^^BRARY 
 
 { SAND/EGO 
 
 
 presented to the 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA • SAN DIEGO 
 
 by 
 
 FRIENDS OF IIIF LIBRARY 
 
 Dr. Allan Dc Rosenblatt 
 
 donor
 
 PR 
 
 A3
 
 THE LETTERS OF ROBERT 
 BjJRNS, SELECTED AND 
 ARRANGED, WITH AN IN- 
 TRODUCTION, BY J. LOGIE 
 ROBERTSON. M.A. 
 
 " Vote shall write ivJiatever comes first, — what yoit see, ivhat 
 you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike ; 
 trijles, bagatelles, nonsense, or, to fill np a corner, e'en fut do^vu 
 a laugh at full length.''' — Burns. 
 
 ^^My life reminded 7ne of a ruined temple : what strength, 
 what proportion in so?ne parts! ivhat unsightly gaps, what 
 prostrate ruin in others I" ■ — Burns. 
 
 WALTER SCOTT 
 LONDON: 24 WARWICK LANE 
 
 PATERNOSTER ROW 
 1887
 
 INDEX. 
 
 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE- 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To Ellison or Alison Begbie (?)..,.,,! 
 To Ellison Begbie ...,,,,. 2 
 
 To Ellison Begbie ........ 4 
 
 To Ellison Begbie ........ 5 
 
 To Ellison Begbie ........ 6 
 
 To hia Father ......... 7 
 
 To Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., of Ballochmyle , . . .9 
 
 To Mr. John Murdoch, schoolmaster, Staples Inn Buildings, London 10 
 To his Cousin, Mr. James Burness, writer, Montrose . . .12 
 
 To Mr. James Burness, writer, Montrose , . . . .14 
 
 To Mr. James Burness, writer, Montrose . . . . .15 
 
 To Thomas Orr, Park, Kirkoswald . . . . . .17 
 
 To Miss Margaret Kennedy . , , . • . .17 
 
 To Miss , Ayrshire . . . . . . .18 
 
 To Mr. John Richmond, law clerk, Edinburgh . , . .19 
 
 To Mr. James Smith, shopkeeper, Mauchline . . . ,20 
 
 To Mr. Robert Muir, wine merchant, Kilmarnock . , .21 
 
 To Mr. John Ballantiiie, banker, Ayr . . . , .21 
 
 To Mr. M'Whinnie, writer, Ayr . . . , , .22 
 
 To John Arnot, Esquire, of Dalquatswood . . , .22 
 
 To Mr. David Brice, shoemaker, Glasgow . . . .25 
 
 To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh . . . . .27 
 
 To Mr. John Richmond . , . . . . .27 
 
 To Mr. John Kennedy ...... . . 28 
 
 To his Cousin, Mr. James Burness, writer, Montrose . . .29 
 
 To Mrs. Stewart, of Stair . . . , . . .30 
 
 To Mr. Robert Aikin, writer, Ayr . . . , . .31 
 
 To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline ; inclo.sing him verses on dining with 
 Lord Daer ....... ,33 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop . . . , , . ,34 
 
 To Miss Alexander . . . . . , . .35 
 
 In the N.ame of the Nine. Amen , . . , . .37 
 
 To James Dalrymple, Esquire, Orangefield. . . . .33 
 
 To Sir John Whitefoord . . . , . . .39 
 
 To Mr. Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline . . . . .40 
 
 To Mr. John Ballantine, banker, at one time Provost of Ayr . 41 
 
 To Mr. Robert Muir . , . . . . . .43 
 
 To Mr. William Chambers, writer, Ayr . . . . .43 
 
 To the Earl of Eghnton . . . . . , .44 
 
 To Mr. John Ballantine . ' . . . . . .45 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ......... 47 
 
 To Dr. Moore ......... 49 
 
 To the Rev. G. Lawrie, Newmilns, near Kilmarnock . . .60 
 
 To the Earl of Buchan . . . . . . , .51 
 
 To Mr. James Candlish, student in physic, Glasgow CoUege . . 53 
 
 To Mr. Peter .Stuart, Editor of "The Star," London . " . .54 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ,..,..... 55
 
 IV 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE— confinwefi— PAGE 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ,,...••■ 56 
 
 To Dr. Moore .,.,...■• 57 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ........ 58 
 
 To Mr. William Nicol, classical master, High School, Edinburgh . 58 
 
 To Mr. William Nicol 60 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie ....... 61 
 
 To Mr. James Smith, lanlithgow, formerly of Mauchhne , , 62 
 
 To Mr. John Richmond ....... 64 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie ....... 65 
 
 To Dr. Moore ......... 66 
 
 To Jlr. Archibald Lawrie . . , , . . .79 
 
 To Mr. Robert Muir, Kilmarnock ...... 80 
 
 To Mr. Gavin Hamilton . . . . . . .81 
 
 To Mr. Walker, Blair of Athnle ...... 83 
 
 To his Brother, Mr. Gilbert Burns, Mossgiel . ■ . .84 
 
 To Mr. Patrick Miller, Dalswinton ...... 85 
 
 To Rev. John Skinner ....... 86 
 
 To Miss Margaret Chalmers, Harvieston . . . . .88 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop House, Stewarton . . . ,89 
 
 To Mr. James Hoy, Gordon Castle . . . . . .90 
 
 To theEarlof Glencairn ....... 92 
 
 To Miss Chalmers ........ 93 
 
 To Miss Chalmers ........ 9* 
 
 To Miss Chalmers . . . . . . . .94 
 
 To Mr. Richard Brown, Irvine , . . . . .95 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ......... 96 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. . ,,..,. 97 
 
 To the Rev. John Skinner ....... 97 
 
 To Mrs. Rose, of Kilravock ...... 99 
 
 To Richard Brown, Greenock „..,.. 100 
 
 To Mr. William Cruikshank ....... 101 
 
 To Mr. Roliert Ainslie ....... 102 
 
 To Mr. Richard Brown ....... 103 
 
 To Mr. Robert Muir ... ..... 104 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ........ 105 
 
 To Mr. William Nicol (perhaps) . , . . .106 
 
 To Miss Chalmers . . . , . . , , 107 
 
 THE CLARINDA LETTERS 
 
 109 
 
 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE (Resumed)— 
 
 To Mr. Gavin Hamilton .... 
 
 To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S., Edinburgh 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 
 
 To Mr. James Smith, Avon Printfleld, Linlithgow 
 
 To Professor Dugald Stewart 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 
 
 To Mr. Samuel Brown, Kirkoswald 
 
 To Mr. James Johnson, engraver, Edinburgh 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie .... 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop, at Mr. Dunlop's, Haddington . 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie .... 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie .... 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 
 
 To Mr. Peter Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop ..... 
 
 157 
 157 
 159 
 160 
 161 
 161 
 162 
 163 
 163 
 164 
 165 
 1C6 
 168 
 170 
 172 
 174 
 175
 
 INDEX. 
 
 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE— contwmed^ 
 
 To lilx. Beugo, engraver, Edinburgh 
 
 To Mr. Robert Graham, of Fintry 
 
 To his Wife, at Mauchline . 
 
 To Miss Chalmers, Edinburgh 
 
 To Mr. Morison, wright, Mauchline 
 
 To Mrs. Dnnlop, of Dunlop . 
 
 To Mr. Peter Hill 
 
 To the Editor of the "Star" 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop, at Moreham Mains 
 
 To Dr. Blacklock 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mr. John Tennant 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Dr. Moore, London 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie 
 
 To Professor Diigald Stewart 
 
 To Mr. Robert Cleghorn, Saughton Mills 
 
 To Bishop Geddes, Edinbuigh 
 
 To Mr. James Burness 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mrs. IM'Lehose (formerly Clarinda) 
 
 To Dr. Moore .... 
 
 To his Brother, Mr. William Burns 
 
 To ISIr. Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh 
 
 To Mrs. M'Murdo, Drumlanrig 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham . 
 
 To Mr. Richard Brown 
 
 To Mr. Robert AinsUe 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Miss Helen Maria Williams 
 
 To Mr. Robert Graham, of Fintry . 
 
 To David Sillar, merchant, Irvine . 
 
 To Mr. John Logan, of Knock Shinnock 
 
 To Mr. Peter Stuart, editor, London 
 
 To his Brother, William Burns, saddler, Newcastle-on 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Captain Riddel, Friars Carse 
 
 To Mr. Robert Ainslie, W.S. 
 
 To Mr. Richard Brown, Port-Glasgow 
 
 To Mr. R. Graham, of Fintry 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Lady Winifred M. Constable 
 
 To Mr. Charles K. Sharpe, of Hoddam 
 
 To his Brother, Gilbert Burns, Mossgiel 
 
 To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunliip 
 
 To Mr. Peti^T Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh 
 
 To Mr. W. Nicol 
 
 To Mr. ("unningham, writer, Edinburgh 
 
 To Mr. Hill, bookseller, Edinburgh 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Dr. John Moore, London 
 
 To Mr. Murdoch, teacher of French, London 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham . 
 
 To Mr. Crauford Tait, W.S., Edinbuigh 
 
 To Mr.s. Dunlop 
 
 To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S. 
 
 To Mr. Peter Hill 
 
 To Dr. Moore .... 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop . . > 
 
 Tyne 
 
 PAGE 
 
 178 
 179 
 180 
 180 
 184 
 184 
 186 
 188 
 191 
 192 
 193 
 194 
 195 
 197 
 199 
 200 
 201 
 202 
 203 
 205 
 207 
 208 
 209 
 210 
 212 
 213 
 214 
 214 
 216 
 217 
 218 
 220 
 221 
 221 
 222 
 223 
 225 
 226 
 227 
 228 
 230 
 232 
 233 
 235 
 236 
 238 
 240 
 241 
 243 
 246 
 247 
 250 
 251 
 252 
 253 
 255 
 257 
 257 
 259 
 261
 
 VI 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE— contwwed— 
 
 To the Rev. Arch. Alison 
 
 To the Rev. G. Baird 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham, writer, Edinburgh 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham , 
 
 To Mr. Thomas 81oan 
 
 To Mr. Ainslie . 
 
 To Miss Davies . 
 
 To jNIrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mr. William Smellie, printer 
 
 To Mr. William Nicol 
 
 To Mr. Francis Grose, F.S.A. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham . 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mr. R. Oraham, Fintry . 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mr. Robert Graham, of Fintry 
 
 To Mr. Alex. Cunningham, W.S., Edinburgh 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham .... 
 
 To Miss Benson, York, afterwards Mrs. Basil Montagu 
 
 To Mr. John Francis Erskine, of Mar 
 
 To Miss M'Murdo, Drumlanrig 
 
 To John M'Murdo, Esq., Drumlanrig 
 
 To Mrs. Riddel 
 
 To Mrs. Riddel 
 
 To Mrs. Riddel 
 
 To Mrs. Riddel 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham . 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mr. James Johnson 
 
 To Mr. Peter Hill, Jun., of Dalswinton 
 
 To Mrs. Riddel 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop, in London 
 
 To the Hon. The Provost, etc., of Dumfri 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mr James Johnson 
 
 To Mr. Cunningham . 
 
 To Mr. Gilbert Burns 
 
 To Mrs. Burns 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 To Mr. James Bumess, writer, Montrose 
 
 To his Father-in-law, James Armour, mason, Mauchline 
 
 PAGK 
 
 262 
 263 
 261 
 265 
 266 
 268 
 269 
 270 
 272 
 273 
 275 
 276 
 279 
 281 
 285 
 286 
 287 
 2.^8 
 289 
 290 
 292 
 293 
 295 
 £96 
 299 
 300 
 300 
 300 
 301 
 301 
 302 
 304 
 305 
 306 
 307 
 308 
 310 
 311 
 312 
 312 
 313 
 314 
 315 
 315 
 316 
 316 
 
 THE THOMSON LETTERS 
 
 319
 
 BURNS'S LETTERS. 
 
 T is not perhaps generally known that the 
 prose of Burns exceeds in quantity his verse. 
 The world remembers him as a poet, and 
 forgets or overlooks his letters. His place 
 among the poets has never been denied — it is 
 in the first rank ; nor is he lowest, though 
 little remembered, among letter-writers. His letters gave Jeffrey 
 a higher opinion of him as a man than did his poetry, though 
 on both alike the critic saw the seal and impress of genius. 
 Dugald Stewart thought his letters objects of wonder scarcely 
 less than his poetry. And Robertson, comparing his prose with 
 his verse, thought the former the more extraordinary of the 
 two. In the popular view of his genius there is, however, no 
 denying the fact that his poetry has eclipsed his prose."^ 
 
 His prose consists mostly of letters, but it also includes a 
 noble fragment of autobiography ; three journals of observa- 
 tions made at Mossgiel, Edinburgh, and Ellisland respectively ; 
 two itineraries, the one of his border tour, the other of his tour 
 in the Highlands ; and historical notes to two collections of 
 Scottish songs. A full enumeration of his prose productions 
 would take account also of his masonic minutes, his inscrip- 
 tions, a rather curious business paper drawn up by the 
 poet-exciseman in prosecution of a smuggler, and of course his 
 various prefaces, notably the dedication of his poems to the 
 members of the Caledonian Hunt. 
 
 His letters, however, far exceed the sum of his other prose
 
 viii B URNS' S LETTERS. 
 
 writings. Close upon five hundred and forty have already been 
 published. These are not all the letters he ever wrote. Where, 
 for example, is the literary correspondence in which he 
 engaged so enthusiastically with his Kirkosvvald schoolfellows ? 
 " Though I had not three farthings' worth of business in the 
 world, yet every post brought me as many letters as if I had 
 been a broad-plodding son of daybook and ledger." Where 
 are the letters which brought to the ploughman at Lochlie such 
 a constant and copious stream of replies ? The circumstances 
 of his position will explain why they perished : he was then "a 
 youth and all unknown to fame." It is even doubtful if the 
 five hundred and forty published letters include all the letters 
 of Burns that now exist. Scarcely a year passes but some 
 epistolary scrap in the well-known handwriting is unearthed 
 and ceremoniously added to the previous sum total. And yet, 
 notwithstanding losses past or within recall, it is probable that 
 we have long had the whole of Burns's most characteristic 
 letters. It was inevitable that these should be preserved and 
 published. His fame was so rooted in the popular regard in 
 his lifetime, that a characteristic letter from his hand was sure 
 to be received as something singularly precious. It must not 
 be forgotten, however, that Burns's personality wa'^i so intense 
 as to colour the smallest fragment of his correspondence, and 
 it is on this account desirable that every note he penned that 
 yet remains unpublished should be produced. It might give 
 no new feature to our conception of his character ; but it 
 would help the shading — which, in the portraiture of any person, 
 must chiefly be furnished by the minor and more commonplace 
 actions of his everyday life. 
 
 The correspondence of Burns, as we have it, commences, 
 presumably, near the close of his twenty-second year, and 
 extends to all but exactly the middle of his thirty-eighth. The 
 dates are a day somewhere at the end of 1780, and Monday, 
 i8th July 1796. Between these limits lies the printed cor- 
 respondence of sixteen years. The sum total of this 
 correspondence allows about thirty-four letters to each year, 
 but the actual distribution is very unequal, ranging from the
 
 B URNS 'S LE TTERS. ix 
 
 minimum, in 1782, of one, a masonic letter addressed to Sir 
 John Whitefoord of Ballochmyle, to the maximum number of 
 ninety-two, in 1788, the great year of the Clarinda episode. It 
 is in 1786, the year of the pubHcation of his first volume at 
 Kilmarnock, the year of his literary birth, that his correspond- 
 ence first becomes heavy. It rises at a leap from two letters in 
 the preceding year to as many as forty-four. The phenomenal 
 increase is partly explained by the success of his poems. He 
 became a man that was worth the knowing, whose correspond- 
 ence was worth preserving. The six years of his published 
 correspondence previous to the discovery of his genius in 1786 
 are represented by only fourteen letters in all. But in those 
 years his letters, though both numerous and prized above the 
 common, were not considered as likely to be of future interest, 
 and were therefore suffered to live or die as chance might 
 determine. They mostly perished, the recipients thinking it 
 hardly worth their while to be sae nice wi' Robin as to preserve 
 them. 
 
 After the recognition of his power in 1786, the record of his 
 preserved letters shews, for the ten years of his literary life, 
 several fluctuations which admit of easy explanation. Com- 
 mencing with 1787, the numbers are : — 78, 92, 54, 33, 44, 31, 66, 
 30, 27, 24. The first of these years was totally severed from 
 rural occupations, or business of any kind, if we except the 
 publication of the first Edinburgh edition of his poems. It was 
 a complete holiday year to him. He was either resident in 
 Edinburgh, studying men and manners, or touring about the 
 country, visiting those places which history, song, or scenery 
 had made famous. Wherever he was, his fame brought him 
 the acquaintance of a great many new people. His leisure and 
 the novelty of his situation afforded him both opportunity and 
 subject for an extensive correspondence. For a large part of 
 the next year, 17S8, he was similarly circumstanced, and the 
 number of his letters was exceptionally increased by his 
 entanglement with Mrs. M'Lehose. To her alone, in less than 
 three months of this year, he wrote at least thirty-six letters, — 
 considerably over one-third of the entire epistolary produce of
 
 X B URNS 'S LE TTERS. 
 
 the year. In 1789 we find the number of his letters fall to 
 fifty-four. This was, perhaps, the happiest year of his life. He 
 was now comfortably established as a farmer in a home of his 
 own, busied with healthy rural work, and finding in the happy 
 fireside clime which he was making for wife and weans " the 
 true pathos and sublime " of human duty. He has still, how- 
 ever, time and inclination to write on the average one letter a 
 week. For each of the next three years the average number is 
 thirty-six. In 1793 the number suddenly goes up to sixty-six : 
 the increase is due to the heartiness with which he took up the 
 scheme of Gearge Thomson to popularise and perpetuate the 
 best old Scottish airs by fitting them with words worthy of 
 their merits. He wrote, in this year, twenty-six letters in 
 support of the scheme. 
 
 There is a sad falling off in Burns's ordinary correspondence 
 in the last three years of his life. The amount of it scarcely 
 touches twenty letters per year. Even the correspondence 
 with Thomson, though on a subject so dear to the heart of 
 Burns, rousing at once both his patriotism and his poetry, sinks 
 to about ten letters per year, and is irregular at that. Burns 
 was losing hope and health, and caring less and less for the 
 world's favour and the world's friendships. He had lost largely 
 in self-respect as well as in the respect of friends. The loss 
 gave him little heart to write. 
 
 Burns's correspondents, as far as we know them, numbered 
 over a hundred and fifty persons. The number is large and 
 significant. Neither Gray, nor Cowper, nor Byron commanded 
 so wide a circle. They had not the far-reaching sympathies of 
 Burns. They were all more or less fastidious in their choice of 
 correspondents. Burns, on the contrary, was as catholic, or as 
 careless, in his friendships as his own Ccssar — who 
 
 " Wad spend an hour caressin' 
 Ev'n wi' a tinkler gipsy's messan. " 
 
 He moved freely up and down the whole social scale, blind to 
 the imaginary distinctions of blood and title and the extrinsic
 
 B URNS 'S LE TTERS. xi 
 
 differences of wealth, seeing true superiority in an honest 
 manly heart, and bearing himself wherever he found it as an 
 equal and a brother. His correspondents were of every social 
 grade — peers and peasants ; of every intellectual attainment — 
 philosophers like Dugald Stewart, and simple swains like 
 Thomas Orr ; and of almost every variety of calling, from 
 professional men of recognised eminence to obscure shop- 
 keepers, cottars, and tradesmen. They include servant-girls, 
 gentlewomen, and ladies of titled rank ; country schoolmasters 
 and college professors ; men of law of all degrees, from poor 
 John Richmond, a plain law-clerk with a lodging in the Lawn- 
 market, to the Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean of the 
 Faculty ; farmers, small and large ; lairds, large and small ; 
 shoemakers and shopkeepers ; ministers, bankers, and doctors ; 
 printers, booksellers, editors ; knights, earls — nay, a duke ; 
 factors and wine-merchants ; army officers, and officers of 
 Excise. His female correspondents were women of superior 
 intelligence and accomplishments. They can lay claim to a 
 large proportion of his letters. Mrs. M'Lehose takes forty- 
 eight ; Mrs. Dunlop, forty-two ; Maria Riddell, eighteen ; 
 Peggy Chalmers, eleven. These four ladies received among 
 them rather more than one-fourth of the whole of his published 
 correspondence. No four of his male correspondents can be 
 accredited with so many, even though George Thomson for his 
 individual share claims fifty-six. 
 
 It is rather remarkable that so few of the letters are addressed 
 to his own relatives. His cousin, James Burness of Montrose, 
 and his own younger brother William receive, indeed, ten and 
 eight respectively ; but to his otlier brother Gilbert, with whom he 
 was on the most affectionate and confidential terms, there fall but 
 three ; to his wife only two ; one to his father ; and none to either 
 his sisters or his mother. A maternal uncle, Samuel Brown, is 
 favoured with one — if, indeed, the old man was not scandalised 
 with it — and there are two to James Armour, mason in Mauch- 
 line, his somewhat stony-hearled father-in-law. 
 
 Burns's letters exhibit quite as much variety of mood — 
 seldom, of course, so picturesquely conveyed as his poems
 
 xii B URNS *S LE TTERS. 
 
 He is, in promiscuous alternation, refined, gross, sentimental, 
 serious, humorous, indignant, repentant, dignified, vulgar, 
 tender, manly, sceptical, reverential, rakish, pathetic, sympa- 
 thetic, satirical, playful, pitiably self-abased, mysteriously self- 
 exalted. His letters are confessions and revelations. They 
 are as sincerely and spontaneously autobiographical of his 
 inner life as the sacred lyrics of David the Hebrew. They 
 were indited with as much free fearless abandonment. The 
 advice he gave to young Andrew to keep something to himsel', 
 not to be told even to a bosom crony, was a maxim of worldly 
 prudence which he himself did not practice. He did not " reck 
 his own rede." And, though that habit of unguarded expression 
 brought upon him the wrath and revenge of the Philistines, and 
 kept him in material poverty all his days, yet, prompted as it 
 always was by sincerity, and nearly always by absolute truth, it 
 has made the manhood of to-day richer, stronger, and nobler. 
 The world to-day has all the more the courage of its opinions 
 that Burns exercised as a right the freedom of sincere and 
 enlightened speech — and suffered for his bravery. 
 
 The subjects of his letters are numerous, and, to a pretty 
 large extent, of much the same sort as the subjects of his 
 poems. Often, indeed, you have the anticipation of an image 
 or a sentiment which his poetry has made familiar. You have 
 a glimpse of green buds which afterwards unfold into fragrance 
 and colour. This is an interesting connection, of which one or 
 two examples may be given. So early as 1781 he wrote to 
 Alison Begbie — "Once you are convinced I am sincere, I am 
 perfectly certain you have too much goodness and humanity to 
 allow an honest man to languish in suspense only because he 
 loves you too well." Alison Begbie becomes Mary Morison, 
 and the sentiment, so elegantly turned in prose for her, is thus 
 melodiously transmuted for the lady-loves of all languishing 
 lovers — 
 
 " O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 
 Wha for thy sake would gladly dee, 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his 
 Wha's only faut is loving thee ?
 
 BURNS'S LETTERS. xiii 
 
 If love for love thou wiltna gie. 
 
 At least be pity on me shown ; 
 A thocht ungentle canna be 
 
 The thocht o' Mary Morison ! " 
 
 Again, in the first month of 1783 he writes to Murdoch, the 
 schoolmaster — "I am quite indolent about those great concerns 
 that set the bustling busy sons of care agog ; and if I have 
 wherewith to answer for the present hour, I am very easy with 
 regard to anything further. Even the last worst shift of the 
 unfortunate and wretched does not greatly terrify me." Just 
 one year later this sentiment was sent current in the well-known 
 stanza concluding — 
 
 " But, Davie lad, ne'er fash your head 
 Though we hae little gear ; 
 We're fit to win our daily bread 
 As Ling's we're hale an' fier ; 
 Mair speer na, nor fear na : 
 
 Auld age ne'er mind a fig ; 
 The last o't, the warst o't, 
 Is only for to beg ! " 
 
 Again, in the letter last referred to occurs the passage—" I am 
 a strict economist, not indeed for the sake of the money, but 
 one of the principal parts in my composition is a kind of pride, 
 and I scorn to fear the face of any man living. Above every- 
 thing I abhor as hell the idea of sneaking into a corner to avoid 
 a dun." This is metrically rendered, in May 1786, in the 
 following lines : — 
 
 ' ' To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 
 
 Assiduous wait upon her, 
 And gather gear by every wile » 
 
 That's justified by honour ; — 
 Not for to hide it in a hedge, 
 
 Nor for a train attendant, 
 But for the glorious privilege 
 
 Of being independent."
 
 xiv B URNS' S LE TTERS. 
 
 It would be easy to multiply examples : he is jostled in his 
 letters by market-men before he is " hog-shouthered and 
 jundied " by them in his verse ; and the legends of Alloway 
 Kirk are narrated in a letter to Grose before the immortal tale 
 of Tam o'Shanter is woven for The Antiquities of Scotlattd. 
 
 There is nothing morbid or narrow in Burns's letters. They 
 are frank and healthy. You can spend a day over them, and 
 feel at the end of it as if you had been wandering at large 
 through the freedom of nature. They seem to have been 
 written in the open air. The first condition necessary to an 
 appreciative understanding of them is to concern yourself with 
 the sentiment. And, indeed, the strength and sincerity of the 
 sentiment by-and-by draw you away to oblivion of the style, 
 however much it may at first strike you as redundant and 
 affected. They are not the letters of a literary man. They 
 have nothing suggestive of the studious chamber and the mid- 
 night lamp. There is often a narrowness of idea in the merely 
 literary man which limits his auditory to men of his peculiar 
 pattern. To this narrowness Burns, with all his faults of style, 
 was a stranger. His letters are the utterances of a man who 
 refused to be imprisoned in any single department of human 
 thought. He was no specialist, pinned to one standpoint, and 
 making the width of the world commensurate with the narrow- 
 ness of his own horizon. He moved about, he looked abroad ; 
 he had no pet subject, no restricted field of study ; nature and 
 human nature in their multitudinous phases and many retreats 
 were his range, and he expressed his views as freely and 
 vigorously as he took them. 
 
 The general tone of the letters is high. The subject is not 
 seldom of supreme interest. Questions are discussed which 
 are rarely discussed in ordinary correspondence. The writer 
 rises above creeds and formularies and arbitrarily established 
 rule. He speculates on a theology beyond the bounds of 
 Calvinism, on a philosophy of the soul above the dialectics of 
 the schoolmen, on a morality at variance with conventional law. 
 He interrogates the intuitions of the mind and the intimations 
 of nature in order that, if possible, he may learn something of
 
 BUJiNS'S LETTERS. xv 
 
 the soul's origin, destiny, and supremest duty. But let us hear 
 himself: — 
 
 {a) " I have ever looked on mankind in the lump to be 
 nothing better than a foolish, head-strong, credulous, unthinking 
 mob ; and their universal belief has ever had extremely little 
 weight with me. ... I am drawn by conviction like a Man, 
 not by a halter like an Ass." 
 
 {b) " ' On Earth Discord ! A gloomy Heaven above opetiing 
 its jealous gates to the nineteen-thousandth part of the tithe of 
 mankind ! And below an inexorable Hell expanding its 
 leviatha7i jaws for the vast residue of mortals/' O doctrine 
 comfortable and healing to the weary wounded soul of man ! 
 Ye sons and daughters of affliction, to whom day brings no 
 pleasure and night yields no rest, be comforted ! 'Tis one to 
 but nineteen hundred thousand that your situation will mend in 
 this world, and 'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the 
 dogmas of theology, that you will be damned eternally in the 
 world to come." 
 
 {c) "A pillar that bears us up amid the wreck of misfortune 
 and misery is to be found in those feelings and sentiments 
 which, however the sceptic may deny or the enthusiast disfigure 
 them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of 
 the human soul ; those senses of the mind, if I may be allowed 
 the expression, which link us to the awful obscure realities of an 
 all-powerful and equally beneficent God and a world-to-come 
 beyond death and the grave." 
 
 {d) "Can it be possible that when I resign this frail, feverish 
 being I shall still find myself in conscious existence ? . . . Shall 
 I yet be warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed "i 
 Ye venerable Sages and holy Flamens, is there probability in 
 your conjectures, truth in your stories, of another world beyond 
 death, or are they all alike baseless visions and fabricated 
 fables ? If there is another life, it must only be 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 
 believed it as I ardently wish it ! , . . Jesus Christ, thou 
 amiablest of characters ! I trust thou art no impostor. ... I
 
 xvi BURNS'S LETTERS. 
 
 trust that in Thee shall all the families of the earth be 
 blessed." 
 
 {e) "From the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as 
 from the evident imperfections in the administration of affairs, 
 in both the natural and moral worlds, there must be a retributive 
 scene of existence beyond the grave." 
 
 {/) " I never hear the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a 
 summer's noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey 
 plover in an autumn morning, without feeling an elevation of 
 soul like the enthusiasm of Devotion or Poetry. Tell me, my 
 dear friend, to what can this be owing } Are we a piece of 
 machinery, that, like the ^Eolian harp, passive, takes the im- 
 pression of the passing accident .'' Or do these workings argue 
 something within us above the trodden clod?" 
 
 {g) " Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity between our 
 wishes and our powers ? Why is the most generous wish to 
 make others blest, impotent and ineffectual .''.,. Out upon 
 the world ! say I, that its affairs are administered so ill." 
 
 {h) " At first glance, several of your propositions startled me 
 as paradoxical. That the martial clangour of a trumpet had 
 something in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime than the 
 twingle-twangle of a jew's-harp ; that the delicate flexure of a 
 rose-twig, when the half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of 
 the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant than the 
 upright stub of a burdock ; and that, from something innate 
 and independent of all associations of ideas — these I had set 
 down as irrefragable orthodox truths."* 
 
 (?) " O, I could curse circum.stances, and the coarse tie of 
 human laws which keeps fast what common-sense would loose, 
 and which bars that happiness it cannot give — happiness which 
 otherwise love and honour would warrant !" 
 
 {j) " If there is no man on earth to whom your heart and 
 affections are justly due, 't may savour of imprudence, but 
 never of criminality, to bestow that heart and those affections 
 where you please. The God of love meant and made those 
 delicious attachments to be bestowed on somebody." 
 * This is really the exposure of an absurdity.
 
 BUBNS'S LETTERS. xvii 
 
 The inequalities of fortune, the pleasures of friendship, the 
 miseries of poverty, the glories of independence, the privileges 
 of wealth allied to generosity, the sin of ingratitude, and similar 
 topics, are continually recurring to prove the elevation at which 
 his spirit usually soared and surveyed mankind. It has been 
 charged against him* that these subjects were not the food of 
 his daily contemplation, but were lugged into his letters for the 
 sake of effect, and that their clumsy introduction was frequently 
 apologised for by the complaint that the writer had nothing else 
 to write about. The frequent apologies here spoken of will be 
 hard to find, and the critic's only reason for advancing the 
 charge, for which he would fain find support in the fancied 
 apologies of Burns, is that many of the letters "relate neither 
 to facts nor feelings peculiarly connected with the author or his 
 correspondent." This only means that a very large proportion 
 of Burns's letters are not like the letters of ordinary men, and 
 therefore do not satisfy the critic's idea or definition of a letter. 
 They treat of themes that are not specially a propos of passing 
 events, and therefore they are forced and affected. Few are 
 likely to be imposed upon by such shallow reasoning Another 
 critict avers that " while Burns says nothing of difficulties at 
 all, he yet leaves an admirable letter, out of nothing, in your 
 hands ! " We may pit the one critic against the other, and so 
 leave them, while we peruse the letters, and form an opinion 
 for ourselves. 
 
 ^ While both the verse and the prose of Burns are revelations, 
 his letters reveal more than his poems the failings and frailties 
 of the man. ills poems, taken altogether, shew him at his best, 
 as we wish to — and as we mainly do — remember him ; a man 
 to be loved, admired, even envied, and by no means pitied, for 
 his soul, though often vexed with the irritations incidental to 
 an obscure and toiling lot, has a strength and buoyancy which 
 readily raise it to divine altitudes, where it might well be 
 content to see and smile at the petty class distinctions and the 
 paltry social tyranny from which those irritations chiefly spring. 
 His letters, on the other hand, present him to us less frequently 
 
 ♦ By Jeffrey. t Dr. Ilalely Waddell. 
 
 b
 
 xviii B URNS' S LETTERS. 
 
 on those commanding altitudes. He is oftener careful and 
 concerned about many things, groping occasionally in the 
 world's ways for the world's gifts, and handicapped in the 
 struggle for them by a contemptuous and half-hearted adoption 
 of the world's methods of winning them. 
 
 The same personality that stands forth in the poems is 
 everywhere present in all essential features in the letters. 
 We have in the latter the same view of life, present and 
 future ; the same fierce contentment with honest poverty ; the 
 same aggressive independency of manhood ; the same 
 patriotism, susceptibility to female loveliness, love of sociality^ 
 undaunted likes and dislikes. The humour is the same, though 
 often too elaborately expressed.* In one important respect, 
 however, his letters fail to reflect that image of him which 
 his poetry presents. It is remarkable that his descriptions 
 of rural nature, and one might add of rustic life, so full 
 and plentiful in his verse, are so few and slight in his 
 letters. He seems to have reserved these descriptions for 
 his verse. 
 
 The best, because the most genuine, biography of Burns is 
 furnished by his own writings. His letters will, if carefully 
 studied, disprove many of the positions taken up so confidently 
 by would-be interpreters of his history. It is not the purpose 
 of this discursive paper to take up the details of the Clarinda 
 episode ; but philandering is scarcely the word by which to 
 describe the mutual relations of the lovers. As for Mrs. 
 M'Lehose, the severest thing that can with justice be said against 
 her is that, if she maintained her virtue, she endangered her re- 
 putation. One remarkable position taken up by a recent writert 
 on the subject of Burns's amours is, that he never really loved 
 any woman, and least of all Jean Armour. The letters would 
 rather warrant the converse of his statement. They go to prove 
 that while Burns's affections were more than oriental in their 
 
 * See, for example, the Cheese Letter to Peter Hill, or the Snail' $• 
 horns Letter to Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 t Mr. R. L. Stevenson.
 
 B URNS 'S LE TTERS. xix 
 
 strength and liberality, they were especially centred upon Jean. 
 He felt " a miserable blank in his heart with want of her ;" "a 
 rooted attachment for her ; " " had no reason on her part to rue 
 his marriage with her ; " and "never saw where he could have 
 made it better." If Burns was never really in love, it is more 
 than probable that the whole world has been mistaking some 
 other passion for it. It is this same writer who in one breath 
 speaks of Burns philandering with Clarinda, and yet declaring 
 his attachment to her in the best songs he ever wrote. Another 
 error which the letters should correct is the belief expressed 
 in some quarters that Burns was no longer capable of produ- 
 cing poetry after his fatal residence in Edinburgh. It was, as a 
 matter of fact, subsequent to his residence in Edinburgh that he 
 wrote the poems for which he is now, and for which he will be 
 longest, famous — namely, his songs. The writer already referred 
 to compares the composition of these songs to the carving of 
 cherry-stones. They were, he says in effect, the amusement of 
 a man who could do nothing better in literature ! The world 
 has agreed that they are the best things Burns has done ; and 
 rates him for their sake in the highest rank of its poets. The 
 truth is that Burns came to Ellisland with numerous schemes 
 of future poetical work, vigorous hopes of carrying some of 
 them, and an inspiration and faculty of utterance unimpaired. 
 It was in Dumfriesshire that he composed the most tenderly 
 and melodiously seraphic of his lyrics — " To Mary in Heaven " 
 and "Highland Mary ;" the most powerful and popular of his 
 narrative poems — " Tam O' Shanter ;" the first of all patriotic 
 odes — " Bruce's Address to his Army " ; and the noblest mani- 
 festo of the rights and hopes of manhood — " A Man's a Man 
 for a' that." 
 
 With one word on his style as a prose-writer this short paper 
 must close. The most diverse opinions have been uttered on 
 the subject. The critics trip up each other with charming 
 independency. To Jeffrey they seemed to be " all composed as 
 exercises and for display." Carlyie declared that they were 
 written "for the most part with singular force and even graceful- 
 ness," and that when Burns wrote " to trusted friends on real
 
 XX B URNS' S LETTERS. 
 
 interests, his style became simple, vigorous, expressive, some- 
 times even beautiful." Dr. Waddell prefers him to Covvper and 
 Byron as a letter-writer. Scott, while allowing passages of great 
 eloquence, found in the letters " strong marks of affectation, 
 with a tincture of pedantry." Taine thinks " Burns brought 
 ridicule on himself by imitating the men of the academy and the 
 court." Lockhart thought, with Walker, that " he accommodated 
 his style to the tastes" of his correspondents. And so on. 
 
 It is worth while to learn from Burns himself what he thought 
 of his talent for prose-composition. And in the first place it is 
 to be noted that he practised prose-composition before he took 
 to poetry. At sixteen he was carrying on an extensive literary 
 correspondence, which was virtually a competition in essay- 
 writing. He kept copies of the letters he liked best, and was 
 flattered to find that he was superior to his correspondents. He 
 studied the essayists of Queen Anne's time, and formed his style 
 upon theirs, and that of their most distinguished followers. 
 Steele, Addison, Swift, Sterne, and Mackenzie vi'ere his models. 
 He liked their rounded sentences, and caught their conventional 
 phrases. He found delight in imitating them. He volunteered 
 his services with the pen on behalf of his fellow-swains. He 
 became the "Complete Letter-Writer" of his parish, and was 
 proud of his function and his faculty. He was aware of his 
 "abilities at a billet-doux." To the very last he had a high 
 opinion of himself as a writer of letters. He speaks of one letter 
 being in his " very best manner;" and of waiting for an hour of 
 inspiration to write another that should be as good. He re- 
 tained copies of about thirty of his longer letters, and had them 
 bound for preservation. 
 
 The most serious, almost the only charge brought against 
 the prose style of Burns is the charge of affectation more or 
 less occasional. All the earlier critics make it or imply it, and 
 with such an apparent show of proof that it has generally been 
 believed. Later critics, while unable to deny the feature of his 
 style which so looks like affectation, have explained it to such 
 good effect as to make it appear a beauty ; they have asked us 
 to regard it as the happy result of a sympathetic mind adapting
 
 BURNS'S LE TTERS. xxi 
 
 itself to the object of its address. This looks very like blaming 
 Burns's correspondents for the badness of his style. There is 
 some truth in the explanation, putting it even so extremely. 
 But when this allowance is made, there still remains a wide and 
 well-marked difference between his use of English prose and 
 his mastery of Scottish verse. The latter is complete — it is the 
 mastery of an originator of style. The former, on the other 
 hand, is the attainment of a clever pupil when the sentiment is 
 commonplace; when it is deep and vehement, it is often, in the 
 language of Carlyle, "the effort of a man to express something 
 which he has no organ fit for expressing." Common people, to 
 whom niceties of style are unknown, and who read primarily 
 or exclusively for the sake of the matter, perceive nothing of 
 this affectation, and think scarcely less highly of Burns's 
 letters than they do of his poetry. 
 
