilians which he might have I obtained from disciplined hands abroad. He seems to have felt that some insult to the go- vernment was meant, though he did not exactly understand what, and bit his glove in token of mortal wrath. With the morning, sobriety brought reflection to both sides ; and Clarke found little trouble in restoring harmony, which is lucky ; for, had a duel ensued, the Poet's bio- grapher would have experienced some difficulty in accounting for it. A handsome pair of pistols, with latchlocks, brass - barrelled and screwed, were at this time given to the Poet by Blair of of Birmingham — his acknowledgments were brief and Burns-like, " Sir, I have received and proved the pistols, and can say of them what I would not say of the bulk of mankind — they are a credit to their maker." Amid these intemperate quarrels and political heart-burnings, the muse of Burns was not wholly idle ; confounded though she no doubt was, with the unmelodious and mingled cries of loyalty and sedition, which filled every borough town, she not only inspired lyrics, tender and harmonious, but added a poem or two to those already published. Among the latter are some felicitous verses to " The Maxwells' veteran chief," the Laird of Terraughty, on his birthday. " If envious buckies view wi' sorrow Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, May Desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, Nine miles an hour, Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrha In brunstane stoure." The true spirit of the Poet flashes out also in his " Address to the Tooth-ache :" there are few who cannot attest the accuracy of the descrip- tion : — " My curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang, And through my lugs gi'es mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines ! " Of a' the num'rous human dools, 111 har'st, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, Sad sight to see I The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, — Thou bear'st the grce." It was now his pleasure to satirize the beau- tiful Maria Woodleigh— -Mrs. Riddel. How this fair and favoured lady happened to move his indignation, is something of a mystery. She was young and accomplished : her verses have more of nature in them than the ordinary lines of lady-poetesses ; and her letters are lively and witty, and partake not a little of the sarcastic turn of the Poet's own mind. On introducing her, in 1793, to Smellie, Burns said, " She has one unlucky failing — a failing which you will easily discover, as she seems rather pleased with indulging in it — and a failing which you will easily pardon, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself. Where she dislikes or despises, she is as apt to make no more a secret of it than where she esteems and respects." In a rhyme epistle Bums seems to complain that this young beauty paid more respect to others than to himself: — " I see her face the first of Ireland's sons, And even out- Irish his Hibernian bronze. The hopeful youth in Scotia's senate bred, Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head ; Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display, That veni, vidi, vici ! is his way. The shrinking Bard adown an alley skulks, And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks : Though there, his heresies in church and state Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate." Though severe in this poem, for he calls her " A wit in folly, and a fool in wit," he reserves his sharpest satire for a regular monody on her memory : he looks on her grave, and exclaims — " How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd ! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd !" He refrains from calling on the Loves and Graces to attend, but summons the offspring of Folly to shower over her idle weeds and typical nettles. He then imagines a monument : — " We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay — Here vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; There keen Indignation shall Hart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire." This sarcastic, monody was widely circulated ; nor was the object of it kept a secret. In the printed copies the name is Eliza — but why should the truth be concealed? It is to the honour of Mrs. Riddel that, though affected at the lampoon at first, she soon relented, and not only forgave the author and received him into favour, but when laid in the grave, and the envious and malicious were making mouths at his fame, she vindicated his aspersed charac- ter; and, in an article written with great ten- derness and truth, gave us the right image of the man and the poet. In the following year Britain ^as threatened by an army of French republicans, and Pitt, in the words of Scott, " Brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws." Burns at once enrolled himself in the bands of gentlemen volunteers of Dumfries, though not without opposition fromsomc of the haughty Tories, who demurred about his principles, 'P': 18 LIFE OF BURNS. 1794. which they called democratic. I remember well the appearance of that respectable corps : their odd, but not ungraceful,dress ; white kerseymere breeches and waistcoat ; short blue coat, faced with red ; and round hat, surmounted by a bearskin, like the helmets of our horse-guards ; and I remember the Poet also — his very swar- thy face, his very ploughman-stoop, his large dark eyes, and indifferent dexterity in the han- dling of his arms. When those " sons of sedi- tion, Syme, Burns, and Maxwell," as a dull epigram of that day worded it, were admitted into the volunteers, it was not without hope i hat a heroic song, rivalling " Scots wha hae \vi' Wallace bled," might be forthcoming. At a public dinner of the corps, when Burns de- sired leave to give a toast, the proposal was received with rapturous applause, and some- thing high was hoped for. — " Gentlemen," said he, " may we never see the French, and may the French never see us :" it was drunk, but with a murmur of disapprobation. The poet felt this ; and, on going home, wrote that cha- racteristic and truly national song — " Does haughty Gaul invasion threat 1" He sent it to Jackson's Dumfries Journal — a great number of copies were struck off with the music, in Edin- burgh, and widely circulated by the author. This lyric may be looked on as containing the sentiments of Burns in matters of government : it re - echoed the admirable letter which he addressed to Erskine of Mar, and expresssed what all lovers of Britain felt thee, or feel now, >n the subject of change and alteration — " Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? Then let the louns beware, sir, There's wooden walls upon our seas, And volunteers on shore, sir ; The Nith shall rin to Corsincon, And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere wc permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally ! " O ! let us not like snarling tykes, In wrangling be divided, Till, slap, come in an unco loun, And wi' a rung decide it. Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang ourscls united ; Poi never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted ! " This song hit the taste and suited the feelings of the humbler classes, who added it to " The poor and honest Sodger," the " Song of Death," and " Scots wha hao wi' Wallace bled." Hills echoed with it: it. was heard in every street, and did more to right the mind of the rustic part of the population than all the speeches of Pitt and Dunoas, or of the chosen "Five-and- fortj At Midsummer, 1794, Burns removed his increasing family from the Bank-Vennel to Mill hole-brae, where he Leased a small house of t plain and humble, but commo- dion Tin- street is connected with a wide and respectable one, called the Kirk-gate 5 is near the bleaching or parade-ground, on the river- side — a favourite walk in the summer mornings and evenings for the citizens of Dumfries. The choice, though respectable enough, was not a poetical one 5 but the house suited his humble circumstances ; and here he arranged his small library, fixed his table, and placed the chair, on whose hind -legs, as he relates, he poised or swung himself, when conceiving his matchless lyrics. Here, too, I have heard his townsmen say, while passing by during a pleasant afternoon, they could see, within the open door, the Poet reading amongst his children : while his wife moved about, set matters in order, and looked to the economy of her household. He was welcomed to his new house by most of his early friends ; and the ladies, who sympathized in his fortunes, were among the foremost. Of these, one of the mildest and gentlest was Jessie Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson, the sister of a brother gauger : she felt the genius, and perceived, with Mrs. Burns, the fading looks and declining health of the Poet, and ministered unto him and his young family with all the affection of a daughter. Burns still continued to correspond with se- veral distinguished persons ; the circle of his friends had, however, gradually diminished ; the demon of politics made some cold ; distance rendered others forgetful ; and death had re- moved one or two to whom he looked up for countenance and support. Riddel of Friars- Carse, in whose company he took much pleasure, died towards the close of 1794 : and the last time that Burns was in that neighbourhood, he visited the Hermitage, and wrote on the win- dow, — " To Riddel, much lamented man, This ivied cot was dear ; Reader, dost value matchless worth ? This ivied cot revere." Sickness and death came next to the Poet's own household. — " I have lately," says he to Mrs. Dunlop, "drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely be- gun to recover from that shock, when I became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever : and long the die spun doubtful, until, after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am beginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed, have been before my own door in the street." To the same lady he again writes, as he ever wrote to her, in a strain of serious thought and deep emotion: — "There had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and lather; for, God knows, they have many pe- culiar cares. I cannot describe to you the 2m- Jo; J3TAT. 35. DEATH OF GLENDINNING. 110 xious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks ; . me and my exertions all their stay ; and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate — even in all the vigour of manhood, as I am, such things happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ? 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune." The poet was now and then in a more sportive mood ; despondency was lifted from him like a cloud, and his mind lay in sunshine for an hour or so, till reflection darkened it down again. He loved to ponder on the fate of men of genius. — " There is not," he said to Helen Craik, of Arbigland, " among all the martyro- logies that ever were penned, so rueful a narra- tive as the lives of the poets. In the compara- tive view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind ; give him a stronger imagination and a more delicate sensibility — which, between them, will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passions' than are the usual lot of man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary — such as arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflys — in short, send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eter- nally mislead him from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man living for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by bestow- ing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity — and you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet." Burns looked with a mistrusting eye towards future fortune ; he saw no outlet for his ambi- tion ; poetry had done all for him that poetry was likely to do ; and he desired distinction without the means of gratifying it. He some- times lamented to friends that he could not find his way into the House of Commons ; he felt a strong call towards oratory, and all who heard him speak — and some of them were excellent judges — admitted his wonderful quickness of apprehension and readiness of eloquence. He seemed inclined to believe that misfortune had marked him out for her own, and that evil was the only certainty in life. — " In this short, stormy, day of fleeting existence," he observes to Miss Benson, ''when you now and then meet with an individual whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the probabilities against you that you will never meet with that character more. On the other hand, if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you despise, the ill run of chances will be so against you that, in the jostlings and turnings of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt one moment's repose." It cannot be denied that Burns had a fancy fruitful in images of misery — that he looked on earth, and thought the water nought and the ground barren, and believed its surface to be infested with a hundred dolts and scoundrels for one wise and honest man. — " Sunday," says the Poet to Mrs. Riddell, " closes a period of our curst revenue business, and may probably keep me employed with my pen till noon — fine employment for a poet's pen ! There is a species of the human genus that I call the gin-horse class : what amiable dogs they are ! round, and round, and round they go. Mundell's ox that turns his cotton-mill is their exact proto- type — without an idea or wish beyond their circle ; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented ; while here I sit, altogether Novem- berish, a damned melange of fretfulness and melanchory, not enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in tor- por 5 my soul flouncing and fluttering round her tenement like a wildfinch caught amid the horrors of winter and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied when he foretold : ' And be- hold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !' " A circumstance occurred in the winter of this year to strengthen those gloomy presentiments. Burns, accompanied by his friends, the Bichard- sons of Dumfries, went to Moffat, a distance of fifteen mnes, to spend the day and dine. The mo/ning was rough and cold ; the bridge, too, o x ier the Kinnel was tottering and unsafe, and they were obliged to pass the flooded water, which they accomplished not without difficulty and danger ; the Poet was in one of his sun- niest moods, and laughed alike at storm and stream, and in this temper the party sat down to dinner. " We were all in high spirits," said x^rchibald Richardson, " and were waited on by a young man not unknown to us, of the name of Glendinning, who said he was to be married in a day or two. This gave a new turn to the conversation. Burns descanted with much humour and uttered many merry jokes on matrimony : the bridegroom smiled, and was pleased to be noticed, and we were in the full tide of enjoyment, when, on removing the la>t dish, he took a step towards the door, dropped down at our feet, and died without uttering a word. I never saw a man so much affected as the Poet was ; the brightness of his eye was gone at once : his face darkened ; he rose and lie sat down : he looked at my brother and he looked at me ; he refused wine, nor did he speak above his breath for the remainder of the evening ; he seemed afraid of offending the spirit of the dead. In tins mood we jour- neyed home: and Burns afterwards declared 2: 120 LIFE OF BUENS. 