 J. LOGIE ROBERTSON. 
 
 7 LOCKHARTON TeRRACE, 
 
 Slatefokd, Edinburgh.
 
 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE.
 
 LETTERS, 
 
 I. — To Ellison or Allson Begbie (?) 
 
 What you may think of this letter when you see the name 
 that subscribes it I cannot know ; and perhaps I ought to 
 make a long preface of apologies for the freedom I am 
 going to take ; but as my heart means no offence, but, on the 
 contrary, is rather too warmly interested in your favour, — for 
 that reason I hope you will forgive me when I tell you that 
 I most sincerely and affectionately love you. I am a 
 
 stranger in these matters, A , as I assure you that you 
 
 are the first woman to whom I ever made such a 
 declaration ; so I declare I am at a loss how to proceed. 
 
 I have more than once come into your company with a 
 resolution to say what I have just now told you ; but my 
 resolution always failed me, and even now my heart 
 trembles for the consequence of what I have said. I hope, 
 
 my dear A , you will not despise me because I am 
 
 ignorant of the flattering arts of courtship : I hope my inex- 
 perience of the work will plead for me. I can only say I 
 sincerely love you, and there is nothing on earth I so 
 ardently wish for, or that could possibly give me so much 
 liappiness, as one day to see you mine. 
 
 I think you cannot doubt my sincerity, as I am sure that 
 whenever I see you my very looks betray me : and when 
 once you arc convinced I am sincere, I am perfectly certain 
 you have too much goodness and humanity to allow an 
 honest man to langin'sh in suspense only because he loves 
 
 420
 
 2 LETTERS. 
 
 you too well. And I am certain that in such a state of 
 anxiety as I myself at present feel, an absolute denial would 
 be a much preferable state.* 
 
 II. — To Ellison Begbie. 
 
 [LocHLiE, 1780.] 
 
 My Dear E., — I do not remember, in the course of your 
 acquaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on 
 the ordinary way of falling in love, amongst people in our 
 station in life ; I do not mean the persons who proceed in 
 the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really placed 
 on the person. 
 
 Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward 
 lover myself, yet, as I have some opportunities of observing 
 the conduct of others who are much better skilled in the 
 affair of courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to 
 lucky chance, more than to good management, that there 
 are not more unhappy marriages than usually are. 
 
 It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance 
 of, the females, and customary for him to keep them com- 
 pany when occasion serves ; some one of them is more 
 agreeable to him than the rest ; there is something, he 
 knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her 
 company. This I take to be what is called love with the 
 greater part of us ; and I must own, my dear E., it is a 
 hard game such a one as you have to play when you meet 
 with such a lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, 
 and yet though you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in 
 
 * The original MS. of the foregoing letter is the property of John 
 Adam, Esquire, Greenock, and the letter was first published in 1878. 
 If it is a genuine love-letter, and not a mere exercise in love-letter 
 writing, it was probably the first of the short series to Alison Begbie, 
 who is supposed to have been the daughter of a small farmer, and who 
 has been identified with the Mary Morison of the well-known lyric. 
 The sentiment of the last paragraph of the letter agrees with the 
 sentiment of the last stanza of the song.
 
 LETTERS. 3 
 
 a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same un- 
 accountable fancy may make him as distractedly fond of 
 another, whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware that per- 
 haps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you 
 may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the 
 passion I have professed for you is perhaps one of those 
 transient flashes I have been describing ; but I hope, my 
 dear E., you will do me the justice to believe me, when I 
 assure you that ihe love I have for you is founded on the 
 sacred principles of virtue and honour, and by consequence 
 so long as you continue possessed of those amiable qualities 
 which first inspired my passion for j^ou, so long must I con- 
 tinue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love like this 
 alone which can render the marriage state happy. People 
 may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please, and 
 a warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, may make 
 them feel something like what they describe ; but sure I 
 am the nobler faculties of the mind with kindred feelings of 
 the heart can only be the foundation of friendship, and it 
 has always been my opinion that the married life was only 
 friendship in a more exalted degree. 
 
 If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it 
 should please Providence to spare us to tl'iC latest periods of 
 life, I can look forward and see that, even then, though 
 bent down with wrinkled age — even then, when all other 
 worldly circumstances will be indifferent to me, I will regard 
 my E. with the tenderest affection, and for this plain reason, 
 because she is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- 
 proved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my 
 affection for her. 
 
 O ! happy state, when souls each other draw, 
 Where love is liberty, and nature law. 
 
 I know, were I to speak in such a style to many a girl, 
 who thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she 
 would think it ridiculous — but the language of the heart is, 
 my dear E., the only courtship I shall ever use to you. 
 
 When I look over what I have written. T am sensible it is
 
 4 LETTERS. 
 
 vastly different from the ordinary style of courtship — but I 
 shall make no apology — I know your good nature will 
 excuse what your good sense may see amiss. 
 
 III. — To Ellison Begbie. 
 
 [LocHLiE, 1780.] 
 
 ' I VERILY believe, my dear E., that the pure genuine feel- 
 ings of love are as rare in the world as the pure genuine 
 principles of virtue and piety. This, I hope, will account 
 for the uncommon style of all my letters to you. By un- 
 common, I mean their being written in such a serious 
 manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often 
 afraid lest you should take me for some zealous bigot, who 
 conversed with his mistress as he would converse with his 
 minister. I don't know how it is, my dear; for though, 
 except your company, there is nothing on earth gives me so 
 much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those 
 giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have 
 often thought, that if a weli-grounded affection be not really 
 a part of virtue, 'tis something extremely akin to it. When- 
 ever the thought of my E. warms my heart, every feeling of 
 humanity, every principle of generosity, kindles in my 
 breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and 
 envy, which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every 
 creature 'vcs. the arms of universal benevolence, and equally 
 participate in the pleasures of the happy, and sympathise 
 with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my 
 dear, I often look up to the Divine disposer of events with 
 an eye of gratitude for the blessing which I hope He 
 intends to bestow on me, in bestowing you. I sincerely 
 wish that He may bless my endeavours to make your life as 
 comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the 
 rougher parts of my natural temper, and bettering the un- 
 kindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my dear, is a 
 passion, at least in my view, wortliy of a man, and, I will
 
 LETTERS. 5 
 
 add, worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth-worm may 
 profess love to a woman's person, whilst, in reality, his 
 affection is centred in her pocket ; and the slavish drudge 
 may go a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market, to choose 
 one who is stout and firm, and as we say of an old 
 horse, one who will be a good drudge and draw kindly. I 
 disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of 
 humour with myself, if I thought I were capable of having 
 so poor a notion of the sex, which were designed to crown 
 the pleasures of society. Poor devils! I don't envy them their 
 happiness who have such notions. For my part, I propose 
 quite other pleasures with my dear partner. 
 
 IV. — To Ellison Begbie. 
 
 [LociiLiE, 1781.] 
 
 My Dear E., — I have often thought it a peculiarly 
 unlucky circumstance in love, that though, in every other 
 situation in life, telling the truth is not only the safest, but 
 actually by far the easiest way of proceeding, a lover is 
 never under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for 
 expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his 
 intentions are honourable. I do not think that it is very 
 difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of lOve and 
 fondness which are not felt, and to make vows of constancy 
 and fidelity which are never intended to be performed, if he 
 be villain enough to practice such detestable conduct ; but 
 to a man whose heart glows with the principles of integrity 
 and truth, and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable 
 person, uncommon refinement of sentiment, and purity of 
 manners — to such a one, in such circumstances, I can 
 assure you, my dear, from my own feelings at this present 
 moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is such a 
 number of foreboding fears and distrustful anxieties crowd 
 into my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit
 
 6 LETTERS. 
 
 down to write to you, that what to speak or what to write, I 
 am altogether at a loss. 
 
 There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and 
 which I shall invariably keep with you, and that is, honestly 
 to tell you the plain truth. There is something so mean 
 and unmanly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood, 
 that I am surprised they can be used by any one in so 
 noble, so generous a passion as virtuous love. No, my dear 
 E., I shall never endeavour to gain your favour by such de- 
 testable practices. If you will be so good and so generous 
 as to admit me for your partner, your companion, your 
 bosom friend through life, there is nothing on this side of 
 eternity shall give me greater transport ; but I shall never 
 think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a 
 man, and, I will add, of a Christian. I There is one thing, 
 my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and it is this : 
 that you would soon either put an end to my hopes by a 
 peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous 
 consent. 
 
 It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or 
 two when convenient. I shall only add, further, that if 
 behaviour, regulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly) 
 by the rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to love 
 and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote your 
 happiness ; if these are qualities you would wish in a friend, 
 in a husband, I hope you shall ever find them in your real 
 friend and sincere lover. 
 
 V. — To Ellison Begbie. 
 
 [LocuLiE, 17S1.] 
 
 I I OUGHT, in good manners, to have acknowledged the 
 receipt of your letter before this time, but my heart was so 
 shocked with the contents of it, that I can scarcely yet 
 collect my thoughts so as to write you on the subject. I 
 will not attempt to describe what I felt on receiving your 
 letter. I read it over and over, again and again, and though
 
 LETTERS. 7 
 
 it was in the politest language of refusal, still it was peremp- 
 tory ; " you were sorry you could not make me a return, 
 but you wish me " what, without you, I never can obtain, 
 "you wish me all kind of happiness." It would be weak 
 and unmanly to say that without you I never can be 
 happy ; but sure I am, that sharing life with you would 
 have given it a relish, that, wanting you, I can never tasteJ 
 Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior 
 good sense, do not so much strike me ; these, possibly, 
 in a few instances may be met with in others ; but that 
 amiable goodness, that tender feminine softness, that endear- 
 ing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming offspring 
 of a warm feeling heart — these I never again expect to meet 
 with, in such a degree, in this world. All these charming 
 qualities, heightened by an education much beyond any- 
 thing I have ever met in any woman I ever dared to 
 approach, have made an impression on my heart that I do 
 not think the world can ever efface. My imagination has 
 fondly flattered myself with a wish, I dare not say it ever 
 reached a hope, that possibly I might one day call you 
 mine. I had formed the most delightful images, and my 
 fancy fondly brooded over them ; but now I am wretched 
 for the loss of what I really had no right to expect. I must 
 now think no more of you as a mistress ; still I presume to 
 ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be 
 allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to remove in a few 
 days a little further off, and you, I suppose, will soon leave 
 this place, I wish to see or hear from you soon ; and if an 
 expression should perhaps escape me, rather too warm for 
 friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear Miss — , 
 (pardon me the dear expression for once) R. B. 
 
 VI. — -To HIS Father. 
 
 Irvine, December 2^, 17S1. 
 
 Honoured Sir, — I have purposely delayed writing in the 
 hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing you on New
 
 8 LETTERS. 
 
 Year's day ; but work comes so hard upon us that I do not 
 choose to be absent on that account, as well as for some 
 other little reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. 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 my past wants nor look forward into 
 futurity ; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast 
 produces most unhappy effects on my whole frame. Some- 
 times, 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 religious 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 
 uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure 
 you I am heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very much 
 deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. 
 
 The soul, uneasy, and confin'd at home, 
 Rests and expatiates in a hfe to come. 
 
 It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, i6th, 
 and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelation* than with 
 any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would 
 not exchange the whole noble enthusiasm with which they 
 inspire me, for all that this world has to offer. As for this 
 world, 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 altogether unconcerned at the thoughts of this 
 
 * " Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day 
 and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell 
 among them. 
 
 They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more ; neither sliail 
 the sun light on them, nor any heat. 
 
 For the Lamb, which is in the midst of the throne, shall feed them, 
 and shall kad them unto living fountains of waters ; and God shall 
 wipe away all tears from their eyes."
 
 LETTERS. 9 
 
 life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably 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 Avere too much 
 neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have 
 been remembered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful 
 respects to my mother, and my compliments to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing you a merry New-year's day, 
 I shall conclude. — I am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son, 
 
 Robert Burness. 
 P. S. — My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow 
 till I get more. 
 
 VII. — To Sir John Whitefoord, Bart., of 
 Ballochmyle. 
 
 Sir, — We who subscribe this are both members of St. 
 James's Lodge, Tarbolton, and one of us in the office of 
 warden, and as we have the honour of having you for 
 master of our lodge we hope you will excuse this freedom, 
 as you are the proper person to whom we ought to apply. 
 We look on our Mason Lodge to be a serious matter, both 
 with respect to the character of masonry itself, and likewise 
 as it is a charitable society. This last, indeed, does not 
 interest you further than a benevolent heart is interested in 
 the welfare of its fellow-creatures ; but to us, sir, who arc of 
 the lower order of mankind, to have a fund in view on 
 which we may with certainty depend to be kept from want, 
 should we be in circumstances of distress, or old age — this 
 is a matter of high importance. 
 
 We are sorry to observe that our lodge's affairs with 
 respect to its finances have for a good while been in a 
 wretched situation. We have considerable sums in bills 
 which lie by without being paid, or put in execution, and 
 many of our members never mind their yearly dues, or
 
 10 LETTERS. 
 
 anything else belonging to the lodge. And since the 
 separation* from St. David's we are not sure even of our 
 existence as a Jodge. There has been a dispute before the 
 Grand Lodge, but how decided, or if decided at all, we 
 know not. 
 
 For these and other reasons we humbly beg the favour of 
 you, as soon as convenient, to call a meeting, and let us 
 consider on some means to retrieve our wretched affairs. — 
 We are, etc.f 
 
 VIII. — To Mr. John Murdoch, SckooL-MASXER, 
 Staples Inn Buildings, London. 
 
 LOCHLIE, i<,th January, 1783. 
 
 Dear Sir, — As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
 letter without putting you to that expense which any 
 production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace it with 
 pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten; or ever will 
 forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kindness 
 and friendship. 
 
 I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to know what has 
 been the result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a 
 masterly teacher ; and I wish I could gratify your curiosity 
 with such a recital as you would be pleased with ; — but that 
 is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, indeed, 
 kept pretty clear of vicious habits ; and in this respect, I 
 hope, my conduct will not disgrace the education I have 
 gotten ; but as a man of the world, I am most miserably- 
 deficient. One would have thought that, bred as I have 
 
 * It was in June 1782. 
 
 •|- The MS. of the foregoing joint letter in Burns's handwriting 
 belongs to John Adam, Esquire, Greenock, and the letter was first 
 published in 1S78. Burns was first admitted in St. David's (Tarbolton) 
 Lodge in July 1781. At the separation referred to he became a 
 member of the new lodge, St. James's, of which, two years afterwards, 
 he was depute-raaster.
 
 LETTERS. II 
 
 been, under a father who has figured pretty well as un 
 honime des affaires, I might have been what the world calls 
 a pushing active fellow ; but to tell you the truth, Sir, there 
 is hardly anything more my reverse. I seem to be one sent 
 into the world to see and observe ; and I very easily 
 compound with the knave who tricks me of my money, if 
 there be anything original about him which shows me 
 human nature in a dititerent light from anything I have seen 
 before. In short, the joy of my heart is to " study men, 
 their manners, and their ways ; " and for this darling subject, 
 I cheerfully sacrifice every other consideration. I am quite 
 indolent about those great concerns that set the bustling, 
 busy sons of care agog ; and if I have to answer for the 
 present hour, I am very easy with regard to anything further. 
 Even the last, Avorst shift of the unfortunate and the 
 wretched* does not much terrify me : I know that even then 
 my talent for what country folks call " a sensible crack," 
 when once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would procure 
 me so much esteem that even then — I would learn to be 
 happy. However, I am under no apprehensions about that ; 
 for though indolent, yet so far as an extremely delicate 
 constitution permits, I am not lazy ; and in many things, 
 especially in tavern matters, I am a strict economist ; not, 
 indeed, for the sake of the money ; but one of the principal 
 parts in my composition is a kind of pride of stomach ; and 
 I scorn to fear the face of any man living : above every 
 thing, I abhor as hell the idea of sneaking in a corner to 
 avoid a dun — possibly some pitiful sordid wretch, whom in 
 my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that 
 endears economy to me.f In the matter of books, indeed, 
 I am very profuse. My favourite authors are of the 
 sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his 
 Elegies ; Thomson ; Man of Feeling, — a book I prize 
 
 * *' The last o't, the warst o't, 
 
 Is only f'jr to beg." — First Epistle to Davie. 
 t " For the glorious privilege 
 
 Of being independent." 
 
 — Epistle to a \ 'oung Friend.
 
 12 LETTERS. 
 
 next to the Bible; Man oj the World; Sterne, especially 
 his Scniiincntal Journey ; Macphcrson's Ossian, etc. ;— 
 these are the glorious models after which I endeavour to 
 form my conduct, and 'tis incongruous — 'tis absurd to 
 suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments 
 lighted up at their sacred flame — the man whose heart 
 distends with benevolence to all the human race — he " who 
 can soar above this little scene of things " — can he descend 
 to mind the paltry concerns about which the terras-filial race 
 fret, and fume, and vex themselves ! O, how the glorious 
 triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a poor 
 insignificant devil, unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and 
 down fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them 
 reading a page or two of mankind, and " catching the 
 manners living as they rise," whilst the men of business 
 jostle me on every side as an idle incumbrance in their 
 way. But, I daresay, I have by this time tired your 
 patience ; so I shall conclude with begging you to give 
 Mrs. Murdoch — not my compliments, for that is a mere 
 commonplace story ; but my warmest, kindest wishes for 
 her welfare ; and accept the same for yourself, from, — Dear 
 Sir, yours, etc. 
 
 IX. — To ins Cousin, Mr. James Burness, Writer, 
 
 Montrose. 
 
 LocHLiE, zistjtme, 1783. 
 
 Dear Sir, — My father received your favour of the loth 
 current, and as he has been for some months very poorly in 
 health, and is in his own opinion (and, indeed, in almost 
 every body's else) in a dying condition, he has only, with 
 great difficulty, written a few farewell lines to each of his 
 brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, I now hold 
 the pen for him to thank you for your kind letter, and to 
 assure you, Sir, that it shall not be my fault if my father's 
 correspondence in the north die with him. My brother
 
 LETTERS. 13 
 
 writes to John Caird,* and to him I must refer you for the 
 news of our family. 
 
 I shall only trouble you with a few particulars relative to 
 the wretched state of this country. Our markets are 
 exceedingly high ; oatmeal lyd. and iSd. per peck, and not 
 to be got even at that price. We have indeed been pretty 
 well supplied with quantities of white peas from England 
 and elsewhere, but that resource is likely to fail us, and 
 what will become of us then, particularly the very poorest 
 sort. Heaven only knows. This country, till of late, was 
 flourishing incredibly in the manufacture 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 barren ; 
 and our land-holders, full of ideas of farming gathered from 
 the English and the Lothians, and other rich soils in 
 Scotland, make no allowance for the odds of 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 
 farming. Necessity compels us to leave our old schemes, 
 and few of us have opportunities of being well informed in 
 new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate 
 beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate 
 conclusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very 
 fast. Even in higher life, a couple of Ayrshire noblemen, 
 and the major part of our knights and squires, are all 
 insolvent, A miserable job of a Douglas, Heron & Co.'s bank, 
 which no doubt you have heard of, has undone numbers 
 of them ; and imitating English and French, and other 
 foreign luxuries and fopperies, has ruined as many more. 
 There is a great trade of smuggling carried on along our 
 coasts, which, however destructive to the interests of the 
 
 * Tlic writer's uncle.
 
 14 LETTERS. 
 
 kingdom at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, but 
 too often at the expense of our morals. However, it enables 
 individuals to make, at least for a time, a splendid appear- 
 ance ; but Fortune, as is usual with her when she is 
 uncommonly lavish of her favours, is generally even with 
 them at last ; and happy were it for numbers of them if she 
 would leave them no worse than when she found them. 
 
 My mother sends you a small present of a cheese ; 'tis 
 but a very little one, as our last year's stock is sold off ; but 
 if you could fix on any correspondent in Edinburgh or 
 Glasgow, we would send you a proper one in the season. 
 Mrs. Black promises to take the cheese under her care so 
 far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling carrier. 
 
 I shall conclude this long letter with assuring you that I 
 shall be very happy to hear from you, or any of our friends 
 in your country, when opportunity serves. 
 
 My father sends you, probably for the last time in this 
 world, his warmest wishes for your welfare and happiness ; 
 and my mother and the rest of the family desire to inclose 
 their Icind compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, and the 
 rest of your family, along with those of, dear Sir, your 
 affectionate cousin, 
 
 Robert Burness. 
 
 X. — To Mr. James Burness, Writer, Montrose. 
 
 LOCHLIE, I'jth Feb. 1784. 
 
 Dear Cousin, — I would have returned you my thanks 
 for your kind favour of the 13th of December sooner, had it 
 not been that I waited to give you an account of that 
 melancholy event, which, for some time past, we have from 
 day to day expected. 
 
 On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Though, 
 to be sure, we have had long warning of the impending 
 stroke, still the feelings of nature claim their part, and I 
 cannot recollect the tender endearments and parental lessons 
 of the best of friends and ablest of instructors, without feel-
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 15 
 
 ing what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would partly 
 condemn. 
 
 I hope my father's friends in your country will not let 
 their connection in this place die with him. For my part I 
 shall ever with pleasure — with pride, acknowledge my con- 
 nection with those who were allied by the ties of blood and 
 friendship to a man whose memory I shall ever honour and 
 revere. 
 
 I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will not neglect any 
 opportunity of letting me hear from you, Avhich will very 
 much oblige, — My dear Cousin, yours sincerely, 
 
 Robert Burness. 
 
 XI. — To Mr. James Burness, Writer, Montrose. 
 
 MossGiEL, 2,rd Ajtg7isl 1784. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I ought in gratitude to have acknow- 
 ledged the receipt of your last kind letter before this time, 
 but, without troubling you with any apology, I shall proceed 
 to inform you that our family are all in good health at 
 present, and we were very happy with the unexpected 
 favour of John Caird's * company for nearly two weeks, and 
 I must say it of him that he is one of the most agree- 
 able, facetious, warm'-hearted lads I was ever acquainted 
 with. 
 
 We have been surprised with one of the most extra- 
 ordinary phenomena in the moral world, which, I dare say, 
 has happened in the course of this half century. We have 
 had a party of Presbytery relief, as they call themselves, for 
 some time in this country. A pretty thriving society of 
 them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some years past, 
 till about two years ago a Mrs. Buchan from Glasgow came 
 among them, and began to spread some fanatical notions of 
 
 * Probably John Caircl, junior, as the father would be over sixty if 
 he was about his wife's age, and she, Elspat Burnes, was born, we 
 know, in 1725.
 
 i6 LETTERS. 
 
 religion among them, and in a short time made many con- 
 verts ; and among others their preacher, Mr. Whyte, who, 
 upon that account, has been suspended and formally 
 deposed by his brethren. He continued, however, to 
 preach in private to his party, and was supported, both he, 
 and their spiritual mother, as they affect to call old Buchan, 
 by the contributions of the rest, several of whom were in 
 good circumstances ; till, in spring last, the populace rose 
 and mobbed Mrs. Buchan, and put her out of the town ; on 
 which all her followers voluntarily quitted the place like- 
 wise, and with such precipitation that many of them never 
 shut their doors behind them ; one left a washing on the 
 green, another a cow bellowing at the crib without food or 
 anybody to mind her, and after several stages they are 
 fixed at present in the neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their 
 tenets are a strange jumble of enthusiastic jargon ; among 
 others, she pretends to give them the Holy Ghost by breath- 
 ing on them, which she does with postures and practices 
 that are scandalously indecent ; they have likewise disposed 
 of all their effects, and hold a community of goods, and 
 live nearly an idle life, carrying on a great farce of pre- 
 tended devotion in barns and woods, where they lodge and 
 lie all together, and hold likewise a community of women, 
 as it is another of their tenets that they can commit no 
 moral sin. I am personally acquainted with most of them, 
 and I can assure you the above mentibned are facts. 
 
 This, my dear Sir, is one of the many instances of the 
 folly of leaving the guidance of sound reason and common 
 sense in matters of religion. 
 
 Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred monitors, the 
 whimsical notions of a perturbated brain are taken for the 
 immediate influences of the Deity, and the wildest fanati- 
 cism, and the most inconsistent absurdities, will meet with 
 abetters and converts. Nay, I have often thought, that the 
 more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies are, if once 
 they are sanctified under the sacred name of religion, the 
 unhappy" mistaken votaries are the more firmly glued to 
 them.
 
 LETTERS. if 
 
 t expect to hear from you soon, and I beg you will 
 remember me to all friends, and believe me to be, my 
 dear Sir, your affectionate cousin, Robert Burness. 
 
 P.S. — Direct to me at Mossgiel, parish of Mauchline, 
 near Kilmarnock. 
 
 XII. — To Thomas Orr, Park, Kirroswald. 
 
 Dear Thomas, — I am much obliged to you for your 
 last letter, though I assure you the contents of it gave me 
 no manner of concern. I am presently so cursedly taken 
 in with an affair of gallantry that I am very glad Peggy* is 
 off my hand, as I am at present embarrassed enoughf 
 without her. I don't choose to enter into particulars in 
 writing, but never was a poor rakish rascal in a more 
 pitiful taking. I should be glad to see you to tell you the 
 affair. — Meanwhile I am your friend, Robert Burness. 
 
 MossGAviL, wth Nov. 17S4. 
 
 XIII. — To Miss Margaret Kennedy. | 
 
 \A young lady of seventeen, ivlien tJiis letter xvas addressed to her, 
 and on a visit to Airs. Gavin Hatnilton at Mauchline.'\ 
 
 [Probably Aictutnn, 1785.) 
 
 Madam, — Permit me to present you with the enclosed 
 song as a small though grateful tribute for the honour of 
 your acquaintance. I have in these verses attempted some 
 faint sketch of your portrait in the unembellished simple 
 manner of descriptive truth. Flattery I leave to your 
 
 * r'cggy Thomson. 
 
 t Birth of his illegitimate child by Elizabeth Paton, once a servant 
 with his father at Lochlie. 
 
 % Niece of Sir Andrew Cathcart, of Carleton. A melancholy interest 
 attaches to her subsequent history. Burns's prayers for her happiness 
 were unavailing. 
 
 4^1
 
 1 8 LETTERS. 
 
 lovers whose exaggerating fancies may make them imagine 
 you are still nearer perfection than you really are. 
 
 Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most forcibly the 
 powers of beauty, — as, if they are really poets of nature's 
 making, their feehngs must be finer and their taste more 
 delicate than most of the world. In the cheerful bloom of 
 spring, or the pensive mildness of autumn, the grandeur of 
 summer, or the hoary majesty of winter, the poet feels a 
 charm unknown to the most of his species. Even the 
 sight of a fine flower, or the company of a fine woman (by 
 far the finest part of God's works below), has sensations for 
 the poetic heart that the herd of men are strangers to. On 
 this last account. Madam, I am, as in many other things, 
 indebted to Mr. Hamilton's kindness in introducing me to 
 you. Your lovers may view you with a wish — I look on 
 you with pleasure ; their hearts in your presence may glow 
 with desire — mine rises with admiration. 
 
 That the arrows of misfortune, however they should, as 
 mcident to humanity, glance a slight wound, may never 
 reach your heart ; that the snares of villainy may never 
 beset you in the road of life ; that innocence may hand 
 you by the path of honour to the dwelling of peace — is the 
 sincere wish of him who has the honour to be, etc. R. B. 
 
 XIV. — To Miss , Ayrshire.* 
 
 [1785.] 
 
 My Dear Countrywoman, — I am so impatient to show 
 you that I am once more at peace with you, that I send you 
 the book I mentioned, directly, rather thaa wait the uncer- 
 tain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or 
 lost Collins's Poems, which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I 
 can find them I will forward them by you ; if not, you must 
 apologise for me. 
 
 I know you will laugh at it when I tell you that your 
 
 * Lady unidentified.
 
 LETTERS. 19 
 
 piano and you together have played the deuce somehow 
 about my heart. My breast has been widowed these many 
 months, and I thought myself proof against the fascinating 
 witchcraft ; but I am afraid you will " feelingly convince me 
 what I am." I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure 
 what is the matter with me. I have one miserable bad 
 symptom, — when you whisper, or look kindly to another, it 
 gives me a draught of damnation. I have a kind of way- 
 ward wish to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though 
 what I would say, Heaven above knows, for I am sure I 
 know not. I have no formed design in all this ; but just, 
 in the nakedness of my heart, write you down a mere 
 matter-of-fact story. You may perhaps give yourself airs of 
 distance on this, and that will completely cure me ; but I 
 wish you would not ; just let us meet, if you please, in the 
 old beaten way of friendship. 
 
 I will not subscribe myself your humble servant, for that 
 is a phrase, I think, at least fifty miles off from the heart ; 
 but I will conclude with sincerely wishing that the Great 
 Protector of innocence may shield you from the barbed 
 dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert snare of 
 deceit. R. B. 
 
 XV. — To Mr. John Richmond, Law Clerk, Edinburgh.* 
 
 MossGiEL, Feb. 171/1, 1786. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I have not time at present to upbraid 
 you for your silence and neglect ; I shall only say I received 
 yours with great pleasure. I have enclosed you a piece of 
 rhyming ware for your perusal. I have been very busy 
 with the muses since I saw you, and have composed, among 
 several others, "The Ordination," a poem on Mr. M 'Kin- 
 lay's being called to Kilmarnock ; "Scotch Drink," a 
 poem ; " The Cottar's Saturday Night ; " " An Address to 
 the Devil," etc. I have likewise completed my poem on 
 
 * Three months before this letter was written Richmond was a clerk 
 in the office of Mr. Gavin Ilainillon, writer, Mauchline.
 
 20 LETTERS. 
 
 the " Dogs," but have not shown it to the world. My 
 chief patron now is Mr. Aikin, in Ayr, who is pleased to 
 express great approbation of my works. Be so good as 
 send me Fcrgusson,* by Connell, and I will remit you the 
 money. I have no news to acquaint you with about 
 Mauchline, they are just going on in the old way. I have 
 some very important news with respect to myself, not the 
 most agreeable — news that I am sure you cannot guess, but 
 I shall give you the particulars another time. I am 
 extremely happy with Smith ;t he is the only friend I have 
 now in Mauchline. I can scarcely forgive your long neglect 
 of me, and I beg you will let me hear from you regularly 
 by Conuell. If you would act your part as a friend, I am 
 sure neither good nor bad fortune should estrange or alter 
 me. Excuse haste, as I got yours but yesterday. — I am, my 
 dear Sir, yours, Robert Burness. 
 
 XVI. — To Mr. James SmithJ, Shopkeeper, Mauchline. 
 
 {Spring of I'jZ^.'l 
 
 . . . Against two things I am fixed as fate, — staying at 
 home, and owning her conjugally. The first, by Heaven, I 
 will not do ! — the last, by Hell, I will never do ! A good 
 God bless you, and make you happy up to the warmest 
 weeping wish of parting friendship ! . . . If you see Jean 
 tell her I will meet her, so help me God in my hour of 
 need ! R. B. 
 
 * Fergusson's Poems. 
 
 t Keeper of a haberdashery store in Mauchline. 
 
 % The confidant of his amour with Jean Armour, daughter of James 
 Armour, mason, Mauchline. Notwithstanding the blustering threat 
 — for which Smith was probably more than half responsible — Burns was 
 afterwards content to " own bonny Jean conjugally."
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 21 
 
 XVII. — To Mr. Robert Muir, Wine Merchant, 
 
 Kilmarnock. 
 
 MOSSGIEL, 20/A March, 1786. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I am heartily sorry I had not the pleasure 
 of seeing you as you returned through Mauchline ; but as I 
 was engaged, I could not be in town before the evening. 
 
 I here inclose you my " Scotch Drink," and " may the 
 deil follow with a blessing for your edification," I hope, 
 sometime before we hear the gowk, to have the pleasure of 
 seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend we shall have 
 a gill between us, in a mutchkin-stoup ; which will be a 
 great comfort and consolation to, dear Sir, your humble 
 servant, Robert Burness. 
 
 XVIII. — To Mr. John Ballantine, Banker, Ayr. (?) 
 
 lApil 1786.] 
 
 Honoured Sir, — My proposals* came to hand last 
 night, and, knowing that you would wish to have it in 
 your power to do me a service as early as any body, I 
 enclose you half a sheet of them. I must consult you, first 
 opportunity, on the propriety of sending my quondam 
 friend, Mr. Aiken,t a copy. If he is now reconciled to my 
 character as an honest man, I would do it with all my soul ; 
 but I would not be beholden to the noblest being ever God 
 created if he imagined me to be a rascal. Apropos, old Mr. 
 Armour prevailed with him to mutilate that unlucky paper \ 
 yesterday. Would you believe it ? though I had not a hope, 
 nor even a wish to make her mine after her conduct, yet 
 when he told me the names were cut out of the paper, my 
 heart died within me, and he cut my veins with the news. 
 Perdition seize her falsehood ! Robert Burns. 
 
 * Proposals for publishing his Scottish Poems by subscription. 
 t Writer in Ayr. 
 
 X The written acknowledgment of his marriage which Burns gave to 
 Jean. Slie, influenced by her father, consented to destroy it.
 
 22 LETTERS. 
 
 XIX. — To Mr. M'Whinnie, Writer, Ayr. 
 
 [MOSSGIEL, x'Jth April 1786.] 
 
 It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that elegantly bear 
 the impression of the good Creator, to say to them you give 
 them the trouble of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I 
 only tell you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting 
 your friendly offices with respect to the enclosed, because I 
 know it will gratify yours to assist me in it to the utmost of 
 your power. 
 
 I have sent you four copies, as I have no less than eight 
 dozen, which is a great deal more than I shall ever need. 
 
 Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in your prayers 
 He looks forward with fear"*^ and trembling to that, to him, 
 important moment which stamps the die with — with — with, 
 perhaps, the eternal disgrace of, my dear Sir, your humble, 
 afflicted, tormented, Robert Burns. 
 
 XX. — To John Arnot, Esquire, of Dalquatswood. 
 
 lApril 1786.] 
 
 Sir, — I have long wished for some kind of claim to the 
 honour of your acquaintance, and since it is out of my 
 power to make that claim by the least service of mine to 
 you, I shall do it by asking a friendly office of you to me. — 
 I should be much hurt. Sir, if any one should view my poor 
 Parnassian Pegasus in the light of a spur-galled Hack, and 
 think that I wish to make a shilling or two by him. I 
 spurn the thought. 
 
 It may do, maun do, Sir, wi' them who 
 Maun please the great-folk for a wame-fou ; 
 For me, sae laigh I needna boo 
 For, Lord be thankit ! I can ploo ; 
 And, when I downa yoke a naig, 
 Then, Lord be thankit ! I can beg. 
 
 * Cp. "Something cries Hoolie ! I rede ye, hones I man, iak tent, 
 ye' II show your folly I "
 
 LETTERS. 23 
 
 You will then, I hope, Sir, forgive my troubling you with 
 the enclosed,* and spare a poor heart-crushed devil a world 
 of apologies — a business he is very unfit for at any time, 
 but at present, widowed as he is of every woman-giving 
 comfort, he is utterly incapable of. Sad and grievous of 
 late. Sir, has been my tribulation, and many and piercing 
 my sorrows ; and, had it not been for the loss the world 
 would have sustained in losing so great a poet, I had ere 
 now done as a much wiser man, the famous Achitophel of 
 long-headed memory, did before me, when he " went home 
 and set his house in order." I have lost. Sir, that dearest 
 earthly treasure, that greatest blessing here below, that last, 
 best gift which completed Adam's happiness in the garden 
 of bliss j I have lost, I have lost — my trembling hand re- 
 fuses its office, the frighted ink recoils up the quill, — I have 
 lost a, a, a wife. 
 
 Fairest of God's creation, last and best, 
 Now art thou lost ! 
 
 You have doubtless. Sir, heard my story, heard it with all 
 its exaggerations ; but as my actions, and my motives for 
 action, are peculiarly like myself and that is peculiarly like 
 nobody else, I shall just beg a leisure moment and a spare 
 tear of you until I tell my own story my own way. 
 
 I have been all my life. Sir, one of the rueful-looking, 
 long-visaged sons of disappointment. A damned star has 
 always kept my zenith, and shed its hateful influence in the 
 emphatic curse of the prophet — "And behold whatsoever 
 he doth, it shall not prosper ! " I rarely hit where I aim, 
 and if I want anything, I am almost sure never to find it 
 where I seek it. For instance, if my penknife is needed, I 
 pull out twenty things — a plough-wedge, a horse nail, an 
 old letter, or a tattered rhyme, in short, everything but my 
 penknife ; and that, at last, after a painful, fruitless search, 
 will be found in the unsuspected corner of an unsuspected 
 pocket, as if on purpose thrust out of the way. Still, Sir, I 
 long had a wishing eye to that inestimable blessing, a wife. 
 
 * Proposals for publishing.
 
 24 LETTERS. 
 
 ... A young fellow, after a few idle commonplace stories 
 from a gentleman in black ... no one durst say black was 
 his eye; while I . . . only wanting that ceremony, am 
 made a Sunday's laughing-stock, and abused like a pick- 
 pocket. I was well aware, though, that if my ill-starred 
 fortune got the least hint of my connubial wish, my scheme 
 would go to nothing. To prevent this I determined to take 
 my measures with such thought and fore-thought, such 
 cautions and precautions, that all the malignant planets in 
 the hemisphere should be unable to blight my designs. . . . 
 Heaven and Earth ! must I remember ? my damned star 
 wheeled about to the zenith, by whose baleful rays Fortune 
 took the alarm.* ... In short, Pharaoh at the Red Sea, 
 Darius at Arbela, Pompey at Pharsalia, Edward at Bannock- 
 burn, Charles at Pultoway, Burgoyne at Saratoga — no prince, 
 potentate, or commander of ancient or modern unfortunate 
 memory ever got a more shameful or more total defeat. 
 How I bore this can only be conceived. All powers of 
 recital labour far, far behind. There is a pretty large por- 
 tion of Bedlam in the composition of a poet at any time ; 
 but on this occasion I was nine parts and nine tenths, out 
 of ten, stark staring mad. At first I was fixed in stuporific 
 insensibility, silent, sullen, staring hke Lot's wife besaltified 
 in the plains of Gomorrha. But my second paroxysm 
 chiefly beggars description. The rifted northern ocean, 
 when returning suns dissolve the chains of winter, and 
 loosening precipices of long-accumulated ice tempest with 
 hideous crash the foaming deep, — images like these may 
 give some faint shadow of what was the situation of my 
 bosom. My chained faculties broke loose ; my maddening 
 passions, roused to tenfold fury, bore over their banks with 
 impetuous, resistless force, carrying every check and prin- 
 ciple before them. Counsel was an unheeded call to the 
 passing hurricane; Reason a screaming elk in the vortex of 
 Malstrom; and Religion a feebly-struggling beaver down 
 the roarings of Niagara. I reprobated the first moment of 
 
 * Reference to the rejection of his acknowledgment of marriage.
 
 LETTERS. 25 
 
 my existence; execrated Adam's folly-infatuated wish for 
 that goodly-: ooking but poison-breathing gift which had 
 ruined him and undone me ; and called on the womb of 
 uncreated night to close over me and all my sorrows. 
 
 A storm naturally overblows itself. My spent passions 
 gradually sunk into a lurid calm ; and by degrees I have 
 subsided into the time-settled sorrow of the sable-widower, 
 who, wiping away the decent tear, lifts up his grief-worn eye 
 to look — for another wife. 
 
 Such is the state of man ; to-day he buds 
 His tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms 
 And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; 
 .The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
 And nips his root, and then he falls as I do. * 
 
 Such, Sir, has been the fatal era of my life. And it came 
 to pass that when I looked for sweet, behold bitter ; and 
 for light, behold darkness. 
 
 But this is not all : already the holy beagles begin to 
 snuff the scent, and I expect every moment to see them 
 cast off, and hear them after me in full cry ; but as I am an 
 old fox, I shall give them dodging and doubling for it, and 
 by and by I intend to earth among the mountains of 
 Jamaica. 
 
 I am so struck, on a review, with the impertinent length 
 of this letter, that I shall not increase it with one single 
 word of apology, but abruptly conclude with assuring you 
 that I am, Sir, yours and misery's most humble servant. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 XXI. — To Mr. David Brice, Shoemaker, Glasgow. 
 
 MossGiEL, /■«;/<; 12///, 1786. 
 
 Dear Brice, — I received your message by G. Patcrson, 
 and as I am not very throng at present, I just 
 write to let you know that there is such a worthless, 
 
 * Misquoted from Shakspearc's Henry VIII.
 
 26 LETTERS. 
 
 rhyming reprobate as your humble servant still in the land 
 of the living, though I can scarcely say in the place of 
 hope. I have no news to tell you that will give me any 
 pleasure to mention, or you to hear. 
 
 Poor, ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came home on 
 Friday last. You have heard all the particulars of that 
 affair, and a black affair it is. What she thinks of her 
 conduct now I don't know ; 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, though I won't tell her so if I were to see her, 
 which I don't want to do. My poor dear unfortunate Jean ! 
 how happy have I been in thy arms ! 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 ! I 
 can have no nearer idea of the place of eternal punishment 
 than what I have felt in my own breast on her account. I 
 have tried often to forget her ; I have run into all kinds of 
 dissipation and riots, mason-meetings, drinking-matches, 
 and other mischief, to drive her out of my head, but all in 
 vain. And now for a grand cure ; the ship is on her way 
 home that is to take me out to Jamaica ; and then, farewell, 
 dear old Scotland ! and farewell, dear ungrateful Jean ! for 
 never, never will I see you more. 
 
 You will have heard that I am going to commence poet 
 in print 3 and to-morrow my work goes to the press. I 
 expect it will be a volume of about two hundred pages — it 
 is just the last foolish action I intend to do, and then turn 
 a wise man as fast as possible. — Believe me to be, dear 
 Price, your friend and well-wisher. R. B.
 
 LETTERS. 27 
 
 XXII. — To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh. 
 
 MossGlEL, <jth Jtily 1786. 
 
 With the sincerest grief I read your letter. You are truly 
 a son of misfortune. I shall be extremely anxious to hear 
 from you how your health goes on ; if it is in any way 
 re-establishing, or if Leith promises well ; in short, how you 
 feel in the inner man. 
 
 No news worth anything ; only godly Bryan was in the 
 inquisition yesterday, and half the countryside as witnesses 
 against him. He still stands out steady and denying ; but 
 proof was led yesternight of circumstances highly suspicious, 
 almost de facto ; one of the servant girls made oath that 
 she upon a time rashly entered into the house, to speak in 
 your cant, " in the hour of cause." 
 
 I have waited on Armour since her return home ; not from 
 the least view of reconciliation, but merely to ask for her 
 health, and to you I will confess it, from a foolish hankering 
 fondness, very ill placed indeed. The mother forbade me 
 the house, nor did Jean show that penitence that might 
 have been expected. However, the priest,* I am informed, 
 will give me a certificate as a single man, if I comply with 
 the rules of the church, which for that very reason I intend 
 to do.t 
 
 I am going to put on sackcloth and ashes this day. I 
 
 am indulged so far as to appear in my own seat. Feccavi, 
 
 paier, miserere mei. My book will be ready in a fortnight. 
 
 If you have any subscribers, return them by Connell. The 
 
 Lord stand with the righteous ; amen, amen. R. B. 
 
 XXIII. — To Mr. John Richmond. 
 
 Oi.n Rome FoRESX.t ^oth /tily 1786. 
 My Dear Richmond, — My hour is now come — you and 
 
 « 
 
 Rev. Mr. Auld — Daddie Auld. + This accordingly he did. 
 
 % In the neiglihoiirhood of Kilmarnock. Here he had deposited his 
 travelling chest in the house of a relative.
 
 28 LETTERS. 
 
 I will never meet in Britain more. I have orders, within 
 three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the JVancy, Captain 
 Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at Antigua. 
 This, except to our friend Smith, whom God long preserve, 
 is a secret about Mauchline. Would you believe it ? 
 Armour has got a warrant to throw me in jail till I find 
 security for an enormous sum. This they keep an entire 
 secret, but I got it by a channel they little dream of ; and I 
 am wandering from one friend's house to another, and, like 
 a true son of the Gospel, "have nowhere to lay my head." 
 I know you will pour an execration on her head, but spare 
 the poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake ; though may all the 
 furies that rend the injured, enraged lover's bosom await 
 her mother until her latest hour ! I write in a moment of 
 rage, reflecting on my miserable situation — exiled, aban- 
 doned, forlorn. I can write no more — let me hear from 
 you by the return of the coach. I will write you ere I go. — 
 I am, dear Sir, yours, here and hereafter, R. B, 
 
 XXIV. — To Mr. John Kennedy. 
 
 Kilmarnock, August 1786. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — Your truly facetious epistle of the 3rd 
 instant gave me much entertainment. I was only sorry 
 I had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your way ; 
 but we shall bring up all our lee way on Wednesday, the 
 1 6th current, when I hope to have it in my power to call on 
 you, and take a kind, very probably a last adieu, before I 
 go for Jamaica ; and I expect orders to repair to Greenock 
 every day. I have at last made my public appearance, and 
 am solemnly inaugurated into the numerous class.* Could 
 I have got a carrier, you should have got a score of 
 vouchers for my authorship ; but, now you have them, let 
 them speak for themselves, — 
 
 *The Kilmarnock Edition of his poems was published on 31st July.
 
 LETTERS. 29 
 
 Farewell, dear friend ! may guid luck hit you, 
 And 'mang her favourites admit you, 
 If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, 
 
 May nane believe him, 
 And ony Deil that thinks to get you. 
 
 Good Lord, deceive him. 
 
 R. B, 
 
 XXV. — To HIS Cousin, Mr. James Burness, Writer, 
 
 Montrose. 
 
 MossGlEL, Tuesday Noon, 26th Sept. 1786. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I this moment receive yours — receive it 
 with the honest hospitable warmth of a friend's welcome. 
 Whatever comes from you always weakens up the better 
 blood about my heart, which your kind little recollections 
 of my parental friend carries as far as it will go. 'Tis 
 there that man is blest ! 'Tis there, my friend, man 
 feels a consciousness of something within him above 
 the trodden clod ! The grateful reverence to the hoary 
 earthly authors of his being, the burning glow when he 
 clasps the woman of his soul to his bosom, the tender 
 yearnings of heart for the little angels to whom he has given 
 existence — these Nature has poured in milky streams about 
 the human heart ; and the man who never rouses them to 
 action by the inspiring influences of their proper objects 
 loses by far the most pleasurable part of his existence. 
 
 My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be 
 till after harvest. I will be on very short allowance of time 
 indeed, if I do not comply with your friendly invitation. 
 AVhen it will be I don't know^, but if I can make my wish 
 good I will endeavour to drop you a line some time before. 
 My best compliments to Mrs. Burness ; I should be equally 
 mortified should I drop in when she is abroad, but of that, 
 I suppose, there is little chance. What I have wrote, 
 heaven knows. I have not time to review it, so accept of 
 it in the beaten way of friendshi[). With the ordinary 
 phrase, and perhaps rather more than the ordinary sincerity, 
 I am, dear Sir, ever yours, R. B.
 
 30 LETTERS. 
 
 XXVI. — To Mrs, Stewart, of Stair.* 
 
 lOct. 1786.?] 
 
 Madam, — The hurry of ray preparations for going abroad 
 has hindered me from performing my promise so soon as I 
 intended. I have here sent you a parcel of songs, etc., 
 which never made their appearance, except to a friend 
 or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great 
 entertainment to you, but of that I am far from being 
 an adequate judge. The song to the tune of " Ettrick 
 Banks " [The Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle] you will easily 
 see the impropriety of exposing much even in manuscript. 
 I think, myself, it has some merit, both as a tolerable 
 description of one of nature's sweetest scenes, a July 
 evening, and as one of the finest pieces of nature's workman- 
 ship, the finest indeed we know anything of, an amiable, 
 beautiful young woman ; but I have no common friend 
 to procure me that permission, without which I would not 
 dare to spread the copy. 
 
 I am quite aware, Madam, what task the world would 
 assign me in this letter. The obscure bard, when any of 
 the great condescend to take notice of him, should heap 
 the altar with the incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, 
 their own great and godlike qualities and actions, should 
 be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, 
 Madam, is a task for which I am altogether unfit. Besides 
 a certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of 
 your connections in life, and have no access to where your 
 real character is to be found — the company of your 
 compeers : and more, I am afraid that even the most 
 refined adulation is by no means the road to your good 
 opinion. 
 
 One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful 
 pleasure remember — the reception I got when I had the 
 honour of waiting on you at Stair. I am little acquainted 
 with politeness, but I know a good deal of benevolence of 
 
 * Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, was the first person of note to discover in 
 the Ayrshire ploughman a genius of the first order.
 
 LETTERS. %\ 
 
 temper and goodness of heart. Surely did those in exalted 
 stations know how happy they could make some classes of 
 their inferiors by condescension and affability, they would 
 never stand so high, measuring out with every look the 
 height of their elevation, but condescend as sweetly as did 
 Mrs. Stewart of Stair. R. B. 
 
 XXVII. — To ]Mr. Robert Aikin, Writer, Ayr. 
 
 lOd. 1786. ?] 
 
 Sir, — I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and 
 settled all our by-gone matters between us. After I had 
 paid him all demands, I made him the offer of the second 
 edition, on the hazard of being paid out of the first and 
 readiest, which he declines. By his account, the paper of a 
 thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and 
 the printing about fifteen or sixteen : he offers to agree to 
 this for the printing, if I will advance for the paper, but 
 this, you know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes of a 
 second edition 'till I grow richer! an epocha which, I 
 think, will arrive at the payment of the British national 
 debt. 
 
 There is scarcely anything hurts me so much in being 
 disappointed of my second edition, as not having it in my 
 power to show my gratitude to INIr. Ballantine, by publishing 
 my poem of " The Brigs of Ayr." I would detest myself 
 as a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very long life 
 of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with 
 which he enters into my interests. I am sometimes pleased 
 with myself in my grateful sensations ; but I believe, on the 
 whole, I have very litde merit in it, as my gratitude is not a 
 virtue, the consequence of reflection, but sheerly the 
 instinctive emotion of my heart, too inattentive to allow 
 worldly maxims and views to settle into selfish habits. 
 
 I have been feeling all the various rotations and move- 
 ments within, respecting the Excise. There are many 
 things plead strongly against it ; the uncertainty of gelling
 
 32 LETTERS. 
 
 soon into business ; the consequences of my follies, which 
 may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; 
 and, besides, I have for some time been pining under secret 
 wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know — the 
 pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, with some wander- 
 ing stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals 
 like vultures, when attention is not called away by the calls 
 of society, or the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour 
 of social mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intoxicated 
 criminal under the hands of the executioner. All these 
 reasons 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. 
 
 You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is 
 a sentiment which strikes home to my very soul : though 
 sceptical in some points of our current belief, yet, I think, 
 I have every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the 
 stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, then, how 
 should I, in the presence of that tremendous Being, the 
 Author of existence, how should I meet the reproaches of 
 those who stand to me in the dear relation of children, 
 whom I deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless 
 infancy ? O, thou great unknown Power ! — thou Almighty 
 God ! who has lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed 
 me with immortality ! — I have frequently wandered from 
 that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of Thy 
 works, yet Thou hast never left me nor forsaken me ! 
 
 Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen something 
 of the storm of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted 
 head. Should you, my friends, my benefactors, be suc- 
 cessful in your applications for me, perhaps it may not be 
 in my power, in that way, to reap the fruit of your friendly 
 efforts. What I have written in the preceding pages, is the 
 settled tenor of my present resolution ; but should inimical 
 circumstances forbid me closing with your kind offer, or 
 enjoying it only threaten to entail farther misery 
 
 To tell the truth, I have little reason for this last com-
 
 LETTERS. 33 
 
 plaint ; as the world, in general, has been kind to me fully 
 up to my deserts. I was, for some time past, fast getting 
 into the pining, distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I saw 
 myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every 
 rising cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, 
 while, all defenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. 
 It never occurred to me, at least never with the force it 
 deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man, a 
 creature destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, how- 
 ever I might possess a v/arm heart and inoffensive manners 
 (which last, by the by, was rather more than I could well 
 boast) still, more than these passive qualities, there was 
 something to be done. When all my school-fellows and 
 youthful compeers (those misguided few excepted who 
 joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the " hallachores " of the 
 human race) were striking off with eager hope and earnest 
 intent, in some one or other of the many paths of busy life, 
 I was " standing idle in the market-place," or only left the 
 chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy 
 from whim to whim. 
 
 You see. Sir, that if to know one's errors were a prob- 
 ability of mending them, I stand a fair chance : but, 
 according to the reverend Westminster divines, though 
 conviction must precede conversipn, it is very far from 
 always implying it. 
 
 XXVIII. — To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline ; inclosing 
 HIM Verses on dining with Lord Daer. 
 
 Wednesday Morning \\st Nov. 1786]. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I never spent an afternoon among great 
 folks with half that pleasure as when, in company with you, 
 I had the honour of paying my devoirs to that plain, honest, 
 worthy man, the professor [Dugald Stewart].* I ^yould be 
 delighted to see him perform acts of kindness and friendship, 
 though I were not the object ; he does it with such a grace. 
 
 * Professor of Moral Philosophy in llic University of Edinburgh. 
 
 422
 
 34 LETTERS. 
 
 I think his character, divided into ten parts, stands thus, — 
 four parts Socrates — four parts Nathaniel — and two parts 
 Shakespeare's Brutus. 
 
 The following verses were really extempore, but a little 
 corrected since. They may entertain you a little with the 
 help of that partiality with which you are so good as to 
 favour the performances of, dear Sir, your very humble 
 servant, R. B. 
 
 XXIX. — To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop. 
 
 Nov. 1786. 
 
 Madam, — I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, 
 when I was so much honoured with your order for my 
 copies, and incomparably more by the handsome com- 
 pliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am 
 fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind 
 so feelingly alive to the titillations of applause as the sons of 
 Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the 
 poor bard dances with rapture, when those, whose character 
 in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him 
 with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly ac- 
 quainted with me. Madam, you could not have touched my 
 darling heart-chord more sweetly, than by noticing my 
 attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the saviour 
 of his country. 
 
 Great patriot hero ! ill-requited chief ! 
 
 The first book I met with in my early years which I 
 perused with pleasure was The Life of LLannibal; the 
 next was The LListory of Sir William Wallace: for 
 several of my early years I had few other authors ; and 
 many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious 
 vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their glorious, but 
 unfortunate stories. In those boyish days I remember, 
 in particular, being struck with that part of Wallace's story, 
 where these lines occur —
 
 LETTERS. 35 
 
 " Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late. 
 To make a silent and a safe retreat." 
 
 I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my Hne of 
 life allowed, and walked half-a-dozen of miles to pay my 
 respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout 
 enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and as I ex- 
 plored every den and dell where I could suppose my 
 heroic countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even 
 then I was a rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish to 
 be able to make a song on him in some measure equal to 
 his merits. R- B. 
 
 XXX.— To Miss Alexander. 
 
 MossGiEL, \Zth Nov. 1786. 
 
 Madam, — Poets are such outre beings, so much the 
 children of w-ayward fancy and capricious whim, that I 
 believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in 
 the laws of propriety than the sober sons of judgment and 
 prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties 
 that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the inclosed 
 poem, which he begs leave to present you with. Whether 
 it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not 
 the proper judge : but it is the best my abilities can pro- 
 duce ; and what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior 
 grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. 
 
 The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I 
 dare say. Madam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you 
 scarcely noticed the poetic reveur as he w^andcred by you. 
 I had roved out as chance directed, in the favourite haunts 
 of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in all 
 the gaiety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming 
 over the distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the 
 crimson opening blossom, or the verdant-spreading leaf It 
 was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the 
 feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand.
 
 36 LETTERS. 
 
 with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out 
 of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten 
 them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he must 
 be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious 
 endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to dis- 
 cover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property 
 nature gives you — your dearest comforts, your helpless 
 nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across 
 the way, what heart at such a time but must have been 
 interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from the 
 rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast ? Such 
 was the scene, and such the hour, when, in a corner of my 
 prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's work- 
 manship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a 
 poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted, who hold com- 
 merce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and Villainy 
 taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal 
 peace with such an object. 
 
 What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have 
 raised plain dull historic prose into metaphor and measure. 
 
 The inclosed song was the work of my return \ and 
 perhaps it but poorly answers what might have been 
 expected from such a scene. — I have the honour to be. 
 Madam, your most obedient and very humble servant, 
 
 R. B. 
 
 P.S. — Well, Mr. Burns, and did the lady give you the 
 desired permission ? No ; she was too fine a lady to notice 
 so plain a compliment. As to her great brothers, whom I 
 have since met in life on more equal terms * of respect- 
 ability — why should I quarrel with their want of attention 
 to nie ? When fate swore that their purses should be full, 
 nature was equally positive that their heads should be 
 empty. Men of their fashion were surely incapable of 
 being unpoHte ? Ye canna mak a silk-purse o' a sow's lug. 
 
 R. B., 1792. 
 
 * As Depute Master of St. James's Lodge, Burns admitted Claude 
 Alexander, Esq., of Ballochmyle, an honorary member, in July 17S9.
 
 LETTERS. 37 
 
 XXXI. — In the Name of the Nine. Avien. 
 
 We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, 
 bearing date the twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini 
 one thousand seven hundred and fift)Miine,* Poet Laureat, 
 and Bard-in-Chief, in and over the districts and countries of 
 Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old extent, — To our 
 trusty and well-beloved William Chalmers and John 
 M'Adam, students and practitioners in the ancient and 
 mysterious science of confounding right and wrong. 
 
 Right Trusty, — Be it known unto you, That whereas 
 in the course of our care and watchings over the order and 
 police of all and sundry the manufacturers, retainers, and 
 vendors of poesy ; bards, poets, poetasters, rhymers, 
 jinglers, songsters, ballad-singers, etc., etc., etc., etc., male 
 and female — We have discovered a certain nefarious, 
 abominable, and wicked song or ballad, a copy whereof we 
 have here inclosed ; Our Will therefore is, that Ye pilch 
 upon and appoint the most execrable individual of that 
 most execrable species known by the appellation, phrase, 
 and nickname of The Deil's Yell Nowte,* and after having 
 caused him to kindle a fire at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at 
 noontide of the day, put into the said wretch's merciless 
 hands the said copy of the said nefarious and wicked song, 
 to be consumed by fire in presence of all beholders, in 
 abhorrence of, and terrorem to, all such compositions and 
 composers. And this in no wise leave ye undone, but have 
 it executed in every point as this our mandate bears, before 
 the twenty-fourth current, when in person We hope to 
 applaud your faithfulness and zeal. 
 
 Given at Mauchline this twentieth day of November, 
 Anno Domini one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six. 
 God save the Bard ! 
 
 * His birthday. * Old bachelors.
 
 38 LETTERS. 
 
 XXXII. — To James Dalrymple, Esq., Orangefield. 
 
 \_Tpih Nov. 1786.] 
 Dear Sir, — I suppose the devil is so elated with his 
 success with you, that he is determined by a coup de main 
 to complete his purposes on you all at once, in making you 
 a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me ; hummed 
 over the rhymes ; and as I saw they were extempore, said to 
 myself, they w^ere very well ; but when I saw at the bottom 
 a name that I shall ever value with grateful respect, " I 
 gapit wide, but naething spak." I was nearly as much 
 struck as the friends of Job, of affliction-bearing memory, 
 when they sat down with him seven days and seven nights, 
 and spake not a word. 
 
 I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as soon as my 
 vv'onder-scared imagination regained its consciousness, and 
 resumed its functions, I cast about what this mania of yours 
 might portend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch 
 of possibility ; and several events, great in their magnitude, 
 and important in their consequences, occurred to my fancy. 
 The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of the Cork 
 rumps ; a ducal coronet to Lord George Gordon, and the 
 
 protestant interest ; or St Peter's keys to 
 
 You want to know how I come on. I am just in statu 
 quo., or, not to insult a gentleman with my Latin, in "auld 
 use and wont." The noble Earl of Giencairn took me by 
 the hand to-day, and interested himself in my concerns, 
 with a goodness like that benevolent Being whose image he 
 so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality 
 of the soul than any that philosophy ever produced. A 
 mind like his can never die. Let the worshipful squire 
 H. L., or the reverend Mass J. M. go into their primitive 
 nothing. At best, they are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, 
 only one of them strongly tinged with bituminous particles 
 and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as 
 the heroic swell of magnanimity, and the generous throb of 
 benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at " the war of 
 elements, the wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. " 
 
 R. B.
 
 LlLTTERS. 39 
 
 XXXIII.— To Sir John Whitefoord. 
 
 Edinburgh, \st Dec. 17S6. 
 
 Sir, — Mr. IMcKenzie in Mauchline, my very warm and 
 worthy friend, has informed me how much you are pleased 
 to interest yourself in my fate as a man, and — what to me is 
 incomparably dearer — my fame as a poet. I have, Sir, in 
 one or two instances, been patronised by those of your 
 character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by 
 social friends to them, and honoured acquaintances to me ; 
 but you are the first gentleman in the country whose 
 benevolence and goodness of heart has interested him for 
 me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master enough of 
 the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay to 
 inquire, Avhether formal duty bade or cold propriety 
 disallowed my thanking you in this manner, as I am 
 convinced, from the light in which you kindly view me, 
 that you will do me the justice to believe this letter is not 
 the manoeuvre of the needy sharping author, fastening on 
 those in upper life who honour him with a little notice of 
 him or his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is generally 
 such, to a proverb, as may, in some measure, palliate that 
 prostitution of heart and talents they have at times been 
 guilty of. I do not think that prodigality is, by any means, 
 a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a 
 careless, indolent inattention to economy is almost in- 
 separable from it ; then there must be in the heart of every 
 bard of nature's making a certain modest sensibility, mixed 
 with a kind of pride, which will ever keep him out of the 
 way of those windfalls of fortune, Avhich frequently light on 
 hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. It is not easy 
 to imagine a more helpless state than his whose poetic 
 fancy unfits him for the world, and whose character as a 
 scholar gives him some pretensions to the politesse of life, 
 yet is as poor as I am. For my part, I thank heaven my 
 star has been kinder : learning never elevated my ideas 
 above the peasant's shed, and I have an independent fortune 
 at the plough-tail.
 
 40 LETTERS, 
 
 I was surprised to hear* that any one who pretended in 
 the least to the manners of the gentleman should be so 
 foolish, or v/orse, as to stoop to traduce the morals of such 
 a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle 
 with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part of my story. 
 With a tear of gratitude I thank you, Sir, for the warmth 
 with which you interposd in behalf of my conduct. I am, 
 I acknowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, 
 and passion ; but reverence to God, and integrity to my 
 fellow-creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. I have no 
 return, Sir, to make you for your goodness, but one — a 
 return which I am persuaded will not be unacceptable — the 
 honest warm wishes of a grateful heart for your happiness, 
 and every one of that lovely flock who stand to you in a 
 filial relation. If ever Calumny aims the poisoned shaft at 
 them, may friendship be by to ward the blow ! R. B. 
 
 XXXIV. — To Mr. Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline. 
 
 Edinburgh, Dec. "jth, 1786. 
 
 Honoured Sir, — I have paid every attention to your 
 commands, but can only say what perhaps you will have 
 heard before this reach you, that Muirkirklands were 
 bought by a John Gordon, W.S., but for whom I know 
 not ; Mauchlands, Haugh Miln, etc., by a Frederick 
 Fotheringham, supposed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and 
 Adam-hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's folks. 
 This is so imperfect an account, and will be so late ere it 
 reach you, that were it not to discharge my conscience I 
 would not trouble you with it ; but after all my diligence I 
 could make it no sooner nor better. 
 
 For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as 
 eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bunyan ; and you 
 
 * From Dr. Mackenzie, Burns's friend, and medical attendant of 
 the family of Sir John.
 
 LETTERS. 41 
 
 may expect henceforth to see my birthday inserted among 
 the wonderful events in the poor Robin's and Aberdeen 
 Ahnanacks, along with the black Monday and the battle of 
 Bothwell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of 
 Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their 
 wing ; and by all probability I shall soon be the tenth 
 worthy, and the eighth wise man of the world. Through 
 my lord's influence, it is inserted in the records of the 
 Caledonian Hunt, that they universally, one and all, 
 subscribe for the second edition. My subscription bills 
 come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of them next 
 post. I have met in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what 
 Solomon emphatically calls, " a friend that sticketh closer 
 than a brother." The warmth with which he interests him- 
 self in my affairs is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, 
 Mr. Aikin, and the few patrons that took notice of my 
 earlier poetic days, showed for the poor unlucky devil of 
 a poet. 
 
 I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy in 
 my poetic prayers, but you both in prose and verse. 
 
 May caulcl ne'er catch you, but a hap, 
 Nor hunger but in plenty's lap ! 
 
 Amen ! R. B. 
 
 XXXV. — To Mr. John Ballantine, Banker, at one 
 TIME Provost of Ayr. 
 
 Edinburgh, \ith December 17S6. 
 My Honoured Friend, — I would not wrile you till I 
 could have it in my power to give you some account of 
 myself and my matters, which, by the by, is often no easy 
 task. I arrived here on Tuesday was se'nnight,* and have 
 suffered ever since I came to town with a miserable head- 
 ache and stomach complaint, but am now a good deal 
 
 * A mistake for "a fortnight."
 
 42 LETTERS. 
 
 better. I have found a worthy warm friend in ]Mr. 
 Dalrymple, of Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord 
 Glencairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to 
 me I shall remember when time shall be no more. By his 
 interest it is passed in the " Caledonian Hunt," and entered 
 in their books, that they are to take each a copy of the 
 second edition, for which they are to pay one guinea. I 
 have been introduced to a good many of the noblesse, but 
 my avowed patrons and patrones;es are, the Duchess of 
 Gordon — the Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord and 
 Lady Betty* — the Dean of Faculty — Sir John Whitefoord. 
 I have likewise warm friends among the literati ; Professors 
 Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — the Man of Feeling. An 
 unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire bard with 
 Mr. Sibbald, which I got. I since have discovered my 
 generous unknown friend to be Patrick Miller, Esq., 
 brother to the Justice Clerk ; and drank a glass of claret 
 with him, by invitation, at his own house yesternight. I am 
 nearly agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose 
 I will begin on Monday I will send a subscription bill or 
 two, next post ; when I intend writing my first kind patron, 
 Mr. Aikin. I saw his son to-day, and he is very weh. 
 
 Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned friends, put me 
 in the periodical paper called the Lounger,f a copy of which 
 I here enclose you. I was, Sir, when I was first honoured 
 with your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble lest I should 
 be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the glare of 
 polite and learned observation. 
 
 I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, write you an 
 account of my every step ; and better health and more 
 spirits may enable me to make it something better than this 
 stupid matter-of-fact epistle. — I have the honour to be, good 
 Sir, your ever grateful humble servant, R. B. 
 
 If any of my friends write me, my direction is care of 
 Mr. Creech, Bookseller. 
 
 * Cunningham. 
 
 t The paper here alkided to was written by Mackenzie, the celebrated 
 author of 7 he Alan of Feeling.
 
 LETTERS. 43 
 
 XXXVL— To Mr. Robert ISIuir. 
 
 Edinburgh, Dec. zofh, 1786. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — I have just time for the carrier, to 
 tell you that I received your letter, of which I shall say no 
 more but what a lass of my acquaintance said of her bastard 
 wean ; she said she " didna ken wha was the father exactly, 
 but she suspected it was some o' thae bonny blackguard 
 smugglers, for it was like them." So I only say, your 
 obliging epistle was like you. I enclose you a parcel of 
 subscription bills. Your affair of sixty copies is also like 
 you ; but it would not be like me to comply. 
 
 Your friend's notion of my life has put a crotchet in my 
 head of sketching it in some future epistle to you. My 
 compliments to Charles and INIr. Parker. R. B. 
 
 XXXVII. — To Mr. William Chalmers, Writer, Ayr. 
 
 Edinburgh, Dec. zjlh, 17S6. 
 My Dear Friend, — I confess I have sinned the sin for 
 which there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to friend- 
 ship, in not writing you sooner ; but of all men living, I 
 had intended to have sent you an entertaining letter ; and 
 by all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding con- 
 ceited majesty preside over the dull routine of business — a 
 heavily-solemn oath this ! — I am and have been, ever since 
 I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a letter of humour, 
 as to write a commentary on the Revelation of St. John the 
 Divine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos by the 
 cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and brother to 
 Titus, both emperors of Rome, and who was himself an 
 emperor, and raised the second or third persecution, I 
 forget which, against the Christians, and after throwing the 
 said apostle John, brother to the apostle James, commonly 
 called James the Greater, to distinguish him from another 
 James, who was on some account or other known by the 
 name of James the Less — after throwing him into a cauldron
 
 44 LETTERS. 
 
 of boiling oil from which he was miraculously preserved, he 
 banished the poor son of Zebedee to a desert island in the 
 Archipelago where he was gifted with the second sight, 
 and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen since I came 
 to Edinburgh ; which, a circumstance not uncommon in 
 story-telling, brings me back to where I set out. 
 
 To make you some amends for what, before you reach 
 this paragraph, you will have suffered, I enclose you two 
 poems I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. 
 
 One blank in the address to Edinburgh — " Fair B ," 
 
 is heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at 
 whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. 
 There has not been anything nearly like her in all the 
 combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great 
 Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the first day of 
 her existence. 
 
 My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, merchant. 
 Bridge Street. R. B. 
 
 XXXVIII. — To THE Earl of Eglington. 
 
 Edinburgh, /aiMMczry 17S7. 
 
 My Lord, — As I have but slender pretensions to philo- 
 sophy, I cannot rise to the exalted ideas of a citizen of the 
 world, but have all those national prejudices, which I 
 believe glow peculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. 
 There is scarcely anything to which I am so fully alive as 
 the honour and welfare of my country ; and as a poet, I 
 have no higher enjoyment than singing her sons and 
 daughters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest shades 
 of life ; but never did a heart pant more ardently than mine 
 to be distinguished ; though till very lately I looked in vain 
 on every side for a ray of light. It is easy then to guess 
 how much I was gratified with the countenance and appro- 
 bation of one of my country's most illustrious sons, when 
 Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday on the part of your 
 lordship. Your munificence, my lord, certainly deserves
 
 LETTERS. 45 
 
 my very grateful acknowledgments ; but your patronage is a 
 bounty peculiarly suited to my ieelings. I am not master 
 enough of the etiquette of life to know, whether there be 
 not some impropriety in troubling your lordship with my 
 thanks, but my heart whispered me to do it. From the 
 emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude I 
 hope I am incapable of; and mercenary servility, I trust, I 
 shall ever have so much honest pride as to detest. R. B. 
 
 XXXIX.— To Mr. John Ballantine. 
 
 Edinburgh, /««. \\th, 1787. 
 
 My Honoured Friend, — It gives me a secret comfort 
 to observe in myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie 
 Gaw's Skate, " past redemption ; " for I have still tliis 
 favourable symptom of grace, that when my conscience, as 
 in the case of this letter, tells me I am leaving something 
 undone that I ought to do, it teases me eternally till I 
 do it. 
 
 I am still " dark as was Chaos " in respect to futurity. 
 My generous friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, has been talking 
 with me about a lease of some farm or other in an estate 
 called Dalswinton, which he has lately bought near 
 Dumfries. Some life-rented embittering recollections 
 whisper me that I will be happier anywhere than in my 
 old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no judge of land ; and 
 though I daresay he means to favour me, yet he may give 
 me, in his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may ruin 
 me. I am to take a tour by Dumfries as I return, and have 
 promised to meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in 
 May. 
 
 I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the Most 
 ^^'^orshipful Grand Master Chartres, and all the Grand 
 Lodge of Scotland visited. The meeting was numerous 
 and elegant ; all the different lodges about town were 
 present, in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who
 
 46 LETTERS 
 
 presided with great solemnity and honour to himself as a 
 gentleman and mason, among other general toasts gave 
 " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, Brother Burns," which 
 rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours 
 and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing 
 would happen, I was downright thunderstruck, and, trem- 
 bling in every nerve, made the best return in my power. Just 
 as I had finished, some of the grand officers said so loud that 
 I could hear with a most comforting accent, "Very well, 
 indeed ! " which set me something to rights again. 
 
 I have just now had a visit from my landlady,* who is a 
 staid, sober, piously-disposed, vice-abhorring widow, coming 
 on her climacteric ; she is at present in great tribulation 
 respecting some daughters of Belial who are on the floor 
 immediately above. My landlady, who, as I have said, is a 
 flesh-disciplining godly matron, firmly believes her husband 
 is in heaven ; and, having been very happy with him on 
 earth, she vigorously and perseveringly practises such of 
 the most distinguished Christian virtues as attending 
 church, railing against vice, etc., that she may be qualified 
 to meet him in that happy place where the ungodly shall 
 never enter. This, no doubt, requires some strong exer- 
 tions of self-denial in a hale, well-kept widow of forty-five ; 
 and as our floors are low and ill-plastered, we can easily 
 distinguish our laughter-loving, night-rejoicing neighbours 
 when they are eating, drinking, singing, etc. My worthy 
 landlady tosses sleepless and unquiet, " looking for rest and 
 finding none," the whole night. Just now she told me — 
 though by-the-by she is sometimes dubious that I am, in 
 her own phrase, " but a rough an' roun' Christian," — that 
 " we should not be uneasy or envious because the wicked 
 enjoy the good things of this life, for the jades would one 
 day lie in hell," etc., etc. 
 
 I have to-day corrected my 152nd page. My best good 
 wishes to Mr. Aikin. — I am ever, dear Sir, your much 
 indebted humble servant, R. B. 
 
 * Mrs. Carfrae, Baxter's Close, Lawnmarket, Edinburgh, according 
 to John Richmond, law clerk.
 
 LETTERS. 47 
 
 XL.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Edinburgh, it^th January 1787. 
 
 Madam, — Yours of the 9th current, which I am this 
 moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to me for 
 ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real truth, for I am 
 miserably awkward at a fib — I wished to have written to 
 Dr. Moore before I wrote to you ; but, though every day 
 since I received yours of December 30th, the idea, the 
 wish to write to him has constantly pressed on my thoughts, 
 yet I could not for my soul set about it. I know his fame 
 and character, and I am one of " the sons of little men." 
 To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's 
 order, would be disgracing the little character I have ; and 
 to write the author of The Viciv of Society and Manners 
 a letter of sentiment — I declare every artery runs cold at 
 the thought. I shall try, however, to write to him to-morrow 
 or next day. His kind interposition on my behalf I have 
 already experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other 
 day, on the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas, by 
 way of subscription, for two copies of my next edition. 
 
 l"he word you object to in the meiition I have made of 
 my glorious countryman and your immortal ancestor, is 
 indeed borrowed from Thomson ; but it does not strike 
 me as an improper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment 
 on your finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion of 
 some of the literati here, who honour me with their critical 
 strictures, and they all allowed it to be proper. The song 
 you ask I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of it. I 
 have not composed anything on the threat Wallace, except 
 what you have seen in print ; and the inclosed, which I will 
 print in this edition.* You will see I have mentioned some 
 others of the name. When I composed my " Vision,'' 
 long ago, I had attempted a description of Kyle, of which 
 the additional stanzas are a part as it originally stood. My 
 heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to the 
 
 * Stanza in the "Vision," beginning, '* Hy stately tower or palace 
 fair," and ending with the first Duan.
 
 48 LETTERS. 
 
 merits of the " saviour of his country," which sooner or 
 later I shall at least attempt. 
 
 (You are afraid I shall grow intoxic.ited with my prosperity 
 as a poet ; alas ! Madam, I 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, informed age and nation, when 
 poetry is and has 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 imper- 
 fections 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. The novelty of 
 a poet in my obscure situation, without any of those advan- 
 tages which are reckoned necessary for that character, at 
 least at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of public 
 notice which has borne me to a height, where I am 
 absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate to 
 support me ; and too surely do I see that time when the 
 same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far below 
 the mark of truthTT I do not say this in the ridiculous 
 affectation of self-aBasement and modesty, 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 vengeful triumph. 
 
 Your patronising me and interesting yourself in my fame 
 and character as a poet, I rejoice in ; it exalts me in my
 
 LETTERS. 49 
 
 own idea ; and whether you can or cannot aid me in my 
 subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription-bill any 
 charms to the heart of a bard, compared with the patronage 
 of the descendant of the immortal Wallace? R. B. 
 
 XLI.— To Dr. Moore.* 
 
 Edinburgh, yfl'«. 1787. 
 
 SiR; — Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me 
 extracts of letters she has had from you, where you do the 
 rustic bard the honour of noticing him and his works. 
 Those who have felt the anxieties and solicitudes of author- 
 ship, can only know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in 
 such a manner, by judges of the first character. Your 
 criticisms. Sir, I receive with reverence : only I am sorry 
 they mostly came too late : a peccant passage or two that I 
 would certainly have altered, were gone to the press. 
 
 The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater 
 part of those even who are authors of repute, an unsub- 
 stantial dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and 
 still my strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the in- 
 mates of the hamlet, while ever-changing language and 
 manners shall allow me to be relished and understood. I 
 am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; 
 and as few, if any, writers, either moral or poetical, are 
 intimately acquainted with the classes of mankind among 
 whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men and 
 manners in a different phasis from what is common, which 
 may assist originality of thought. Still I know very well 
 the novelty of my character has by far the greatest share in 
 the learned and polite notice I have lately had ; and in 
 a language where Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, 
 and Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear ; where Thomson 
 and Beattie have painted the landscape, and Lyttelton and 
 
 * Father of the hero of Coruua, and author oi Zehico, etc. 
 
 423
 
 so LETTERS. 
 
 Collins described the heart, I am not vain enough to hope 
 for distinguished poetic fame. R. B. 
 
 XLII. — To THE Rev. G. Lawrie, Newmilns, near 
 
 Kilmarnock. 
 
 Edinburgh, Feb. ^tk, 1787. 
 
 Reverend and Dear Sir, — When I look at the date 
 of your kind letter, my heart reproaches me severely with 
 ingratitude in neglecting so long to answer it. I will not 
 trouble you with any account, by way of apology, of my 
 hurried life and distracted attention : do me the justice 
 to believe that my delay by no means proceeded from want 
 of respect. I feel, and ever shall feel for you, the mingled 
 sentiments of esteem for a friend and reverence for a 
 father. 
 