1795. to me, that the death of Glendinning coloured with sadness some of his best compositions." During the year 1795, rumour was busy with the name of Burns. Those — and I am sorry to say they were not few — who longed for his halting, whispered about that he was become a lover of low company — a seeker of consolation against imaginary woes, in the bottle ; and that in his Howif, as he called the Globe tavern, he forgot what was due to his dignity of mind and his domestic peace ; nay, they hesitated not to insinuate that his very genius was sunk and fallen, like Milton's Satan, from its original brightness. Much of this required no refuta- tion. Burns was fallen off, indeed! — not in brightness of genius, but in vigour and health. His walks were shorter, his rests more frequent ; his smile had something of melancholy in it, and amid the sons of men he looked like one marked out for an early grave. My friend, Mrs. Hyslop — daughter of Mr. Geddes of Leith — happened to meet him one day in the streets of Dumfries, and was affected by his ap- pearance. He stooped more than was his wont ; his dress, about which he used to be rather nice, was disordered and shabby, and he bore on his face the stamp of internal sorrow. The meet- ing was cordial and warm ; on parting he wrung her brother, who accompanied her, earnestly by the hand, turned half away from him, and said, "lam going to ruin as fast as I can ; the best I can do is to go consistently." At this period some of the lofty aristocracy of the country shunned the Poet's company, not for his conduct as a man, but for his senti- ments as a politician. That Burns was fre- quently in the company of the tradesmen of Dumfries, and joined in their socialities, is per- fectly true ; his small income hindered him from seeking loftier society : he who has only a shil- ling in his pocket must be contented with hum- ble friends. But it is untrue that this was the only company he kept; some of the first gen- tlemen in the land were still his friends ; he was a welcome and an invited guest at their tables, and might be seen walking with their wives and their daughters, when his health enabled him to go abroad. The best answer, which such malevolent re- presentations could receive, has been given by Gray and Findlater; both of these gentlemen liveo Dear the Poet; they were wise and sensi- ble men, and incapable of misrepresentation. — "It came under my own view professionally," Bald the former, "that Burns superintended the education of fcus children with a degree of care that 1 have never seen surpassed. In the bo- som of his family he spent many an hour, directing the Btudies of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents, l have frequently found him explaining to this youth, then not more than nine years of age, the poets from Shaks- peare to Grey, or storing hi mind with exam- ples of heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of the English historians. I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like these are consistent with habitual drunkenness? It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with so- ciety unworthy of him ; he was of a social and convivial nature. In his morning hours, I never saw him like one suffering from the effects of last night's intemperance." Almost the last words that Gray uttered to me before he went to India were about Burns : — " I was sometimes surprised," he said, " at the vigour and elegance of Robert's versions from the Latin. I told him he got help ; he looked up in my face and said, ' Yes, my father helps me.' " The testimony of Findlater is equally deci- sive : — " My connexion with Burns," he observed, " commenced immediately after his admission to the Excise, and continued to the hour of his death. In all that time the super- intendence of his behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch of my especial province, and I was not an inattentive observer of the general conduct of a man and a Poet so cele- brated by his countrymen. He was exemplary in his attention, and was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance. It was not till near the latter end of his days that there was any falling off in this respect ; and this was well accounted for by the pressure of disease and accumulating infirmities. I will further avow that I never saw him — which was very fre- quently while he lived at Ellisland, and still more so, almost every day, after he removed to Dumfries — in hours of business, but he was quite himself, and capable of discharging the duties of his office ; nor Avas he ever known to drink by himself, or seen to indulge in the use of liquor in a forenoon. I have seen Burns in all his various phases — in his convivial moments, in his sober moods, and in the bosom of his family. Indeed, I believe I saw more of him than any other individual had occasion to see, and I never beheld anything like the gross enormities with which he has been charged. That when he sat down in the evening with friends whom he liked he was apt to prolong the social hours beyond the bounds which prudence would dictate, is unquestionable ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seen other- wise than as attentive and affectionate in a high degree." The recollections of my friend Dr. Copland Hutchison are equally in the Poet's favour: — " I lived in Dumfries," he observed in a late conversation, " during the whole period that Burns lived there ; I was much about, and saw him almost daily, but I never saw him even the worse of liquor ; he might drink as much as other men, but certainly not more." Professor Walker, a gentleman of unquesti- oned candour, was two days in the Poet's com- pany, during November, 1795. — "I went to ^TAT. 36. PROFESSOR WALKER.— MITCHELL. 121 Dumfries/' he says, " and called upon him early in the forenoon. I found him in a small house ; he was sitting on a window-seat, reading-, with the doors open, and the family arrangements going on in his presence, and altogether with- out that appearance of snugness and seclusion which a studious man requires. After convers- ing with him for some time, he proposed a walk, and promised to conduct me through some of his favourite haunts. We accordingly quitted the town, and wandered a considerable way up the beautiful banks of the Nith. Here he gave me an account of his latest productions, and repeated some satirical ballads which he had composed ; these I thought inferior to his other pieces, though they had some lines in which vigour compensated for coarseness. He repeated also a fragment of an Ode to Liberty, with marked and peculiar energy, and shewed a disposition, which was easily repressed, to make political remarks." To this picture of the first day I shall add a sketch of the second : — " On the next morning I returned with a friend, and we found him ready to pass part of the day with us at the inn. On this occasion I did not think him so inter- esting as he had appeared at his outset. His conversation was too elaborate ; in his praise and censure he was so decisive as to render a dissent from his judgment difficult to be recon- ciled with the laws of good breeding. His wit was not more licentious than it is in higher cir- cles, though I thought him rather unnecessarily free in the avowal of his excesses. When it began to grow late he shewed no disposition to retire, but called for fresh supplies of liquor with a freedom which might be excusable, as we were in an inn, and no condition had been made, though it might have been inferred — had the inference been welcome — that he was to consider himself as our guest : nor was it till he saw us worn out that he departed, about three in the morning, with a reluctance that probably proceeded less from being deprived of our com- pany than from being confined to his own. I discovered in his conduct no errors which I had not seen in men who stood high in the favour of society. He on this occasion drank freely, without being intoxicated ; a circumstance from which I concluded, not only that his constitu- tion was still unbroken, but that he was not addicted to solitary cordials. Llad he tasted liquor in the morning he must have easily yielded to the excess of the evening." A grave Professor was not likely to speak in commen- dation of the late hours and deep socialities practised by the Dumfries-shire topers ; men in those days seldom quitted the bottle or the punch -bowl before day-light came to shew the way home ; and it was likely that Burns ima- gined he was asserting a proper independence, when he desired more liquor and consulted his own inclination. kJ New-year's-day, 1796, found the Poet under a triple visitation of poverty, domestic sorrow, and ill health : it is not known that he uttered any complaints ; if he desired life it was less for himself than for his wife and children. There is something to me inexpressibly touch- ing in the request which he made to his collector and pay-master, Mitchell, for the humble stipend then due, and without which he would have been unable to meet the new year's morning. To render it more acceptable he made it in rhyme : — " Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; Alake ! alake ! the meikle deil, Wi' a' his witches, Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, In my poor pouches !" To this request, winch it seems he hesitated to make, Burns added a mournful postscript con- cerning his health : — " Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, And by fell death was nearly nicket Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket, And sair me sheuk ; But by guid luck I lap a wicket, And turned a neuk." His illness now alarmed his friends. Max- well, with equal skill and kindness of heart, attended him carefully : De Peyster, his colo- nel, a rough veteran, and a rhymer if not a poet, visited him and made frequent inquiries : the ailing man was touched with these atten- tions, and thanked his commander in verse. I shall transcribe a couple of stanzas — he is always his own best biographer : — " My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the Poet's weal : Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus, pill, And potion glasses." This world, he goes on to say, would be pica sant, if care and sickness would stay away, and fortune favour worth and merit according to their deservings — the strain concludes sadly : — " Dame Life, though fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems, and frippery deck her ; Oh ! ilickering, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still, Ay wavering like the willow-wicker, 'Tween guid and ill." In his lines to Mitchell, Burns seems to ac- knowledge — forhene\er spared himself — that he owed some of his illness to folly : in his verses to De Peyster he intimates his meaning more clearly, and blames, but good-humouredlv. the spirit of evil — " First shewing us the tempting ware. Bright wines, and bonnie lama rare. To put us daft." Thomson began to feel alarm at the ominous silence of the Poet, and inquired the cause: 120 LIFE OF BURNS. 1795. to me, that the death of Glendinning coloured with sadness some of his best compositions." During the year 1795, rumour was busy with the name of Burns. Those — and I am sorry to say they were not few — who longed for his halting, whispered about that he was become a lover of low company — a seeker of consolation against imaginary woes, in the bottle ; and that in his II own, as he called the Globe tavern, he forgot what was due to his dignity of mind and his domestic peace ; nay, they hesitated not to insinuate that his very genius was sunk and fallen, like Milton's Satan, from its original brightness. Much of this required no refuta- tion. Burns was fallen off, indeed! — not in brightness of genius, but in vigour and health. His walks were shorter, his rests more frequent ; his smile had something of melancholy in it, and amid the sons of men lie looked like one marked out for an early grave. My friend, Mrs. Hyslop — daughter of Mr. Geddes of Leith — happened to meet him one day in the streets of Dumfries, and was affected by his ap- pearance. He stooped more than was his wont ; his dress, about which he used to be rather nice, was disordered and shabby, and he bore on his face the stamp of internal sorrow. The meet- ing was cordial and warm ; on parting he wrung her brother, who accompanied her, earnestly by the hand, turned half away from him, and said, " I am going to ruin as fast as I can ; the best I can do is to go consistently." At this period some of the lofty aristocracy of the country shunned the Poet's company, not for his conduct as a man, but for his senti- ments as a politician. That Burns was fre- quently in the company of the tradesmen of Dumfries, and joined in their socialities, is per- il -ctly true ; his small income hindered him from seeking loftier society : he who has only a shil- ling in his pocket must be contented with hum- bio friends. But it is untrue that this was the onl\ company he kept; some of the first gen- tlemen in the land were still his friends; he was a v. el come and an invited guest at their tables, and might be seen walking with their wives and their daughters, when his health enabled him to go abroad. The best answer, which such malevolent re- presentations could receive, has been given by Gray and Findlater; both of these gentlemen lived Dear the Poet ; they were wise and sensi- ble men, and incapable of misrepresentation. — •• 1 1 came under my own view professionally," said the former, "thai Bums superintended the education of his children with a degree of care thai 1 have oever seen surpassed. En the bo- som of hi^ family he spent many an hour, directing the studies of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. 