 I thank you, Sir, with all my soul, for your friendly hints, 
 though I do not need them so much as my friends are apt 
 to imagine. You are dazzled with newspaper accounts and 
 distant reports ; but, in reality, I have no great temptation 
 to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. Novelty may 
 attract the attention of mankind awhile ; to it I owe my 
 present eclat ; but I see the time not far distant when the 
 popular tide which has borne me to a height of which I am, 
 perhaps, unworthy, shall recede with silent celerity, and 
 leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend at my leisure 
 to my former station. I do not say this in the affectation of 
 modesty; I see the consequence is unavoidable, and am 
 prepared for it. I had been at a good deal of pains to 
 form a just, impartial estimate of my intellectual powers 
 before I came here : I have not added, since I came to 
 Edinburgh, anything to the account; and I trust I shall 
 take every atom of it back to my shades, the coverts of 
 my unnoticed early years. 
 
 In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I have found 
 what I would have expected in our friend, a clear head and 
 an excellent heart.
 
 LETTERS. 51 
 
 By far the most agreeable hours I spend in Edinburgh 
 must be placed to the account of Miss Lawrie and her 
 jDianoforte. I cannot help repeating to you and Mrs. 
 Lawrie a compliment that Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated 
 " Man of Feeling," paid to Miss Lawrie, the other night, at 
 the concert. I had come in at the interlude, and sat down 
 by him till I saw Miss Lawrie in a seat not very far distant, 
 and went up to pay my respects to her. On my return to Mr. 
 Mackenzie he asked me who she was ; I told him 'twas the 
 daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the west country. 
 He returned, there were something very striking, to his idea, 
 in her appearance. On my desiring to know what it was, he 
 was pleased to say, " She has a great deal of the elegance of 
 a well-bred lady about her, with all the sweet simplicity of a 
 country girl." 
 
 My compliments to all the happy inmates of St. 
 Margaret's. — I am, my dear Sir, yours, most gratefully, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 XLIIL — ^To THE Earl of Buchan.* 
 
 My Lord, — The honour your lordship has done me, by 
 your notice and advice in yours of the ist instant, I shall 
 ever gratefully remember : — 
 
 Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
 They best can give it who deserve it most. 
 
 Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart, 
 when you advise me to fire my muse at Scottish story and 
 Scottish scenes. I wish for nothing more than to make a 
 leisurely pilgrimage througli my native country ; to sit and 
 muse on those once hard-contended fields, where Cale- 
 donia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through broken 
 ranks to victory and fame ; and, catching the inspiration, to 
 pour the deathless names in song. But, my lord, in the 
 midst of these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry 
 
 * The Earl of Buchan was the very pink of parsimonious patrons. 
 — Motherwell.
 
 52 LETTERS. 
 
 moral-looking phantom strides across my imagination, and 
 pronounces these emphatic words : — 
 
 " I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, I do not 
 come to open the ill-closed wounds of your follies and 
 misfortunes, merely to give you pain : I wish through these 
 wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. I will 
 not mention how many of my salutary advices you have 
 despised : I have given you line upon line and precept upon 
 precept ; and while I was chalking out to you the straig.ht 
 way to wealth and character, with audacious effrontery you 
 have zigzagged across the path, contemning me to my face ; 
 you know the consequences. It is not yet three months 
 since home was so hot for you, that you were on the wing 
 for the western shore of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, 
 but to hide your misfortune. 
 
 " 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'-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 ; but still it is half a step from it. If all that 
 I can urge be ineffectual, let her who seldom calls to you in 
 vain, let the call of pride prevail with you. 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, independ- 
 ence 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." 
 
 This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my 
 humble station, and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way 
 at the plough-tail. Still, my lord, while the drops of life 
 warm my heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in which 
 I boast my birth, and gratitude to those her distinguished 
 sons, who have honoured me so much with their patronage 
 and approbation, shall, while stealing through my humble 
 shades, ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, draw 
 forth the swelling tear. R. B.
 
 LETTERS. 53 
 
 XLIV.— To Mr. James Candlish,* Student in Physic, 
 Glasgow College. 
 
 Edinburgh, March 21st, ijSy. 
 
 My Ever Dear Old Acquaintance,— I was equally 
 surprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare say you 
 will think, by ray delaying so long to write to you, that I am 
 so drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to be 
 indifferent to old, and once dear connections. The truth is, 
 I was determined to write a good letter, full of argument, 
 amplification, erudition, and, as Bayes says, a// that. I 
 thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my soul, I could 
 not ; and, lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, 
 I just sit down to tell you so. Don't give yourself credit, 
 though, that the strength of your logic scares me ; the truth 
 is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at all. You 
 have shown me one thing which was to be demonstrated : 
 that strong pride of reasoning, with a little affectation of 
 singularity, may mislead the best of hearts. I likewise, 
 since you and I were first acquainted, in the pride of 
 despising old women's stories, ventured in " the daring path 
 Spinosa trod ; " but experience of the weakness, not the 
 strength of human powers, made me glad to grasp at 
 revealed religion. 
 
 I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, " the old man 
 with his deeds," as when we were sporting about the " Lady 
 Thorn." I shall be four weeks here yet at least : and so I 
 shall expect to hear from you ; welcome sense, welcome 
 nonsense. — I am, with the warmest sincerity, R. l*- 
 
 * Mr. Candlish married Miss Smith, one of the six belles of 
 Mauchline. Their son was the Rev. Dr. Candlish, of Free St. 
 George's Church, Edinburgh.
 
 54 LETTERS. 
 
 XLV. — To Mr. Peter Stuart, Editor of 
 "The Star," London. 
 
 Edinburgh, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — You may think, and too justly, that I 
 am a selfish, ungrateful fellow, having received so many 
 repeated instances of kindness from you, and yet never 
 putting pen to paper to say thank you ; but if you knew 
 what a devil of a life my conscience has led me on that 
 account, your good heart would think yourself too much 
 avenged. By the by, there is nothing in the whole frame 
 of man which seems to be so unaccountable as that thing 
 called conscience. Had the troublesome yelping cur 
 powers efficient to prevent a mischief, he might be of use ; 
 but at the beginning of the business, his feeble efforts are, 
 to the workings of passion, as the infant frosts of an 
 autumnal morning to the unclouded fervour of the rising 
 sun ; and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of the 
 wicked deed over, than amidst the bitter native con- 
 sequences of folly in the very vortex of our honors, up 
 starts conscience, and harrows us with the feelings of the 
 damned. 
 
 I have inclosed you, by way of expiation, some verse and 
 prose, that, if they merit a place in your truly entertaining 
 miscellany, you are welcome to. The prose extract is 
 literally as Mr. Sprott sent it me. 
 
 The inscription on the stone is as follows : — 
 
 " HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, 
 "Born, September 5th, 1751 — Died, i6th October 1774. 
 
 *' No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
 ' No storied urn nor animated bust ; ' 
 This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
 To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust." 
 
 On the other side of the stone is as follows : — 
 
 " By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns, who erected 
 this stone, this burial place is to remain for ever sacred to the memory 
 of Robert Fergusson."
 
 LETTERS. 55 
 
 XLVL— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Edinburgh, March 22i2d, 1787. 
 
 Madam, — I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, 
 very little while ago, I had scarce a friend but the stubborn 
 pride of my own bosom ; now I am distinguished, patron- 
 ised, befriended by you. Your friendly advices — I will not 
 give them the cold name of criticisms — I receive with 
 reverence. I have made some small alterations in what I 
 before had printed. I have the advice of some very 
 judicious friends among the literati here, but with them I 
 sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of think- 
 ing 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. 
 
 You kindly interest yourself in my future views and 
 prospects ; there I can give you no light. It is all 
 
 Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun 
 Was roU'd together, or had tried his beams 
 Athwart the gloom profound. 
 
 The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my highest 
 pride ; to continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambi- 
 tion. Scottish scenes and Scottish story are the themes I 
 could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it 
 in my power, unplagued with the routine of business, for 
 which Heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely 
 pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her 
 battles ; to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers ; 
 and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once 
 the honoured abodes of her heroes. 
 
 But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied long 
 enough with life ; 'tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, 
 an aged mother to care for : and some other bosom ties 
 perhaps equally tender. Where the individual only suffers 
 by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, indolence, 
 or folly, he may be excusable; nay, shining abilities, and
 
 56 LETTERS. 
 
 some of the nobler virtues, may half sanctify a heedless 
 character; but where God and nature have intrusted the 
 welfare of others to his care ; where the trust is sacred, and 
 the ties are dear, that man must be far gone in selfishness, 
 or strangely lost to reflection, whom these connections will 
 not rouse to exertion. 
 
 I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred 
 pounds by my authorship f with that sum I intend, so far 
 as I may be said to have any intention, to return to my old 
 acquaintance, the plough ; and, if I can meet with a lease 
 by which I can live, to commence farmer. I do not intend 
 to give up poetry ; being bred to labour, secures me inde- 
 pendence, and the muses are my chief, sometimes have 
 been my only enjoyment. If my practice second my reso- 
 lution, I shall have principally at heart the serious business 
 of life ; but while following my plough, or building up my 
 shocks, I shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only 
 feature of my character, which gave me the notice of my 
 country, and the patronage of a Wallace. 
 
 Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the bard, his 
 situation, and his views, native as they are in his own 
 bosom. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 XLVII.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Edinburgh, I'^th April 17S7. 
 
 Madam, — There is an affectation of gratitude which I 
 dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pauses of Sterne 
 may hide a selfish heart. For my part, Madam, I trust I 
 have too much pride for servility, and too little prudence 
 for selfishness. I have this moment broken open your 
 letter, but 
 
 Rude am I in speech, 
 And therefore little can I grace my cause 
 In speaking for myself — 
 
 * The proceeds amounted to more — some ^500 or so.
 
 LETTERS. K1 
 
 .J I 
 
 so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and 
 hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand on my heart and 
 say, I hope I shall ever have the truest, the warmest sense 
 of your goodness. 
 
 I come abroad, in print, for certain on Wednesday. 
 Your orders I shall punctually attend to ; only, by the way, 
 I must tell you that I was paid before for Dr. Moore's and 
 Miss Williams's copies, through the medium of Commis- 
 sioner Cochrane in this place, but that we can settle when 
 I have the honour of waiting on you. 
 
 Dr. Smith* was just gone to London the morning before 
 I received your letter to him. R. B, 
 
 XLVIII.— To Dr. Moore. 
 
 Edinburgh, 2T,rd April i'jSt. 
 
 I received the books, and sent the one you mentioned to 
 Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill skilled in beating the coverts of 
 imagination for metaphors of gratitude. I thank you, Sir, 
 for the honour you have done me ; and to my latest hour 
 will warmly remember it. To be highly pleased with your 
 book, is what I have in common with the world ; but to 
 regard these volumes as a mark of the author's friendly 
 esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. 
 
 I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fort- 
 night, and after a few pilgrimages over some of the classic 
 ground of Caledonia, Cowden Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, 
 Tweed, etc., I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- 
 hood never more to quit them. I have formed many inti- 
 macies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of 
 too tender a construction to bear carrij.ge a hundred and 
 fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the fashionable, the 
 polite, I have no equivalent to ofter ; and I am afraid my 
 meteor appearance will by no means entitle me to a settled 
 correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent 
 lights of genius and literature. 
 
 * Adam Smith, the celebrated author of The Wealth of Nations.
 
 58 LETTERS. 
 
 My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. If 
 once this tangent flight of mine were over, and I were 
 returned to my wonted leisurely motion in my old circle, I 
 may probably endeavour to return her poetic compliment 
 in kind. R. B. 
 
 XLIX.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Edinburgh, 30/// April 17S7. 
 
 — Your criticisms, Madam, I understand 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. Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered those 
 who possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and 
 power, that I am determined to flatter no created being, 
 either in prose or verse. 
 
 I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics, etc., as all 
 these respective gentry do by my bardship. I know what I 
 may expect from the world, by-and-bye — illiberal abuse, and 
 perhaps contemptuous neglect. 
 
 I am happy, Madam, that some of my own favourite 
 pieces are distinguished by your particular approbation. 
 For my " dream,"* which has unfortunately incurred your 
 loyal displeasure, I hope, in four weeks, or less, to have the 
 honour of appearing, at Dunlop, in its defence in person. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 L. — To Mr. William Nicol, Classical Master, 
 High School, Edinburgh. 
 
 Carlisle, June i, 1787. 
 Kind, honest-hearted Willie. — I'm sitten down here, 
 after seven-and-forty miles' ridin', e'en as forjesket and 
 
 * The well-known poem, beginning, " Guid morning to your 
 Majesty." Mrs. Dunlop had recommended its omission, in the second 
 edition, on the score of prudence.
 
 LETTERS. 59 
 
 forniaw'd as a forfoughten cock, to gie ye some notion o' 
 my land lovvper-like stravaguin sin the sorrowfu' hour that I 
 sheuk hands and parted wi' auld Reekie. 
 
 My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huchyall'd up hill 
 and down brae, in Scotland and England, as teugh and 
 birnie as a very deil wi' me. It's true, she's as poor's a 
 sang-maker and as hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers when 
 she taks the gate, first like a lady's gentlewoman in a minu- 
 wae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she's a yauld, poutherie 
 Girran for a' that, and has a stomack like Willie Stalker's 
 meere that wad hae disgeested tumbler-wheels, for she'll 
 whip me aff her five stimparts o' the best aits at a down- 
 sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. When ance her ring-banes 
 and spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she 
 beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the tightest. 
 I could wager her price to a thretty pennies, that for twa or 
 three wooks ridin' at fifty miles a day, the deil-stickit a five 
 gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn cculd cast saut on 
 her tail. 
 
 I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dunbar to Selcraig, 
 and hae forgather'd wi' mony a guid fallow, and mony a 
 weelfar'd hizzie. I met wi' twa dink quines in particlar, ane 
 o' them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and bonnie ; 
 the tither was a clean-shankit, straught, tight, w^eel-far'd 
 winch, as blythe's a lintwhite on a flowerie thorn, and as 
 sweet and modest's a new blawn plumrose in a hazle shaw. 
 They were baith bred to mainers by the beuk, and onie ane 
 o' them had as muckle smeddum and rumblegumtion as the 
 half o' some presbyteries that you and I baith ken. 
 
 I was gaun to write ye a lang pystle, but, Gude forgie 
 me, I gat mysel sae notouriously fou the day after kail-time 
 that I can hardly stoiter but and ben. 
 
 My best respecks to the guidwife and a' our common 
 friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank, and the honest 
 guidman o' Jock's Lodge.* 
 
 * Louis Cauviii, tc-xchcr of French,
 
 6o LETTERS. 
 
 I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, 
 and the branks bide hale. 
 
 Gude be wi' you, Willie ! Amen ! 
 
 R. B. 
 
 TJ.— To Mr. William Nicol. 
 
 MAUCHLINE,y?^«^ l8, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — I am now arrived safe in my native 
 country, after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the pleasure 
 to find all my friends well. I breakfasted with your grey- 
 headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith ; and was highly pleased, 
 both with the cordial v/elcome he gave me, and his most 
 excellent appearance and sterling good sense. 
 
 I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, and am to 
 meet him again in August. From my view of the lands, 
 and his reception of my hardship, my hopes in that business 
 are rather mended ; but still they are but slender. 
 
 I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks — Mr. Burnside, 
 the clergyman, in particular, is a man whom I shall ever 
 gratefully remember ; and his wife, Gude forgie me ! I 
 had almost broke the tenth commandment on her account. 
 Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of disposition, 
 good humour, kind hospitality, are the constituents of her 
 manner and heart ; in short — but if I say one word more 
 about her, I shall be directly in love with her. 
 
 I never, my friend, thought mankind very capable of any- 
 thing generous ; but the stateliness of the patricians in 
 Edinburgh, and the servility of my plebeian brethren (who, 
 perhaps, formerly eyed me askance) since I returned home, 
 have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my 
 species. I have bought a pocket Milton which I carry 
 perpetually about with me, in order to study the sentiments 
 — the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding inde- 
 pendence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard- 
 ship in that great personage, Satan. 'Tis true, I have just
 
 LETTERS. 6 1 
 
 now a little cash ; but I am afraid the star that hitherto has 
 shed its malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my zenith ; 
 that noxious planet, so baneful in its influence to the 
 rhyming tribe — I much dread it is not yet beneath my 
 horizon. Misfortune dodges the path of human life; the 
 poetic mind finds itself miserably deranged in, and unfit for 
 the walks of business ; add to all, that thoughtless follies 
 and hare-brained whims, like so many ignes faini, eternally 
 diverging from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle 
 with step-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor 
 heedless Bard, till, pop, "he falls like Lucifer, never to hope 
 again." God grant this may be an unreal picture with respect 
 to me ! but should it not, I have very little dependence on 
 mankind. I will close my letter with this tribute my 
 heart bids me pay you — the many ties of acquaintance and 
 friendship which I have, or think I have in life, I have felt 
 along the lines, and damn them, they are almost all of 
 them of such frail contexture, that I am sure they would 
 not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of fortune ; 
 but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence 
 for the Apostolic love that shall wait on me " through good 
 report and bad report " — the love which Solomon emphat- 
 ically says " is strong as death." My compHments to Mrs. 
 Nicol and all the circle of our common friends. 
 
 P.S. — I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter end of 
 July. R. B. 
 
 LII. — To Mr. Robert Ainslie.* 
 
 Arrochar, Q&thjune 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I write this on my tour through a 
 country where savage streams tumble over savage mountains, 
 thinly overspread with savage flocks, which sparingly 
 support as savage inhabitants. My last stage was Inverary 
 
 * A young writer in Edinburgh.
 
 62 LETTERS. 
 
 — to-morrow night's stage Dumbarton. I ought sooner to 
 
 have answered your kind letter, but you know I am a man 
 
 of many sins. R. B. 
 
 LI 11. — To Mr. James Smith, Linlithgow, formerly 
 
 OF Mauchline. 
 
 June T,otJi, 1787. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — On our return, at a Highland gentle- 
 man's hospitable mansion, we fell in with a merry party, 
 and danced till the ladies left us, at three in the morning. 
 Our dancing was none of the French or English insipid 
 formal movements ; the ladies sung Scotch songs like 
 angels, at intervals ; then we flew at Bab at the jBowster, 
 TiiUochgorum, Loch Erroch Side* etc., like midges sporting 
 in the mottie sun, or craws prognosticating a storm in a 
 hairst day. When the dear lasses left us, we ranged round 
 the bowl till the good-fellow hour of six ; except a few 
 minutes that we went out to pay our devotions to the 
 glorious lamp of day peering over the towering top of 
 Benlomond. We all kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son 
 held the bowl ; each man a full glass in his hand ; and I, as 
 priest, repeated some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas-a- 
 Rhymer's prophecies, I suppose. After a small refreshment 
 of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the day on 
 Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton in the evening. We 
 dined at another good fellow's house, and, consequently, 
 pushed the bottle ; when we went out to mount our horses 
 we found ourselves " No vera fou but gaylie yet." My two 
 friends and I rode soberly down the Loch side, till by came 
 a Highlandman at the gallop, on a tolerably good horse, 
 but which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. 
 We scorned to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we 
 started, whip and spur. My companions, though seemingly 
 gaily mounted, fell sadly astern ; but my old mare, Jenny 
 
 * Scotch tunes.
 
 LETTERS. 63 
 
 Geddes, one of the Rosinante family, she strained past the 
 Highlandman in spite of all his efforts with the hair halter : 
 just as I was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, as if 
 to cross before me to mar my progress, when down came 
 his horse, and threw his rider's breekless a — in a dipt 
 hedge ; and down came Jenny Geddes over all, and my 
 hardship between her and the Highiandman's horse. Jenny 
 Geddes trode over me with such cautious reverence, that 
 matters were not so bad as might well have been expected; 
 so I came off with a few^ cuts and bruises, and a thorough 
 resolution to be a pattern of sobriety for the future. 
 
 I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious 
 business of life. I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason- 
 making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, I shall 
 somewhere have a farm soon. I was going to say, a wife 
 too ; but that must never be my blessed lot. I am but a 
 younger son of the house of Parnassus, and like other 
 younger sons of great families, I may intrigue, if I choose 
 to run all risks, but must not marry. 
 
 I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, the principal 
 one indeed, of my former happiness ; that eternal propensity 
 I always had to fall in love. My heart no more glows with 
 feverish rapture. I have no paradisiacal evening interviews, 
 stolen from the restless cares and prying inhabitants of this 
 
 weary world. I have only , This last is one of your 
 
 distant acquaintances, has a fine figure, and elegant man- 
 ners ; and in the train of some great folks whom you know, 
 has seen the politest quarters in Europe. I do like her a 
 deal ; but what piques me is her conduct at the commence- 
 ment of our acquaintance. I frequently visited her when I 
 
 was in , and after passing regularly the intermediate 
 
 degrees between the distant formal bow and the familiar 
 grasp round the waist, I ventured, in my careless way, to 
 talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms ; and after 
 
 her return to , I wrote to her in the same style. 
 
 Miss, construing my words farther, I suppose, than even 
 I intended, flew off in a tangent of female dignity and 
 reserve, like a mounting lark in an April morning ; and wrote
 
 64 LETTERS. 
 
 me an answer which measured me out very completely 
 what an immense way I had to travel before I could reach 
 the climate of her favour. But I am an old hawk at the 
 sport, and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, 
 as brought my bird from her aerial towerings, pop down at 
 my foot, like Corporal Trim's hat. 
 
 As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and all my wise 
 sayings, and why my mare was called Jenny Geddes, they 
 shall be recorded in a few weeks hence at Linlithgow, in 
 the chronicles of your memory, by R. B. 
 
 LIV. — To Mr. John Richmond. 
 
 MossGiEL, 'jthjuly 1787. 
 
 My Dear Richmond, — I am all impatience to hear of 
 your fate since the old confounder of right and wrong has 
 turned you out of place, by his journey to answer his indict- 
 ment at the bar of the other world. He will find the 
 practice of the court so different from the practice in which 
 he has for so many years been thoroughly hackneyed, that 
 his friends, if he had any connections truly of that kind, 
 which I rather doubt, may well tremble for his sake. His 
 chicane, his left-handed wisdom, which stood so firmly by 
 him, to such good purpose, here, like other accomplices in 
 robbery and plunder, will, now the piratical business is 
 blown, in all probability turn king's evidences, and then the 
 devil's bagpiper will touch him off " Bundle and go ! " 
 
 If he has left you any legacy, I beg your pardon for all 
 this ; if not, I know you will swear to every word I said 
 about him. 
 
 I have lately been rambling over by Dumbarton and 
 Inverary, and running a drunken race on the side of Loch 
 Lomond with a wild Highlandman ; his horse, which had 
 never known the ornaments of iron or leather, zig-zagged 
 across before my old spavin'd hunter, whose name is Jenny 
 Geddes, and down came the Highlandman, horse and all,
 
 LETTERS. 65 
 
 and down came Jenny and my hardship ; so I have got 
 such a skinful of bruises and wounds, that I shall be at 
 least four weeks before I dare venture on my journey to 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 Not one new thing under the sun has happened in 
 Mauchline since you left it. I hope this will find you as 
 comfortably situated as formerly, or, if heaven pleases, more 
 so; but, at all events, I trust you will let me know of course 
 how matters stand with you, well or ill. 'Tis but poor con- 
 solation to tell the world when matters go wrong ; but you 
 know very well your connection and mine stands on a 
 different footing. — I am ever, my dear friend, yours, 
 
 R. B. 
 
 LV. — To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 
 
 Mauchline, ^^rd July 17S7. 
 
 My Dear Ainslie, — There is one thing for which I set 
 great store by you as a friend, and it is this, that I have not 
 a friend upon earth, besides yourself, to whom I can talk 
 nonsense without forfeiting some degree of his esteem. 
 Now, to one like me, who never cares for speaking anything 
 else but nonsense, such a friend as you is an invaluable 
 treasure. I was never a rogue, but have been a fool all my 
 life ; and, in spite of all my endeavours, I see now plainly 
 that I. shall never be wise. Now it rejoices my heart to 
 have met with such a fellow as you, who, though you are 
 not just such a hopeless fool as I, yet I trust you will never 
 listen so much to temptation as to grow so very wise that 
 you will in the least disrespect an honest fellow because he 
 is a fool. In short, I have set you down as the staff of my 
 old age, when the whole list of my friends will, after a 
 decent share of pity, have forgot me. 
 
 Tliough in the morn comes btuil anil !-tii(e, 
 
 Yet joy may come at noon ; 
 And 1 hope to live a merry, merry life 
 
 When a' thir days are done. 
 
 424
 
 66 LETTERS. 
 
 Write me soon, were it but a few lines, just to tell me 
 how that good, sagacious man your father is, — that kind, 
 dainty body your mother, — that strapping chiel your brother 
 Douglas — and my friend Rachel, who is as far belore 
 Rachel of old, as she was before her blear-eyed sister Leah. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 LVL— To Dr. Moore. 
 
 Mauchline, 2nd August 1787, 
 
 Sir, — For some months past I have been rambling over 
 the country, but I am now confined with some lingering 
 complaints, originating, as I take it, in the stomach. To 
 divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I 
 have taken a whim to give you a history of myself My 
 name has made some little noise in this country ; you have 
 done me the honour to interest yourself very warmly in my 
 behalf; and I think a faithful account of what character of 
 a man I am, and how I came by that character, may 
 perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give you an 
 honest narrative, though I know it will be often at my own 
 expense ; for I assure you, Sir, I have, like Solomon, 
 whose character, excepting in the trifling affair of wisdom, 1 
 sometimes think I resemble, — 1 have, I say, like him, 
 turned my eyes to behold madness and folly, and like him, 
 too, frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating friend- 
 ship. After you have perused tliese pages, should you 
 think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell 
 you, that the poor author wrote them under some twitching 
 qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion that he was 
 doing what he ought not to do : a predicament he has more 
 than once been in before. 
 
 I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that 
 character which the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons 
 call a gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, I got 
 acquainted in the herald's office ; and, looking through that
 
 LETTERS. 67 
 
 granary of honours, I there found almost every name in the 
 kingdom ; but for me, 
 
 My ancient but ignoble blood 
 Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood. 
 
 Gules, purpure, argent, etc., quite disowned me. 
 
 My father was in the north of Scotland the son of a 
 farmer, and was thrown by early misfortunes on the world 
 at large, where, after many years' wanderings and sojourn- 
 ings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of observation and 
 experience, to which I am indebted for most of my little 
 pretensions to wisdom. I have met with few who under- 
 stood men, their manners, and their ways, equal to him ; 
 but stubborn, ungainly integrity, and headlong, ungovern- 
 able irascibility are disqualifying circumstances ; conse- 
 quently, I was born a very poor man's son. For the first 
 six or seven years of my life, my father was gardener to a 
 worthy gentleman of small estate in the neighbourhood of 
 Ayr. Had he continued in that station, I must have 
 marched off to be one of the little underlings about a farm 
 house ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in 
 his power to keep his children under his own eye, till they 
 could discern between good and evil ; so, with the assist- 
 ance of his generous master, my father ventured on a small 
 farm on his estate. At those years, I was by no means a 
 favourite with anybody. 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. In my 
 infant and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old woman 
 who resided in the family, remarkable for her ignorance, 
 credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest 
 collection in the country of tales and songs concerning 
 devils, ghosts, fairies, brovvnies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, 
 kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, can-
 
 68 LETTERS. 
 
 traips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. 
 This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry, but had so strong 
 an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my 
 nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look out in 
 suspicious places ; and though nobody can be more 
 sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an 
 effort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. 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 blest, O Lord ! " I particularly 
 remember one half-stanza which was music to my boyish 
 ear — 
 
 " For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
 High on the broken wave — " 
 
 I met with these pieces in Manson's English Collection, one 
 of my school-books. The first two books I ever read in 
 private, and which gave me more pleasure than any two 
 books I ever read since, were the Life of Hannibal, and 
 the History of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my 
 young ideas such a turn, that I used to strut in rapture up 
 and down after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and 
 wish 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 flood-gates of Ufe shut in 
 eternal rest. 
 
 Polemical divinity about this time was putting the 
 country half mad, and I, ambitious of shining in conversa- 
 tion parties on Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, etc., 
 used a few years afterwards to puzzle Calvinism with so 
 much heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry of 
 heresy against me, which has not ceased to this hour. 
 
 My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to me. My 
 social disposition, when not checked by some modifications 
 of spirited pride, was like our catechism definition of 
 infinitude, without bounds or limits. I formed several con- 
 nections with other younkers, who possessed superior 
 advantages ; the youngling actors who were busy in the
 
 LETTERS. 69 
 
 rehearsal of parts, in which they were shortly to appear on 
 the stage of hfe, where, alas ! I was destined to drudge 
 behind the scenes. It is not commonly at this green stage 
 that our young gentry have a just sense of the immense 
 distance between them and their ragged play-fellows. It 
 takes a few dashes into the world, to give the young great 
 man that proper, decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, 
 insignificant, stupid devils, the mechanics and peasantry 
 around him, who were, perhaps, born in the same village. 
 My young superiors never insulted the clouterly appearance 
 of my plough-boy carcase, the two extremes of which were 
 often exposed to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. 
 They would give me stray volumes of books ; among them, 
 even then, I could pick up some observations ; and one, 
 whose heart, I am sure, not even the " Munny Begum " 
 scenes have tainted, helped me to a httle French. Parting 
 with these my young friends and benefactors, as they 
 occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was often 
 to me a sore affliction ; but I was soon called to more 
 serious evils. My father's generous master died ; the farm 
 proved a ruinous bargain ; and to clench the misfortune, we 
 fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I 
 have drawn of one in my tale of " Twa Dogs." My father 
 was advanced in life when he married ; I was the eldest 
 of seven children, and he, worn out by early hardships, was 
 unfit for labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, but 
 not easily broken. There was a freedom in his lease in 
 two years more, and to weather these two years, we 
 retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly : I was a 
 dexterous ploughman for my age; and the next eldest to 
 me was a brother (Gilbert), who could drive a plough very 
 well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel-writer 
 might, perhaps, have viewed these scenes with some 
 satisfaction, but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils at 
 the recollection of the scoundrel factor's insolent threatening 
 letters, which used to set us all in tears. 
 
 This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit with 
 the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, brought me to my six-
 
 yo LETTERS. 
 
 teenth year j a little before which period I first committed 
 the sin of rhyme. You know our country custom of 
 coupling a man and woman together as partners in the 
 labours of harvest. In my fifteenth autumn, my partner 
 was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. My 
 scarcity of English denies me the power of doing her justice 
 in that language, but you know the Scottish idiom : she 
 was a " bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass." In short, she, altogether 
 unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, 
 which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, 
 and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human 
 joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the 
 contagion I cannot tell ; you medical people talk much of 
 in'ection from breathing the same air, the touch, etc. ; but I 
 never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know 
 myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when 
 returning in the evening from our labours \ why the tones of 
 her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an -^olian harp ; 
 and particularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan, 
 when I looked and fingered over her little hand to pick out 
 the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love- 
 inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite 
 reel to which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in 
 rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to imagine that I 
 could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who 
 had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song which was 
 said to be composed by a small country laird's son, on one 
 of his father's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I saw 
 no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, except- 
 ing that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father 
 living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than 
 myself. 
 
 Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times 
 have been my only, and till within the last twelve months, 
 have been my highest enjoyment. My father struggled on 
 till he reached the freedom in his lease, when he entered on 
 a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the country. The 
 nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little
 
 LETTERS. 71 
 
 ready money into his hands at the commencement of his 
 lease, otherwise the affair would have been impracticable. 
 For four years we lived comfortably here, but a difference 
 commencing between him and his landlord as to terms, 
 after three years tossing and whirling in the vortex of litiga- 
 tion, my father was just saved from the horrors of a jail, by 
 a consumption, which, after two years' promises, kindly 
 stepped in, and carried him away, to where the v.-icked 
 cease from troubling, and where the w^eary are at rest ! 
 
 It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my 
 little story is most eventful. I was, at tlie beginning of this 
 period, perhaps the most ungainly awkward boy in the 
 parish — no solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of 
 the world. What I knew of ancient story was gathered 
 from Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical Grammars ; and 
 the ideas I had formed of modern manners, of literature, 
 and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, with Pope's 
 Works, some Plays of Shakespeare, Tull and Dickson on 
 Agriculture, The FantJieon., Locke's Essay on the Human 
 Understanding., Stackhouse's History of the Bible., Justice's 
 British Gardener's Directory, Boyle's Lectures., Allan Ram- 
 says's W^orks, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, 
 A Select Collection of English Songs, and Hervey's Medi- 
 tations, had formed the w-hole of my reading. The collec- 
 tion of songs was my vade mecum. I pored over them, 
 driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse 
 by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or sublime, from 
 affectation and fustian. I am convinced I owe to this 
 practice much of my critic-craft, such as it is. 
 
 In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, I 
 went to a country dancing-school. My father had an 
 unaccountable antipathy against these meetings, and my 
 going was, what to this moment I repent, in opposition to 
 his wishes. My father, as I said before, was subject to 
 strong passions ; from that instance of disobedience in me, 
 he took a sort of dislike to me, which, I believe, was one 
 cause of the dissipation which marked my succeeding years. 
 I say dissipation, comparatively w^ith the strictness, and
 
 72 LETTERS. 
 
 sobriety, and regularity of presbyterian country life; for 
 though the will-o'-wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were 
 almost the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and 
 virtue kept me for several years afterwards within the line 
 of innocence. The great misfortune of my life was to want 
 an aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambition, but 
 they were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the 
 walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed on 
 me perpetual labour. The only two openings by which I 
 could enter the temple of fortune were the gate of niggardly 
 economy, or the path of little chicaning bargain-making. 
 The first is so contracted an aperture I never could squeeze 
 myself into it — the last I always hated — there was con- 
 tamination in the very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim 
 or view in life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well 
 from native hilarity as from a pride of observation and 
 remark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochondriasm 
 that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to 
 social life, my reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain 
 wild logical talent, and a strength of thought something 
 like the rudiments of good sense ; and it will not seem sur- 
 prising that I was generally a welcome guest where I visited, 
 or any great wonder that always, where two or three met 
 together, there was I among them. But far beyond all 
 other impulses of my heart, was un penchant a Fadorable 
 inoitie du genre humai7i. My heart was 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 some- 
 times I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, 
 or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set abso- 
 lute want at defiance ; and as I never cared further for my 
 labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the 
 evenings in the way after my own heart. A country lad 
 seldom carries on a love adventure without an assisting 
 confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dex- 
 terity that recommended me as a proper second on these 
 occasions; and I dare say I felt as much pleamre in being
 
 LETTERS. 73 
 
 in the secret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as 
 ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the 
 courts of Europe. The very goose-feather in my hand 
 seems to know instinctively the well-worn path of my 
 imagination, the favourite theme of my song, and is with 
 difficulty restrained from giving you a couple of paragraphs 
 on the love-adventures of my compeers, the humble inmates 
 of the farm-house and cottage ; but the grave sons of 
 science, ambition, or avarice, baptise these things by the 
 name of follies. To the sons and daughters of labour and 
 poverty they are matters of the most serious nature : to 
 them the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender 
 farewell, are the greatest and most delicious parts of their 
 enjoyments. 
 
 Another circumstance in my life which made some alter- 
 ation 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, etc., in which I made a pretty good progress. But 
 I made a 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 dissi- 
 pation were, till this time, new- to me : but I was no enemy 
 to social life. Here, though I learned to fill my glass, and 
 to m.ix 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 filiette, who lived next door to the school, 
 overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from 
 tiie spheres of my studies. I, however, struggled on with 
 my sines and cosines for a few days more ; but stepping 
 into the garden one charming noon, to take the sun's alti- 
 tude, there I met my angel, 
 
 Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
 Herself a fairer flower. 
 
 It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school.
 
 74 LETTERS. 
 
 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. 
 
 I returned home very considerably improved. My read- 
 ing was enlarged with the very important edition of Thom- 
 son's and Shen stone's Works; I had seen human nature in 
 a new phasis ; and 1 engaged several of my schoolfellows 
 to keep up a literary correspondence with me. This im- 
 proved me in composition. I had met with a collection of 
 letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over 
 them most devoutly. I kept copies of any of my own letters 
 that pleased me, and a comparison between them and the 
 composition of most of my correspondents flattered my 
 vanity. I carried this whim so far, 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. 
 
 My life flowed on much in the same course till my 
 twenty-third year. Vive Pamour, et vive la bagatelle, were 
 my sole principles of action. The addition of two more 
 authors to my library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and 
 Mackenzie — Tristram Shandy and the Man of Feeling were 
 my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my 
 mind, but it was only indulged in according to the humour 
 of the hour. I had usually half-a-dozen or more pieces on 
 hand : 1 took up one or other, as it suited the moaientary 
 tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it bordered on 
 fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up, raged like so 
 many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and then the con- 
 ning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! 
 None of the rhymes of those days are in print, except 
 "Winter, a Dirge," the eldest of my printed pieces; "The 
 Death of Poor Maillie," "John Barleycorn," and songs first, 
 second, and third. Song second was the ebullition of that 
 passion which ended the forementioned school business. 
 
 My twenty-third year was to me an important era. Partly
 
 LETTERS. 75 
 
 through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing 
 something in Hfe, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring 
 town (Irvine), to learn his trade. This was an unlucky 
 affair. My partner was a scoundrel of the first water \ and 
 to finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal 
 to the New Year, the shop took fire and burnt to ashes, and 
 I was left, like a tnie poet, not worth a sixpence. 
 
 I was obliged to give up this scheme ; the clouds of mis- 
 fortune were gathering thick round my father's head; and, 
 what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in a consump- 
 tion ; and, to crown my distresses, a belle Jille, whom I 
 adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the 
 field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances 
 of mortification. 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 1 
 was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless 
 wretches who have got their mittimus — " Depart from me, 
 ye cursed." 
 
 From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; 
 but the principal thing which gave my mind a turn was 
 a friendship I formed with a young fellow, a very noble 
 character, but a hapless son of misfortune.* He was the 
 son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neigh- 
 bourhood 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, the poor fellow, in despair, went to sea ; 
 where, afier a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before 
 I was acquainted with him he had been sent on shore by an 
 American privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, 
 stripped of everything. I cannot quit this poor fellow's 
 story without adding, that he is at this time master of a large 
 West-India-man belonging to the Thames. 
 
 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. 
 
 * Richard Brown.
 
 76 LETTERS. 
 
 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 friend- 
 ship did me a mischief, and the consequence was, that soon 
 after I resumed the plough, I wrote the " Poet's Welcome." 
 My reading only increased while in this town by two stray 
 volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, 
 which gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some 
 religious pieces that are in print, 1 had given up ; but meet- 
 ing with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my 
 wildly-sounding lyre with emulating vigour. When my 
 father died, his all went among the hell-hounds that prowl 
 in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to collect 
 a little money in the family amongst us, with which, to keep 
 us together, my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. 
 My brother wanted my hair-brained imagination, as well as 
 my social and amorous madness ; but in good sense, and 
 every sober qualification, he was far my superior. 
 