1 have frequently found him explaining to this youth, then not more than nine yean of age, tne poets from Shaks- toGrey, or storing hi mind with exam- ples of heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of the English historians. I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like these are consistent with habitual drunkenness? It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with so- ciety unworthy of him ; he was of a social and convivial nature. In his morning hours, I never saw him like one suffering from the effects of last night's intemperance." Almost the last words that Gray uttered to me before he went to India were about Burns : — " I was sometimes surprised," he said, " at the vigour and elegance of Robert's versions from the Latin. I told him he got help ; he looked up in my face and said, ' Yes, my father helps me.' " The testimony of Findlater is equally deci- sive : — " My connexion with Burns," he observed, " commenced immediately after his admission to the Excise, and continued to the hour of his death. In all that time the super- intendence of his behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch of my especial province, and I was not an inattentive observer of the general conduct of a man and a Poet so cele- brated by his countrymen. He was exemplary in his attention, and was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance. It was not till near the latter end of his days that there was any falling off* in this respect ; and this was well accounted for by the pressure of disease and accumulating infirmities. I will further avow that I never saw him — which was very fre- quently while he lived at Ellisland, and still more so, almost every day, after he removed to Dumfries — in hours of business, but he was quite himself, and capable of discharging the duties of his office ; nor was he ever known to drink by himself, or seen to indulge in the use of liquor in a forenoon. I have seen Burns in all his various phases — in his convivial moments, in his sober moods, and in the bosom of his family. Indeed, I believe I saw more of him than any other individual had occasion to see, and I never beheld anything like the gross enormities with which he has been charged. That when he sat down in the evening with friends whom he liked he was apt to prolong the social hours beyond the bounds which prudence would dictate, is unquestionable ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seen other- wise than as attentive and affectionate in a high degree." The recollections of my friend Dr. Copland Hutchison are equally in the Poet's favour: — " I lived in Dumfries," he observed in a late conversation, " during the whole period that Burns lived there ; 1 was much about, and saw him almost daily, but I never saw him even the worse of liquor; he might drink as much as other men, but certainly not more." Professor Walker, a gentleman of unquesti- oned candour, was two days in the Poet's com- pany, during November, 1795. — "I went to =@ MTAT. 36. PROFESSOR WALKER.— MITCHELL. 121 Dumfries/' he says, " and called upon him early in the forenoon. I found him in a small house ; he was sitting on a window-seat, reading-, with the doors open, and the family arrangements going on in his presence, and altogether with- out that appearance of snugness and seclusion which a studious man requires. After convers- ing with him for some time, he proposed a walk, and promised to conduct me through some of his favourite haunts. We accordingly quitted the town, and wandered a considerable way up the beautiful banks of the Nith. Here he gave me an account of his latest productions, and repeated some satirical ballads which he had composed ; these I thought inferior to his other pieces, though they had some lines in which vigour compensated for coarseness. He repeated also a fragment of an Ode to Liberty, with marked and peculiar energy, and shewed a disposition, which was easily repressed, to make political remarks." To this picture of the first day I shall add a sketch of the second : — " On the next morning I returned with a friend, and we found him ready to pass part of the day with us at the inn. On this occasion I did not think him so inter- esting as he had appeared at his outset. His conversation was too elaborate ; in his praise and censure he was so decisive as to render a dissent from his judgment difficult to be recon- ciled with the laws of good breeding. His wit was not more licentious than it is in higher cir- cles, though I thought him rather unnecessarily free in the avowal of his excesses. When it began to grow late he shewed no disposition to retire, but called for fresh supplies of liquor with a freedom which might be excusable, as we were in an inn, and no condition had been made, though it might have been inferred — had the inference been welcome — that he was to consider himself as our guest : nor was it till he saw us worn out that he departed, about three in the morning, with a reluctance that probably proceeded less from being deprived of our com- pany than from being confined to his own. I discovered in his conduct no errors which I had not seen in men who stood high in the favour of society. He on this occasion drank freely, without being intoxicated ; a circumstance from which I concluded, not only that his constitu- tion was still unbroken, but that he was not addicted to solitary cordials. Had he tasted liquor in the morning he must have easily yielded to the excess of the evening." A grave Professor was not likely to speak in commen- dation of the late hours and deep socialities practised by the Dumfries-shire topers ; men in those days seldom quitted the bottle or the punch -bowl before day -light came to shew the way home ; and it was likely that Burns ima- gined he was asserting a proper independence, when he desired more liquor and consulted his own inclination. New-year's-day, 1796, found the Poet under a triple visitation of poverty, domestic sorrow, and ill health : it is not known that he uttered any complaints ; if he desired life it was less for himself than for his wife and children. There is something to me inexpressibly touch- ing in the request which he made to his collector and pay-master, Mitchell, for the humble stipend then due, and without which he would have been unable to meet the new year's morning. To render it more acceptable he made it in rhyme : — " Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; A lake ! alake ! the meikle deil, Wi' a' his witches, Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, In my poor pouches !" To this request, which it seems he hesitated to make, Burns added a mournful postscript con- cerning his health : — " Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, And by fell death was nearly nicket Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket, And sair me sheuk ; But by guid luck I lap a wicket, And turned a neuk." His illness now alarmed his friends. Max- well, with equal skill and kindness of heart, attended him carefully : De Peyster, his colo- nel, a rough veteran, and a rhymer if not a poet, visited him and made frequent inquiries : the ailing man was touched with these atten- tions, and thanked his commander in verse. I shall transcribe a couple of stanzas — he is always his own best biographer : — " My honoured colonel, deep I feel Your interest in the Poet's weal : Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus, pill, And potion glasses." This world, he goes on to say, would be plea sant, if care and sickness would stay away, and fortune favour worth and merit according to their deservings — the strain concludes sadly : — " Dame Life, though fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems, and frippery deck her ; Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still, Ay wavering like the willow-wicker, 'Tween guid and ill." In his lines to Mitchell, Burns seems to ac- knowledge — for he never spared himself— that he owed some of his illness to folly : in his verses to De Peyster lie intimates his meaning more clearly, and blames, but good-humoumlU . the spirit of evil — • " First shewing us the tempting ware, Bright wines, and bonnic lassos rare. To put us daft." Thomson began to feel alarm at the ominous silence of the Poet, and inquired the cause; 122 LIFE OF BURNS. 1796. the answer was written in April. — "Alas! 1 fear it will be some time ere I tune my lyre again. ' By Babel's streams I've sat and wept/ almost ever since I wrote you last : I have only known existence by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness, and have counted time by the repercussions of pain ! Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible combination. I close my eyes in misery, and open them with- out hope. I look on the vernal day, and say, with poor Fergusson — 'Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent Heaven Light to the comfortless and wretched given V " The inquiries of Thomson induced his fancy once more to take flight in song : Burns had formerly, in health, sung of beauty with " Cheeks like apples, which the sun had rudded," and adorned with smiles : he looked around, and seeing Jessie Lewars watching over him, witli anxiety on her brow and tenderness in her eyes, he honoured her with one of his happiest songs ; it bears her name, and is the last perfect offspring of his muse. In all the compass of verse there is nothing more touching than this exemisite stanza : — " Altho' thou maun never be mine, Altho' even hope is denied ; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing Than aught in the world beside." As the same young lady was moving with a light foot about the house, lest she should dis- turb him, the Poet took up a crystal goblet which contained wine and water for moistening his lips, and wrote on it with a diamond, — " Fill me with the rosy wine: Call a toast — a toast divine ; Give the Poet's darling flame, Lovely Jessie be the name ; Then thou mayest freely boast Thou hast given a peerless toast." Though now and then well enough to walk out in the sunshine, or visit a neighbour, Burns was no longer able to do his duties in the Ex- cise. Mr. Stobie,* a young expectant in the Excise, kindly undertook to perform them for him, else the Poet might have starved ; for it i- the rule — and a cruel and unjust one — in the Customs, to give but half-pay to the sick or those unable to work. When the birth-day of the king came, his friend Mrs. Riddel, de- sirous of soothing or pleasing him, requested him to accompany her to the assembly held in the evening, and shew his loyalty. — "lam," said he, " in such miserable health as to be in- capable of shewing my loyalty in any way. Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I ineetevery * [Mr. Chamber! recollect! thii amiable man in the sta- tion of an ordinarj ezcueman ;it Pinkie lalt-pani, about the year 1817< The only fragment od hi conversation respecting Banu, which he can no* recal, U what he laid ol the Poet'i face with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam, — ' Come, curse me, Jacob ; and come defy me Israel ! ' So say I — come, curse me that east wind, and come, defy me the north ! Would you have me, in such circumstances, copy you out a love-song ? I will not be at the ball. Why should I ? ' Man delights not me, nor woman neither.' Can you supply me with the song, ' Let us all be unhappy together V do so, and oblige le pauvre miserable, Robert Burns." Well or ill, his heart was still with the muse. He began to feel that he was soon to pass from among the living, and became solicitous about his fame. — " I have no copies of the songs I sent you/' he says to Thomson, "and I have taken a fancy to review them all, and possibly may mend some of them ; so, when you have com- plete leisure, I will thank you for the originals, or copies. I had rather be the author of five well -written songs than of ten otherwise." This request refers to those lyrics hitherto un- published, of which Thomson had nearly fifty ; it is needless to say that this revisal the Poet did not live to perform. To Johnson, proprietor of the Museum, Burns wrote on the 4th of July, — " You may probably think that for some time past I have neglected you and your work ; but, alas ! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care, has these many months lain heavy upon me. Personal and domestic affliction have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to woo the rural muse of Scotia. Many a merry meeting this publication has given us, and possibly it may give us more — though, alas ! I fear it. This protracting, slow - consuming illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt not, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well nigh reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to far other and more important concerns than studying the brilliancy of wit or the pathos of sentiment. However, hope is the cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as well as 1 can." His sun of life was descending to the setting. The summer warmth wrought no change in his suffering frame ; and he was advised, about the close of June, to go into the country. I believe Burns followed his own feelings rather than the counsel of his physician, when he took up his residence at a lonely place called The Brow, on the shore of Solway in Annandale, resolved to try the effects of bathing in the sea —a remedy recommended in almost all cases by our rustic doctors. It happened at that time that Mrs. Riddel was residing near The Brow ; she was herself ailing. On hearing of the Poet's arrival, she invited him to dinner, and singing powers. " lie sang like a nightingale," said Stobie (meaning that he had no reluctance nor hesitation in singing.': " but he had the voice of a boar. "J ®- :@ 2ETAT. 37. HIS ILLNESS AT BROW. 123 sent her carriage for him to the cottage where he lodged, as he was unable to walk. " I was struck," said she, " with his appear- ance on entering the room : the stamp of death was impressed on his features. He seemed al- ready touching the brink of eternity. His first words were, ' Well, madam, have you any com- mands for the other world ? ; I replied that it seemed a doubtful case which of us should be there soonest, and that I hoped he would yet live to write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor state of health.) He looked in my face with an air of great kimlness, and expressed liis con- cern at seeing me look so ill, with his usual sensibility. At table he ate little or nothing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long and serious conversation about his present state, and the approaching termination of all his earthly pros- pects. He spoke of his death, with firmness as well as feeling, as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotected, and his wife in the hourly expecta- tion of lying-in of a fifth. He shewed great concern about the care of his literary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works. He said he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that every scrap of his writing would be revived against him, to the injury of his future repu- tation ; that letters and verses, written with un- guarded freedom, would be handed about by vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his resentment would restrain them, nor prevent malice or envy from pouring forth