 I entered on tl)is 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, and 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 a late harvest, we 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." 
 
 I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a 
 maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring that saw 
 the light was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between 
 two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis personcB 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 a friend, who was very fond of such things, and told him
 
 LETTERS. 77 
 
 that I could not guess who was the author of it, but that I 
 thought it pretty clever. With a certain description of the 
 clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. 
 "Holy Willie's Prayer" next made its appearance, and 
 alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held several 
 meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any 
 of it mi^ht be pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily 
 for me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point- 
 blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate 
 story that gave rise to my printed poem, "The Lament." 
 This was a most melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear 
 to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of 
 the principal qualifications for a place among those who 
 have lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of ration- 
 ality. I gave up my part of the farm to my brother; in 
 truth it was only nominally mine ; and made what little 
 preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But before 
 leaving my native country for ever, I resolved to publish my 
 poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in 
 my power ; I thought they had merit ; and it was a 
 delicious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, even 
 though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver 
 — or perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone 
 to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, i\\-3A.,pai(vn inconnii 
 as I then was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself 
 and of my works as I have at this moment, when the public 
 has decided in their favour. It ever was my opinion that 
 the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious 
 point of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are 
 owing to their ignorance of themselves. To know myself, 
 had been all along my constant study. I weighed myself 
 alone; I balanced myself with others; I watched every means 
 of information, to see how much ground I occupied as 
 a man, and as a poet ; I studied assiduously Nature's design 
 in my formation — where the lights and shades in my 
 character were intended. I was jjretty confident my poems 
 would meet with some applause ; but at the worst, the roar 
 of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the
 
 78 LETTERS. 
 
 novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I 
 threw off six hundred copies, of which I had got subscrip- 
 tions for about three hundred and fifty. My vanity was 
 highly gratified by the reception I met wiih from the public ; 
 and besides, I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly 
 twenty pounds. This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
 thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure 
 my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, the 
 price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage 
 passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde, for 
 
 Hungry ruin had me in the wind. 
 
 I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, 
 under all the terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people 
 had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. 
 I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest 
 was on the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last 
 song I should ever measure in Caledonia — " The gloomy 
 night is gathering fast," when a letter from Dr. Blacldock to 
 a friend of mine overthrew all niy schemes, by opening 
 new prospects to my poetic ambition. The doctor 
 belonged to a set of critics, for whose applause I had not 
 dared to hope. His opinion, that I would meet with 
 encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me 
 so much, that away I posted for that city, without a single 
 acquaintance or a single letter of introduction. The baneful 
 star that had so long shed its blasting influence in 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 Glencairn. Oublicz 7?ioi, grand 
 Dieu, si jamais je roitblie ! 
 
 I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new 
 world ; I mingled among many classes of men, but all of 
 them new to me, and I was all attention to "catch" the 
 characters, and " the manners living as they rise." 
 
 You can now, Sir, form a pretty near guess of what sort 
 of a wight he is whom for some time you have honoured
 
 LETTERS. 79 
 
 with your correspondence. That whim and fancy, keen 
 sensibility and riotous passions, may still make him zigzag 
 in his future path of life is very probable ; but come what 
 will, I shall answer for him the most determinate integrity 
 and honour. And though his evil star should again blaze 
 in his meridian with tenfold more direful influence, he may 
 reluctantly tax friendship with pity, but with no more. 
 
 My most respectful compliments to Miss Wilhams.* 
 The very elegant and friendly letter she honoured me with 
 a few days ago I cannot answer at present, as my presence 
 is required at Edinburgh for a week or so, and I set off 
 to-morrow. 
 
 I enclose you Holy Willie for the sake of giving you a 
 little further information of the affair than Mr. Creecht could 
 do. An elegy I composed the other day on Sir James H, 
 Blair, if time allow, I will transcribe. The merit is just 
 mediocre. 
 
 If you will oblige me so highly, and do me so much 
 honour as now and then to drop me a line, please direct to 
 me at Mauchline With the most grateful respect, I have 
 the honour to be, Sir, your very humble servant, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 [The foregoing biographical letter brings us down to Burns's 29th year. ] 
 
 LVII. — To Mr. Archibald Lawrie.j 
 
 Edinburgh, ii,th August 17S7. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — Here am I. That is all I can tell you 
 of that unaccountable being, myself. What I am doing no 
 mortal can tell ; what I am thinking, I myself cannot tell ; 
 what I am usually saying is not worth telling. The clock 
 is just striking — one, two, three, four . . . twelve, forenoon ; 
 and here I sit in the attic storey, the garret, with a friend 
 on the right hand of my standi.sh, a friend whose kindness 
 
 * A young poetical lady, though not a poetess. 
 
 t His Edinburgh publisher ; a bookseller, afterwards Lord Provost of 
 the city. 
 
 X Son, and successor, to the minister of Loudon.
 
 8o LETTERS. 
 
 I shall largely experience at the close of this line — there, 
 thank you ! — a friend, my dear Lawrie, whose kindness 
 often makes me blush — a friend who has more of the milk 
 of human kindness than all the human race put together, 
 and what is highly to his honour, peculiarly a friend to the 
 friendless as often as they come his way ; in short, Sir, he is 
 wthout the least alloy a universal philanthropist, and his 
 much-beloved name is a bottle of good old Port ! 
 
 In a week, if whim and vv^eather serve, I set out for the 
 north, a tour to the Highlands. 
 
 I ate some Newhaven broth — in other words, boiled 
 mussels — with Mr. Farquharson's family t'other day. Now 
 1 see you prick up your ears. They are all well, and 
 mademoiselle is particularly well. She begs her respects to 
 you all — along with which please present those of your 
 humble servant. I can no more. I have so high a vener- 
 ation, or rather idolatrization, for the clerical character, that 
 even a \\i\.\e. fuhcrum esse priestling, with his penna pcnncE, 
 throws an awe over my mind in his presence, and shortens 
 my sentences into single ideas. 
 
 Farewell, and believe me to be ever, my dear Sir, yours, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 LVIII. — To Mr. Robert Muir, Kilmarnock. 
 
 Stirling, 2(ith Azigust 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I intended to have written you from 
 Edinburgh, and now write you from Stirling to make an 
 excuse. Here am I, on my way to Inverness, with a truly 
 original, but very worthy man, a Mr. Nicol, one of the 
 masters of the High-school in Edinburgh. I left Auld 
 Reekie yesterday morning, and have passed, besides by- 
 excursions, Linlithgow, Borrov/stounness, Falkirk, and here 
 am I undoubtedly. This morning I knelt at the tomb of 
 Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal 
 Wallace ; and two hours ago I said a fervent prayer for old
 
 LETTERS. 8 1 
 
 Caledonia over the hole in a blue whinstone, where Robert 
 de Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks of Bannock- 
 burn ; and just now, from Stirling Castle, I have seen by 
 the setting sun the glorious prospect of the windings of 
 Forth through the rich carse of Stirling, and skirting the 
 equally rich carse of Falkirk, The crops are very_ strong, 
 but so very late that there is no harvest except a ridge or 
 two perhaps in ten miles, all the way I have travelled from 
 Edinburgh. 
 
 I left Andrew Bruce* and family all well. I will be at 
 least three weeks in making my tour, as I shall return by 
 the coast, and have many people to call for. 
 
 My best compliments to Charles, our dear kinsman and 
 fellow-saint; and Messrs. W. and H. Parkers. I hope 
 Hughocf is going on and prospering with God and Miss 
 M'Causlin. 
 
 If I could think on anything sprightly, I should let you 
 hear every other post; but a dull, matter-of-fact business 
 like this scrawl, the less and seldomer one writes the better. 
 
 Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, that I am 
 and ever shall be, my dear Sir, your obliged, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 LIX. — To Mr. Gavin Hamilton. 
 
 Stirling, 28//? August 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — Here am I on my way to Inverness. I 
 have rambled over the rich, fertile carses of Falkirk and 
 Stirling, and am delighted with their appearance : richly 
 waving crops of wheat, barley, etc., but no harvest at all yet, 
 except, in one or two places, an old-wife's ridge. Yesterday 
 morning I rode from this town up the meandering Devon's 
 banks, to pay my respects to some Ayrshire folks at Harvies- 
 ton. After breakfast, we made a party to go and see the 
 famous Caudron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, 
 
 * A shopkeeper on the North Bridge, Edinburgh. 
 + The wee Hughoc mentioned in "Poor Maillie." 
 
 425
 
 82 LETTERS. 
 
 about five miles above Harvieston ; and after spending one 
 of the most pleasant days I ever had in my life, I returned 
 to Stirling in the evening. They are a family, Sir, though I 
 had not had any prior tie, though they had not been the 
 brother and sisters of a certain generous friend of mine, I 
 would never forget them. I am told you have not seen 
 them these several years, so you can have very little idea of 
 what these young folks are now. Your brother* is as tall as 
 you are, but slender rather than otherwise ; and I have the 
 satisfaction to inform you that he is getting the better of 
 those consumptive symptoms which I suppose you know 
 were threatening him. His make, and particularly his 
 manner, resemble you, but he will have a still finer face. 
 (I put in the word stilly to please Mrs. Hamilton.) Good 
 sense, modesty, and at the same time a just idea of that 
 respect that man owes to man, and has a right in his turn to 
 exact, are striking features in his character ; and, what with 
 me is the Alpha and the Omega, he has a heart that might 
 adorn the breast of a poet ! Grace has a good figure, and 
 the look of health and cheerfulness, but nothing else 
 remarkable in her person. I scarcely ever saw so striking 
 a likeness as is between her and your little Beenie ; the 
 mouth and chin particularly. She is reserved at first ; 
 but as we grew better acquainted, I was delighted with the 
 native frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense of 
 her observation. Of Charlotte I cannot speak in common 
 terms of admiration : she is not only beautiful but lovely. 
 Her form is elegant ; her features not regular, but they 
 have the smile of sweetness, and the settled complacency 
 of good nature in the highest degree ; and her complexion, 
 now that she has happily recovered her wonted health, is 
 equal to Miss Burnet's. After the exercises of our riding 
 to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne's mistress : — 
 
 Her pure and eloquent blood 
 Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
 That one would almost say her body thought. 
 
 * Step-brother, more correctly.
 
 LETTERS. 83 
 
 Her eyes are fascinating ; at once expressive of good sense, 
 tenderness, and a noble mind. 
 
 I do not give you all this account, my good Sir, to flatter 
 you. I mean it to reproach you. Such relations the first 
 peer in the realm might own with pride ; then why do you 
 not keep up more correspondence with these so amiable 
 young folks? I had a thousand questions to answer about 
 you. I had to describe the little ones with the minuteness 
 of anatomy. They were highly delighted when I told them 
 that John* was so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and 
 that Willie was going on still very pretty ; but I have it in 
 commission to tell her from them, that beauty is a poor 
 silly bauble without she be good. Miss Chalmers I had 
 left in Edinburgh, but I had the pleasure of meeting with 
 Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie being rather a little 
 alarmingly ill of a sore throat somewhat marred our 
 enjoyment. 
 
 I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. My most respect- 
 ful compliments to Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Kennedy, and 
 Doctor Mackenzie. I shall probably write him from some 
 stage or other. — I am ever, Sir, yours most gratefully, 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 LX. — To Mr. Walker, Blair of Athole.! 
 
 Inverness, ^th September 1787. 
 
 Mv Dear Sir, — I have just time to write the foregoing,+ 
 and to tell you that it was (at least most part of it) the 
 effusion of an half-hour I spent at Bruar. I do not mean it 
 was extempore, for I have endeavoured to brush it up as 
 well as Mr. Nicol's chat, and the jogging of the chaise, 
 would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is 
 
 * This is the " Wee Curlie Johnnie" mentioned in Burns's 
 Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 
 
 t Mr. Walker was tutor to the children of the Duke of Athole. 
 He afterwards became Professor of Humanity in the University of 
 Glasgow. 
 
 t The Humble Petition of Bruar Water.
 
 84 LETTERS, 
 
 the coin with which a poet pays his debts of honour or 
 gratitude. What I owe to the noble family of Athole, of 
 the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast; what I owe of the 
 last, so help me God in my hour of need ! I shall never 
 forget. 
 
 f- The " little angel-band ! " I declare I prayed for them 
 
 ' very sincerely to-day at the Fall of Fyers. I shall never 
 
 j forget the fine family-piece I saw at Blair ; the amiable, the 
 
 I truly noble duchess, with her smiling little seraph in her 
 
 lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely " olive plants," as 
 
 the Hebrew bard finely says, round the happy mother ; the 
 
 beautiful Mrs. G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C., etc. I 
 
 wish I had the powers of Guido to do them justice ! My 
 Lord Duke's kind hospitality — markedly kind indeed ; Mr. 
 Graham of Fintry's charms of conversation ; Sir W. 
 Murray's friendship. In short, the recollection of all that 
 polite, agreeable company raises an honest glow in my 
 bosom. R. B. 
 
 LXI. — To His Brother, Mr. Gilbert Burns, Mossgiel. 
 
 Edinburgh, iTih September 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I arrived here safe yesterday evening 
 after a tour of twenty-two days, and travelling near six 
 hundred miles, windings included. My farthest stretch was 
 about ten miles beyond Inverness. I went through the 
 heart of the Highlands by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous 
 seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, among cascades 
 and druidical circles of stones, to Dunkeld, a seat of the 
 Duke of Athole ; thence across Tay, and up one of his 
 tributary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the duke's 
 seats, where I had the honour of spending nearly two days 
 with his grace and family ; thence many miles through a 
 wild country among cliffs grey with eternal snows, and 
 gloomy savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down the 
 stream through Strathspey, so famous in Scottish music; 
 Badenoch, etc., till I reached Grant Castle, where I spent
 
 LETTERS. 8s 
 
 half a day with Sir James Grant and family; and then 
 crossed the country for Fort George, but called by the way 
 at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth ; there I saw the 
 identical bed in which tradition says king Duncan was 
 murdered : lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. 
 
 I returned by the coast through Nairn, Forres, and so on, 
 to Aberdeen, thence to Stonehive, where James Burness, 
 from Montrose, met me by appointment. I spent two days 
 among our relations, and found our aunts, Jean and Isabel, 
 still alive, and hale old women. John Cairn, though born 
 the same year with our father, walks as vigorously as I can : 
 they have had several letters from his son in New York. 
 William Brand is likewise a stout old fellow ; but further 
 particulars I delay till I see you, which will be in two or 
 three weeks. The rest of my stages are not worth rehears- 
 ing ; warm as I was for Ossian's country, where I had seen 
 his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towns or fertile 
 carses? I slept at the famous Brodie of Brodie's one night, 
 and dined at Gordon Castle next day, with the Duke, 
 Duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause my old mare 
 to meet me, by means of John Ronald, at Glasgow ; but 
 you shall hear farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. 
 My duty and many compliments from the north to my 
 mother ; and my brotherly compliments to the rest. I 
 have been trying for a berth for William,* but am not 
 likely to be successful. Farewell. R. B. 
 
 LXIT. — To Mr. Patrick Miller,! Dalswinton. 
 
 Edinburgh, 20th Oct., 1787. 
 
 Sir, — I was spending a few days at Sir William Murray's, 
 Ochtertyre, and did not get your obliging letter till to-day I 
 came to town. I was still more unlucky in catching a 
 miserable cold, for which the medical gentlemen have 
 ordered me into close confinement under pain of death — 
 
 * Their youngest brother, afterwards a journeyman saddler. 
 tHis future landlord, at Ellisland.
 
 86 LETTERS. 
 
 the severest of penalties. In two or three days, if I get 
 better, and if I hear at your lodgings that you are still at 
 Dalswinton, I will take a ride to Dumfries directly. From 
 something in your last, I would wish to explain my idea of 
 being your tenant. I want to be a farmer in a small farm, 
 about a plough-gang, in a pleasant country, under the 
 auspices of a good landlord. I have no foolish notion of 
 being a tenant on easier terms than another. To find a 
 farm where one can live at all is not easy — I only mean 
 living soberly, like an old-style farmer, and joining personal 
 industry. The banks of the Nith are as sweet poetic 
 ground as any I ever saw ; and besides, Sir, 'tis but justice 
 to the feelings of my own heart and the opinion of my best 
 friends, to say that I would wish to call you landlord 
 sooner than any landed gentleman I know. These are my 
 views and wishes ; and in whatever way you think best to 
 lay out your farms I shall be happy to rent one of them. 
 I shall certainly be able to ride to Dalswinton about the 
 middle of next week, if I hear that you are not gone. — I 
 have the honour to be, Sir, your obliged humble servant, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 LXIII. — To Rev. John Skinner. 
 
 Edinburgh, October 2^th, 1787. 
 
 Reverend and Venerable Sir, — Accept, in plain, 
 dull prose, my most sincere thanks for the best poetical 
 compliment I ever received. I assure you. Sir, as a poet, 
 you have conjured up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, 
 which the best abilities in your other capacity would be ill 
 able to lay. I regret, and while I live I shall regret, that 
 when I was in the north I had not the pleasure of paying a 
 younger brother's dutiful respect to the author of the best 
 Scotch song ever Scotland saw — " Tullochgorum's my 
 delight ! " The world may think slightingly of the craft of 
 song-making if they please ; but, as Job says — " O that 
 mine adversary had written a book ! " — let them try. There
 
 LETTERS. 87 
 
 is a certain something in the old Scotch songs, a wild hap- 
 piness of thought and expression, which peculiarly marks 
 them, not only from English songs, but also from the 
 modern efforts of song-wrights, in our native manner and 
 language. The only remains of this enchantment, these 
 spells of the imagination, rest with you. Our true brother, 
 Ross of Lochlee, was likewise " owre cannie " — a " wild 
 warlock " — but now he sings among the " sons of the 
 morning." 
 
 I have often wished, and will certainly endeavour, to 
 form a kind of common acquaintance among all the genuine 
 sons of Caledonian song. The world, busy in low prosaic 
 pursuits, may overlook most of us ; but " reverence thyself." 
 The world is not our peers., so we challenge the jury. We 
 can lash that world, and find ourselves a very great source 
 of amusement and happiness independent of that world. 
 
 There is a work* going on in Edinburgh, just now, which 
 claims your best assistance. An engraver in this town has 
 set about collecting and publishing all the Scotch songs, 
 with the music, that can be found. Songs in the English 
 language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted, but the music 
 must all be Scotch. Drs. Beattie and Blacklock are lending 
 a hand, and the first musician in town presides over that 
 department. I have been absolutely crazed about it, col- 
 lecting old stanzas, and every information remaining respect- 
 ing their origin, authors, etc., etc. This last is but a very 
 fragment business ; but at the end of his second number — 
 the first is already published — a small account will be given 
 of the authors, particularly to preserve those of latter times. 
 Your three songs, " Tullochgorum," "John of Badenyon," 
 and " Ewie wi' the crookit Horn," go in this second num- 
 ber. I was determined, before I got your letter, to write 
 you, begging that you would let me know where the editions 
 of these pieces may be found as you would wish them to 
 continue in future times : and if you would be so kind to 
 this undertaking as send any songs, of your own or other.-;, 
 that you would think proper to publish, your name will be 
 * Johnson's Musical RTtisejim,
 
 88 LETTERS. 
 
 inserted among the other authors. "Nill ye, will ye," 
 one-half of Scotland already give your songs to other 
 authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear from you ; the 
 sooner the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or 
 three weeks. — I am, with the warmest sincerity, Sir, your 
 obliged humble Servant, R. B. 
 
 LXIV. — To Miss Margaret Chalmers, Harvieston. 
 
 (afterwards MRS. HAY, OF EDINBURGH.) 
 
 Oct. 26, 1787. 
 
 I SEND Charlotte the first number of the songs ; I would 
 not wait for the second number; I hate delays in little 
 marks of friendship, as I hate dissimulation in the language 
 of the heart. I am determined to pay Charlotte a poetic 
 compliment, if I could hit on some glorious old Scotch air, 
 in number second.* You will see a small attempt on a 
 shred of paper in the book ; but though Dr, Blacklock com- 
 mended it very highly, I am not just satisfied with it myself. 
 I intend to make it a description of some kind : the whining 
 cant of love, except in real passion, and by a masterly hand, 
 is to me as insufferable as the preaching cant of old Father 
 Smeaton, whig-minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, cupids, 
 loves, graces, and all that farrago, are just a Mauchline 
 a senseless rabble. 
 
 I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, 
 venerable author of " Tullochgorum," " John of Badenyon," 
 etc. I suppose you know he is a clergyman. It is by far 
 the finest poetic compliment I ever got. I will send you a 
 copy of it. 
 
 I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to wait on Mr. 
 Miller about his farms. Do tell that to I.ady Mackenzie, 
 that she may give me credit for a little wisdom. " I, 
 Wisdom, dwell with Prudence." What a blessed fireside ! 
 How happy should I be to pass a winter evening under 
 * Of the Scots Musical Jlhisewn.
 
 LETTERS. 89 
 
 their venerable roof ! and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or drink 
 water-gruel with them ! What solemn, lengthened, laughter- 
 quashing gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on the good- 
 for-nothing sons and daughters of indiscretion and folly! 
 And what frugal lessons, as we straitened the fireside circle, 
 on the uses of the poker and tongs ! 
 
 Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remembered in the 
 old way to you. I used all my eloquence, all the persuasive 
 flourishes of the hand, and heart-melting modulation of 
 periods in my power, to urge her out to Harvieston, but all 
 in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost its effect on 
 the lovely half of mankind. I have seen the day — but 
 this is " a tale of other years." In my conscience I believe 
 that my heart has been so oft on fire that it is absolutely 
 vitrified. I look on the sex with something like the 
 admiration with which I regard the starry sky in a frosty 
 December night. I admire the beauty of the Creator's 
 workmanship ; I am charmed with the wild but graceful 
 eccentricity of their motions, and — wish them good-night. 
 I mean this with respect to a certain passion dont fai eu 
 Vhonneur d'etre iin miserable esclave. As for friendship, you 
 and Charlotte have given me pleasure, permanent pleasure, 
 " which the world cannot give, nor take away," I hope, 
 and which will outlast the heavens and the earth, 
 
 R. B. 
 
 LXV.^To Mrs. Dunlop of Duinlop House, 
 Stewarton. 
 
 Edin., i,th Nov. 1787. 
 
 Madam, — . . . When you talk of correspondence and 
 friendship to me, you do me too much honour 3 but, as I 
 shall soon be at my wonted leisure and rural occupation, if 
 any remark on what I have read or seen, or any new rhyme 
 that I may twist, be worth the while . . . you shall have it 
 with all my heart and soul. It requires no common exer- 
 tion of good sense and philosophy in persons of elevated
 
 90 LETTERS. 
 
 rank to keep a friendship properly alive with one much 
 their inferior. Externals, things wholly extraneous of the 
 man, steal upon the hearts and judgments of almost, if not 
 altogether, all mankind ; nor do I know more than one 
 instance of a man who fully regards all the world as a stage 
 and all the men and women merely players, and who (the 
 dancing-school bow excepted) only values these players, the 
 dramatis fersonce who build cities and who rear hedges, 
 who govern provinces or superintend flocks, merely as they 
 act their parts. For the honour ot Ayrshire this man is 
 Professor Dugald Stewart ot Catrine. To him I might 
 perhaps add another instance, a Popish bishop, Geddes ot 
 Edinburgh, , . I ever could ill endure those . . . beasts 
 of prey who foul the hallowed ground of religion with their 
 nocturnal prowlings ; and if the prosecution against my 
 worthy friend, Dr. McGill, goes on, I sliall keep no measure 
 with the savages, but fly at them with iho. faucons ot ridicule, 
 or run them down with the bloodhounds of satire as lawful 
 game wherever I start them. 
 
 I expect to leave Edinburgh in eight or ten days, and 
 shall certainly do myself the honour of calling at Dunlop 
 House as I return to Ayrshire. — I have the honour to be. 
 Madam, your obliged humble Servant, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 LXVI. — To 1\Ir. James Hoy,* Gordon Castle. 
 
 Edinburgh, 6tk Novejnher 1787. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I would have wrote you immediately on 
 receipt of your kind letter, but a mixed impulse of gratitude 
 and esteem whispered to me that I ought to send you 
 something by way of return. When a poet owes anything, 
 particularly when he is indebted for good offices, the pay- 
 ment that usually recurs to him — the only coin, indeed, in 
 which he is probably conversant — is rhyme. Johnson sends 
 
 * Librarian to the Duke of Gordon.
 
 letters;. 91 
 
 the books by the fly, as directed, and begs me to inclose 
 his most grateful thanks : my return I intended should have 
 been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world have not 
 seen, or, perhaps, for obvious seasons, cannot see. These 
 I shall send you before I leave Edinburgh. They may 
 make you laugh a little, which, on the whole, is no bad way 
 of spending one's precious hours and still more precious 
 breath. At any rate, they will be, though a small, yet a 
 very sincere mark of my respectful esteem for a gentleman 
 whose farther acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar 
 obligation. 
 
 The Duke's song, independent totally of his dukeship, 
 charms me. There is I know not what of wild happiness 
 of thought and expression peculiarly beautiful in the old 
 Scottish" song style, of which his Grace, old venerable 
 Skinner, the author of "TuUochgorum," etc., and the late 
 Ross, at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the 
 only modern instances that I recollect, since Ramsay, with 
 his contemporaries, and poor Bob Fergusson, went to the 
 world of deathless existence and truly immortal song. The 
 mob of mankind, that many-headed beast, would laugh at 
 so serious a speech about an old song ; but, as Job says, 
 " O that mine adversary had written a book ! " Those who 
 think that composing a Scotch song is a trifling business — 
 let them try. 
 
 I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper attention to 
 the Christian admonition, " Hide not your candle under a 
 bushel," but " let your light shine before men." I could 
 name half-a-dozen Dukes that I guess are a deal worse 
 employed ; nay, I question if there are half-a-dozen better : 
 perhaps there' are not half that scanty number whom 
 Heaven has favoured with the tuneful, happy, and, I will say, 
 glorious gift. — I am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant, 
 
 R. B.
 
 92 LETTERS. 
 
 LXVII. — To THE Earl of Glencairn. 
 
 Edinburgh, \E71d of i^Z"] .'\ 
 My Lord, — I know your lordship will disapprove of my 
 ideas in a request I am going to make to you ; but I have 
 weighed, long and seriously weighed, my situation, my hopes, 
 and turn of mind, and am fully fixed to my scheme, if I can 
 possibly effectuate it. I wish to get into the Excise : I am 
 told that your lordship's interest will easily procure me the 
 grant from the commissioners ; and your lordship's patronage 
 and goodness, which have already rescued me from obscurity, 
 wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask that interest. 
 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. There, my lord, you have 
 bound me over to the highest gratitude. 
 
 My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, but I think he 
 will probably weather out the remaining seven years of it ; 
 and after the assistance which I have given, and will give 
 him, to keep the family together, I think, by my guess, I 
 shall have rather better than two hundred pounds, and 
 instead of seeking, what is almost impossible at present to 
 find, a farm that I can certainly live by, with so small a 
 stock, I shall lodge this sum in a banking-house, a sacred 
 deposit, excepting only the calls of uncommon distress or 
 necessitous old age. 
 
 These, my lord, are my views : I have resolved from the 
 maturest deliberation ; and now I am fixed, I shall leave no 
 stone unturned to carry my resolve into execution. Your 
 lordship's patronage is the strength of my hopes ; nor have 
 I yet applied to anybody else. Indeed my heart sinks 
 within me at the idea of applying to any other of the great 
 who have honoured me with their countenance. I am ill- 
 qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence 
 of solicitation, and tremble nearly as much at the thought of 
 the cold promise as the cold denial ; but to your lordship I 
 have not only the honour, the comfort, but the pleasure of 
 being your lordship's much obliged and deeply indebted 
 humble servant, R. B.
 
 LETTERS. 93 
 
 LXVIIL— To Miss Chalmers. 
 
 Edini.urgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 
 
 I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly, welcome, well- 
 filled sheet which I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness — 
 it contains too much sense, sentiment, and good spelling. 
 It is impossible that even you two, whom, I declare to my 
 God, I will give credit for any degree of excellence the sex 
 are capable of attaining — it is impossible you can go on to 
 correspond at that rate ; so, like those who, Shenstone says, 
 retire because they have made a good speech, I shall, after 
 a few letters, hear no more of you. I insist that you shall 
 write whatever comes first — what you see, what you read, 
 what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, 
 bagatelles, nonsense ; or, to fill up a corner, e'en put down 
 a laugh at full length. Now, none of your polite hints about 
 flattery ; I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall 
 have any ; though, thank heaven, I have found at last two 
 girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds 
 and with one another, without that commonly necessary 
 appendage to female bliss — a lover. 
 
 Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting-places 
 for my soul in her wanderings through the weary, thorny 
 wilderness of this world. God knows, I am ill-fitted for the 
 struggle : I glory in being a poet, and I want to be thought 
 a wise man — I would fondly be generous, and I wish to be 
 rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. "Some 
 folk hae a hantle o' faults, and I'm but a ne'er-do-well." 
 
 Afternoon. — To close the melancholy reflections at the 
 end of last sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion, com- 
 monly known in Carrick by the title of the " Wabster's 
 grace : " — 
 
 Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we, 
 
 Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we ! 
 
 Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he I 
 
 Up and to your looms, lads. 
 
 R. U.
 
 94 LETTERS. 
 
 LXIX. — To Miss Chalmers. 
 
 Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 
 
 I AM here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised 
 Umb extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind 
 vieing with the hvid horror preceding a midnight thunder- 
 storm. A drunken coachman was the cause of the first, 
 and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodily 
 constitution, hell, and myself have formed a "quadruple 
 alliance " to guarantee the other. I got my fall on 
 Saturday, and am getting slowly better. 
 
 I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got 
 through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. 
 It is really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder 
 to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo Bible in 
 sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind it with 
 all the elegance of his craft. 
 
 I would give my best song to my worst enemy — I mean 
 the merit of making it — to have you and Charlotte by me. 
 You are angelic creatures, and would pour oil and wine 
 into my wounded spirit. 
 
 I inclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of the Devon," 
 which present with my best wishes to Charlotte. The 
 " Ochil Hills " * you shall probably have next week for 
 yourself. None of your fine speeches ! R. B. 
 
 LXX. — To Miss Chalmers. 
 
 Edinburgh, \^th Dec. 1787. 
 
 I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, 
 which is not yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of 
 my soul is vastly clearer than when I wrote you last. For 
 the first time, yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It 
 would do your heart good to see my hardship, not on my 
 
 * The song in honour of Miss Chalmers, beginning, "Where, 
 braving angry winter's storms."
 
 LETTERS. 95 
 
 poetic, but on my oaken stilts ; throwing my best leg with 
 an air ! and with as much hilarity in my gait and counten- 
 ance, as a May frog leaping across the newly-harrowed ridge, 
 enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed earth, after the long- 
 expected shower ! 
 
 I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see any- 
 where in my path that meagre, squalid, famine-faced 
 spectre, poverty; attended as he always is, by iron-fisied 
 oppression, and leering contempt ; but I have sturdily 
 withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day already, 
 and still my motto is — I dare ! My worst enemy is moi 
 mane. I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incur- 
 sions 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. There are just two creatures 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. R. B. 
 
 LXXI. — To Mr. Richard Brown, Irvine. 
 
 Edinburgh, 30M Dec. 1787. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I have met with few things in life which 
 have given me more pleasure, than Fortune's kindness to 
 you since those days in which we met in the vale of misery ; 
 as I can honestly say, that I never knew a man who more 
 truly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly wished 
 it. I have been much indebted, since that time, to your 
 story and sentiments for steeling my mind against evils, of 
 which I have had a pretty decent share. My will-o'-wisp 
 fate you know : do you recollect a Sunday we spent 
 together in Eglinton woods ? You told me, on my repeat- 
 ing some verses to you, that you wondered I could resist
 
 96 LETTERS, 
 
 the temptation of sending verses of such merit to a 
 magazine. It was from this remark I derived that idea of 
 my own pieces, which encouraged me to endeavour at the 
 character of a poet. I am happy to hear that you will be 
 two or three months at home. As soon as a bruised hmb 
 will permit me I shall return to Ayrshire, and we shall 
 meet ; " and faith, I hope we'll not sit dumb, nor yet cast 
 out ! " 
 
 I have much to tell you " of men, their manners, and 
 tlieir ways," perhaps a httle of the other sex. Apropos, I 
 beg to be remembered to Mrs. Brown. There, I doubt 
 not, my dear friend, but you have found substantial happi- 
 ness. I expect to find you something of an altered but not 
 a different man ; the wild, bold, generous young fellow 
 composed into the steady affectionate husband, and the fond 
 careful parent. For me, I am just the same will-o'-wisp 
 being I used to be. About the first and fourth quarters of 
 the moon, I generally set in for the trade wind of wisdom ; 
 but about the full and change, I am the luckless victim of 
 mad tornadoes, which blow me into chaos. Almighty love 
 still reigns and revels in my bosom ; and I am at this 
 moment ready to hang myself for a young Edinburgh 
 v/idow,* who has wit and wisdom more murderously fatal 
 than the assassinating stiletto of the Sicilian bandit, 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 
 cannot command, in case of spring-tide paroxysms. My 
 best compliments to our friend Allan. Adieu ! R, B. 
 
 LXXIL— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Edinburgh, ya««a;^ 21, 1788. 
 After six weeks' coniinement, I am beginning to walk 
 
 * The earliest allusion to Clarinda (Mrs. M'Lehose). Her husband 
 was alive, in the West Indies.
 
 LETTERS. 97 
 
 across the room. They have been six horrible weeks ; 
 anguish and low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or 
 think. 
 
 I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life 
 as an officer resigns a 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 conspicuously wretched. 
 
 I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 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. 
 
 As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I 
 suppose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh ; 
 and soon after I shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop 
 House. R. B. 
 
 LXXIIL— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Edinburgh, Febmary 12, 1788. 
 
 Some things in your late letters hurt me — not that yoic 
 say them., but that you mistake vie. Religion, my honoured 
 Madam, has not only been all my life my chief dependance, 
 but my dearest enjoyment. I have, indeed, been the luck- 
 less victim of wayward follies 3 but, alas ! I have ever been 
 " more fool than knave." A mathematician without religion 
 is a probable character ; an irreligious poet is a monster. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 LXXIV. — To THE Rev. John Skinner. 
 
 Edinburgh, 14/// February 1788. 
 
 Reverend and Dear Sir, — I have been a cripple now 
 
 near three months, though I am getting vastly better, and 
 
 have been very much hurried beside, or else I would have 
 
 wrote you sooner. I must beg your pardon for the epistle 
 
 426
 
 98 LETTERS. 
 
 you sent me appearing in the Magazine. I had given a 
 copy or two to some of my intimate friends, but did not 
 know of the printing of it till the publication of the Maga- 
 zine. However, as it does great honour to us both, you 
 will forgive it. 
 
 The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in 
 my last is published to-day. I send you a copy, which I 
 beg you will accept as a mark of the veneration I have long 
 had, and shall ever have, for your character, and of the 
 claim I make to your continued acquaintance. Your 
 songs appear in the third volume, with your name in the 
 index ; as I assure you. Sir, I have heard your " Tulloch- 
 gorum," particularly among our west-country folks, given to 
 many different names, and most commonly to the immortal 
 author of " The Minstrel," who, indeed, never wrote any 
 thing superior to " Gie's a sang, Montgomery cried." Your 
 brother * has promised me your verses to the Marquis of 
 Huntley's reel, which certainly deserve a place in the col- 
 lection. My kind host, Mr. Cruikshank, of the High 
 School here, and said to be one of the best Latins in this 
 age, begs me to make you his grateful acknowledgments for 
 the entertainment he has got in a Latin publication of yours, 
 that I borrowed for him from your acquaintance and much- 
 respected friend in this place, the Rev. Dr. Webster. Mr. 
 Cruikshank maintains that you write the best Latin since 
 Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, but shall return 
 in three weeks. Your song you mentioned in your last, to 
 the tune of " Dumbarton Drums," and the other, which you 
 say was done by a brother in trade of mine, a ploughman, I 
 shall thank you for a cojjy of each. I am ever. Reverend 
 Sir, with the most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, 
 yours, R. B. 
 
 * Half-brother, James, a writer to the Signet.
 
 LETTERS. 99 
 
 LXXV. — To Mrs. Rose, of Kilravock. 
 
 Edinburgh, February 17///, 1788. 
 
 Madam, — You are much indebted to some indispensable 
 business I have had on my hands, otherwise my gratitude 
 threatened such a return for your obliging favour, as would 
 have tired your patience. It but poorly expresses my 
 feelings to say, that I am sensible of your kindness : it may 
 be said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, mine 
 is, much more justly than Addison applies it, — 
 
 Some souls by instinct to each other turn. 
 
 There was something in my reception at Kilravock so 
 different from the cold, obsequious, dancing-school bow of 
 politeness, that it almost got into my head that friendship 
 had occupied her ground without the intermediate march 
 of acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or rather 
 transfuse into language, the glow of my heart when I read 
 your letter. My ready fancy, with colours more mellow 
 than life itself, painted the beautifully wild scenery of Kilra- 
 vock — the venerable grandeur of the castle — the spreading 
 ^voods — the winding river, gladly leaving his unsightly, 
 heathy source, and lingering with apparent delight as he 
 passes the fairy walk at the bottom of the garden ; — your 
 late distressful anxieties — your present enjoyments — your 
 dear little angel, the pride of your hopes ; — my aged friend, 
 venerable in worth and years, whose loyalty and other 
 virtues will strongly entitle her to the support of the 
 Almighty Spirit here, and His peculiar favour in a happier 
 state of existence. You cannot imagine. Madam, how 
 much such feelings delight me ; they are my dearest proofs 
 of my own immortality. Should I never revisit the north, 
 as probably I never will, nor again see your hospitable 
 mansion, were I, some twenty years hence, to see your 
 little fellow's name making a proper figure in a newspaper 
 paragraph, my heart would bound with pleasure. 
 
 I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scottish songs,
 
 loo LETTERS. 
 
 set to their proper tunes ; every air worth preserving is to 
 be included ; among others I have given " Morag," and 
 some few Highland airs which pleased me most, a dress 
 which will be more generally known, though far, far inferior 
 in real merit. As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I 
 beg leave to present you with a copy of the work, as far as 
 it is printed ; the Man of Feeling, that first of men, has 
 promised to transmit it by the first opportunity. 
 
 I bei; to be remembered most resp.^ctfully to my vener- 
 able friend, and to your little Highland chieftain. When 
 you see the " two fair spirits of the hill," at Kildrummie, 
 tell them that I have done myself the honour of setting 
 myself down as one of their admirers for at least twenty 
 years to come, consequently they must look upon me as an 
 acquaintance for the same period ; but, as the Apostle Paul 
 says, "this I ask of grace, not of debt." — I have the honour 
 to be, Madam, etc., Robert Burns. 
 
 LXXVI, — To Richard Brown, Greenock. 
 
 MossGiEL, 2i,lh Febrtiary 1788. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I cannot get the proper direction for 
 my friend in Jamaica, but the following Avill do : — To Mr. 
 Jo. Hutchinson, at Jo. Brownrigg's, Esq., care of Mr. 
 Benjamin Henriquez, merchant. Orange Street, Kingston. 
 I arrived here, at my brother's, only yesterday, after fighting 
 my way through Paisley and Kilmarnock, against those old 
 powerful foes of mine, the devil, the world, and the flesh — 
 so terrible in the fields of dissipation. I have met with few 
 incidents in my life which gave me so much pleasure as 
 meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time of life beyond 
 which we cannot form a tie worth the name of friendship, 
 " O youth ! enchanting stage, profusely blest." Life is a 
 fairy scene : almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment 
 or pleasure is only a charming delusion ; and in comes
 
 LETTERS. loi 
 
 repining age, in all the gravity of hoary wisdom, and 
 wretchedly chases away the bewitching phantom. When I 
 think of life, I resolve to keep a strict look-out in the 
 course of economy, for the sake of worldly convenience and 
 independence of mind ; to cultivate intimacy with a few of 
 the companions of youth, that they may be the friends of 
 age ; never to refuse my liquorish humour a handful of the 
 sweetmeats of life, when they come not too dear ; and, for 
 futurity, — 
 
 The present moment is our ain, 
 The neist we never saw ! 
 
 How like you my philosophy ? Give my best compliments 
 to Mrs. B., and believe me to be, my dear Sir, yours most 
 truly, Robert Burns. 
 
 LXXVII. — To Mr. "\Villiai\i Cruikshank.* 
 
 Mauchline, March yd, 178S. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — Apologies for not writing are frequently 
 like apologies for not singing — the apology better than the 
 song. I have fought my way severely through the savage 
 hospitality of this country, the object of all hosts being to 
 send every guest drunk to bed if they can. 
 
 I executed your commission in Glasgow, and I hope the 
 cocoa came safe. 'Twas the same price and the very same 
 kind as your former parcel, for the gentleman recollected 
 your buying there perfectly well. 
 
 I should return my thanks for your hospitality 
 
 (I leave a blank for the epithet, as I know none can do it 
 justice) to a poor, wayfaring bard, who was spent and 
 almost overpowered fighting with prosaic wickedness in 
 high places ; but I am afraid lest you should burn the 
 letter whenever you come to the passage, so I pass over it 
 in silence. I am just returned from visiting Mr. Miller's 
 
 * One of the masters of the High School of Edinburgh.
 
 I02 LETTERS. 
 
 farm. The friend whom I told you I would take with me 
 was highly pleased with the farm ; and as he is, without 
 exception, the most intelligent farmer in the country, he has 
 staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans of life 
 before me ; I shall balance them to the best of my judg- 
 ment ; and fix on the most eligible. I have written Mr. 
 Miller, and shall wait on him when I come to town, which 
 shall be the beginning or middle of next week : I would be 
 in sooner, but my unlucky knee is rather worse, and I fear 
 for some time will scarcely stand the fatigue of my Excise 
 instructions. I only mention these ideas to you, and, 
 indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I intend writing to to- 
 morrow, I will not write at all to Edinburgh till I return to 
 it. I would send my compliments to Mr. Nicol, but he 
 would be hurt if he knew I wrote to anybody and not to 
 him ; so I shall only beg my best, kindest, kindest 
 compliments to my worthy hostess, and the sweet little 
 rose-bud. 
 
 So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, either as an 
 Excise-officer, or as a farmer, I propose myself great pleasure 
 from a regular correspondence with the only man almost I 
 ever saw, who joined the most attentive prudence with the 
 warmest generosity. 
 
 I am much interested for that best of men, Mr. Wood ; I 
 hope he is in better health and spirits than when I saw him 
 last. — I am ever, my dearest friend, your obliged, humble 
 servant, R. B. 
 
 LXXVIIL— To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 
 
 Mauchline, ird March 1788. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — I am just returned from Mr, 
 Miller's farm. My old friend whom I took with me was 
 highly pleased with the bargain, and advised me to accept 
 of it. He is the most intelligent sensible farmer in the 
 county, and his advice has staggered me a good deal. I
 
 LETTERS. 103 
 
 have the two plans before me ; I shall endeavour to balance 
 them to the best of my judgment, and fix on the most 
 eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. Miller in the same 
 favourable disposition as when I saw him last, I shall, in all 
 probability, turn farmer. 
 
 I have been through sore tribulation and under much 
 buffetting of the wicked one, since I came to this country. 
 Jean I found banished, forlorn, destitute, and friendless ; I 
 have reconciled her to her fate, and I have reconciled her to 
 her mother. ... I swore her privately and solemnly never 
 to attempt any claim on me as a husband, even though any- 
 body should persuade her she had such a claim. . . . 
 
 I shall be in Edinburgh middle of next week. My farm- 
 ing ideas I shall keep private till I see. I got a letter from 
 Clarinda yesterday, and she tells me she has got no letter of 
 mine but one. Tell her that I wrote to her from Glasgow, 
 from Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and yesterday from 
 Cumnock as I returned from Dumfries. Indeed she is the 
 only person in Edinburgh I have written to till this day. 
 How are your soul and body putting up ? — a little like man 
 and wife I suppose. — Your faithful friend, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 LXXIX.— To Mr. Richard Brown. 
 
 Mauchline, ^th March 1788. 
 
 I HAVE been out of the country, my dear friend, and have 
 not had an opportunity of writing till now, when, I ani 
 afraid, you will be gone out of the country too. I have 
 been looking at farms, and, after all, perhaps I may settle 
 in the character of a farmer. I have got so vicious a bent 
 to idleness, and have ever been so little a man of business, 
 that it will take no ordinary effort to bring my mind properly 
 into the routine: but you will say a "great efibrt is worthy 
 of you." I say so myself ; and butter up my vanity with all 
 the stimulating compliments I can think of. Men of grave,
 
 I04 LETTERS. 
 
 geometrical minds, the sons of " which was to be demon- 
 strated," may cry up reason as much as they please ; but I 
 have ahvays found an honest passion, or native instinct, the 
 truest auxiliary in the warfare of this world. Reason almost 
 always comes to me like an unlucky wife to a poor devil of 
 a husband, just in sufficient time to add her reproaches to 
 his other grievances. 
 
 I am gratified with your kind inquiries after Jean ; as, 
 after all, I may say with Othello — 
 
 Excellent wretch ! 
 Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee ! 
 
 I go for Edinburgh on Monday. — Yours, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 LXXX.— To Mr. Robert Muir. 
 
 MossGlEL, 7/// March 1788. 
 
 Dear Sir,— I have partly changed my ideas, my dear 
 friend, since I saw you. I took old Glenconner with me to 
 Mr. Miller's farm, and he was so pleased with it, that I have 
 wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which, if he accepts, I shall sit 
 down a plain farmer, the happiest of lives when a man can 
 live by it. In this case I shall not stay in Edinburgh above 
 a week. I set out on Monday, and would have come by 
 Kilmarnock ; but there are several small sums owing me for 
 my first edition about Galston and Newmilns, and I shall 
 set off so early as to despatch my business and reach 
 Glasgow by night. When I return, I shall devote a fore- 
 noon or two to make some kind of acknowledgment for all 
 the kindness I owe your friendship. Now that I hope to 
 settle with some credit and comfort at home, there was not 
 any friendship or friendly correspondence that promised me 
 more pleasure than yours ; I hope I will not be disappointed. 
 I trust the spring will renew your shattered frame, and make 
 your friends happy. You and I have often agreed that life
 
 LETTERS. 105 
 
 is no great blessing on the whole. The close of life, 
 indeed, to a reasoning age, is 
 
 Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
 Was roll'tl together, or had tried his beams 
 Athwart the gloom profound. 
 
 But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down 
 in tlie grave, the whole man a piece of broken machinery, to 
 moulder with the clods of the valley, be it so ; at least there 
 is an end of pain, care, woes, and wants. If that part of us 
 called mind does survive the apparent destruction of the 
 man — away with old-wife prejudices and tales. Every age 
 and every nation has had a different set of stories ; and as 
 the many are always weak, of consequence they have often, 
 perhaps always, been deceived. A man conscious of having 
 acted an honest part among his fellow-creatures — even 
 granting that he may have been the sport at times of 
 passions and instincts — he goes to a great unknown Being, 
 who could have no other end in giving him existence but to 
 make him happy, who gave him those passions and 
 instincts, and well knows their force. 
 
 These, my worthy friend, are my ideas ; and I know they 
 are not far different from yours. It becomes a man of sense 
 to think for himself, particularly in a case where all men are 
 equally interested, and where, indeed, all men are equally 
 in the dark. 
 
 Adieu, my dear Sir ; God send us a cheerful meeting ! 
 
 R. B. 
 
 LXXXL— To Mtw. DuNi,op. 
 
 IMossGiEL, yth Mai-ch 1788. 
 
 Madam, — Tiic last paragraph in yours of the 30th 
 February affected me most ; so I shall begin my answer 
 where you ended your letter. That I am often a sinner 
 with any little wit I have, I do confess ; but I have taxed 
 my recollection to no purpose to find out when it was
 
 io6 LETTERS. 
 
 employed against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm 
 a great deal worse than I do the devil — at least as Milton 
 describes him ; and though I may be rascally enough to be 
 sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in others. 
 You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light 
 but you are sure of being respectable — you can afford to 
 pass by an occasion to display your wit, because you may 
 depend for fame on your sense; or, if you choose to be 
 silent, you know you can rely on the gratitude of many, and 
 the esteem of all ; but, God help us, who are wits or wit- 
 lings by profession, if we stand not for fame there, we sink 
 unsupported ! 
 
 I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila. 
 I may say to the fair painter* who does me so much honour, 
 as Dr. Beattie says to Ross, the poet of his muse Scota, 
 from which, by the by, I took the idea of Coila : ('tis a 
 poem of Beattie's in the Scottish dialect, which, perhaps, 
 you have never seen) : — 
 
 Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
 Ye've set auld Scota on her legs ; 
 Lang had she lien wi' beffs and flags, 
 
 Bumbaz'd and dizzie, 
 Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 
 
 Wae's me, poor hizzie. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 LXXXIL— To Mr. Wm. Nicol (perhaps). 
 
 Mauchline, 'jth March 1788. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — My life, since I saw you last, has been 
 one continued hurry ; that savage hospitality which knocks 
 a man down with strong liquors, is the devil. I have a 
 sore warfare in this world ; the devil, the world, and the 
 flesh, are three formidable foes. The first I generally try to 
 
 * One of Mrs. Dunlop's daughters was painting a sketch from the 
 "Coila of the Vision."
 
 LETTERS. 107 
 
 fly from ; the second, alas ! generally flies from me ; but 
 the third is my plague, worse than the ten plagues of Egypt. 
 
 I have been looking over several farms in this country ; 
 one in particular, in Nithsdale, pleased me so well, that if 
 my offer to the proprietor is accepted, I shall commence 
 farmer at AVhit-Sunday. If farming do not appear eUgible, 
 I shall have recourse to any other shift ; but this to a 
 friend. 
 
 I set out for Edinburgh on Monday morning ; how long 
 I stay there is uncertain, but you will know so soon as I 
 can inform you myself. However I determine, poesy must 
 be laid aside for some time ; my mind has been vitiated 
 with idleness, and it will take a good deal of effort to 
 habituate it to the routine of business. — I am, my dear Sir, 
 yours sincerely, R. B. 
 
 LXXXIIL— To Miss Chalmers. 
 
 Edinburgh, March i^th, 1788. 
 
 I know, my ever dear friend, that you will be pleased 
 with the news when I tell you I have at last taken a lease 
 of a farm. Yesternight I completed a bargain with Mr. 
 Miller, of Dalswinton, for the farm of EUisland, on the 
 banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above 
 Dumfries. I begin at Whit-Sunday to build a house, drive 
 lime, etc., and Heaven be my help ! for it will take a strong 
 effort to bring my mind into the routine of business. I 
 have discharged all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, 
 and pleasures — a motley host ! and liave literally and 
 strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, which I 
 have incorporated into a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's 
 observation, " Where much is attempted, something is 
 done." Firmness, both in sufferance and exertion, is a 
 character I would wish to be thought to possess : and have 
 always despised the whining yelp of complaint, and the 
 cowardly, feeble resolve.
 
 io8 LETTERS. 
 
 Poor Miss K.* is ailing a good deal this winter, and 
 begged me to remember her to you the first time I wrote to 
 you. Surely woman, amiable woman, is often made in vain. 
 Too delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; 
 too noble for the dirt of avarice, and even too gentle for the 
 rage of pleasure ; formed, indeed, for, and highly susceptible 
 of enjoyment and rapture ; but that enjoyment, alas ! 
 almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, 
 stupidity, or wickedness of an animal at all times 
 comparatively unfeeling, and often brutal. R- B. 
 
 * Miss Kennedy, sister of Gavin Hamilton, She lived nearly 
 half a century after this.
 
 THE CLARINDA LETTERS.
 
 NOTE PREFATORY TO THE LETTERS TO 
 CLARINDA. 
 
 We have now arrived, in the history of Burns, as his general 
 correspondence reveals it, at the middle of March 1788. Before 
 the end of the month he had broken off from Clarinda, and 
 shortly afterwards he married Jean Armour. The correspondence 
 with Clarinda began in the last month of 17S7, and ran its 
 course in three months. It is now necessary to go back to 
 the commencement of this correspondence, and to follow it 
 down to its first conclusion at the point to which his general 
 correspondence has brought us. It has been thought preferable 
 to take it by itself. 
 
 Clarinda's maiden name was Agnes Craig. She was the 
 daughter of Mr. Andrew Craig, who had been a surgeon in 
 Glasgow. Lord Craig of the Court of Session was her cousin. 
 She was born in the same year as Burns, but three months later. 
 At the age of seventeen she was married to Mr. James 
 M'Lehose, a law agent in Glasgow. Incompatibility of temper 
 resulted in a separation of the unhappy pair five years after 
 their marriage. The lady went home to her father, and on his 
 death in 1782 removed to Edinburgh, where she lived inde- 
 pendently on a small annuity. Her two sons lived with her. 
 Her husband meanwhile went out to the West Indies to push 
 his fortune.
 
 LETTERS TO CLARINDA. 
 
 Thursday Evening [Dec. 6t/t, 1787]. 
 
 Madam, — I had set no small store by my tea-drinking to- 
 night, and have not often been so disappointed. Saturday 
 evening I shall embrace the opportunity with the greatest 
 pleasure. I leave this town this day se'ennight, and, prob- 
 ably, for a couple of twelvemonths ; but must ever regret 
 that I so lately got an acquaintance I shall ever highly 
 esteem, and in whose welfare I shall ever be warmly 
 interested. 
 
 Our worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant way, 
 rallied me a good deal on my new acquaintance, and in the 
 humour of her ideas I wrote some lines, which I inclose 
 you, as I think they have a good deal of poetic merit : and 
 Miss Nimmo tells me you are not only a critic, but a 
 poetess. Fiction, you know, is the native region of poetry ; 
 and I hope you will pardon my vanity in sending you the 
 bagatelle as a tolerably o^-h^nd Jejid'esprif. I have several 
 poetic trifles, which I shall gladly leave with Miss Nimmo, or 
 you, if they were worth house room ; as there are scarcely two 
 people on earth by whom it would mortify me more to be for- 
 gotten, though at the distance of ninescore miles. — I am, 
 Madam, with the highest respect, your very humble servant, 
 
 Robert Burns.
 
 112 LETTERS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Saturday Evening, Dec. Zth, 17S7. 
 
 I CAN say with truth, Madam, that I never met with a 
 person in my hfe whom I more anxiously wished to meet 
 again than yourself. To-night I was to have had that very 
 great pleasure ; I was intoxicated with the idea, but an un- 
 lucky fall from a coach has so bruised one of my knees, 
 that I can't stir my leg ; so if I don't see you again, I shall 
 not rest in my grave for chagrin. I was vexed to the soul I 
 had not seen you sooner ; I determined to cultivate your 
 friendship with the enthusiasm of religion ; but thus has 
 Fortune ever served me. I cannot bear the idea of leaving 
 Edinburgh without seeing you. I know not how to account 
 for it — I am strangely taken with some people, nor am I 
 often mistaken. You are a stranger to me ; but I am an 
 odd being : some yet unnamed feelings, things, not prin- 
 ciples, but better than whims, carry me farther than boasted 
 reason ever did a philosopher. Farewell ! every happiness 
 be yours ! Robert Burns. 
 
 III. 
 
 Dec. 12, 17S7. 
 
 I STRETCH a point indeed, my dearest Madam, when I 
 answer your card on the rack of my present agony. Your 
 friendship, Madam ! By heavens, I was never proud 
 before. Your lines, I maintain it, are poetry, and good 
 poetry ; mine were indeed partly fiction and partly a friend- 
 ship, which, had I been so blest as to have met with you 
 in time, might have led me — god of love only knows 
 where. Time is too short for ceremonies. I swear 
 solemnly, in all the tenor of my former oath, to remember 
 you in all the pride and warmth of friendship until I cease 
 to be ! To-morrow, and every day till I see you, you shall 
 hear from me. Farew^ell ! May you enjoy a better night's 
 repose than I am likely to have. R. B.
 
 LETTERS. 113 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thursday, Dec. 20, 1787. 
 
 Your last, my dear Madam, had the effect on me that 
 Job's situation had on his friends when they sat down seven 
 days and seven nights astonished and spake not a word. 
 " Pay my addresses to a married woman ! " I started as if 
 I had seen the ghost of him I had injured. I recollected 
 my expressions ; some of them were indeed in the law 
 phrase " habit and repute," which is being half guilty. I 
 cannot possibly say, Madam, whether my heart might not 
 have gone astray a little ; but I can declare upon the 
 honour of a poet that the vagrant has wandered unknown 
 to me. I have a pretty handsome troop of follies of my 
 own, and, like some other people's, they are but undis- 
 ciplined blackguards ; but the luckless rascals have some- 
 thing like honour in them — they would not do a dishonest 
 thing 
 
 To meet with an unfortunate woman, amiable and young, 
 deserted and widowed by those who were bound by every 
 tie of duty, nature, and gratitude to protect, comfort and 
 cherish her ; add to all, when she is perhaps one of the 
 first of lovely forms and noble minds — the mind, too, that 
 hits one's taste as the joys of Heaven do a saint — should a 
 faint idea, the natural child of imagination, thoughtfully 
 peep over the fence — were you, my friend, to sit in judg- 
 ment, and the poor, airy straggler brought before you, 
 trembling, self-condemned, with artless eyes, brimful of 
 contrition, looking wistfully on its judge — you could not, 
 my dear Madam, condemn the hapless wretch to death 
 without benefit of clergy ? I won't tell you what reply my 
 heart made to your raillery of seven years, but I will 
 give you what a brother of my trade says on the same 
 allusion : — 
 
 The patriarch to gain a wife, 
 
 Chaste, beautilul, and young, 
 Served fourteen years a painful life, 
 
 And never thought it long. 
 
 427
 
 114 LETTERS. 
 
 O were you to reward such cares, 
 
 And life so long would stay, 
 Not fourteen but four hundred years 
 
 Would seem but as a day.* 
 
 I have written you this scrawl because I have nothing 
 else to do, and you may sit down and find fault with it, if 
 you have no better way of consuming your time. But 
 finding fault with the vagaries of a poet's fancy is much 
 such another business as Xerxes chastising the waves of 
 Hellespont. 
 
 My limb now allows me to sit in some peace : to walk I 
 have yet no prospect of, as I can't mark it to the ground. 
 
 I have just now looked over what I have written, and it 
 is such a chaos of nonsense that I daresay you will throw 
 it into the fire and call me an idle, stupid fellow ; but, 
 whatever you may think of my brains, believe me to be, 
 with the most sacred respect and heart-felt esteem, my 
 dear Madam, your humble Servant, Robt. Burns. 
 
 Friday Evening, T&th December 1 78 7. 
 
 I BEG your pardon, my dear " Clarinda," for the fragment 
 scrawl I sent you yesterday. I really do not know what I 
 wrote. A gentleman, for whose character, abilities, and 
 critical knowledge I have the highest veneration, called in 
 just as I had begun the second sentence, and I would not 
 make the porter wait. I read to my much-respected friend 
 several of my own bagatelles, and, among others, your lines, 
 which I had copied out. He began some criticisms on them 
 as on the other pieces, when I informed him they were the 
 work of a young lady in this town, which, I assure you, 
 made him stare. My learned friend seriously protested that 
 he did not believe any young woman in Edinburgh was 
 
 * Tom D'Urfey's Songs.
 
 LETTERS. 115 
 
 capable of such lines ; and if you know anything of Pro- 
 fessor Gregory, you will neither doubt of his abilities nor 
 his sincerity. I do love you, if possible, still better for 
 having so fine a taste and turn for poesy. I have again 
 gone wrong in my usual unguarded way, but you may erase 
 the word, and put esteem, respect, or any other tame Dutch 
 expression you please in its place. I believe there is no 
 holding converse, or carrying on correspondence, with an 
 amiable woman, much less a gloriously amiable fine woman, 
 without some mixture of that delicious passion, whose most 
 devoted slave I have more than once had the honour of 
 being. But why be hurt or offended on that account? 
 Can no honest man have a prepossession for a fine woman, 
 but he must run his head against an intrigue? Take a little 
 of the tender witchcraft of love, and add to it the generous, 
 the honourable sentiments of manly friendship, and I know 
 but one more delightful morsel, which few, few in any rank 
 ever taste. Such a composition is like adding cream to 
 strawberries ; it not only gives the fruit a more elegant 
 richness, but has a deliciousness of its own. 
 
 I inclose you a few lines I composed on a late melancholy 
 occasion, I will not give above five or six copies of it in 
 all, and I should be hurt if any friend should give any copies 
 without my consent. 
 
 You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the idea of Arcadian 
 names in a commerce of this kind), how much store I have 
 set by the hopes of your future friendship. I do not know 
 if you have a just idea of my character, but I wish you to 
 see me as I am. I am, as most people of my trade are, a 
 strange Will-o'-Wisp being : the victim, too frequently, of 
 much imprudence and many follies. My great constituent 
 elements are pride and passion. The first I have endeav- 
 oured to humanise into integrity and honour; the last 
 makes me a devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm, 
 in love, religion, or friendship — cither of them, or all to- 
 gether, as I happen to be inspired. 'Tis true, I never saw 
 you but once ; but how much acquaintance did I form with 
 you in that once ? Do not think I flatter you, or have a
 
 ii6 LETTERS. 
 
 design upon you, Clarinda ; I have too much pride for the 
 one, and too httle cold contrivance for the other ; but of all 
 God's creatures I ever could approach in the beaten way of 
 my acquaintance, you struck me with the deepest, the 
 strongest, the most permanent impression. I say the most 
 permanent, because I know myself well, and how far I can 
 promise either on my prepossessions or powers. Why are 
 you unhappy ? And why are so many of our fellow- 
 creatures, unworthy to belong to the same species with you, 
 blest with all they can wish ? You have a hand all benevo- 
 lent to give — why were you denied the pleasure ? You 
 have a heart formed — gloriously formed — for all the most 
 refined luxuries of love : — why was that heart ever wrung ? 
 O Clarinda ! shall we not meet in a state, some yet un- 
 known state of being, where the lavish hand of plenty shall 
 minister to the highest wish of benevolence ; and where the 
 chill north-wind of prudence shall never blow over the 
 flowery fields of enjoyment? If we do not, man was made 
 in vain ! I deserved most of the unhappy hours that have 
 lingered over my head ; they were the wages of my labour : 
 but what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell, stole upon 
 the confidence of unmistrusting busy Fate, and dashed j'^/^r 
 cup of life with undeserved sorrow ? 
 
 Let me know how long your stay will be out of town ; I 
 shall count the hours till you inform me of your return. 
 Cursed etiquette forbids your seeing me just now ; and so 
 soon as I can walk I must bid Edinburgh adieu. Lord ! 
 why was I born to see misery which 1 cannot relieve, and 
 to meet with friends whom I cannot enjoy? I look back 
 with the pang of unavailing avarice on my loss in not know- 
 ing you sooner : all last winter, these three months past, 
 what luxury of intercourse have I not lost ! Perhaps, 
 though, 'twas better for my peace. You see I am either 
 above, or incapable of dissimulation. I believe it is want 
 of that pariicular genius. I despise desisrn, because I want 
 either coolness or wisdom to be capable of it. I am 
 interrupted. Adieu ! my dear Clarinda ! 
 
 Sylvander.
 
 LETTERS. 117 
 
 VL 
 
 Thursday, Jan. 3, 1788. 
 
 You are right, my dear Clarinda : a friendly correspond- 
 ence goes for nothing, except one writes his or her un- 
 disguised sentiments. Yours please me for their instrinsic 
 merit, as well as because they are yours, which I assure you, 
 is to me a high recommendation. Your religious senti- 
 ments, Madam, I revere. If you have, on some suspicious 
 evidence, from some lying oracle, learned that I despise or 
 ridicule so sacredly important a matter as real religion, you 
 have, my Clarinda, much misconstrued your friend. " I 
 am not mad, most noble Festus ! " Have you ever met a 
 perfect character.? Do we not sometimes rather exchange 
 faults, than get rid of them ? For instance, I am perhaps 
 tired with, and shocked at a life too much the prey of giddy 
 inconsistencies and thoughtless follies ; by degrees 1 grow 
 sober, prudent, and statedly pious — I say statedly, because 
 the most unaffected devotion is not at all inconsistent with 
 my first character — I join the world in congratulating 
 myself on the happy change. But let me pry more 
 narrowly into this affair. Have I, at bottom, any thing of a 
 sacred pride in these endowments and emendations } Have 
 I nothing of a presbyterian sourness, an hypocritical severity, 
 when I survey my less regular neighbours ? In a word, 
 have I missed all those nameless and numberless modifica- 
 tions of indistinct selfishness, which are so near our own 
 eyes, that we can scarcely bring them within the sphere of 
 our vision, and which the known spotless cambric of our 
 character hides from the ordinary observer? 
 
 My definition of worth is short ; truth and humanity 
 respecting our ftUow-creatures ; reverence and humility in 
 the presence of that Being, my Creator ani Preserver, and 
 who, I have every reason to believe, will one day be my 
 Judge. The first part of my definition is the creature of 
 unbiassed instinct; the last is the child of after reflection. 
 Where I found these two essentials I would gently note
 
 ii8 LETTERS. 
 
 and slightly mention any attendant flaws — flaws, the marks, 
 the consequences of human nature. 
 
 I can easily enter into the sublime pleasures that your 
 strong imagination and keen sensibility must derive from 
 religion, particularly if a little in the shade of misfortune ; 
 but I own I cannot, without a marked grudge, see Heaven 
 totally engross so amiable, so charming a woman, as my 
 friend Clarinda ; and should be very well pleased at a 
 circumstance that would put it in the power of somebody 
 (happy somebody !) to divide her attention, with all the 
 delicacy and tenderness of an earthly attachment. 
 
 You will not easily persuade me that you have not a 
 grammatical knowledge of the English language. So far 
 from being inaccurate, you are elegant beyond any woman 
 of my acquaintance, except one, — whom I wish you knew. 
 
 Your last verses to me have so delighted me, that I have 
 got an excellent old Scots air that suits the measure, and you 
 shall see them in print in the Scots Musical Museum, a 
 work publishing by a friend of mine in this town. I want 
 four stanzas, you gave me but three, and one of them 
 alluded to an expression in my former letter; so I have 
 taken your two first verses, with a slight alteration in the 
 second, and have added a third, but you must help me to a 
 fourth. Here they are ; the latter half of the first stanza would 
 have been worthy of Sappho ; I am in raptures with it. 
 
 Talk not of I-ove, it gives me pain, 
 
 For Love has been my foe : 
 He bound me with an iron chain, 
 
 And sunli me deep in woe. 
 
 But Friendship's 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 ! 
 [only] 
 Why urge the odious one request, 
 [will] 
 You know I must deny.
 
 LETTERS. no 
 
 The alteration in the second stanza is no improvement, 
 but there was a slight inaccuracy in your rhyme. The 
 third I only offer to your choice, and have left two words 
 for your determination. The air is " The banks of Spey," 
 and is most beautiful. 
 
 To-morrow evening I intend taking a chair, and paying a 
 visit at Park Place to a much-valued old friend.* If I 
 could be sure of finding you at home (and I will send one 
 of the chairmen to call), I would spend from five to six 
 o'clock with you, as I go past. I cannot do more at this 
 time, as I have something on my hand that hurries me 
 much. I propose giving you the first call, my old friend 
 the second, and Miss Nimmo as I return home. Do not 
 break any engagement for me, as I will spend another 
 evening with you at any rate before I leave town. 
 
 Do not tell me that you are pleased, when your friends 
 inform you of your faults. I am ignorant what they are ; 
 but I am sure they must be such evanescent trifles, com- 
 pared with your personal and mental accomplishments, that 
 I would despise the ungenerous narrow soul, who would 
 notice any shadow of imperfections you may seem to have, 
 any other way than in the most delicate agreeable raillery. 
 Coarse minds are not aware how much they injure the 
 keenly feeling tie of bosom friendship, when, in their foolish 
 officiousness, they mention what nobody cares for recollect- 
 ing. People of nice sensibility, and generous minds, have 
 a certain intrinsic dignity, that fires at being trifled with, or 
 lowered, or even too nearly approached. 
 
 You need make no apology for long letters ; I am even 
 with you. Many happy new years to you, charming 
 Clarinda ! I can't dissemble, were it to shun perdition. 
 He who sees you as I have done, and does not love you, 
 deserves to be damn'd for his stupidity ! He Avho loves 
 you, and would injure you, deserves to be doubly damn'd 
 for his villany ! Adieu. Sylvander. 
 
 * Probably Mr. Nicol, who lived in Bucclcuch Pend, a short distance 
 from Clarinda's residence.
 
 I20 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 P.S. What would you think of this for a fourth stanza ? 
 
 Your thought, if love must harbour there, 
 
 Conceal it in that thought, 
 Nor cause me from my bosom tear 
 
 The very friend I sought. 
 
 VIL 
 
 Saturday Noon [yh January], 
 Some days, some nights, nay, some hours^ like the "ten 
 righteous persons in Sodom," save the rest of the vapid, 
 tiresome, miserable months and years of life. One of these 
 hours my dear Clarinda blest me with yesternight. 
 
 One well-spent hour, 
 
 In such a tender circumstance for friends, 
 
 Is better than an age of common time ! 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is his manly for- 
 titude in supporting what cannot be remedied — in short, the 
 wild broken fragments of a noble exalted mind in ruins. I 
 meant no more by saying he was a favourite hero of mine. 
 
 I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. Moore, giving an 
 account of my life : it is truth, every word of it ; and will 
 give you a just idea of the man whom you have honoured 
 with your friendship. I am afraid you will hardly be able 
 to make sense of so torn a piece. Your verses I shall muse 
 on, deliciously, as I gaze on your image in my mind's eye, 
 in my heart's core : they will be in time enough for a week 
 to come. I am truly happy your headache is better. O, 
 how can pain or evil be so daringly unfeeling, cruelly 
 savage, as to wound so noble a mind, so lovely a form ! 
 
 My little fellow is all my namesake. Write me soon. 
 My every, strongest good wishes attend you, Clarinda ! 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 T know not what I have written — I am pestered with 
 people around me.
 
 LETTERS. 121 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Jan. 8, 1788, Tuesday Night. 
 
 I aM delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest 
 enthusiasm for religion. Those of either sex, but particu- 
 larly the female, who are lukewarm in that most important 
 of all things, " O my soul, come not thou into their 
 secrets ! " I feel myself deeply interested in your good 
 opinion, and will lay before you the outlines of my belief. 
 He who is our Author and Preserver, and will one day be 
 our Judge, must be (not for his sake in the way of duty, but 
 from the native impulse of our hearts), the object of our 
 reverential awe and grateful adoration : He is Almighty and 
 all-bounteous, we are weak and dependent ; hence prayer 
 and every other sort of devotion. " He is not willing that 
 any should perish, but that all should come to everlasting 
 life ; " consequently it must be in every one's power to 
 embrace his offer of "everlasting life; " otherwise he could 
 not, in justice, condemn those who did not. A mind 
 pervaded, actuated, and governed by purity, truth, and 
 charity, though it does not merit heaven, yet is an absolute 
 necessary prerequisite, without which heaven can neither 
 be obtained nor enjoyed ; and, by divine promise, such a 
 mind shall never fail of attaining " everlasting life ; " hence 
 the impure, the deceiving, and the uncharitable extrude 
 themselves from eternal bliss, by their unfitness for enjoying 
 it. The Supreme Being has put the immediate administra- 
 tion of all this, for wise and good ends known to himself, 
 into the hands of Jesus Christ, a great personage, whose 
 relation to him we cannot comprehend, but whose relation 
 to us is a guide and Saviour ; and who, except for our own 
 obstinacy and misconduct, will bring us all, through various 
 ways, and by various means, to bliss at last. 
 
 These are my tenets, my lovely friend ; and which I 
 think cannot well be disputed. My creed is pretty nearly 
 expressed in the last clause of Jamie Dean's grace, an 
 honest weaver in Ayrshire, — " Lord, grant that we may lead
 
 122 LETTERS. 
 
 a gude life ; for a gude life maks a gude end, at least it 
 helps weel ! " 
 
 I am flattered by the entertainment you tell me you have 
 found in my packet. You see me as I have been, you 
 know me as I am, and may guess at what I am likely to 
 be. I too may say, " Talk not of love," etc., for indeed he 
 has " plunged me deep in woe ! " Not that I ever saw 
 a woman who pleased unexceptionably, as my Clarinda 
 elegantly says, " in the companion, the friend, and the 
 mistress." One indeed I could except — One, before passion 
 threw its mists over my discernment, I knew — the first of 
 women ! Her name is indelibly written in my heart's core 
 — but I dare not look in on it — a degree of agony would be 
 the consequence. Oh ! thou perfidious, cruel, mischief- 
 making demon, who presidest over that frantic passion — 
 thou mayest, thou dost poison my peace, but thou shalt not 
 taint my honour. I would not, for a single moment, give 
 an asylum to the most distant imagination, that would 
 shadow the faintest outline of a selfish gratification, at the 
 expense of her whose happiness is twisted with the threads 
 of my existence. — May she be as happy as she deserves ! 
 and if my tenderest, faithfullest friendship, can add to her 
 bliss, I shall at least have one solid mine of enjoyment in 
 my bosom ! Don^t guess at these ravings I 
 
 I watched at our front window to-day, but was disap- 
 pointed. It has been a day of disappointments. I am just 
 risen from a two hours' bout after supper, with silly or 
 sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common with me 
 
 but the Port. One! — 'Tis now "witching time of night ;" 
 
 and whatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute 
 it to enchantments and spells ; for I can't look over it, but 
 will seal it up directly, as I don't care for to-morrow's 
 criticisms on it. 
 
 You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda ; may good 
 angels attend and guard you as constantly and faithfully as 
 my good wishes do. 
 
 Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, 
 Shot forth pecuHar graces.
 
 LETTERS. 123 
 
 John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest than I expect on 
 my own pillow to-night ! O for a little of the cart-horse 
 part of human nature ! Good night, my dearest Clarinda ! 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thursday Noon, loth /anuary 1788. 
 
 I AM certain I saw you, Clarinda ; but you don't look to 
 the proper storey for a poet's lodging — 
 
 Where speculation roosted near the sky. 
 
 I could almost have thrown myself over for vexation. 
 Why didn't you look higher ? It has spoiled my peace for 
 this day. To be so near my charming Clarinda ; to miss 
 her look while it was searching for me — I am sure the soul 
 is capable of disease, for mine has convulsed itself into an 
 inflammatory fever. 
 
 You have converted me, Clarinda. (I shall love that 
 name while I live : there is heavenly music in it.) Booth 
 and Amelia I know well.* Your sentiments on that subject, 
 as they are on every subject, are just and noble. "To be 
 feelingly alive to kindness, and to unkindness," is a charming 
 female character. 
 
 What I said in my last letter, the powers of fuddling 
 sociality only know for me. By yours, I understand my 
 good star has been partly in my horizon, when I got wild in 
 my reveries. Had that evil planet, which has almost all 
 my life shed its baleful rays on my devoted head, been, 
 as usual, in my zenith, I had certainly blabbed something 
 that would have pointed out to you the dear object of my 
 tenderest friendship, and, in s])ite of me, something more. 
 Had that fatal information escaped me, and it was merely 
 chance, or kind stars, that it did not, I had been undone ! 
 
 * See Fielding's Amelia.
 
 124 LETTERS. 
 
 You would never have written me, except perhaps once 
 more ! O, I could curse cucum stances, and the coarse tie 
 of human laws, which keeps fast what common sense would 
 loose, and which bars that happiness itself cannot give — 
 happiness which otherwise Love and Honour would 
 warrant ! But hold — I shall make no more " hair-breadth 
 'scapes." 
 
 My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. My 
 likings are both strong and eternal. I told you I had but 
 one male friend : I have but two female. I should have a 
 third, but she is surrounded by the blandishments of 
 flattery and courtship. The name I register in my heart's 
 core is Peggy Chalmers. Miss Nimmo can tell you how 
 divine she is. She is worthy of a place in the same bosom 
 with my Clarinda. That is the highest compliment I can 
 pay her. 
 
 Farewell, Clarinda ! Remember Svlvander. 
 
 X. 
 
 Sattirday Morning, 12th January. 
 
 Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be welcome. 
 You may perhaps distrust me, when I say 'tis also my 
 favourite topic ; but mine is the religion of the bosom. I 
 hate the very idea of a controversial divinity ; as I firmly 
 believe, that every honest upright man, of whatever sect, 
 will be accepted of the Deity. If your verses, as you seem 
 to hint, contain censure, except you want an occasion to 
 break with me, don't send them. I have a little infirmity 
 in my disposition, that where I fondly love, or highly 
 esteem, I cannot bear reproach. 
 
 "Reverence thyself " is a sacred maxim, and I wish to 
 cherish it. I think I told you Lord Bolingbroke's saying to 
 Swift — "Adieu, dear Swift, with all thy iaults I love thee 
 entirely ; make an effort to love me with all mine." A 
 glorious sentiment, and without which there can be no 
 friendship ! I do highly, very highly, esteem you indeed,
 
 LETTERS. 125 
 
 Clarinda — you merit it all ! Perhaps, too, I scorn dissimu- 
 lation ! I could fondly love you : judge then what a 
 maddening sting your reproach would be. " O ! I have 
 sins to Heaven but none to you!" With what pleasure 
 would I meet you to-day, but I cannot walk to meet the fly. 
 I hope to be able to see you on foot about the middle of 
 next week. 
 
 I am interrupted — perhaps you are not sorry for it, you 
 will tell me — but I won't anticipate blame. O Clarinda ! 
 did you know how dear to me is your look of kindness, 
 your smile of approbation ! you would not, either in prose 
 or verse, risk a censorious remark. 
 
 Curst be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, 
 That tends to make one worthy man my foe ! 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 XL 
 
 Saturday, Jan. 12, 1788. 
 