their venom to blast his fame. The conversation was kept up with great evenness and animation on his side. I had seldom seen his mind greater, or more collected. There was frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and they would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and dejection, I could not disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed wil- ling to indulge. We parted about sun-set on the evening of the 5th of July ; the next day I saw him again, and we parted — to meet no more ! " The house which he occupied at The Brow is at a little distance from the sea, and its windows opened towards the west ; at one of these it was the Poet's practice to sit during the after- noon, looking at the visiters as they passed, and at the sun as it descended on the distant hills. One fine evening two young ladies called to see him : the sun streamed brightly on him through the glass, when one of them (Miss Craig — afterwards Mrs. Henry Duncan) was afraid the light might be too much for him, and rose, with the view of letting down the window-blinds. Burns immediately guessed what she meant to do, and, regarding the young lady with a look of great benignity, said, U-. "Thank you, my dear, for your kind attention ; but oh ! let him shine ! — he will not shine long for me ! " With how little advantage to his health he bathed in the Solway may be gathered from his letter to Cunningham, of the 7th July. — " Alas ! my friend, I fear the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among you no more ! For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bedfast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You would actu- ally not know me if you saw r me. Pale, ema- ciated, and so feeble as occasionally to need help from my chair — my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on this subject. — I beg of you to use your utmost interest, and that of all your friends, to move our Commissioners of Excise to grant me my full salary. If they do not grant it, I must lay my account with an exit truly en poete — if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." The Excise refused this last humble boon. On the 10th of July, he thus writes to his brother Gilbert : — " It will be no very pleasing- news to you to be told that I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. An inveterate rheumatism has reduced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite is so totally gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. God help my wife and children ! If I am taken from their head, they will be poor indeed. Remember me to my mother." To his wife he writes, — " No flesh nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to hear by Miss Jessie Lewars that you are all well. My very best compliments to her and to all the children. I will see you on Sun- day. Your affectionate husband, Robeiit Burns." He likewise wTote to James Armour of Mauchline, his father-in-law, saying that his dear wife was nigh her confinement ; that his days were numbered, for he felt himself dying, and requesting that Mrs. Armour might hasten to Dumfries, to speak and look comfort to them . Burns had formerly, when his hopes were higher and his health good, made it almost a quarrel with Thomson that he had sent him five pounds in acknowledgment of his songs. His situation, in all respects, was changed now : he had to bend his proud heart to beg from the Excise the continuance of his pay ; and he had to lay himself under obligations to Stobie, who generously performed his duties gratis. lie had no money in his pocket, and little food in his house; and, to aggravate these evils, one Wil- liamson, to whom he owed the price of the cloth of his volunteer regimentals, threatened to sue him for the amount. The Poet was alarmed ;it this ; and on the 12th of July wrote to Thom- son, saying, " After all my boasted independ- ence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel haberdasher, to w horn 124 LIFE OF BURNS. 1790. I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness ; but the horrors of a jail have made me half-distracted/' To ren- der this very modest request more acceptable, the Poet, ill as he was, tried his hand on the air of Rothemurche ; and, allowing his mind to wander to scenes of former happiness, and to one whom he had loved, composed the last song he was to measure in this world, beginning, " Fairest maid on Devon banks." It is written in a character indicating the feeble state of his bodily strength. Thomson instantly complied with the request of Burns : he borrowed a five-pound note* from Cunningham, and sent it, saying he had made up his mind to enclose the identical sum the Poet had asked for when he received his letter. For this he has been sharply censured ; and his defence is that he was afraid of sending more, lest he should offend the pride of the Poet, who was uncommonly sensitive in pecuniary matters. A better defence is Thomson's own poverty ; only one volume of his splendid work was then published ; his outlay had been beyond his means, and very small sums of money had come in to cover his large expenditure. Had he been richer, his defence would have been a difficult matter. When Burns made the stipulation, his hopes were high, and the dread of hunger, or of the jail, was far from his thoughts ; he imagined that it became genius to refuse money in a work of national importance. But his situation grew gloomier as he wrote ; he had lost nearly his all in Ellisland, and was obliged to borrow small sums, which he found a difficulty in repaying. That he was in poor circumstances was well known to the world ; and, had money been at Thomson's disposal, a way might have been found of doing the Poet good by stealth ; he sent five pounds, because he could not send ten; and it would have saved him from some sar- castic remarks, and some pangs of heart, had he said so at once. On the same day that Burns wrote to Thom- son he also wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, and to his cousin, James Burness, of Montrose. To the latter he said, "A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, believes thai 1 am dying, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as t'» accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds? O, James! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me! Alas! 1 am not used to beg! 0, do not disappoint me ! — save me from the horrorsof a jail! ,, To Mrs. Dunlop he said, " I have written to yon BO often without receiv- ing any answer thai I would not trouble you •It ippesN from the inventory of Hurns'u effects that again but for the circumstances in which I am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speedily send me beyond that ' bourne whence no traveller returns.' Your friendship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul ; your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once highly entertain- ing and instructive. With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell." The Poet's cousin instantly sent the ten pounds, though at that time far from rich : he afterwards sent five pounds more, and generously offered to take Robert and educate and bring him up like one of his own sons : Mrs. Dunlop also wrote ; and, alarmed with the despondency of the Poet's last letter, assured him of her undiminished esteem, and that his family might depend on her friendship : it is needless so say how amply this was fulfilled. These are supposed, by some, to be the last words which he wrote : there are yet later, and of higher import and meaning. As the day of life darkened down, Burns began to prepare for the change : he remembered that he had written many matters, both in verse and prose, of a nature licentious as well as witty. He sought to reclaim them, and in some instances succeeded ; he had, when his increasing diffi- culties were rumoured about, received an offer for them from a bookseller ; but he spurned at fifty pounds in comparison with his fair fame, and refused to sell or sanction them . That such things were scattered abroad troubled him greatly ; he reflected that the mean and the malignant might rake them together; and, quoting them against him, triumph over his fame, and trample on his dust. Perhaps he felt some consolation in believing that his other works transcended these so far in talent and in number that the grosser would be weighed down, cast aside, and forgotten. What troubled him most was the imputations of disloyalty to his country which had been thrown upon his character : he trembled lest he should be repre- sented as one who desired to purchase republi- can license at the price of foreign invasion. He had defended his character and motives in a letter, uncommonly manly and eloquent, to Erskine of Mar ; but he had requested it to be burnt, and was not aware that it was fortu- nately preserved. He still retained the letter in his memory, and it was the last act of his pen to write it out fair, and with comments, into his memorandum-book. Bums thus gave his deliberate — I might say dying — sanction to that important letter ; it makes statements which cover the Board of Excise and the British government of thivt day with eternal shame, and contains sentiments honourable to it was a Hanltcr's draft which was sent by Mr. Thomson.] .ETAT. 31 DUMFRIES.— HIS DEATH. 125 the head and heart of the Poet — such as should live in the bosom of every Briton. ••You have been misinformed," says Burns, •• as to my final dismission from the Excise — I am still in the service. Indeed, but for the exertions of Mr. Graham of Fintray, who has ever been my warm and generous friend, I had, without so much as a hearing, or the slightest previous intimation, been turned adrift, with my helpless family, to all the horrors of want. In my defence to their accusations, I said that, whatever might be my sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain I abjured the idea ; that a constitution, which, in its original principles, experience had proved to be every way fitted for our happiness in society, it would be insanity to sacrifice to an untried visionary theory ; — that, in consideration of my being situated in a department, however humble, im- mediately in the hands of people in power, I had forborne taking any active part, either per- sonally or as an author, in the present business of reform ; but that, where I must declare my sentiments, I would say there existed a system of corruption between the executive power and the representative part of the legislature, which boded no good to our glorious constitution, and which every patriotic Briton must wish to see amended. My last remark gave great offence, and Mr. Corbet was instructed to inquire on the spot, and to document me — ' That my busi- ness was to act, not to think.'" A nobleman connected with the Pitt administration, to whom I repeated these last words, smiled bitterly and said — " They are as absurd as they are cruel." Having removed the veil of mystery which hung too long over this transaction, and esta- blished himself as a lover of his country with all who know what patriotism is, Burns pro- ceeds to discuss his hopes of fame, and his cha- racter as a man and a poet. — " The partiality of my countrymen," he observes, " has brought me forward as a man of genius, and has given me a character to support. In the Poet I have avowed manly and independent sentiments which, I trust, will be found in the man. My honest fame is my dearest concern, and a thou- sand times I have trembled at the idea of those degrading epithets that malice or misrepresen- tation may affix to my name. I have often, in blasting anticipation, listened to some future hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of sav- age stupidity exulting in his hireling paragraphs — * Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of independence to be found in his works, and after having been held forth to public view, and to public estimation, as a man of some genius, yet. quite destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pur- suits, and among the vilest of mankind.' — In your hands, sir, permit me to lodge my disavowal and defiance of these slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man by birth, and an excise- man by necessity ; but — I icill say it — the ster- ling of his honest worth no poverty could de- base, and his independent British mind oppres- sion might bend, but could not subdue." These sentiments need no comment : in them we hear the voice of Burns speaking from the grave, desiring justice rather than mercy. Sea-bathing relieved for awhile the pains in the Poet's limbs ; but his appetite failed ; he was oppressed with melancholy ; he looked ruefully forward, and saw misery and ruin ready to swallow his helpless household up. He grew feverish on the 14th of July ; felt himself sink- ing, and longed to be at home. He returned on the 18th in a small spring cart ; the ascent to his house was steep, and the cart stopped at the foot of the Mill-hole-brae ; when he alighted he shook much, and stood with difficulty ; he seemed unable to stand upright. He stooped, as if in pain, and walked tottering towards his own door ; his looks were hollow and ghastly, and those who saw him then never expected to see him in life again. It was soon spread through Dumfries that Burns had returned from The Brow much worse that when he went away, and it was added that he was dying. The anxiety of the people, high and low, was very great. I was present and saw it. Wherever two or three were to- gether their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. They spoke of his history, of his per- son, and of his works — of his witty sayings and sarcastic replies, and of his too early fate, with muck enthusiasm, and sometimes with deep feeling. All that he had done, and all that they had hoped he would accomplish, were talked of: half-a-dozen of them stopped Dr. Maxwell in the street, and said, " How is Burns, Sir?" He shook his head, saying, " he cannot be worse," and passed on to be subjected to similar inquiries farther up the way. I heard one of a group inquire, with much simplicity. " Who do you think will be our poet now .' "' Though Burns now knew he was dying, his good humour was unruffled, and his wit never forsook him. When he looked np and saw Dr. Maxwell at his bed-side, — "Alas!" he said, " what has brought you here .' I am but a poor crow, and not worth plucking." He pointed to his pistols, those already mentioned, the gift of their maker, Blair of Birmingham, and desired that Maxwell would accept of them, saying they could not be in worthier keeping, and he should never more have need of l hem. This relieved his proud heart from a sense of obligation. Soon afterwards he saw Gibson, one of his brother-volunteer^, by the bed-side, with tears in his eyes. He smiled and said, — " John, don't let the awkward squad fire over me ! : His household presented a melancholy spec- 126 LIFE OF BURNS. 179G. tacle : the Poet dying ; his wife in hourly ex- pectation of being confined : four helpless chil- dren wandering from room to room, gazing on their miserable parents, and but too little of food or cordial kind to pacify the whole or soothe the sick. To Jessie Lewars, all who are charmed with the Poet's works are much indebted : she acted with the prudence of a sister and the tenderness of a daughter, and kept desolation away, though she could not keep disease. — " A tremor," says Maxwell, " pervaded his frame ; his tongae, though often refreshed, became parched ; and his mind, when not roused by conversation, sunk into delirium. On the second and third day after his return from The Brow, the fever increased and his strength diminished. On the fourth day, when his attendant, James Maclure, held a cordial to his lips, he swallowed it eagerly — rose almost wholly up — spread out his hands — sprang forward nearly the whole length of the bed — fell on his face and expired.* He was thirty-seven years and seven months old, and of a form and strength which promised long life ; but the great and inspired are often cut down in youth, while " Villains ripen gray with time." I went to see him laid out for the grave ; several elder people were with me. He lay in a plain unadorned coffin, with a linen sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed and around the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage of the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness ; but death had not increased the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly dark and deeply marked — his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey. The room where he lay was plain and neat, and the sim- plicity of the Poet's humble dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely on the heart than if his bier had been embellished by vanity and covered with the blazonry of high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the space of several minutes — we went, and others succeeded us — not a whisper was heard. On the evening of the 25th of July, the ins of the Poet were removed from his house to the Town Hall, where they lay in until the next morning. His interment took place on the 26th of July; nor should it he forgotten, in relating the Poet's melancholy story, that, while his body Wa& borne along the street, his widow was token in labour and delivered of a son, who ired his birth but a short while. The • [Mr. Chamber! say the author must have been misin- I when In: represented the Poet as rising at the last mil- t.. tin- bottom of the bed. "The poor B ird ■•• ■ I " indi i >l from being in a condition to make any \i • rhougb la; had been muttering in leading men of the town and neighbourhood appeared as mourners; the streets w T ere lined by the Angus-shire Fencibles, and the Cinque Ports Cavalry, and his body Avas borne by the Volunteers, to the old kirk-yard, with military honours. The multitude who followed amount- ed to many thousands. It was an impressive and a mournful sight; all was orderly and decorous. The measured steps, the military array, the colours displayed, and the muffled drum — I thought then, and think now — had no connexion with a Pastoral Bard. I mingled with the mourners. On reaching the grave into which the Poet's body was about to de- scend, there was a pause among them, as if loth to part with his remains ; and when the first shovel- full of earth sounded on the coffin-lid, I looked up, and saw tears on many cheeks where tears were not usual. The Volunteers justified the surmise of Burns by three ragged and straggling volleys : the earth was heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the vast mul- titude melted silently away. The day was a fine one, the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a drop of rain fell from dawn to twi- light. I notice this, not from any concurrence in the common superstition that ' happy is the corpse which the rain pours on/ but to confute the pious fraud of a religious writer, who inti- mated that Heaven expressed its wrath at the interment of a profane poet, in thunder, in lightning, and in rain. The body of Burns was not, however, to remain long in its place. To suit the plan of a rather showy mausoleum, his remains were removed into a more commodious spot of the same kirk -yard, on the 5th of June, 1815. The coffin was partly dissolved away ; but the dark curling locks of the Poet were as glossy, and seemed as fresh, as on the day of his death. In the interior of the structure stands a marble monument, embodying, with little skill or grace, that well-known passage in the dedication to the gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt : — "The poetic Genius of my country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plough — and threw her inspiring mantle over me." The Poet's dust has been a second time dis- turbed. At the funeral of his widow, April 1834, two or three believers in the romantic science of craniology disinterred his skull, ap- plied their compasses, and satisfied themselves that Burns had capacity ecmal to the compo- sition of " Tam-o-Shanter," "The Cotter's Saturday Night," and "To Mary in Heaven." " O for an hour of Burns for these men's sake ! " exclaims a kindred spirit, " were there a witch of Endor in Scotland, it would be an act of comparative piety in her to bring up his spirit: delirium tor some time before, he died in a state of perfect calmness— the calmness of exhaustion. His eldest son, who was in the room at the moment, reports the mournful event as having thus taken place ; and we cannot well see how he could he mistaken."— J iETAT. 37. HIS PERSONAL CHARACTER BY A LADY 127 to stigmatize them in verses that would burn for ever would be a gratification for which he might think it worth while to be thus brought again upon earth." All mankind have heard of the malediction which Shakspeare utters from his monument, and of the dread which came upon the boors of Stratford-on-Avon, as they presumed to gaze on his dust : no such fears, however, fell upon the craniologists of Dumfries : the clock struck one as they touched the dread relic : they tried their hats upon the head, and found them all too little ; and, having made a mould, they deposited the skull in a leaden box, " carefully lined with the softest materials," and returned it once more to the hallowed ground ! Here, as to a shrine, flock annually vast numbers of pilgrims ; many, very many, are from America ; not a few from France and Germany ; and the list-book con- tains the names of the most eminent men of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Though Burns died poor, the generous acti- vity of his friends and admirers, among whom Syme, Maxwell, and Macmurdo, were active and liberal, placed his young widow and help- less children beyond the reach of want. Currie, the chief benefactor of all, wrote the Poet's life, and edited his works : Lord Sidmouth placed his eldest son Robert in the Stamp-office : Lord Panmure sent fifty pounds annually to his widow, till her sons were able to interpose and take the pious duty on themselves ; and William Nicol and James Glencairn went out to India on cadetships, one of which was bestowed by the generous Sir James Shaw. Francis Wallace died young, so did Maxwell : the street in which the Poet died was named Burns-street : the walks in which he mused were remembered and respected, and his widow lived and died in the house which he had occupied. She had acted, throughout her long life, with equal pru- dence and propriety ; lived in comfort, and, aided by the counsel and advice of her younger brother, a London merchant of great respect- ability, preserved her affairs in excellent order, and was enabled to save a small sum out of her annual income. [Soon after the death of Burns, the following article appeared in the Dumfries Journal. It is from the elegant pen of a lady already alluded to in the course of these memoirs,* whose exertions for the family of our Bard, in the circles of literature and fashion in which she moves, have done her so much honour. " The attention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with the loss it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledo- nian Poet, Robert Burns — a loss calculated to be severely felt throughout the literary world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It was not, therefore, [* Mrs. Riddel of Woodlcc-Park.] probable that such an event should be long unattended with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs which are usually circulated immediately after the death of every rare and celebrated personage. I had, however, conceived no intention of appropriat- ing to myself the privilege of criticising Bums's writings and character, or of anticipating on the province of a biographer. "Conscious, indeed, of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I should have con- tinued wholly silent, had misrepresentation and calumny been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than affection for the memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the pub- lic a few at least of those observations which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, and the fre- quent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qualities and his failings for several years past, have enabled me to commu- nicate. " It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's character, not only by future generations and foreign countries, but even by his native Scot- land, and perhaps a number of his contempora- ries, that he is generally talked of, and consi- dered, with reference to his poetical talents only : for the fact is, even allowing his great and ori- ginal genius its due tribute of admiration, that poetry (I appeal to all who have had the advan- tage of being personally acquainted with him) was actually not his forte. Many others, per- haps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of Parnassus, but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms, the sorcery, I would almost call it, of fascinating conversation, the spontaneous eloquence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of brilliant repartee ; nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with a larger portion of the ' vivida vis animis. ' His per- sonal endowments were perfectly correspondent to the qualifications of his mind — his form was manly — his action, energy itself — devoid in a great measure perhaps of those graces, of that polish, acquired only in the refinement of socie- ties where in early life he could have no opportu- nities of mixing ; but where such was the irre- sistible power of attraction that encircled him, though his appearance and manners were always peculiar, he never failed to delight and to excel. His figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destination and employments. It seemed rather moulded by nature for the rough exercises of agriculture than the gentler cultivation of the Belles Lettres. His features were stamped with the hardy character of independence, and the firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, pre-eminence; the animated expressions o\' countenance were almost peculiar to himself; the rapid lightnings of his eye were always the harbingers of some Hash of genius, whether they darted the fiery glances of insulted and indignant superiority, or beamed with the im- :=©> 128 LIFE OF BURNS. 1796. passioned sentiment of fervent and impetuous affections. His voice alone improved upon the magic of his eye : sonorous, replete with the finest modulations, it alternately captivated the ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the perspi- cuity of nervous reasoning, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic patriotism. The keenness of satire Mas, I am almost at a loss whether to say his forte or his foible ; for though nature had endowed him with a portion of the most pointed excellence in that dangerous talent, he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of personal and sometimes unfounded animosities. It was not always that sportiveness of humour, that 'unwary pleasantry,' which Sterne has depicted with touches so conciliatory, but the darts of ridicule were frequently directed as the caprice of the instant suggested, or as the altercations of par- ties and of persons happened to kindle the rest- lessness of his spirit into interest or aversion. This, however, was not invariably the case : his wit (which was no unusual matter indeed) had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him to the indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied with the least desire to wound. The suppression of an arch and full - pointed bon-mot, from a dread of offending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly classes as a virtue only to besought for in the calendar of saints ; if so, Burns must not be too severely dealt with for being rather defi- cient in it. He paid for his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. ' 'Twas no extra- vagant arithmetic,' to say of him, as was said of Yorick, that ' for every ten jokes he got a hundred enemies ;' but much allowance will be made by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit whom ' distress had spited with the world,' and which, unbounded in its intellectual sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs imposed by the waywardness of his for- tune. The vivacity of his wishes and temper was indeed checked by almost habitual disap- pointments, which sat heavy on a heart that acknowledged the ruling passion of indepen- dence, without having ever been placed beyond the grasp of penury. His soul was never lan- guid or inactive, and his genius was extinguished "iily with the last spark of retreating life. His passions rendered him, according as they dis- closed themselves in affection or antipathy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, or of decided enmity ; for he possessed none of that negative insipidity of character whose love might be regarded with indifference, or whose resent- ment could be considered with contempt. In this, it Bhould seem, the temper of his associates took the tincture from his own ; lor fe acknow- ledged in the universe but two classes of objects, those of adoration the most fervent, or of aver- -i'»n the most uncontrollable; and it has been frequently a reproach to him mat, unsusceptible of indifference, often hating where he ought only to have despised, he alternately opened his heart, and poured forth the treasures of his understanding to such as were incapable of appreciating the homage ; and elevated to the privileges of an adversary some who were un- qualified in all respects for the honour of a contest so distinguished. "It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson professed to ' love a good