 You talk of weeping, Clarinda ! Some involuntary drops 
 wet your lines as I read them. Offend me, my dearest 
 angel ! You cannot offend me, you never offended me ! If 
 you had ever given me the least shadow of offence so 
 pardon me, God, as I forgive Clarinda ! I have read yours 
 again ; it has blotted my paper. Though I find your letter 
 has agitated me into a violent headache, I shall take a chair 
 and be with you about eight. A friend is to be with us to 
 tea on my account, which hinders me from coming sooner. 
 Forgive, my dearest Clarinda, my unguarded expressions. 
 For Heaven's sake, forgive me, or I shall never be able to 
 bear my own mind. Your unhappy Sylvander. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Monday Evening, II d clock, \i,th January. 
 
 Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda ? To-day I 
 expected it ; and before supper when a letter to me was
 
 126 LETTERS. 
 
 announced, my heart danced with rapture : but behold, 
 'twas some fool, who had taken it into his head to turn 
 poet, and made me an offering of the first-fruits of his non- 
 sense. " It is not poetry, but prose run mad." Did I ever 
 repeat to you an epigram I made on a Mr. Elphinstone,* 
 who has given a translation of Martial, a famous Latin poet ? 
 The poetry of Elphinstone can only equal his prose notes. 
 I was sitting in a merchant's shop of my acquaintance, wait- 
 ing somebody ; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and 
 asked my opinion of it ; I begged leave to write it on a 
 blank leaf, which I did, — 
 
 TO MR. ELPHINSTONE. 
 
 thou, whom poesy abhors ! 
 Whom prose has turned out of doors ! 
 Heardst thou yon groan ? proceed no further ! 
 'Twas laurel'd Martial calling murther ! 
 
 I am determined to see you, if at all possible, on Saturday 
 evening. Next week I must sing — 
 
 The night is my departing night, 
 
 The morn's the day I maun awa ; 
 There's neither friend nor foe o' mine 
 
 But wishes that I were awa ! 
 What I hae done for lack o' wit, 
 
 I never, never can reca' ; 
 
 1 hope ye' re a' my friends as yet, 
 Gude night, and joy be wi' you a' ! 
 
 If I could see you sooner, I would be so much the 
 happier ; but I would not purchase the dearest gratification 
 on earth, if it must be at your expense in worldly censure, 
 far less inward peace ! 
 
 I shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling whole 
 sheets of incoherence. The only icnity (a sad word with 
 poets and critics !) in my ideas, is Clarinda. There my 
 heart " reigns and revels." 
 
 * A native of Edinburgh, and a schoolmaster in London. He was a 
 friend of Samuel Johnson.
 
 LETTERS. 127 
 
 What art thou, Love ? whence are those charms, 
 
 That thus thou bear'st an universal rule ? 
 For thee the soldier quits his arms, 
 
 The king turns slave, the wise man fool. 
 In vain we chase thee from the field, 
 
 And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke : 
 Next tide of blood, alas ! we yield ; 
 
 And all those high resolves are broke ! 
 
 I like to have quotations for every occasion They give 
 one's ideas so pat, and save one the trouble of finding 
 expression adequate to one's feelings. I think it is one of 
 the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we 
 can give our woes, cares, joys, love'5, etc., an embodied 
 form in verse, which, to me, is ever immediate ease. 
 Goldsmith says finely of his Muse — 
 
 Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe ; 
 
 Thou foundst me poor at first, and keep'st me so. 
 
 My limb has been so well to-day, that I have gone up 
 and down stairs often without my staff. To-morrow I hope 
 to walk once again on my own legs to dinner. It is only 
 next street. — Adieu. Sylvander. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Tuesday Evening, Jat7. 15. 
 
 That you have faults, my Clarinda, I never doubted ; but 
 I knew not where they existed, and Saturday night made 
 me more in the dark than ever. O Clarinda ! why will you 
 wound my soul, by hinting that last night must have lessened 
 my opinion of you? True, I was "behind the scenes with 
 you ; " but what did I see ? A bosom glowing with honour 
 and benevolence ; a mind ennobled by genius, informed 
 and refined by education and reflection, and exalted by 
 native religion, genuine as in the climes of heaven : a heart 
 formed for all the glorious meltings of friendship, love, and 
 pity. These I saw — I saw the noblest immortal soul 
 creation ever showed me.
 
 128 LETTERS. 
 
 I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter ; and am 
 vexed that you are complaining. I have not caught you so 
 far wrong as in your idea, that the commerce you have with 
 one friend hurts you, if you cannot tell every tittle of it to 
 another. Why have so injurious a suspicion of a good God, 
 Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the 
 sacred inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Religion ! 
 can be anything else than, an object of His divine 
 approbation. 
 
 I have mentioned in some of my former scrawls, Saturday 
 evening next. Do allow me to wait on you that evening. 
 Oh, my angel ! how soon must we part ! and when can we 
 meet again ! I look forward on the horrid interval with 
 tearful eyes ! What have I lost by not knowing you sooner, 
 I fear, I fear my acquaintance with you is too short, to 
 make that lasting impression on your heart I could wish. 
 
 Sylvan DER. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Saturday Morning, i<)thjan. 
 
 There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrill- 
 ing chords of Love and Friendship give such delight, as in 
 the pensive hours of what our favourite Thomson calls, 
 " philosophic melancholy." The sportive insects, who bask 
 in the sunshine of prosperity ; or the worms that luxuriantly 
 crawl amid their ample wealth of earth, they need no 
 Clarinda : they would despise Sylvander — if they durst. 
 The family of Misfortune, a numerous group of brothers 
 and sisters ! they need a resting place to their souls : 
 unnoticed, often condemned by the world — in some degree, 
 perhaps, condemned by themselves, they feel the full enjoy- 
 ment of ardent love, delicate tender endearments, mutual 
 esteem and mutual reliance. 
 
 In this light I have oiten admired religion. In propor- 
 tion as we are wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, 
 
 I
 
 LETTERS. 129 
 
 the ideas of a compassionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, 
 are doubly dear. 
 
 ' Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright ; 
 ^Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night. 
 
 I have been this morning taking a peep through, as 
 Young finely says, " the dark postern of time long elaps'd ; " 
 and, you will easily guess, 'twas a rueful prospect. What a 
 tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly ! My life 
 reminded me of a ruined temple ; what strength, what pro- 
 portion in some parts ! what unsightly gaps, what prostrate 
 ruin in others ! I kneeled down before the Father of mer- 
 cies, and said, " Father, I have sinned against heaven, and 
 in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son !" 
 I rose, eased and strengthened. I despise the superstition 
 of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a man. " The 
 future," said I to myself, "is still before me ; " there let me 
 
 on reason build resolve, 
 That column of true majesty in man ! 
 
 " I have difficulties many to encounter," said I ; " but 
 they are not absolutely insuperable ; and where is firmness 
 of mind shown but in exertion ? mere declamation is bom- 
 bast rant." Besides, wherever I am, or in whatever 
 situation I may be — 
 
 'Tis nought to me : 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
 In the void waste as in the city full ; 
 And where He vital breathes, there must be joy ! 
 
 Saturday night — half after Ten, 
 
 What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this time yesternight ! 
 My ever dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul ; 
 but you have refined, you have exalted it ; you have given 
 it a stronger sense for virtue, and a stronger relish for piety. 
 Clarinda, first of your sex, if ever I am the veriest wretch on 
 earth to forget you, if ever your lovely image is effaced 
 from my soul, 
 
 428
 
 I30 LETTERS. 
 
 May I be lost, no eye to weep my end ; 
 
 And find no earth that's base enough to bury me ! 
 
 What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the 
 every-day children of the world ! 'tis the unmeaning toying 
 of the younglings of the fields and forests ; but where Senti- 
 ment and Fancy unite their sweets, where Taste and Delicacy 
 refine, where Wit adds the flavour, and Good Sense gives 
 strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is the 
 hour of tender endearment ! Beauty and Grace, in the 
 arms of Truth and Honour, in all the luxury of mutual 
 love. 
 
 Clarinda, have you ever seen the picture realised ? Not 
 in all its very richest colouring. 
 
 Last night, Clarinda, but for one slight shade, was the 
 glorious picture. 
 
 Innocence 
 Look'd gaily smiling on ; while rosy Pleasure 
 Hid young Desire amid her flowery wreath, 
 And pour'd her cup luxuriant ; mantling high, 
 The sparkling heavenly vintage, Love and Bliss ! 
 
 Clarinda, when a poet and poetess of Nature's rnaking, 
 two of Nature's noblest productions ! when they drink 
 together of the same cup of Love and Bliss — attempt not, 
 ye coarser stuff of human nature, profanely to measure 
 enjoyment ye never can know ! Good night, my dear 
 Clarinda ! Sylvander. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Sunday Night, 20th January. 
 
 The impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an 
 old indisposition, to make me good for nothing to-day. 
 The paper has lain before me all this evening, to write to 
 my dear Clarinda, but — 
 
 Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to waves. 
 
 I cursed them in my soul ; they sacrilegiously disturbed
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 131 
 
 my meditations on her who holds my heart. What a 
 creature is man ! A Httle alarm last night and to-day, that 
 I am mortal, has made such a revolution on my spirits ! 
 There is no philosophy, no divinity, comes half so home to 
 the mind. I have no idea of courage that braves heaven. 
 'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero in bedlam. 
 
 I can no more, Clarinda ; I can scarcely hold up my 
 head ; but I am happy you do not know it, you would be 
 so uneasy. Sylvan der. 
 
 Monday Morning. 
 
 I AM, my lovely friend, much better this morning on the 
 whole ; but I have a horrid languor on my spirits. 
 
 Sick of the world, and all its joys, 
 
 My soul in pining sadness mourns ; 
 Dark scenes of woe my mind employs, 
 
 The past and present in their turns. 
 
 Have you ever met with a saying of the great, and like 
 wise good Mr. Locke, author of the famous Essay on the 
 Human Lnderstanding 1 He wrote a letter to a friend, 
 directing it, " not to be delivered till after my decease j " it 
 ended thus — " I know you loved me when living, and will 
 preserve my memory now I am dead. All the use to be 
 made of it is, that this life affords no solid satisfaction, but 
 in the consciousness of having done well, and the hopes of 
 another life. Adieu ! I leave my best wishes with you. 
 
 J. Locke." 
 
 Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life ? I 
 think I may. Thou Almighty Preserver of men ! thy 
 friendship, which hitherto I have too much neglected, to 
 secure it shall, all the future days and nights of my life, be 
 my steady care ! The idea of my Clarinda follows — 
 
 Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, 
 Where, mix'd with God's, her lov'd idea lies. 
 
 But I fear that inconstancy, the consequent imperfection
 
 132 LETTERS. 
 
 of human weakness. Shall I meet with a friendship that 
 defies years of absence, and the chances and changes of 
 fortune ? Perhaps " such things are ; " one honest man * I 
 have great hopes from that way : but who, except a romance 
 writer, would think on a love that could promise for life, in 
 spite of distance, absence, chance, and change ; and that, 
 too, with slender hopes of fruition ? For my own part, I 
 can say to myself in both requisitions, " Thou art the man ! " 
 I dare, in cool resolve I dare, declare myself that friend, 
 and that lover. If womankind is capable of such things, 
 Clarinda is. I trust that she is ; and I feel I shall be 
 miserable if she is not. There is not one virtue which 
 gives worth, or one sentiment which does honour to the sex, 
 that she does not possess superior to any woman I ever 
 saw ; her exalted mind, aided a little perhaps by her 
 situation, is, I think, capable of that nobly-romantic love- 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 May I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel ? 
 The next Wednesday again will, I conjecture, be a hated 
 day to us both. I tremble for censorious remark, for your 
 sake, but, in extraordinary cases, may not usual and useful 
 precaution be a little dispensed with ? Three evenings, 
 three swift-winged evenings, with pinions of down, are all 
 the past ; I dare not calculate the future. I shall call at 
 Miss Nimmo's to-morrow evening ; 'twill be a farewell c.iU. 
 
 I have wrote out my last sheet of paper, so I am reduced 
 to my last half-sheet. What a strange mysterious faculty is 
 that thing called imagination ! We have no ideas almost 
 at all of another world ; but I have often amused myself 
 with visionary schemes of what happiness might be enjoyed 
 by small alterations — alterations that we can fully enter into, 
 in this present state of existence. For instance, suppose 
 you and I, just as we are at present ; the same reasoning 
 powers, sentiments, and even desires ; the same fond 
 curiosity for knowledge and remarking observation in our 
 minds ; and imagine our bodies free from pain, and the 
 necessary supplies for the wants of nature at all times, and 
 * Alluding to Captain Brown.
 
 LETTERS. 133 
 
 easily, within our reach : imagine further, that we were set 
 free from the laws of gravitation, which bind us to this 
 globe, and could at pleasure fly, without inconvenience, 
 through all the yet unconjectured bounds of creation, what 
 a life of bliss would we lead, in our mutual pursuit of virtue 
 and knowledge, and our mutual enjoyment of friendship 
 and love ! 
 
 I see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a 
 voluptuous Mahometan ; but I am certain I would be a 
 happy creature, beyond anything we call bliss here below ; 
 nay, it would be a paradise congenial to you too. Don't 
 you see us, hand in hand, or rather, my arm about your 
 lovely waist, making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest of 
 the fixed stars ; ,or surveying a comet, flaming innoxious by 
 us, as we just now would mark the passing pomp of a travel- 
 ling monarch ; or in a shady bower of Mercury or Venus, 
 dedicating the hour to love, in mutual converse, relying 
 honour, and revelling endearment, whilst the most exalted 
 strains of poesy and harmony would be the ready spontane- 
 ous language of our souls ! Devotion is the favourite 
 employment of your heart ; so it is of mine : what incen- 
 tives then to, and powers for reverence, gratitude, faith, and 
 hope, in all the fervours of adoration and praise to that 
 Being, whose unsearchable wisdom, power, and goodness, so 
 pervaded, so inspired every sense and feeling ! By this 
 time, I daresay, you will be blessing the neglect of the maid 
 that leaves me destitute of paper ! Sylvander. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 \_Mondav, list [an. 17SS.] 
 
 ... I AM a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. 
 Clarinda, if ever you forget Sylvander, may you be happy, 
 but he will be miserable. O what a fool I am in love ! 
 What an extraordinary prodigal of affection ! Why are your 
 sex called the tender sex, when I have never met with one
 
 134 LETTERS. 
 
 who can repay me in passion ? They are either not so rich 
 in love as I am, or they are niggards where I am lavish. 
 
 Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my ways ! 
 Thou seest me here, the hapless wreck of tides and tempests 
 in my own bosom : do Thou direct to Thyself that ardent 
 love for which I have so often sought a return in vain from 
 my fellow-creatures ! If Thy goodness has yet such a gift 
 in store for me as an equal return of affection from her 
 who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than life, do Thou bless 
 and hallow our bond of love and friendship ; watch over us 
 in all our outgoings and incomings for good : and may 
 the tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as 
 the thread of man's immortal life ! . . . 
 
 1 am just going to take your " Blackbird,"*' the sweetest, 
 I am sure, that ever sung, and prune its wings a little. 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Thursday Morning, "Zi^th Jamiary. 
 Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain. 
 
 I HAVE been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, 
 who, for native genius, poignant wit, strength of mind, 
 generous sincerity of soul, and the sweetest female tender- 
 ness, is without a peer, and whose personal charms have 
 few, very very few parallels, among her sex ; why, or how 
 she should fall to the blessed lot of a poor hairiim scairum 
 poet, whom Fortune had kept for her particular use, to 
 wreak her temper on whenever she was in ill humour. One 
 time I conjectured, that as Fortune is the most capricious 
 jade ever known, she may have taken, not a fit of remorse, 
 but a paroxysm of whim, to raise the poor devil out of the 
 mire, where he had so often and so conveniently served her 
 as a stepping stone, and given him the most glorious boon 
 she ever had in her gift, merely for the maggot's sake, to 
 see how his fool head and his fool heart will bear it. At 
 * Her verses, "To a Blackbird Singing."
 
 LETTERS. 135 
 
 other times I was vain enough to think, that Nature, who 
 has a great deal to say with Fortune, had given the coquettish 
 goddess some such hint as, " Here is a paragon of female 
 excellence, whose equal, in all my former compositions, I 
 never was lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doing 
 so again ; you have cast her rather in the shades of life ; 
 there is a certain Poet of my making ; among your frolics it 
 would not be amiss to attach him to this inasterpiece of my 
 hand, to give her that immortality among mankind, which 
 no woman, of any age, ever more deserved, and which few 
 rhymsters of this age are better able to confer." 
 
 Evening, 9 o'clock, 
 
 I am here, absolutely unfit to finish my letter — pretty 
 hearty after a bowl, wnich has been constantly plied since 
 dinner till this moment. I have been with Mr. Schetki, the 
 
 musician, and he has set it* finely. 1 have no distinct 
 
 ideas of anything, but that I have drunk your health twice 
 to-night, and that you are all my soul holds dear in this 
 
 world. SVLVANDER. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 \_Fi'iday, Jati, 25.] 
 
 Clarinda, my life, you have wounded my soul. Can I 
 think of your being unhappy, even though it be not 
 described in your pathetic elegance of language, without 
 being miserable ? Clarinda, can I bear to be told from you 
 that you " will not see me to-morrow night" — that you " wish 
 the hour of parting were come ?''" Do not let us impose on 
 ourselves by sounds. If in the moment of tender endear- 
 ment I perhaps trespassed against the letter of decorum's 
 law I appeal even to you whether I ever sinned in the very 
 least degree against the spirit of her strictest statute. But 
 why, my love, talk to me in such strong terms ? — every word 
 of which cuts mc to the very soul. You know a hint, the 
 
 * " Claiinda, Mistress of my Soul, etc." — See I'oenis.
 
 13^ LETTERS. 
 
 slightest signification ot" your wish is to me a sacred com- 
 mand. Be reconciled, my angel, to yom- God, yourself, and 
 me : and I pledge you Sylvander's honour — an oath I 
 daresay you will trust without reserve — that you shall never 
 more have reason to complain of his conduct. Now, my 
 love, do not wound our next meeting with any averted 
 looks or restrained caresses. I have marked the line of 
 conduct, a line I know exactly to your taste, and which I 
 will inviolably keep ; but do not you shew the least 
 inclination to make boundaries. Seeming distrust where 
 you know you may confide is a cruel sin against sensibility. 
 " Delicacy, you know, it was, which won me to you at once 
 — take care you do not loosen the dearest, most sacred tie 
 that unites us." Clarinda, I would not have stung your 
 soul, I would not have bruised your spirit, as that harsh, 
 crucifying " Take Care " did mine — no, not to have gained 
 Heaven ! Let me again appeal to your dear self, if 
 Sylvander, even when he seemingly half-transgressed the 
 laws of decorum, if he did not shew more chastened trem- 
 bling, faltering delicacy than the many of the world do in 
 keeping these laws ? 
 
 Love and Sensibility, ye have conspired against my 
 peace ! I love to madness and I feel to torture ! Clarinda, 
 how can I forgive myself that I have ever touched a single 
 chord in your bosom with pain ! Would I do it willingly? 
 Would any consideration, any gratification make me do so ? 
 Oh, did you love like me, you would not, you could not, 
 deny or put off a meeting with the man who adores you — 
 who would die a thousand deaths before he would injure 
 you ; and who must soon bid you a long farewell ! 
 
 1 had proposed bringing my bosom friend, Mr, Ainslie, 
 to-morrow evening at his strong request to see you, as he 
 has only time to stay with us about ten minutes for an 
 engagement. But I shall hear from you — this afternoon, 
 for mercy's sake ! for till I hear from you I am wretched. 
 O Clarinda, the tie that binds me to thee is intwisted, 
 incorporated with my dearest threads of life ! 
 
 Sylvander.
 
 LETTERS. 137 
 
 XIX. 
 
 {Sat., 26 Jan.'] 
 
 I WAS on the way, juy Love, to meet you (I never do 
 things by halves), when I got your card. Mr. Ainslie goes 
 out of town to-morrow morning, to see a brother of his who 
 is newly arrived from France. I am determined that he 
 and I shall call on you together ; so, look you, lest I should 
 never see to-morrow, we will call on you to-night ; Mary and 
 you may put off tea till about seven ; at which time, in the 
 Galloway phrase, " an the beast be to the fore, and the 
 branks bide hale," expect the humblest of your humble 
 servants, and his dearest friend. We propose staying only 
 half-an-hour, " for ought we ken." I could suffer the lash 
 of misery eleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be 
 composed of hours like yesternight. You are the soul of 
 my enjoyment : all else is of the stuff of stocks and stones. 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Sttnday Noon, Jan. zytk. 
 
 T HAVE almost given up the excise idea. I have been 
 
 just now to wait on a great person. Miss 's friend, 
 
 . ^Vhy will great people not only deafen us with 
 
 the din of their equipage, and dazzle us with their fastidious 
 pomp, but they must also be so very dictatorially wise ? I 
 have been questioned like a child about my matters, and 
 blamed and schooled for my inscription on Stirling window. 
 Come Clarinda — Come ! curse me Jacob, and come defy 
 me Israel ! 
 
 Sujiday Night. 
 
 I have been with Miss Nimmo ; she is indeed a good 
 soul, as my Clarinda finely says. vShe has reconciled me in 
 a good measure to the world with her friendly prattle. 
 
 bchctki has sent me the sonj' set to a fine air of his
 
 138 LETTERS. 
 
 composing. I have called the song " Clarinda." I have 
 carried it about in my pocket and hummed it over all day. 
 
 Monday Morning. 
 
 If my prayers have any weight in heaven, this morning 
 looks in on you and finds you in the arms of Peace, except 
 where it is charmingly interrupted by the ardours of devo- 
 tion. I find so much serenity of soul, so much positive 
 pleasure, so much fearless daring toward the world when I 
 warm in devotion, or feel the glorious sensation of a 
 consciousness of Almighty friendship, that I am sure I shall 
 soon be an honest enthusiast. 
 
 How are Thy Servants blest, O Lord, 
 How sure is their defence ! 
 
 I am, my dear madam, yours, Sylvander. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Tuesday Morning, O-C^th January. 
 
 I CANNOT go out to-day, my dearest love, without sending 
 you half a hne, by way of a sin-offering ; but, believe me, 
 'twas the sin of ignorance. Could you think that I inte7ided 
 to hurt you by any thing I said yesternight ? Nature has 
 been too kind to you for your happmess, your delicacy, 
 your sensibility. O why should such glorious qualifications 
 be the fruitful source of woe ! You have " murdered sleep " 
 to me last night. I went to bed, impressed with an idea 
 that you were unhappy ; and every start I closed my eyes, 
 busy Fancy painted you in such scenes of romantic misery, 
 that I would almost be persuaded you were not well this 
 morning. 
 
 If I unweeting have offended, 
 
 Impute it not. 
 
 But while we live 
 
 But one short hour perhaps, between us two, 
 
 Let there be peace.
 
 LETTERS. 139 
 
 If Mary is not gone by this reaches you, give her my 
 best compliments. She is a charming girl, and highly 
 worthy of the noblest love. 
 
 I send you a poem to read, till I call on you this night, 
 which will be about nine. I wish I could procure some 
 potent spell, some fairy charm, that would protect from 
 injury, or restore to rest that bosom-chord, "tremblingly 
 alive all o'er," on which hangs your peace of mind. I 
 thought, vainly, I fear, thought that the devotion of love — 
 love strong as even you can feel — love guarded, invulner- 
 ably guarded, by all the purity of virtue, and all the pride of 
 honour ; I thought such a love would make you happy — 
 shall I be mistaken ? I can no more for hurry. 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Sunday Morning, yd February, 
 
 I HAVE just been before the throne of my God, Clarinda ; 
 according to my association of ideas, my sentiments of love 
 and friendship, I next devote myself to you. Yesternight 
 I was happy — happiness " that the world cannot give." I 
 kindle at the recollection ; but it is a flame where innocence 
 looks smiling on, and honour stands by, a sacred guard. 
 Your heart, your fondest wishes, your dearest thoughts, 
 these are yours to bestow ; your person is unapproachable 
 by the laws of your country ; and he loves not as I do, who 
 would make )'0U miserable. 
 
 You are an angel, Clarinda ; you are surely no mortal 
 that " the earth owns." To kiss your hand, to live on your 
 smile, is to me far more exquisite bliss than the dearest 
 favours that the fairest of the sex, yourself excepted, can 
 bestow. 
 
 Sunday Evening. 
 
 You are the constant companion of my thoughts. How 
 wretched is the condition of one who is haunted with 
 conscious guilt, and trembling under the idea of dreaded
 
 I40 LETTERS. 
 
 vengeance ! and what a placid calm, what a charming 
 secret enjoyment ft gives, to bosom the kind feelings of 
 friendship and the fond throes of love ! Out upon the 
 tempest of anger, the acrimonious gall of fretful impatience, 
 the sullen frost of louring resentment, or the corroding 
 poison of withered envy ! They eat up the immortal part 
 of man ! If they spent their fury only on the unfortunate 
 objects of them, it would be something in their favour ; but 
 these miserable passions, like traitor Iscariot, betray their 
 lord and master. 
 
 Thou Almighty Author cf peace, and goodness, and love ! 
 do thou give me the social heart that kindly tastes of every 
 man's cup ! Is it a draught of joy? — warm and open my 
 heart to share it with cordial unenvying rejoicing ! Is it 
 the bitter potion of sorrow ? — melt my heart with sincerely 
 sympathetic woe ! Above all, do thou give me the manly 
 mind that resolutely exemplifies, in life and manners, those 
 sentiments which I would wish to be thought to possess ! 
 The friend of my soul — there may I never deviate from 
 the firmest fidelity and most active kindness ! Clarinda, 
 the dear object of my fondest love ; there may *the most 
 sacred inviolate honour, the most faithful kindling con- 
 stancy, ever watch and animate my every thought and 
 imagination ! 
 
 Did you ever meet with the following lines spoken of 
 Religion, your darling topic ? — 
 
 ^ Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright ; 
 ^Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night ; 
 When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, 
 When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; 
 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
 Disarms affliction, or repels its dart : 
 Within the breast bids purest rapture rise, 
 Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies.* 
 
 I met with these verses very early in life, and was so 
 delighted with them that I have them by me, copied at school. 
 Good night and sound rest, my dearest Clarinda ! 
 
 SVLVANDER. 
 * From Ilervey's Meditations.
 
 LETTERS. 141 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Thursday Night, Feb. 7, 1788. 
 
 I CANNOT be easy, my Clarinda, while any sentiment 
 respecting me in your bosom gives you pain. If there is no 
 man on earth to whom your heart and affections are justly 
 due, it may savour of imprudence but never of criminality 
 to bestow that heait and those affections where you please. 
 The God of Love made and meant those delicious attach- 
 ments to be bestowed on somebody ; and even all the 
 imprudence lies in bestowing them on an unworthy object. 
 If this reasoning is conclusive, as it certainly is, I must be 
 allowed to talk of love. 
 
 It is perhaps rather wrong to speak highly to a friend of 
 his letter ; it is apt to lay one under a little restraint in 
 their future letters, and restraint is the death of a friendly 
 epistle. But there is one passage in your last charming 
 letter, Thomson or Shenstone never exceeded nor often 
 came up to. I shall certainly steal it, and set it in some 
 future poetic production, and get immortal fame by it. 
 'Tis when you bid the Scenes of Nature remind me of 
 Clarinda. Can I forget you, Clarinda.? I would detest 
 myself as a tasteless, unfeeling, insipid, infamous blockhead ! 
 I have loved women of ordinary merit whom I could have 
 loved for ever. You are the first, the only unexceptionable 
 individual of the beauteous sex that I ever met with : and 
 never woman more entirely possessed my soul. I know 
 myself, and how far I can depend on passions, well. It 
 has been my peculiar study. 
 
 I thank you for going to Myers.* Urge him, for 
 necessity calls, to have it done by the middle of next week, 
 Wednesdiy at latest. I want it for a breast-pin, to wear 
 next my heart, I propose to keep sacred set times, to 
 wander in the woods and wilds for meditation on you. 
 Then, and only then, your lovely image shall be produced 
 to the day, with a reverence akin to devotion. , . . 
 
 * Miniature painter.
 
 142 LETTERS. 
 
 To-morrow night shall not be the last. Good-night! I 
 am perfectly stupid, as I supped late yesternight. 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Wednesday, \lth February. 
 
 My ever dearest Clarinda, — I make a numerous 
 dinner party wait me, while I read yours and write this. 
 Do not require that I should cease to love you, to adore 
 you in my soul — 'tis to me impossible — your peace and 
 happiness are to me dearer than my soul : name the terms 
 on which you wish to see me, to correspond with me, arid 
 you have them — I must love, pine, mourn, and adore in 
 secret— this you must not deny me ; you will ever be to me 
 
 Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
 Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart ! 
 
 I have not patience to read the puritanic scrawl. Damn'd 
 sophistry ! Ye heavens ! thou God of nature ! thou Re- 
 deemer of mankind ! ye look down with approving eyes on 
 a passion inspired by the purest flame, and guarded by 
 truth, delicacy, and honour ; but the half-inch soul of an 
 unfeeling, cold-blooded, pitiful presbyterian bigot,* cannot 
 forgive anything above his dungeon bosom and foggy head. 
 
 Farewell ; I'll be with you to-morrow evening — and be 
 at rest in your mind — I will be yours in the way you think 
 most to your happiness ! I dare not proceed — I love, and 
 will love you, and will with joyous confidence approach the 
 throne of the Almighty Judge of men, with your dear idea, 
 and will despise the scum of sentiment, and the mist of 
 sophistry. Sylvander. 
 
 * Rev, Mr. Kemp, Clarinda's spiritual adviser.
 
 LETTERS. 143 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Wednesday Midnight \^Feh. 13]. 
 
 Madam, — After a wretched day I am preparing for a 
 sleepless night. I am going to address myself to the 
 Almighty Witness of my actions, some time, perhaps very 
 soon, my Almighty Judge. I am not going to be the 
 advocate of passion : be Thou my inspirer and testimony, 
 O God, as I plead the cause of truth ! 
 
 I have read over your friend's* haughty dictatorial letter : 
 you are answerable only to your God in such a matter. 
 Who gave any fellow-creature of yours (one incapable of 
 being your judge because not your peer) a right to 
 catechise, scold, undervalue, abuse, and insult — wantonly 
 and inhumanly to insult you thus ? I do not even wish to 
 deceive you, Madam. The Searcher of hearts is my 
 witness how dear you are to me ; but though it were 
 possible you could be still dearer to me, I would not even 
 kiss your hand at the expense of your conscience. Away 
 with declamation ! let us appeal to the bar of common- 
 sense. It is not mouthing everything sacred ; it is not 
 vague ranting assertions ; it is not assuming, haughtily and 
 insultingly, the dictatorial language of a Roman pontiff, 
 that must dissolve a union like ours. Tell me. Madam — 
 Are you under the least shadow of an obligation to bestow 
 your love, tenderness, caresses, affections, heart and soul, on 
 Mr. M'Lehose, the man who has repeatedly, habitually, and 
 barbarously broken through every tie of duty, nature, and 
 gratitude to you? The laws of your country, indeed, for 
 the most useful reasons of policy and sound government, 
 have made your person inviolate ; but, are your heart and 
 affections bound to one who gives not the least return of 
 either to you ? You cannot do it : it is not in the nature 
 of things : the common feelings of humanity forbid it. 
 Have you then a heart and affections which are no man's 
 right ? You have. It would be absurd to suppose the 
 
 * Rev. Mr. Kemp.
 
 144 LETTERS. 
 
 contrary. Tell me then, in the name of common-sense, 
 can it be wrong, is such a supposition compatible with the 
 plainest ideas of right and wrong, that it is improper to 
 bestow the heart and these affections on another — while 
 that bestowing is not in the smallest degree hurtful to your 
 duty to God, to your children, to yourself, or to society at 
 large ? 
 
 This is the great test ; the consequences : let us see 
 them. . In a widowed, forlorn, lonely condition, with a 
 bosom glowing with love and tenderness, yet so delicately 
 situated that you cannot indulge these nobler feelings. . . . 
 
 \cetera desunt?\ 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Tlmrs., 14 Feb. 
 
 " I AM distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan ! " I 
 have suffered, Clarinda, from your letter. My soul was 
 in arms at the sad perusal ; I dreaded that I had acted 
 wrong. If I have robbed you of a friend,* God forgive me ! 
 But, Clarinda, be comforted : let me raise the tone of our 
 feelings a little higher and bolder. A fellow-creature who 
 leaves us, who spurns us without a just cause, though 
 once our bosom friend — up with a little honest pride — let 
 them go ! How shall I comfort you, who am the cause 
 of the injury ? Can I wish that I had never seen you, that 
 we had never met? No ! I never will. But have I thrown 
 you friendless? There is almost distraction in that 
 thought. 
 
 Father of mercies ! against Thee often have I sinned ; 
 through Thy grace I will endeavour to do so no more ! 
 She who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than myself, pour 
 Thou the balm of peace into her past wounds, and hedge 
 her about with Thy peculiar care, all her future days and 
 nights. Strengthen her tender noble mind, firmly to suffer, 
 
 * Her minister.
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 M5 
 
 and magnanimously to bear ! Make me worthy of that 
 friendship she honours me with. May my attachment to 
 her be pure as devotion, and lasting as immortal life ! O 
 Almighty Goodness, hear me ! Be to her at all times, 
 particularly in the hour of distress or trial, a Friend and 
 Comforter, a Guide and Guard. 
 
 How are Thy servants blest, O Lurd, 
 
 How sure is their defence ! 
 Eternal Wisdom is their guide, 
 
 Their help, Omnipotence ! 
 
 Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done you ! '1 to- 
 night I shall be with you ; as indeed I shall be ill at ease 
 till I see you. Sylvander. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Thursday, i^h Feb., 7 wo dclock. 
 
 I JUST now received your first letter of yesterday, by the 
 careless negligence of the penny-post. Clarinda, matters 
 are grown very serious with us ; then seriously hear me, and 
 hear me. Heaven— I met you, my dear Nancy, by far the 
 first of womankind, at least to me; I esteemed, I loved 
 you at first sight ; the longer I am acquainted with you the 
 more innate amiableness and worth I discover in you. 
 You have suffered a loss, I confess, for my sake ; but if the 
 firmest, steadiest, warmest friendship ; if every endeavour 
 to be worthy of your friendship ; if a love, strong as the ties 
 of nature, and holy as the duties of religion — if all these can 
 make anything like a compensation for the evil I have 
 occasioned you, if they be worth your acceptance, or can in 
 the least add to your enjoyment — so help Sylvander, ye 
 Powers above, in his ^our of need, as he freely gives these 
 all to Clarinda ! 
 
 I esteem you, I love you as a friend; I admire you, I 
 love you as a woman, beyond any one in all the circle of 
 creation ; I know I shall continue to esteem you, to love 
 
 429
 
 146 LETTERS. 
 
 you, to pray for you, nay, to pray for myself for your 
 sake. 
 
 Expect me at eight. And believe me to be ever, niy 
 dearest Madam, yours most entirely, Sylva-nder. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Fehrtcary l^'h, 17S8. 
 
 When matters, my love, are desperate, we must put on a 
 desperate face — ■ 
 
 On reason build resolve, 
 That column of true majesty in man. 
 
 Or, as the same author finely says in another place — 
 
 Let thy soul spring \x-p, 
 And lay strong hold for help on Him that made thee. 
 
 I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be discouraged at 
 all this. Look forward; in a few weeks I shall be some- 
 where or other out of the possibility of seeing you : till then 
 T shall write you often, but visit you seldom. Your fame, 
 your welfare, your happiness are dearer to me than any 
 gratification whatever. Be comforted, my love ! the pre- 
 sent moment is the worst; the lenient hand of Time is daily 
 and hourly either lightening the burden, or making us 
 insensible to the weight. None of these friends, I mean 
 
 Mr. and the other gentleman, can hurt your worldly 
 
 support; and for their friendship, in a little time you will 
 learn to be easy, and, by and by, to be happy without it. 
 A decent means of livelihood in the world, an approving 
 God, a peaceful conscience, and one firm, trusty friend — 
 can anybody that has these be said to be unhappy ? These 
 are yours. » 
 
 To-morrow evening I shall be with you about eight; prob- 
 ably for the last time till I return to Edinburgh. In the 
 meantime, should any of these two unlucky friends question 
 you respecting me, whether I am the man, I do not think
 
 LETTERS. 147 
 
 they are entitled to any information. As to their jealousy 
 and spying, I despise them. — Adieu, my dearest Madam ! 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Glasgow, Monday Eveniir^; 9 o'clock, 
 i8//i Feb. 1788.' 
 
 1'he attraction of love, I find, is in an inverse propor- 
 tion to the attraction of the Newtonian philosophy. In 
 the system of Sir Isaac, the nearer objects are to one 
 another, the stronger is the attractive force ; in my system, 
 every mile-stone that marked my progress from Clarinda, 
 awakened a keener pang of attachment to her. How do you 
 feel, my love? Is your heart ill at ease? I fear it. — God 
 forbid that these persecutors should harass that peace, 
 which is more precious to me than my own. Be assured I 
 shall ever think of you, muse on you, and, in my moments 
 of devotion, pray for you. The hour that you are not in all 
 my thoughts — " be that hour darkness ! let the shadows of 
 death cover it ! let it not be numbered in the hours of the 
 (lay ! " 
 
 When I forget the darling theme, 
 
 Be my tongue mute ! my fancy paint no more ! 
 
 And, dead to joy, forget, my heart, to beat ! 
 
 I have just met with my old friend, the ship captain j* 
 guess my pleasure — to meet you could alone have given me 
 more. My brother William, too, the young saddler, has 
 come to Glasgow to meet me ; and here are we three 
 spending the evening. 
 
 I arrived here too late to write by post ; but I'll wrap 
 half a dozen sheets of blank paper together, and send it by 
 the fly, under the name of a parcel. You shall hear from 
 me next post town. I would write you a long letter, but for 
 the present circumstance of my friend. 
 
 Adieu, my Clarinda ! I am just going to propose your 
 health by way of grace-drink. Sylvander. 
 
 * Richard Brown, whom he fust knew at Irvine.
 
 148 LETTERS. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Cumnock, 2nd March 1788. 
 
 I HOPE, and am certain, that my generous Clarinda* will 
 not think my silence, for now a long week, has been in any 
 degree owing to my forgetfulness. I have been tossed 
 about through the country ever since I wrote you ; and am 
 here, returning from Dumfries-shire, at an inn, the post- 
 office of the place, with just so long time as my horse eats 
 his corn, to write you. I have been hurried with business 
 and dissipation almost equal to the insidious decree of the 
 Persian monarch's mandate, when he forbade asking petition 
 of God or man for forty days. Had the venerable prophet 
 been as throng as I, he had not broken the decree, at least 
 not thrice a-day. 
 
 I am thinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A 
 worthy intelligent farmer, my father's friend and my own, 
 has been with me on the spot : he thinks the bargain 
 practicable. I am myself, on a more serious review of the 
 lands, much better pleased with them. I won't mention 
 this in writing to any body but you and Ainslie. Don't 
 accuse me of being fickle : I have the two plans of life 
 before me, and I wish to adopt the one most likely to pro- 
 cure me independence. I shall be in Edinburgh next 
 week. I long to see you : your image is omnipresent to 
 me ; nay, I am convinced I would soon idolatrise it most 
 seriously; so much do absence and memory improve the 
 medium through which one sees the much-loved object. 
 To-night, at the sacred hour of eight, I expect to meet you 
 — at the Throne of Grace. I hope, as I go home to-night, 
 to find a letter from you at the post-office in Mauchline. I 
 have just once seen that dear hand since I left Edinburgh 
 — a letter indeed which much affected me. Tell me, first 
 of womankind ! will my warmest attachment, my sincerest 
 friendship, my correspondence, will they be any compensa- 
 tion for the sacrifices you make for my sake ! If they will, 
 they are yours. If I settle on the farm I propose, I am 
 
 * The letter about the 23rd of February seems to be wanting.
 