hater ' — a tempera- ment that would have singularly adapted him to cherish a prepossession in favour of our Bard, who perhaps fell but little short even of the surly doctor in this qualification, as long as the dispo- sition to ill-will continued ; but the warmth of his passions was fortunately corrected by their versatility. He was seldom, indeed never, impla- cable in his resentments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, not inviolably faithful in his en- gagements of friendship. Much, indeed, has been said about his inconstancy and caprice ; but I am inclined to believe that they originated less in a levity of sentiment than from an ex- treme impetuosity of feeling, which rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensa- tions of pique, where he fancied he had dis- covered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkind- ness, took their measure of asperity from the over-flowings of the opposite sentiment which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its ascendancy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflection. He was candid and manly in the avowal of his errors, and his avowal was a reparation. His native fierte never forsaking him for a moment, the value of a frank ac- knowledgment was enhanced tenfold towards a generous mind, from its never being attended with servility. His mind, organized only for the stronger and more acute operations of the passions, was impracticable to the efforts of superciliousness that would have depressed it into humility, and equally superior to the en- croachments of venal suggestions that might have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. " It has been observed that he was far from averse to the incense of flattery, and could re- ceive it tempered with less delicacy than might have been expected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in that way himself: where he paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the power of intoxication, as approbation from him was always an honest tribute from the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has been some- times represented by those who, it should seem, had a view to depreciate, though they could not hope wholly to obscure, that native brilliancy which the powers of this extraordinary man had invariably bestowed on every thing that came from his lips or pen, that the history of the Ayr-shire plough-boy was an ingenious fic- tion, fabricated for the purposes of obtaining the interests of the great, and enhancing the merits of what in reality required no foil. "The Cotter's Saturday Night," "Tarn o' HIS PERSONAL CHARACTER BY A LADY. 129 Shanter," and "The Mountain Daisy/' besides a number of later productions, where the ma- turity of his genius will be readily traced, and which will be given to the public as soon as his friends have collected and arranged them, speak sufficiently for themselves ; and had they fallen from a hand more dignified in the ranks of society than that of a peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual a grace there as even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from whence they really sprang. " To the obscure scene of Burns's education, and to the laborious, though honourable station of rural industry, in which his parentage en- rolled him, almost every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give testimony. His only sur- viving brother, Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare of his forefathers in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; and our Poet's eldest son, a lad of nine years of age, whose early dispo- sitions already prove him to be in some measure the inheritor of his father's talents as well as indigence, has been destined by his family to the humble employments of the loom. "That Burns had received no classical educa- tion, and was acquainted with the Greek and Roman authors only through the medium of translations, is a fact of which all who were in the habit of conversing with him might readily be convinced. I have, indeed, seldom observed him to be at a loss in conversation, unless where the dead languages and their writers have been the subjects of discussion. When I have pressed him to tell me why he never applied himself to acquire the Latin, in particular, a language which his happy memory would have so soon enabled him to be master of, he used only to reply, with a smile, that he had already learnt all the Latin he desired to know, and that was omnia vincit amor — a sentence that, from his writings and most favourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly seem he was most tho- roughly versed in ; but I really believe his classic erudition extended little, if any, farther. "The penchant Burns had uniformly acknow- ledged for the festive pleasures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer objects of nature's creation, has been the rallying point whence the attacks of his censors have been uniformly directed ; and to these, it must be confessed, he showed himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend, with alternate happiness of description, the frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart to the tender and impassioned sentiments in which beauty always taught him to pour forth his own. But who would wish to reprove the feelings he has consecrated with such lively touches of nature ? And where is the rugged moralist who will persuade us so far to ' chill the genial current of the soul ' as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that Anacreon sang beneath his vine ? " I will not, however, undertake to be the apologist of the irregularities even of a man of genius, though I believe it is as certain that genius never was free from irregularities as that their absolution may, in great measure, be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evident that the world had continued very stationary in its intellectual acquirements had it never given birth to any but men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, and a due regard to the decorum of the world, have been so rarely seen to move hand in hand with genius that some have gone so far as to say, though there I cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even incompatible ; besides, the frailties that cast their shade over the splendour of superior merit are more conspicuously glaring than where they are the attendants of mere mediocrity. It is only on the gem we are dis- turbed to see the dust; the pebble may be soiled, and we never regard it. The eccentric intuitions of genius too often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, always un- bounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the repose of others as fatal to its own. No wonder, then, if virtue herself be sometimes lost in the blaze of kindling animation, or that the calm monitions of reason are not invariably found sufficient to fetter an imagination which scorns the narrow limits and restrictions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. The child of nature, the child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid precepts of philosophy, too often unable to control the passions which proved a source of frequent errors and misfor- tunes to him, Burns made his own artless apo- logy, in language more impressive than all the argumentary vindications in the world could do, in one of his own poems, where he delineates the gradual expansion of his mind to the lessons of the ' tutelary muse,' who concludes an ad- dress to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity and beautiful poetry, with these lines: — ' I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play Wild send thee pleasure's devious way ; Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, By Passion driven ; But yet the li^ht that led astray Was light from heaven. '* "I have already transgressed beyond the bounds I had proposed to myself on first commit- ting this sketch to paper, which comprehends what, at least, I have been led to deem the leading features of Burns's mind and character. A literary critique I do not aim at — mine is wholly fulfilled if in these pages I have been able to delineate any of those strong traits that distinguished him, of those talents which raised him from the plough, where he passed the bleak morning of his life, weaving his rude wreathe of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang around his cottage, to that enviable eminence of literary fame, where Scotland will long cherish his memory with delight and gratitude j * Sec the Vision— Uuan Bd. 130 LIFE OF BURNS. and proudly remember that beneath her cold sky a genius was ripened, without care or cul- ture, that would have done honour to climes more favourable to those luxuriances — that warmth of colouring and fancy in which he so eminently excelled. u From several paragraphs I have noticed in the public prints, ever since the idea of sending this sketch to some one of them was formed, I find private animosities have not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet exhausted all her shafts. I still trust, however, that honest fame will be permanently affixed to Burns's charac- ter, which I think it will be found he has merited, by the candid and impartial among his countrymen. And where a recollection of the imprudences that sullied his brighter qualifica- tions interposes, let the imperfection of all human excellence be remembered at the same time, leaving those inconsistencies, which alternately exalted his nature into the seraph and sank it again into the man, to the tribunal which alone can investigate the labyrinths of the human heart — ' Where they alike in trembling hope repose, The bosom of his father and his God.' — Gray's Elegy. Annandale, August 7, 1796. **] Thus lived and died Robert Burns, the chief of Scottish Poets. He seems to have been created to shew how little classic lore is required for the happiest flights of the muse — how dangerous to domestic peace burning pas- sions and touchy sensibilities are — and how divinely a man may be inspired, without gain- ing bread or acquiring importance in the land his genius adorns. Burns in his youth was tall and sinewy, with coarse swarthy features, and a ready word of wit or of kindness for all. The man differed little from the lad ; his form was vigorous, his limbs shapely, his knees firmly knit, his arms muscular and round, Ins hands large, his fingers long, and he stood five feet ten inches high. All his movements were unconstrained and free : — he had a slight stoop of the neck ; and a lock or so of his dark waving hair was tied carelessly behind with two casts of narrow black ribbon. 1 1 is looks beamed with genius and intelligence ; his forehead was broad and clear, shaded by raven locks inclined to curl ; his cheeks were furrowed more with anxiety than time ; his nose was short rather than long ; his mouth, firm and manly; his teeth, white and regular ; and there WU ;i dimple, a small one, on his chin. His were Urge, dark, and lustrous : I have heard them likened to coach-lamps approach- ing in a dark night, because they were first if any part of the Poet. — " I never saw," ■id Scott, " Bach another eye in a human head, though I have aeen the most distinguished men of my time." In hi> ordinary moods, Bums looked B man of a hundred; but when animated in company, he was a man of a million ; his swarthy features glowed ; his eyes kindled up till they all but lightened ; his slight stoop vanished ; and his voice — deep, manly, and mu- sical — added its sorcery of pathos or of wit, till the dullest owned the enchantments of genius. His personal strength was united to great activity : he could move a twenty-stone sack of meal without much apparent effort, and load a cart with bags of corn in the time, one of his neighbours said, that other men were talk- ing about it. A mason was hewing him a stone for a cheese-press, and Burns took plea- sure, as a side was squared, to turn over the huge mass unaided. A large pebble is still pointed out at Ellisland, as his putting-stone ; and though no living man at Nithsdale per- haps can poise it in the air, the tradition proves the popular belief in his great strength. He delighted in feats of rural activity and skill ; he loved to draw the straightest furrow on his fields, to sow the largest quantity of seed-corn of any farmer in the dale in a day, mow the most rye-grass and clover in ten hours of exertion, and stook to the greatest number of reapers. In this he sometimes met with his match. After a hard strife on the harvest field, with a fellow-husbandman, in which the Poet was equalled : — " Robert," said his rival, " I'm no sac far behind this time,I'm thinking?" — "John," said he in a whisper, " you're be- hind in something yet : I made a sang while I was stooking !" I have heard my father say that Burns had the handsomest cast of the hand in sowing corn he ever saw on a furrowed field. Burns desired as much to excel in conversa- tion as he did in these fits and starts of hus- bandry ; but he was more disposed to contend for victory than to seek for knowledge. The debating club of Tarbolton was ever strong within him : a fierce lampoon, or a rough epigram, was often the reward of those who ventured to contradict him. His conversation partook of the nature of controversy, and he urged his opinions with a vehemence amount- ing to fierceness. All this was natural enough when he was involved in argument with the boors around him ; but he was disposed, when pressed in debate, to be equally discourteous and unsparing to the polite and the titled. In the Company of men of talent he was another man ; he was then among his peers, and listened with attention, and spoke with a modest eloquence which surprised many. " I think Burns," said Robertson, the historian, to Professor Christison, " was one of the most extraordinary men I ever met with ; his poetry surprised me very much, his prose surprised me still more, and his conversation surprised me more than both his poetry and prose." " His address," says Robert Riddel, " was pleasing ; he was neither forward nor embarrassed in manner ; his spirits were generally high, and his conversation animated. His language was » ®: HIS CHARACTER. 131 fluent, frequently fine ; his enunciation always rapid : his ideas clear and vigorous, and he had the rare power of modulating his peculiarly fine voice, so as to harmonise with whatever subject he touched upon. I have heard him talk with astonishing rapidity, nor miss the articulation of a single syllable ; elevate and depress his voice as the topic seemed to require 5 and sometimes, when the subject was pathetic, he would prolong the words in the most im- pressive and affecting manner, indicative of the deep sensibility which inspired him. He often lamented to me that fortune had not placed him at the bar or in the senate ; he had great ambition, and the feeling that he could not gratify it preyed upon him severely." In the morning of life, Burns met lords with awe and embarrassment ; in the after- noon of existence, he encountered them with suspicion and scorn. Those w r ho named a lord, or alluded to a person of rank in his com- pany, were instantly crushed in an epigram, or offended by some sarcastic sally. The con- duct of the Scottish aristocracy had sunk to his heart, and the neglect of the Pitt adminis- tration was seldom away from his fancy. The more he saw of the world, and the more he reflected, these unwelcome thoughts pressed the more upon him. He could not but know that the high-born and the w r ell-connected prospered : that thousands less worthy than himself were fattening on posts and pensions, and elbowing the sons of genius out of what he considered their patrimony ; he had also been made to feel his dependence, in that insulting mandate from the Board of Excise, that his duty was " to act, and not to think." It is true that his dislike might have been expressed wdth more courtesy, and his wat might have had less ferocity, with equal keenness of point, l^et, when he proposed to drink the health of Washington instead of Pitt, it was less a mat- ter of ill-breeding, or republican feeling, than a burst of anger : he considered the Premier as one of his oppressors; and perhaps the want of courtesy belonged to him who invited the Poet to dinner, and greeted him with this un- welcome toast. In the company of ladies, Burns was quite another being ; for them he calmed down his impetuous temper, and allowed all that was winning in his nature to shine out. He was fierce as Moloch among men : among women he was a Belial, soft, insinuating, and eloquent: his eyes, which before sparkled like those of the serpent, became meek like those of the dove : the love of contradiction died within him, and he courted his way to their hearts and their under- standings at the same time. In this his letters differ widely from his conversation : the pre- sence of beauty inspired him ; when it was no longer before him, he seems to hunt for thoughts and hesitate for words, and, amid much natural emotion, is affected and cumbrous. Nothing more untrue was ever uttered than that his female patronesses shrunk from the vehement familiarity of his admiration : there is no proof to be found of this : Margaret Chalmers, indeed, scrupled to have a song published in her praise ; and Miss Alexander chose to resent by her silence the song of the " Lass of Ballochmyle ;" but there is no instance of ladies shrinking from the audacity of his admiration. His most constant correspondents were ladies of birth and talent ; the ladies of the north, much to their honour, sympathised with their Poet to the last ; and the day after he was buried, some of the proudest dames of Dumfries-shire shed tears, as they scattered flowers over his grave. In truth, he did not express the rapture of an enamoured peasant, as Jeffrey assures us he did, but the admiration of a man : he preferred the good- breeding of nature to the iced civilities of polished life : he did not, indeed, think that woman was to be worshipped according to the fantastic rules of chivalry ; but when she spoke, he listened ; when she sang, he seemed to be- come intoxicated with the sound ; and when she played on an instrument, he neither heard nor saw aught else save herself and her music. To the opinions of the world Burns paid too little deference : whatever he felt he said, and what he said often glanced sharply on religion and on politics. He attacked the fiery zeal of sundry churchmen — it was called an attack on religion : he attacked the pride and pre- sumption of the titled — it w r as called envy and arrogance : he washed for more wealth among the poor, and more humility among the rich — and was branded as a disturber of the public peace ; and he desired to see the principles of the revolution of 1688 carried into effect with less corruption in the high places — and was called a jacobin, and ordered to be silent. What he was with the world at large, so was he with man in particular : he had no medium in his hatred or his love ; he never spared the dull, as if they were not to be en- dured because he was himself bright ; wealth he was inclined to visit as a fault on the pos- sessor. When in the company of the demure and the pious, he loved to start doubts in reli- gion, which he knew T nothing short of inspiration could solve ; and to speak of Calvinism with such latitude of language as shocked or vexed all listeners, and caused him to be regarded by some as a free-thinker or a deist. In his own household he was another man : he was an affectionate husband and a dutiful father ; he loved to teach his boys their duty to God ar.d to their neighbour. To Mrs. Haugh — a most respectable woman — in whose house he lived in the Bank-Vennel, and who was much with him during his long illness — he Lamented that he had sometimes doubted the truths of Scripture : he found them to be his consolation at last. K i ? ; 132 LIFE OF BURNS. I have no wish to shut my eyes on the follies of the Poet : they have darkened other narra- tives than mine. The memoir of Heron, the criticism of Jeffrey, and the communications of Syme have gone widely abroad. With the first, Burns is a coarse libertine ; with the second a careless drunkard, who starved his wife and children ; while the third describes him as rough and fierce, and inclined to stab the friend who hazarded good advice. Of the feel- ings of Heron, it is sufficient to say that he penned his depreciating memoir to meet the subscription for the Poet's widow and children ; of the opinion of Jeffrey, I may safely assert that he has judged amiss ; and with regard to the account of Syme, I can only imagine that it originated in some mistake on the part of him of Ryedale : — to suppose Burns serious, contradicts all the rest of his life. Of Heron, the Poet must have thought when he said, — " I have often, in blasting anticipation, listened to some future hackney scribbler with the heavy malice of savage stupidity exulting in his hire- ling paragraphs." Burns was no tippler ; he loved the excite- ment of company, and to see the bottle circulate ; to others, as well as to him, " Every new cork was a new spring of joy." Nor did he know always when to retire from these social excesses ; good fellowship was as a spell upon him. His own heart, always too open, was then laid bare. He watched the characters of men ; he gladdened the clever by the sallies of his fancy, stimulated the dull by his wit, and imagined that he was strengthen- ing the ties of friendship, and that " The bands grew the tighter the more they were wet." No doubt, later in life he desired to escape from uneasy reflection — from thinking of ruined hopes and humbled ambition, and, seeking con- solation in company, he took an angel of dark- ness to his heart rather than one of light. I am assured by Mrs. Haugh, who knew him well to the last, that Burns drank from circumstances rather than inclination. An angel from heaven, she said, could scarcely have escaped corruption in his situation : he was constantly invited, nay sometimes almost literally dragged into company. Her husband now and then, as he went out by day -light in the morning to his work, met Burns coming home. The Poet never passed Jiim without a word or two, expressing his sor- row for the life he was leading — such as, " O, Mr. Haugh, you are a happy man ; you have arisen from a refreshing sleep, and left a kind wife and children, while I am returning a poor [♦" He was alwayianxioui that his wife should have a neat ;m I ranted appearance. In consequence, as she alleged, of the turtles trf nursing and attending to her infants, she could not help being sometimes b little slovenly. Burns disliked id nol only remonstrated against it in a gentle way, liut did tli« Utmost thai in him lav to counteract it, by buy- ing for her the best clothes he could afford. Any little self-condemned wretch to mind." At whatever hour he came home, or in whatever condition he returned, he always spoke kindly to his wife ; reproachful words were never heard between them.* He was a steadfast friend and a good neighbour, ready with his hands, and willing to oblige : while he lived at Ellisland, few passed his door without being cheered by his wit or treated at his table. Of women and their fascinations he loved to talk freely and wildly ; the witchery of his con- versation, and the magic of his songs, were too powerful for the resolution of some ; but his errors in this way have been seriously exagge- rated. Those wno were unacquainted with the freedoms of the muse beheld him making love in every song he wrote ; and young spinsters — " Coost their heads fu' high," when they saw their charms reflected in the bright verses of the Bard, and suspected their own fortitude. Some were less timid : one in- trepid young lady said she desired the Poet's acquaintance of all things, and intimated the time and place where he might meet her. He took a way which did not always succeed, of scaring such impertinents. — " It is scarcely modest in a fine young woman," was the reply, " to seek the acquaintance of one whose cha- racter is considered so bad." To a lively land- lady in Dumfries, whose ale firkins were to be examined, he said, Who will go down to the cellar with me till I gauge the browst 1" — " I'll go down with you myself, Mr. Burns," she replied. He turned round on her, and, with a peculiar glance, said, — " O, woman, strong is thy Jaith !" Stories of this complexion, oftener for than against him, might be multiplied : — " Between two maids, who hath the merriest eye He had, indeed, no shallow spirit of judgment." The political heresies of the Poet are more easily dealt with. He knew that he was cre- ated with high powers of mind ; he was con- scious not only of his superiority to the peasants around, but to men of high title and of long descent, and felt himself defrauded of the station nature intended him to fill in society : — this is visible in almost all he writes. He can justify the ways of God to man, but he cannot justify the ways of man to God ; he feels that heaven creates nothing hereditary — neither beauty, nor taste, nor talent ; and he is grieved to see men insult the great laws of nature, and form in- stitutions contradicting God's divine system. This is the sentiment which inspires that noble lyric " A man's a man for a' that ;" and it was this feeling which made him sad and despond- novelty in female dress was almost sure to meet with patronage from Burns — all with the aim of keeping up a spirit for neat dressing in his wife. She wa3, for instance, one of the first persons in Dumfries who appeared in a dress of gingham — a stuff now common to all, but, at its first in- troduction, rather costly, and almost exclusively used by persons of superior condition." Chambers.] :@ HIS MODES OF STUDY AND HABIT; 133 ing — which induced him to seek consolation in the shadowy images of republics, and hail with so much rapture the dawn of a liberty which promised the empire of the earth to the worth and genius which it produced. That Pitt did not feel truly, nor weigh worthily, the genius and sentiments of the " meteor of the north/' as the Poet was idly called, seems perfectly clear. When reminded of his claims by Henry Ad- dington, he pushed the bottle to Lord Melville, and did nothing ; his own days were shortened by disappointed hopes and crushed ambition. Had a situation worthy of the genius of Bums been bestowed on him, this tale had neither been so dark nor so sorrowful — he would not have perished like a caged eagle, denied the full use of its wings and the free range of its cloud-capt mountains. Of his modes of study and habits of life much has already been said ; something more can be added. He has told us how he delighted in the rushing of the storm through the leafless woods ; how he rejoiced in the out-gushing of the flow- ers in spring, in the song of the birds and the melody of running waters. In stormy nights he has been known to rise from good company and a well - furnished table, to gaze on the tumultuous clouds, to mark the vivid lightnings, and hearken to the pealing thunder. He loved, while in his farm, to stand on the scaur, and, when Xith was in flood, look at the red tor- rent bursting from the Bankhead-wood against Dalswinton holm, flashing and foaming from side to side, making the ashes and alders of the banks quiver and quake. His favourite spot of study lies between Ellisland onstead and the Isle — where the uplands descend by the water side to the holm. Here the neigh- bouring gentry love to walk, and peasants to assemble — they hold it sacred to the memory of his musings. When he lived in Dumfries, he had three favourite walks — on the dock-green by the river side — among the ruins of Lincluden Col- lege, — and towards the Martingdon-Ford on the north side of the Nith. This latter place was secluded, commanding a view of the dis- tant hills and the romantic towers of Linclu- den, and afforded soft green-sward banks to rest upon, and the sight and sound of the stream : — here he composed many of his finest songs. As soon as he was heard to hum to himself, his wife saw that he had something is his mind, and was quite prepared to see him snatch up his hat and set silently oft* for his musing ground. When by himself and in the open air, his ideas arranged themselves in their natural order, words came at will, and he seldom returned without having finished a song. In case of interruption, he set about completing it at the fire-side ; he balanced himself on the hind-legs of his arm-chair, and, rocking to and fro, continued to hum the tune, and seldom failed of success. When the verses were finished, he passed them through the ordeal of Mrs. Burns' voice ; listening atten- tively while she sung ; asked her if any of the words were difficult, and when one hap- pened to be too rough he readily found a smoother — but he never, save at the resolute entreaty of a scientific musician, sacrificed sense to sound. The autumn was his favourite season, and the twilight his favourite hour of study. As a farmer and an exciseman he did his duty, and he did little more. He was labori- ous by fits, and attentive by starts ; he tilled the ground and protected the revenue, but he wrought without hope in the one, and without heart in the other. He endeavoured to make his farm yield the rent by butter and by cheese, as well as by corn ; and as this required female hands, he confided it mostly to the management of his wife and maid-servants. But Ellisland is naturally fitter for corn than for grass ; the green-sward was far from being so luxuriant as that of the milk and butter districts of Cunning- ham and Kyle; nor was his wife sufficiently intimate with the management of cows, and the guidance of a dairy. The plan of Burns to unite, in his own person, the poet, the excise- man, and the farmer, was poetic, and failed as much from miscalculation as mismanagement. His duties in the Excise he performed with strict punctuality ; he was afraid of being- reckoned negligent, and was always at his post. He kept his books in excellent order. — " Bring me Burns' books," said Maxwell of Terraughty, a rigid and determined magistrate ; " it always does me good to see them- — they shew me that a warm kind-hearted man may be a diligent and honest officer." He was not a bustling active gauger, nor did he love to put himself foremost in adventures which he knew would end in distress to many. One clear moonlight morning, on being awakened by the clang of horses at a gallop, he started up, looked out at the window, and to his wife, who asked eagerly what it was, he whispered, " It is the noise of smugglers, Jean." — " Robert, then I fear ye'll be to follow them ?" she said. — "And so I would," he answered, "were it Will Gunnion or Edgar Wright ; but it's poor Brandyburn, who has a wife and three weans. and is no doing owre weel in his farm. What can I do?" She pulled him from the window. Many anecdotes of this kind might be told. Of his quick wit and caustic keenness of re- mark I have already given instances ; more are in circulation both in prose and verse. It is much, however, to be regretted that his sallies, where sentiment unites with gaiety, have fre- quently escaped, as matters too light and elu- sive, from the public mind ; while sayings ami retorts — sharp, personal, or profane — have re- mained. I shall relate a few, that nothing on which his spirit is impressed may be lost. 1 1 1 134 LIFE OF BURNS. disliked puns, and was seldom civil to those who uttered them. — " After all, a pun is an innocent thing," said one of his companions. — 1 ' Innocent !"' said Burns, " no, Sir ; it is com- mitting ' a deed without a name' with the lan- guage." He disliked to hear great people talked about more than they deserved. One who was in his company kept saying, the Earl of such a place said this, and Duke so-and-so said that. — " Be silent, Sir \" exclaimed the Poet ; " you are stopping our mouths by a royal proclamation." He loved praise — and loved it not the less when it came from the lips of an accomplished lady. — " Madam," said he to Mrs. M'Murdo, "your praise has ballooned me up Parnassus." — " My merit is not all my own," he said to Bobert Aiken of Ayr, " for you have read me into reputation." He called onee on a certain Lord, in Edinburgh, and was shewn into the library. To amuse himself till his Lordship was at leisure, he took down a volume of Shakspeare, splendidly bound, and on opening it, discovered, from the gilding, that it had never been read ; also, that the worms were eating it through and through. Some dozen years afterwards, another visiter took down the same volume, and found the following lines pencilled by Barns on the first page : — "Through and through the inspired leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings ; But, oh ! respect his lordship's taste, And spare his golden bindirgs." [" Even to the ladies," says Lockhart, "when he suspected them of wishing to make a show of him, he could not help administering a little of his village discipline. A certain stately Peeress sent to invite him, while in Edinburgh, to her assembly, without, as he fancied, having sufficiently cultivated his acquaintance before- hand. His answer was : — t Mr. Burns will do himself the honour of waiting on the Countess of provided her Lordship will invite also the learned Pig/ — Such an animal was then exhibiting in the Grass-market of Edin- burgh."] Burns paid little deference to the artificial distinctions of society. On his way to Leith, one morning, he met a man in hoddin' grey — a west-country farmer ; he shook him earnestly by the hand, and stopt and conversed with him. All this was seen by a young Edinburgh blood, who took the poet roundly to task for this de- fect of taste. — " Why, you fantastic gomeral," said Burns, "it was not the grey coat, the scone -bonnet, and the Sanquhar boot-hose I spoke to, but. the man that was in them ; and tlic mail) Sir, for true worth, would weigh you and me, and ten more such, down any day." His discernment was great: when Scott was quite u lad he caught, the notice of the Poet, by Darning the author of some verses describing a soldier hrine dead on the snow. Burns re- garded the future minstrel with sparkling eyes, and said, "Young man, you have begun to consider these things early." He paused on seeing Scott's flushing face — shook him by the hand, saying in a deep tone, " This boy will be heard of yet." Speaking one day of his own poetry, Burns said, "I have much to answer for: my success in rhyme has produced a shoal of ill-spawned monsters who imagine, because they make words clink, they are poets. It requires a will-o'- wisp to pass over the quicksands and quagmires of the Scottish dialect. I am spunkie — they follow me, and sink." On hearing a gentleman sneering at the Solemn League and Covenant, and calling it ridiculous and fanatical, the Poet eyed him across the table, and exclaimed, "The Solemn League and Covenant Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears — But it sealed Freedom's sacred cause : — If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers." Of the farm of Ellisland, when some one said it was good ground, Burns answered, " And so it is, save what is composed of stones. It is not land, Sir ; it is the riddlings of the creation !" While he was at Moffat once with Clarke the composer, the Poet called for a bumper of brandy. — " Oh, not a bumper," said the mu- sician — " I prefer two small glasses." — " Two glasses!" cried Burns, "why, you are like the lass in Kyle, who said she would rather be kissed twice bare-headed than once with her bonnet on." At the table of Maxwell of Ter» raughty, when one of the guests chose to talk of the Dukes and Earls with whom he had drunk or dined, Burns silenced him with an epigram : — " What of earls with whom you have supt, And of dukes that you dined with yestreen ? Lord ! an insect's an insect at most, Though it crawl on the curls of a queen." On one occasion, being storm-stayed at Lam- ington in Clydesdale, he went to church, but was so little pleased with the preacher and the place, that he left the following poetic record on the church- window : — " As cauld a wind as ever blew, A caulder kirk, and in't but few ; As cauld a minister 's e'er spak, Ye'se a' be het ere I come back." [" Sir Walter Scott," says Lockhart, " pos- sessed a tumbler, on which were the following verses, written by Burns on the arrival of a friend, Mr. W. Stewart, factor to a gentleman of Nithsdale. The landlady being very wroth at what she considered the disfigurement of her glass, a gentleman present appeased her by paying down a shilling, and carried off the relic : — " You're welcome, Willie Stewart, You're welcome, Willie Stewart ; There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May That's half sac welcome 's thou art. BURNS, AS A POET. 135 " Come, bumpers high, express your joy, The bowl we maun renew it ; The tappit-hen gae bring her ben To welcome Willie Stewart. " May foes be straing, and friends be slack, Ilk action may he rue it ; May woman on him turn her back That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart ! ' '] " I dined with Burns," said Mrs. Basil Montagu, " at Arbigland : he was witty ; drank as others drank ; and was long in coming to the tea- table. It was then the fashion for young ladies to be busy about something — I was working a flower. The Poet sat down beside me, talked of the beauty of what I was imitating, and put his hand so near the work, that I said, ' Well, take it, and do a bit yourself.' — ' O, ho ! ' said he, ' you think my hand is unsteady with wine. I cannot work a flower, madam ; but — ■ he pulled the thread out of the needle, and re- threaded it in a moment — ' can a tipsy man do that?' He talked to me of his children, more particularly of his eldest son, and called him a promising boy — ' And yet, madam/ he said, with a sarcastic glance of his eye, ' I hope he will turn out a glorious blockhead, and so make his fortune.'" Burns assumed, as well he might, the title of Poet : he was none of those who insult the taste of their admirers by depre- ciating the merit of their own works : on one of his books, in my possession, there is written, in his own rough, free, manly hand, " Robert Burns, Poet ; " an imitation of this is added to the admirable portrait which embellishes this edition. On the collar of a favourite dog- he had the same words engraven. As a poet, Burns stands in the first rank : his conceptions are original ; his thoughts new and weighty ; his manner unborrowed 5 and even his language is his own. He owes no honour to his subjects, for they are all of an ordinary kind, such as humble life around him presented : he sought neither in high station nor in history for matter to his muse, and yet all his topics are simple, natural, and to be found without research. The Scottish bards, who preceded him, selected subjects which ob- tained notice from their oddity, and treated them in a way singular and outre. The verses of the first and fifth James, as well as those of Ramsay and Fergusson, are chiefly a succession of odd and ludicrous pictures, as true as truth itself, and no more. To their graphic force of delineation Burns added sentiment and passion, and an elegant tenderness and simplicity. He took topics familiar to all ; the Daisy grew on the lands he ploughed ; the Mouse built her nest on his own stubble-field ; the Haggis smoked on his own board ; the Scotch Drink whieh he sung was distilled on the banks of Doon ; the Dogs that conversed so wittily and wisely were his own collies; Tam O'Shanter was a merry husbandman of bis own acquaint- ance ; and even the " De'il himself" was fa- miliar to all, and had often alarmed, by his eldritch croon, and the marks of his cloven foot, the pastoral people of Kyle. Burns was the first who taught the world that in lowly sub- jects high poetry resided. Touched by him, they were lifted at once into the regions of in- spiration. His spirit ascended into an humble topic, as the sap of spring ascends a tree to en- dow it with beauty and fragrance. Burns is our chief national Poet ; he owes nothing of the structure of his verse or of the materials of his poetry to other lands — he is the offspring of the soil ; he is as natural to Scot- land as the heath is to her hills, and all his brightness, like our nocturnal Aurora, is of the north. Nor has he taken up fleeting themes ; his song is not of the external manners and changeable affectations of man — it is of the human heart — of the mind's hopes and fears, and of the soul's aspirations. Others give us the outward form and pressure of society — the court-costume of human nature — the laced la- pelle and the epauletted shoulder. He gives us flesh and blood ; all he has he holds in common with mankind, yet all is national and Scottish. We can see to whom other bards have looked up for inspiration — like fruit of the finest sort, they smack of the stock on which they were grafted. Burns read Young, Thomson, Shen- stone, and Shakspeare ; yet there is nothing of Young, Thomson, Shenstone, or Shakspeare about him ; nor is there much of the old bal- lad. His light is of nature, like sunshine, and not reflected. When, in after life, he tried imitation, his " Epistle to Graham of Fintray " shewed satiric power and polish little inferior to Dryden. He is not only one of the truest and best of Scottish Poets, but, in ease, fire, and passion, he is second to none save Shakspeare. I know of no one besides, whose verse flows forth so sparkling and spontaneous. On the lines of other bards we see marks of care and study — now and then they are happy, but they are as often elaborated out and brightened like a key by frequent handling. Burns is seldom or never so — he wrote from the impulse of nature — lie wrote because his passions raged like so many demons till they got vent in rhyme. Others sit and solicit the muse, like a coy mistress, to be kind ; she came to Burns " unsent for," like the "bonnie lass" in the song, and showered her favours freely. The strength was equal to the harmony ; rugged westlin words were taken from the lips of the weaver and the ploughman, and adorned with melody and feeling ; and familiar phrases were picked up from shepherds and mechanics, and rendered as musical as Apollo's lute. — " I can think of no verse since Shakspeare's," said Pitt to Henry Addington, "which comes so sweetly and at once from 136 LIFE OF BURNS. nature. ' Out of the eater came forth meat :' " — but the premier praised whom he starved. Burns was not a Poet by fits and starts ; the mercury of his genius stood always at the in- spired point ; like the fairy's drinking-cup, the fountain of his fancy was ever flowing and ever full. He had, it is true, set times and seasons when the fruits of his mind were more than usually abundant ; but the songs of spring were equal to those of summer — those of sum- mer were not surpassed by those of autumn ; the quantity might be different, the flavour and richness were ever the same. His variety is equal to his originality. His humour, his gaiety, his tenderness, and his pathos come all in a breath ; they come freely, for they come of their own accord ; nor are they huddled together at random, like doves and crows in a flock ; the contrast is never of- fensive ; the comic slides easily into the serious, the serious into the tender, and the tender into the pathetic. The witch's cup, out of which the wondering rustic drank seven kinds of wine at once, was typical of the muse of Burns. It is this which has made him welcome to all readers. — " No poet," says Scott, " with the exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discord- ant emotions with such rapid transitions." Notwithstanding the uncommon ease and natural elegance of his musings — the sweet and impassioned tone of his verse, critics have not been wanting who perceived in his works the humility of his origin. Yet his poems, I re- member well enough, were considered by many, at first, as the labours of some gentleman who assumed the rustic for the sake of indulging in satire ; their knowledge was reckoned beyond the reach, and their flights above the power, of a simple ploughman. Something of this belief may be seen in Mrs. Scott of Wauchope's letter ; and when it was known for a truth that the author was a ploughman, many lengthy discussions took place concerning the way in which the Poet had acquired his knowledge. Ayr race-course was pointed out as the likely BCenes of his studies of high life, where he ton nd what was graceful and elegant ! When Jeffrey wrote his depreciating criticism, he for- got that Burns had studied politeness in the \