 LETTERS. 149 
 
 just a day and a half's ride from Edinburgh. We will meet 
 — don't you say, " perhaps too often ! " 
 
 Farewell, my fair, my charming Poetess ! May all good 
 things ever attend you ! I am ever, my dearest Madam, 
 yours, Sylvander. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 [Mauchline, 6 yI/<T;-.] 
 
 I OWN myself guilty, Clarinda ; I should have written you 
 last week ; but when you recollect, my dearest Madam, that 
 yours of this night's post is only the third I have got from 
 you, and that this is the fifth or sixth 1 have sent to you, you 
 will not reproach me, with a good grace, for unkindness. I 
 have always some kind of idea, not to sit down to write 
 a letter except I have lime and possession of my faculties, 
 so as to do some justice to my letter ; which at present is 
 rarely my situation. For instance, yesterday I dined at 
 a friend's at some distance ; the savage hospitality of this 
 country spent me the most part of the night over the 
 nauseous potion in the bowl : this day — sick — headache — • 
 low spirits — miserable — fasting, except for a draught of 
 water or small beer : now eight o'clock at night — only able 
 to crawl ten minutes walk into Mauchline to wait the post, 
 in the pleasurable hope of hearing from the mistress of my 
 soul. 
 
 But, truce with all this ! When I sit down to write to 
 you, all is harmony and peace. A hundred times a-day do 
 I figure you, before your taper, your book, or work laid 
 aside, as I get within the room. How happy have I been ! 
 and how little of that scantling portion of time, called the 
 life of man, is sacred to happiness ! much less transport ! 
 
 T could moralise to-night like a death's head. 
 
 O what is life, that thout^htless wisli of all ! 
 A drop of honey in a draught of gall.
 
 ISO LETTERS. 
 
 Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs 
 the wheels of life, than the thoughtless career we run in the 
 hour of health. "None saith, where is God, my Maker, 
 that giveth songs in the night ; who teacheth us more know- 
 ledge than the beasts of the field, and more understanding 
 than the fowls of the air." 
 
 Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! Give me to act 
 up to the dignity of my nature ! Give me to feel " another's 
 woe ; " and continue with me that dear-loved friend that feels 
 with mine ! 
 
 The dignified and dignifying consciousness of an honest 
 man, and the well-grounded trust in approving Heaven, are 
 two most substantial foundations of happiness. 
 
 ■ *••*•• 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 MOSSGIEL, ']th March 178S. 
 
 Clarinda, I have been so stung with your reproach for 
 unkindness, a sin so unlike me, a sin I detest more than a 
 breach of the whole Decalogue, fifth, sixth, seventh and 
 ninth articles excepted, that I believe I shall not rest in my 
 grave about it, if I die before I see you. You have often 
 allowed me the head to judge, and the heart to feel, the 
 influence of female excellence. 
 
 Was it not blasphemy, then, against your own charms, 
 and against my feelings, to suppose that a short fortnight 
 could abate my passion ? You, my love, may have your 
 cares and anxieties to disturb you, but they are the usual 
 recurrences of life ; your future views are fixed, and your 
 mind in a settled routine. Could not you, my ever dearest 
 Madam, make a little allowance for a man, after long 
 absence, paying a short visit to a country full of friends, 
 relations, and early intimates ? Cannot you guess, my 
 Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what anxious forebod-
 
 LETTERS. 151 
 
 ings, hopes and fears, must crowd the breast of the man of 
 keen sensibiHty, when no less is on the tapis than his aim, 
 his employment, his very existence, through future life ! 
 
 Now that, not my apology, but my defence is made, I 
 feel my soul respire more easily. I know you will go along 
 with me in my justification — would to Heaven you could in 
 my adoption too ! I mean an adoption beneath the stars 
 — an adoption where I might revel in the immediate 
 beams of 
 
 Her, the brit,rlu sun of all her sex. 
 
 I would not have you, my dear Madam, so much hurt at 
 Miss Nimmo's coldness. 'Tis placing yourself below her, 
 an honour she by no means deserves. We ought, when we 
 wish to be economists in happiness — we ought, in the first 
 place, to fix the standard of our own character ; and when, 
 on full examination, we know where we stand, and how 
 much ground we occupy, let us contend for it as property ; 
 and those who seem to doubt, or deny us what is justly 
 ours, let us either pity their prejudices, or despise their 
 judgment. I know, my dear, you will say this is self- 
 conceit; but I call it self-knowledge. The one is the 
 overweening opinion of a fool, who fancies himself to be 
 what he wishes himself to be thought ; the other is the 
 honest justice that a man of sense, who has thoroughly 
 examined the subject, owes to himself. Without this 
 standard, this column in our own mind, we are perpetually 
 at the mercy of the petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, 
 nay, the very weakness and wickedness of our fellow- 
 creatures. 
 
 I urge this, my dear, both to confirm myself in the doc- 
 trine, which, I assure you, I sometimes need ; and because 
 I know that this causes you often much disquiet. To 
 return to Miss Nimmo : she is most certainly a worthy soul, 
 and equalled by very, very few, in goodness of heart. Hut 
 can she boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda ? Nf)t 
 even prejudice will dare to say so. For penetration and 
 discernment, Clarinda sees fiir beyond her: to wit, Miss
 
 152 LETTERS. 
 
 Nimmo dare make no pretence \ to Clarinda's wit, scarcely 
 any of her sex dare make pretence. Personal charms, it 
 would be ridiculous to run the parallel. And for conduct 
 in life, Miss Nimmo was never called out, either much to 
 do or to suffer ; Clarinda has been both ; and has performed 
 her part, where Miss Nimmo would have sunk at the bare 
 idea. 
 
 Away, then, with these disquietudes ! Let us pray with 
 the honest weaver of Kilbarchan — " Lord, send us a gude 
 conceit o' oursel ! " Or, in the words of the auld sang. 
 
 Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again, 
 And I'll never mind any such foes. 
 
 There is an error in the commerce of intimacy * 
 
 way of exchange, have not an equivalent to give us ; and, 
 what is still worse, have no idea of the value of our goods. 
 Happy is our lot indeed, when we meet with an honest 
 merchant, who is qualified to deal with us on our own 
 terms ; but that is a rarity. With almost everybody we 
 must pocket our pearls, less or more, and learn in the old 
 Scotch phrase — " To gie sic hke as we get." For this 
 reason one should try to erect a kind of bank or store-house 
 in one's own mind ; or, as the Psalmist says, " We should 
 commune with our own hearts, and be still." This is 
 exactly 
 
 • ••■... 
 
 [MS. dilapidated.] 
 
 XXXIIT. 
 
 EDiNP.URon, i8/// March 17S8. 
 
 I AM just hurrying away to wait on the great man, 
 Clarinda ; but I have more respect on my own peace and 
 
 * The MS. is so worn .is to he indecipherable.
 
 LETTERS. 153 
 
 happiness than to set out without waiting on you ; for my 
 imagination, like a child's favourite bird, will fondly flutter 
 along with this scrawl till it perch on your bosom, I thank 
 you for all the happiness of yesterday — the walk delightful, 
 the evening rapture. Do not be uneasy to-day, Clarinda. 
 I am in rather better spirits to-day, though I had but an 
 indifferent night. Care, anxiety, sat on my spirits. All the 
 cheerfulness of this morning is the fruit of some serious, 
 important ideas that lie, in their reahties, beyond the dark 
 and narrow house. The Father of mercies be with you, 
 Clarinda. Every good thing attend you ! 
 
 Sylvander. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Friday 9 [/.7/;., 2\st March 1788]. 
 
 I AM just now come in, and have read your letters. The 
 first thing I did was to thank the Divine Disposer of events 
 that he has had such happiness in store for me as the 
 connexion I have with you. Life, my Clarinda, is a weary, 
 barren path • and woe be to him or her that ventures on it 
 alone ! For me, I have my dearest partner of my 
 soul. Clarinda and I will make out our pilgrimage together. 
 Wherever I am I shall constantly let her know how I go on, 
 what I observe in the world around me, and what adventures 
 I meet with. Would it please you, my love, to get every 
 week, or every fortnight at least, a packet of two or three 
 sheets of remarks, nonsense, news, rhymes and old songs ? 
 Will you open with satisfaction and delight a letter from a 
 man who loves you, who has loved you, and who will love 
 you to death, through death, and for ever ? O Clarinda ! 
 what do I ONve to heaven for blessing me with such a piece 
 of exalted excellence as you ! I call over your idea, as a 
 miser counts over his treasure. Tell me, were you studious 
 to please me last night ? I am sure you did it to transport.
 
 154 LETTERS. 
 
 How rich am I who have such a treasure as you ! You 
 know me ; you know how to make me happy, and you do it 
 most effectually. God bless you with " long life, long youth, 
 long pleasure, and a friend ! " To-morrow night, according 
 to your own direction, I shall watch the window — 'tis the 
 star that guides me to Paradise. The great relish to all is 
 tb.at honour, that innocence, that Religion are the witnesses 
 and guarantees of our affection. Adieu, Clarinda ! I am 
 going to remember you in my prayers. 
 
 JSylvander.
 
 GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE,
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 (General Correspondence Rcsuined.) 
 
 LXXXIV.— To Mr. Gavin Hamilton. 
 
 [April 1788] MOSSGIEL, Friday Morning. 
 
 The language of refusal is to me the most difficult 
 language on earth, and you are the man in the world, 
 excepting one of Right Hon. designation, to whom it gives 
 me the greatest pain to hold such language. My brother 
 has already got money,* and shall want nothing in my 
 power to enable him to fulfil his engagement with you ; but 
 to be security on so large a scale, even for a brother, is what 
 I dare not do, except I were in such circumstances of life 
 as that the worst that might happen could not greatly injure 
 me. 
 
 I never wrote a letter which gave me so much pain in my 
 life, as I know the unhappy consequences : — I shall incur 
 the displeasure of a gentleman for whom I have the highest 
 respect and to whom I am deeply obliged. — I am etc. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 LXXXV. — To Mr. AVilliam Dunbar, W.S., Edinburgh. 
 
 Mauchline, ']ih April 1788. 
 
 I have not delayed so long to write you, my much 
 respected friend, because I thought no further of my 
 
 * AUoj^cthcr £\%o. Gilbert is meant, and tlic business referred to 
 was renewal of lease of Mossgiel, the poet to be cautioner.
 
 iS8 LETTERS. 
 
 promise. I have long since given up that formal kind of 
 correspondence where one sits down irksomely to write a 
 letter, because he is in duty bound to do so. 
 
 I have been roving over the country, as the farm* I have 
 taken is forty miles from this place, hiring servants and 
 preparing matters ; but most of all, I am earnestly busy to 
 bring about a revolution in my own mind. As, till within 
 these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy master of 
 ten guineas, my knowledge of business is to learn. Add to 
 this, my late scenes of idleness and dissipation have 
 enervated my mind to an alarming degree. Skill in the 
 sober science of life is my most serious, and hourly study, 
 I have dropped all conversation and all reading (prose 
 reading) but what tends in some way or other to my serious 
 aim. Except one worthy young fellowf I have not a single 
 correspondent in Edinburgh. You have indeed kindly 
 made me an offer of that kind. The world of wits, the 
 gens comme-il-faut, which I lately left, and in which I never 
 again will intimately mix — from that port. Sir, I expect your 
 gazette, what the beaux esprits are saying, what they are 
 doing, and what they are singing. Any sober intelligence 
 from my sequestered life is all you have to expect from me. 
 I have scarcely made a single distich since I saw you. 
 When I meet with an old Scots air that has any facetious 
 idea in its name, I have a peculiar pleasure in following out 
 that idea for a verse or two. 
 
 I trust this will find you in better health than I did the 
 last time I called for you. A few hues from you, directed 
 to me, at Mauchline, were it but to let me know how you 
 are, will settle my mind a good deal. Now, never shun the 
 idea of writing me because, perhaps, you may be out of 
 humour or spirits. I could give you a hundred good con- 
 sequences attending a dull letter ; one, for example, and the 
 remaining ninety-nine some other time — it will always serve 
 to keep in countenance, my much respected Sir, your 
 obliged friend and humble servant, R. B. 
 
 • Ellisland, near Dumfries. t Robert Ainslie, W.S.
 
 LETTERS. 159 
 
 LXXXVL— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Mauchline, 2Wi Apiil 1788. 
 
 Madam, — Your powers of reprehension must be great 
 indeed, as I assure you they make my heart ache with 
 penitential pangs, even though I was really not guilty. As 
 I commence farming at Whitsunday, you will easily guess 
 1 must be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the 
 offer of the Excise business without solicitation, and as it 
 costs me only six months' attendance for instructions, to 
 entitle me to a commission — which commission lies by me, 
 and at any future period, on my simple petition, can be 
 resumed — I thought five-and-thirty pounds a-year was no 
 bad dernier ressort 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. 
 
 For this reason, I am at present attending these instruc- 
 tions, to have them completed before Whitsunday. Still, 
 Madam, I prepared with the sincerest pleasure to meet you 
 at the Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday night, 
 to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights preceding I had 
 slept in an apartment, where the force of the winds and 
 rains was only mitigated by being sifted through numberless 
 apertures in the windows, walls, etc. In consequence I was 
 on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday, unable to stir 
 out of bed, with all the miserable effects of a violent cold. 
 
 You see, Madam, the truth of the French maxim, le vrai 
 11^ est pas toujours le vrai-semblable ; your last was so full of 
 expostulation, and was something so like the language of an 
 offended friend, that I began to tremble for a correspond- 
 ence, which I had with grateful pleasure set down as one 
 of the greatest enjoyments of my future life. 
 
 Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dryden, and 
 Tasso were all equally strangers to me ; but of this more at 
 large in my next. K. B.
 
 i6o LETTERS. 
 
 LXXXVII. — To Mr. James Smith, Avon Printfield, 
 
 Linlithgow. 
 
 Mauchline, April 2.%th, 1788. 
 Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir ! Look on this 
 as the opening of a correspondence, hke the opening of a 
 twenty-four gun battery ! 
 
 There is no understanding a man properly, without 
 knowing something of his previous ideas \ that is to say, if 
 the man has any ideas ; for I know many who, in the 
 animal-muster, pass for men, that are the scanty masters of 
 only one idea on any given subject, and by far the greatest 
 part of your acquaintances and mine can barely boast of 
 ideas, i'25 — 1"5 — 1.75 (or some such fractional matter) ; so 
 to let you a little into the secrets of my pericranium, there 
 is, you must know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, 
 bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, to whom I 
 have lately and privately given a matrimonial title to my 
 corpus. 
 
 Bode a robe and wear it, 
 
 Bode a pock and bear it, 
 
 says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to presage ill-luck ; 
 and as my girl has been doubly kinder to me than even the 
 best of women usually are to their partners of our sex, in 
 similar circumstances, I reckon on twelve times a brace of 
 children against I celebrate my twelfth wedding-day : these 
 twenty-four will give me twenty-four gossipings, twenty-four 
 christenings (I mean one equal to two), and I hope, by the 
 blessing of the God of my fathers, to make them twenty-four 
 dutiful children to their parents, twenty-four useful members 
 of society, and twenty-four approved servants of their 
 God! . . . 
 
 "Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when she was 
 stealing sheep. You see what a lamp I have hung up to 
 lighten your paths, when you are idle enough to explore the 
 combinations and relations of my ideas. 'Tis now as plain 
 as a pike-staff, why a twenty-four gun battery was a metaphor 
 I could readily employ.
 
 LETTERS, i6i 
 
 Now for business. I intend to present Mrs. Burns with 
 a printed shawl, an article of which I dare say you have 
 variety : 'tis my first present to her since I have irrevocably 
 called her mine, and I have a kind of whimsical wish to 
 get her the first said present from an old and much- valued 
 friend of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on whose friendship 
 I count myself possessed of as a hfe-rent lease. 
 
 Look on this letter as a '* beginning of sorrows ; " I will 
 write you till your eyes ache reading nonsense. 
 
 Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designation) begs her 
 best compliments to you. K. B. 
 
 LXXXVIII. — To Professor Dugald Stewart. 
 
 Mauchline, yd May 1788. 
 
 Sir, — I enclose you one or two more of my bagatelles. 
 If the fervent wishes of honest gratitude have any influence 
 with that great unknown Being who frames the chain of 
 causes and events, prosperity and happiness will attend 
 your visit to the Continent, and return you safe to your 
 native shore. 
 
 Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it as my privilege 
 to acquaint you with my progress in my trade of rhymes ; 
 as I am sure I could say it with truth, that, next to my 
 little fame, and the having it in my power to make life 
 more comfortable to those whom nature has made dear to 
 me, I shall ever regard your countenance, your patronage, 
 your friendly good offices, as the most valued consequence 
 of my late success in life. R. B. 
 
 LXXXIX— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Mauchlink, i,th May 1788. 
 
 Madam, — Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do not 
 know whether the critics will agree with me, but the 
 
 430
 
 1 62 LETTERS. 
 
 Georgics are to me by far the best of Virgil. It is indeed a 
 species of writing 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. I own I am 
 disappointed in the ^neid. Faultless correctness may 
 please, and does highly please, the lettered critic ; but to 
 that awful character I have not the most distant pretensions. 
 I do not know whether I do not hazard my pretensions to 
 be a critic of any kind, when I say that I think Virgil, in 
 many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If I had the 
 Odyssey by me, I could parallel many passages where 
 Virgil has evidently copied, but by no means improved. 
 Homer. Nor can I think there is anything of this owing 
 to the translators; for, from everything I have seen of 
 Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency of language. 
 Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso enough to form 
 an opinion : in some future letter you shall have my ideas 
 of him \ though I am conscious my criticisms must be very 
 inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have ever felt and 
 lamented my want of learning most. R- B. 
 
 XC. — To Mr. Samuel Brown, Kirkoswald. 
 
 MossGlEL, 6,fh May 1788. 
 
 Dear Uncle, — This, I hope, will find you and your 
 conjugal yoke-fellow in your good old way. I am impatient 
 to know if the Ailsa* fowling be commenced for this season 
 yet, as I want three or four stones of feathers, and I hope 
 you will bespeak them for me. It would be a vain attempt 
 for me to enumerate the various transactions I have been 
 engaged in since I saw you last 3 but this know — I engaged 
 in a smuggling trade, and no poor man ever experienced 
 
 * A well-known rock in the Firth of Clyde, frequented by innumer- 
 able sea-fowl.
 
 LETTERS. 163 
 
 better returns, two for one : but as freight and delivery have 
 turned out so dear, I am thinking of taking out a license 
 and beginning in fair trade. I have taken a farm, on the 
 borders of the Nith, and in imitation of the old patriarchs, 
 get men-servants and maid-servants, and flocks and herds, 
 and beget sons and daughters. — Your obedient nephew, 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 XCI. — To Mr. James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgh. 
 
 Mauchline, 2.yh May 17S8. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I am really uneasy about that money 
 which Mr. Creech owes me per note in your hand, and 
 I want it much at present, as I am engaging in business 
 pretty deeply both for myself and my brother. A hundred 
 guineas can be but a trifling affair to him, and 'tis a matter 
 of most serious importance to me.* To-morrow I begin my 
 operations as a farmer, and so God speed the plough ! 
 
 I am so enamoured of a certain girl. . . . To be serious, 
 I found I had a long and much-loved fellow-creature's 
 happiness or misery in my hands ; and though pride and 
 seeming justice were murderous king's advocates on the one 
 side, yet humanity, generosity, and forgiveness were such 
 powerful, such irresistible counsel on the other, that a jury 
 of all endearments and new attachments brought in a 
 unanimous verdict of not guilty. And the panel, be it 
 known unto all whom it concerns, is installed and instated 
 into all the rights, privileges, etc., that belong to the name, 
 title, and designation of wife. 
 
 XCII. — To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 
 
 Mauchline, May 261/1, 1788. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — I am two kind letters in your debt ; 
 but I have been from home, and horridly busy, buying and 
 * Creech paid the amount five days after the date of this letter.
 
 i64 LETTERS. 
 
 preparing for my farming business, over and above the 
 plague of my Excise instructions, which this week will 
 finish. 
 
 As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many future years' 
 correspondence between us, 'tis foolish to talk of excusing 
 dull epistles ! a dull letter may be a very kind one. I have 
 the pleasure to tell you that I have been extremely fortunate 
 in all my buyings and bargainings hitherto, Mrs. Burns not 
 excepted ; which title I now avow to the world. I am truly 
 pleased with this last affair. It has indeed added to my 
 anxieties for futurity, but it has given a stability to my mind 
 and resolutions unknown before ; and the poor girl has the 
 most sacred enthusiasm of attachment to me, and has not 
 a wish but to gratify my every idea of her deportment. I 
 am interrupted. Farewell ! my dear Sir. R. B. 
 
 XCIIL— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 z'jth May 1788. 
 
 Madam, — I have been torturing my philosophy to no 
 purpose to account for that kind partiality of yours, which 
 has followed me, in my return to the shade of life, with 
 assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret, in the fleeting 
 hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that " here I had 
 no continuing city ; " and, but for the consolation of a few 
 solid guineas, could almost lament the time that a momen- 
 tary acquaintance with wealth and splendour put me so 
 much out of conceit with the sworn companions of my road 
 through life — insignificance and poverty. 
 
 There are few circumstances relating to the unequal 
 distribution of the good things of this life that give me more 
 vexation (I mean in what I see around me) than the 
 importance the opulent bestow on their trifling family 
 affairs, compared with the very same things on the con- 
 tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honour
 
 LETTERS. 165 
 
 to spend an hour or two at a good woman's fireside, where 
 the planks that composed the floor were decorated with a 
 splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver and 
 china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there has been a 
 revolution among those creatures who, though in appear- 
 ance partakers, and equally noble partakers, of the same 
 nature with Madame, are from time to time — their nerves, 
 their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, experience, 
 genius, time, nay, a good part of their very thoughts — sold 
 for months and years, not only to the necessities, the 
 conveniences, but the caprices of the important few. We 
 talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwithstanding 
 their general stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor 
 devils the honour to commend them. But light be the turf 
 upon his breast who taught "Reverence thyself!" We 
 looked down on the unpolished wretches, their impertinent 
 wives, and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the 
 little dirty ant-hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the 
 carelessness of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the wanton- 
 ness of his pride. R. B. 
 
 XCIV. — To Mrs. Dunlop, at Mr. Dunlop's, 
 Haddington. 
 
 Ellisland, \yhjum 1788. 
 
 \Vhere'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
 My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
 Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
 And drags, at each remove, a lengthen'd chain. 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have 
 been on my farm. A solitary inmate of an old smoky 
 spence ; far from every object I love, or by whom I am 
 beloved ; nor any acquaintance older than yesterday, except 
 Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on; while uncouth cares 
 and novel plans hourly insult my awkward ignorance and
 
 1 66 LETTERS. 
 
 bashful inexperience. There is a foggy atmosphere native to 
 my soul in the hour of care ; consequently the dreary 
 objects seem larger than the 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 laying in her cargo of ideas for 
 the voyage of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this 
 unhappy frame of mind. 
 
 The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 
 Or what need he regard his si7igle woes ? 
 
 Your surmise, Madam, is just : 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 there is no sporting with a fellow-creature's 
 happiness or misery. . . . The most placid good-nature and 
 sweetness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
 with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly 
 cheerfulness, set off to the best advantage by a more than 
 common handsome figure — these, I think, in a woman may 
 make a good wife though she should never have read a page 
 but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments, nor have 
 danced in a brighter assembly than a penny pay wedding. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 XCV. — To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 
 
 Ellisland, /j/;;^ \/!^th, 1788. 
 
 This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, that I have 
 sojourned in these regions ; and during these three days 
 you have occupied more of my thoughts than in three weeks 
 preceding : in Ayrshire I have several variations of friend- 
 ship's compass, here it points invariably to the pole. My 
 farm gives me a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, but 
 I hate the language of complaint. Job, or some one of his 
 friends, says well — " Why should a living man complain ? "
 
 LETTERS. 167 
 
 I have lately been much mortified with contemplating an 
 unlucky imperfection in the very framing and construction 
 of my soul ; namely, a blundering inaccuracy of her 
 olfactory organs in hitting the scent of craft or design in my 
 fellow-creatures. I do not mean any compliment to my 
 ingenuousness, or to hint that the defect is in consequence 
 of the unsuspicious simplicity of conscious truth and 
 honour : I take it to be, in some way or other, an imper- 
 fection in the mental sight ; or, metaphor apart, some 
 modification of dulness. In two or three instances lately, I 
 have been most shamefully out. 
 
 I have all along, hitherto, in the warfare of life, been 
 bred to arms among the light horse — the piquet-guards of 
 fancy ; a kind of hussars and Highlanders of the brain ; but 
 I am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions, 
 who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, or of a 
 siege but storming the town. Cost what it will, I am 
 determined to buy in among the grave squadrons of 
 heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding 
 contrivance. 
 
 What books are you reading, or what is the subject of 
 your thoughts, besides the great studies of your profession ? 
 You said something about religion in your last. I don't 
 exactly remember what it was, as the letter is in Ayrshire ; 
 but I thought it not only prettily said, but nobly thought. 
 You will make a noble fellow if once you were married. I 
 make no reservation of your being well-married ; you have 
 so much sense, and knowledge of human nature, that 
 though you may not realise perhaps the ideas of romance, 
 yet you will never be ill-married. 
 
 Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation respect- 
 ing provision for a family of children, I am decidedly of 
 opinion that the step I have taken is vastly for my happi- 
 ness.* As it is, I look to the Exxise scheme as a certainty 
 of maintenance ; a maintenance ! — luxury to what either 
 Mrs. Burns or I were born to. Adieu. R. B. 
 
 * This alludes to his marriage.
 
 1 68 LETTERS. 
 
 XCVI. — To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 
 
 Ellisland, T,otkJune 1788. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I just now received your brief epistle ; 
 and, to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you see, 
 taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and have begun at the 
 top of the page, intending to scribble on to the very last 
 corner. 
 
 I am vexed at that affair of the . . ., but dare not 
 enlarge on the subject until you send me your direction, as 
 I suppose that will be altered on your late master and 
 friend's death.* I am concerned for the old fellow's exit, 
 only as I fear it may be to your disadvantage in any respect 
 — for an old man's dying, except he have been a very 
 benevolent character, or in some particular situation of life 
 that the welfare of the poor or the helpless depended on 
 him, I think it an event of the most trifling moment to the 
 world. Man is naturally a kind, benevolent animal, but he 
 is dropped into such a needy situation here in this vexatious 
 world, and has such a hungry, growling, multiplying pack of 
 necessities, appetites, passions, and desires about him, ready 
 to devour him for want of other food, that in fact he must 
 lay aside his cares for others that he may look properly to 
 himself You have been imposed upon in paying Mr. Miers 
 for the profile of a Mr. H. I did not mention it in my 
 letter to you, nor did I ever give Mr. Miers any such order, 
 I have no objection to lose the money, but I will not have 
 any such profile in my possession. 
 
 I desired the carrier to pay you, but as I mentioned only 
 15s. to him, I will rather inclose you a guinea-note. I 
 have it not, indeed, to spare here, as I am only a sojourner 
 in a strange land in this place ; but in a day or two I return 
 to Mauchline, and there I have the bank-notes through the 
 house like salt permits. 
 
 There is a great degree of folly in talking unnecessarily 
 of one's private affairs. I have just now been interrupted 
 
 * Samuel Mitchelson, W.S., with whom young AinsUe served his 
 apprenticeship.
 
 LETTERS. 169 
 
 by one of my new neighbours, who has made himself 
 absolutely contemptible in my eyes, by his silly, garrulous 
 pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my own, too ; but 
 from this moment I abjure it as I would the service of 
 hell ! Your poets, spendthrifts, and other fools of thac 
 kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence ; 
 but 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, 
 imprudence respecting money matters is much more 
 pardonable than imprudence respecting character. I have 
 no objection to prefer prodigality to avarice, in some few 
 instances ; but I appeal to your observation if you 
 have not met, and often met, with the same disingenuous- 
 ness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity, and disintegritive 
 depravity of principle, in the hackneyed victims oi 
 profusion, as in the unfeeling children of parsimony. 
 I have every possible reverence for the much talked-of 
 world beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety 
 believes, and virtue deserves, may be all matter of fact. 
 But in things belonging to, and terminating in this present 
 scene of existence, man has serious and interesting 
 business on hand. Whether a man shall shake hands with 
 welcome in the distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink 
 from contempt in the abject corner of insignificance : whether 
 he shall wanton under the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy 
 himself in the comfortable latitude of easy convenience, or 
 starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty ; whether he 
 shall rise in the manly consciousness of a self-approving 
 mind, or sink beneath a galling load of regret and remorse — 
 these are alternatives of the last moment. 
 
 You see how I preach. You used occasionally to 
 sermonise too; I wish you would, in charity, favour me 
 with a sheet full in your own way. I admire the close of a 
 letter Lord Bolingbroke writes to Dean Swift: — "Adieu, 
 dear Swift ! with all thy faults I love thee entirely : make 
 an effort to love me with all mine ! " Humble servant, and 
 all that trumpery, is now such a prostituted business, that 
 honest friendship, in her sincere way, must have recourse to 
 her primitive, simple — farewell ! R. B.
 
 1^0 LETTERS. 
 
 XCVIL— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 MAUCHLINE,y"«/)/ loth, 1788. 
 
 My Much Honoured Friend, — Yours of the 24th 
 June is before me. I found it, as well as another valued 
 friend — my wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met 
 both with the sincerest pleasure. 
 
 When I write you, Madam, I do not sit down to answer 
 every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like 
 the faithful Commons of Great Britain in Parliament 
 assembled, answering a speech from the best of kings ! I 
 express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may, perhaps, 
 be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not 
 from your very odd reason, that I do not read your letters. 
 All your epistles, for several months, have cost me nothing 
 except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment 
 of veneration. 
 
 When Mrs. Burns, Madam, first found herself " as women 
 wish to be who love their lords," as I loved her nearly to 
 distraction, we took steps for a private marriage. Her 
 parents got the hint ; and not only forbade me her com- 
 pany and their house, but, on my rumoured West Indian 
 voyage, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should find 
 security in my about-to-be paternal relation. You know my 
 lucky reverse of fortune. On my edaiant return to Mauch- 
 line, I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual 
 consequences began to betray her ; and, as I was at that 
 time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she was turned, 
 literally turned, out of doors, and I wrote to a friend to 
 shelter her till my return, when our marriage was declared. 
 Her happiness or misery were in my hands, and who could 
 trifle with such a deposit ? 
 
 To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger. My 
 preseiTative against the first is the most thorough conscious- 
 ness of her sentiments of honour and her attachment to 
 me ; my antidote against the last is my long and deep rooted 
 affection for her. I can tdisWy fancy a more agreeable com-
 
 LETTERS. 171 
 
 panion for my journey of life ; but, upon my honour, I have 
 never seen the individual instance. 
 
 In household matters, of aptness to learn and activity to 
 execute, she is eminently mistress ; and during my absence 
 in Nithsdale, she is regularly and constantly apprentice 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 ladyships will ever 
 come next in place. 
 
 You are right that a bachelor state would have insured 
 me more friends ; but, from a cause you will easily guess, 
 conscious peace in the. enjoyment of my own mind, and 
 unmistrusting confidence in approaching my God, would 
 seldom have been of the number. 
 
 Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female 
 partner for life who could have entered into my favourite 
 studies, relished my favourite authors, etc., without probably 
 entailing on me at the same time expensive living, fantastic 
 caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all the other blessed 
 boarding-school acquirements, which {pardormez vioi. 
 Madame) are sometimes to be found among females of the 
 upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of 
 the would-be gentry.* 
 
 I like your way in your churchyard lucubrations. Thoughts 
 that are the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either 
 respecting health, place, or company, have often a strength, 
 and always an originality, that would in vain be looked for 
 in fancied circumstances, and studied paragraphs. For me, 
 I have often thought of keeping a letter, in progression by 
 me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now I 
 talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to you 
 on paper of this kind is my pruriency of writing to you at 
 
 * In Burns's private memoranda are these words : — " I am more 
 and more pleased with the step I took respecting my Jean. A wife's 
 head is immaterial compared with her heart ; and Virtue's (for wisdom, 
 what poet pretends to it ?) ' ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her 
 paths are peace.'"
 
 T72 LETTERS. 
 
 large. A page of post is on such a dis-social, narrow- 
 minded scale, that I cannot abide it ; and double letters, 
 at least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a monstrous 
 tax in a close correspondence. R. B. 
 
 XCVIII. — To Mr. Peter Hill, Bookseller, Edinburgh. 
 
 My Dear Hill, — I shall say nothing to your mad 
 present — you have so long and often been of important 
 service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on conferring 
 obligations until I shall not be able 'to lift up my face before 
 you. In the meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because 
 it happened to be a cold day in which he made his will, 
 ordered his servants great-coats for mourning, so, because 
 I have been this week plagued with an indigestion, I have 
 sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese.* 
 
 Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil and all. It 
 besets a man in every one of his senses. I lose my appetite 
 at the sight of successful knavery, and sicken to loathing at 
 the noise and nonsense of self-important folly. When the 
 hollow-hearted wretch takes me by the hand, the feeling 
 spoils my dinner; the proud man's wine so offends my 
 palate that it chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilised, 
 feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my nostril that 
 my stomach turns. 
 
 If ever you have any of these disagreeable sensations, let 
 me prescribe for you patience, and a bit of my cheese. I 
 know that you are no niggard of your good things among 
 your friends, and some of them are in much need of a slice. 
 There, in my eye, is our friend Smellie ; a man positively of 
 the first abilities and greatest strength of mind, as well as 
 one of the best hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met 
 with \ when you see him, as, alas ! he too is smarting at the 
 pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravated by the sneer 
 
 * In return for some valuable books.
 
 LETTERS. 173 
 
 of contumelious greatness — a bit of my cheese alone will 
 not cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown stout, and 
 superadd a magnum of bright Oporto, you will see his 
 sorrows vanish like the morning mist before the summer 
 sun. 
 
 Candlish, the earliest friend, except my only brother, that 
 I have on earth, and one of the worthiest fellows that ever 
 any man called by the name of friend, if a luncheon of my 
 cheese would help to rid him of some of his superabundant 
 modesty, you would do well to give it him. 
 
 David,* with his Courani, conies, too, across my recollec- 
 tion, and I beg you will help him largely from the said ewe- 
 milk cheese, to enable him to diarest those bedaubing 
 paragraphs with which he is eternally larding the lean 
 characters of certain great men in a certain great town. I 
 grant you the periods are very well turned ; so, a fresh egg 
 is a very good thing, but when thrown at a man in a pillory, 
 it does not at all improve his figure, not to mention the 
 irreparable loss of the egg. 
 
 My facetious friend Dunbar, I would wish also to be a 
 partaker: not to digest his spleen, for that he laughs off, 
 but to digest his last night's wipe at the last field-day of the 
 Crochallan corps. f 
 
 Among our common friends I must not forget one of the 
 dearest of them — Cunningham. The brutalit)^, insolence, 
 and selfishness of a world unworthy of having such a fellow 
 as he is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if you can 
 help him to anything that will make him a little easier on 
 that score, it will be very obliging. 
 
 As to honest John Sommerville, he is such a contented, 
 happy man, that I know not what can annoy him, except, 
 perhaps, he may not have got the better of a parcel of 
 modest anecdotes which a certain poet gave him one night 
 at supper, the last time the said poet was in town. 
 
 Though I have mentioned so many men of law, I shall 
 have nothing to do with them professedly — the faculty are 
 
 * Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 
 t A club of boon companions.
 
 174 LETTERS. 
 
 beyond my prescription. As to their clients, that is another 
 thing ; God knows they have much to digest ! 
 
 The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of erudition, and 
 their liberality of sentiment, their total want of pride, and 
 their detestation of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious 
 as to place them far, far above either my praise or censure. 
 
 I was going to mention a man of worth, whom I have 
 the honour to call friend — the Laird of Craigdarroch ; but 
 I have spoken to the landlord of the King's Arms Inn here, 
 to have at the next county meeting a large ewe-milk cheese 
 on the table, for the benefit of the Dumfriesshire Whigs, to 
 enable them to digest the Duke of Queensberry's late 
 political conduct. 
 
 I have just this moment an opportunity of a private hand 
 to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would not digest double 
 postage. R. B. 
 
 XCIX.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Mauchline, August 2nd, 1788. 
 
 Honoured Madam, — Your kind letter welcomed me, 
 yesternight, to Ayrshire. I am, indeed, seriously angry with 
 you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but, vexed and hurt 
 as I was, I could not help laughing very heartily at the 
 noble lord's apology for the missed napkin. 
 
 I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my 
 direction there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling 
 at a post-office once in a fortnight. I am six miles from 
 Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have 
 little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Besides, I am 
 now very busy on my farm, building a dwelling-house ; as 
 at present I am almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for 
 I have scarce " where to lay my head." 
 
 There are some passages in your last that brought tears 
 in my eyes. "The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a 
 stranger intermeddleth not therewith." The repository of 
 these " sorrows of the heart " is a kind oi sanctum sanctorum :
 
 LETTERS. 175 
 
 and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that, too, at particular, 
 sacred times, who dares enter into them : — 
 
 Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords 
 That nature finest strung. 
 
 You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. 
 Instead of entering on this subject farther, I shall transcribe 
 you a few lines I wrote in a hermitage, belonging to a gentle- 
 man in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost 
 the only favour the muses have conferred on me in that; 
 country,* 
 
 Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were 
 the production of yesterday as I jogged through the wild 
 hills of New Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or some- 
 thing like them, in an epistle I am going to write to the 
 gentleman on whose friendship my Excise hopes depend, 
 Mr. Graham of Fintray, one of the worthiest and most 
 accomplished gentlemen, not only of this country, but, I 
 will dare to say it, of this age. The following are just 
 the first crude thoughts "unhousel'd, unanointed, unan- 
 neal'd : "— f 
 
 Here the muse left me. I am astonished at what you 
 tell me of Anthony's writing me. I never received it. 
 Poor fellow ! you vex me much by telling me that he is 
 unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. 
 I have just room for an old Roman farewell. R. B. 
 
 C. — To Mrs, Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, idth Aus^ust 1788. 
 
 I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send 
 you an elegiac epistle; and want only genius to make it 
 quite Shenstonian : — 
 
 * Lines written in Friar's Carse Hermitage, 
 t First Epistle to Robert Graham.
 
 176 LETTERS. 
 
 Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn ? 
 Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky ? 
 
 My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange country — 
 gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futurity — conscious- 
 ness of my own inability for the struggle of the world — my 
 broadened mark to misfortune \\\ a wife and children ; — I 
 could indulge these reflections, till my humour should fer- 
 ment into the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the 
 very thread of life. 
 
 To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down 
 to write to you ; as I declare upon my soul I always find 
 that the most sovereign balm for my wounded spirit. 
 
 I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's to dinner, for the first 
 time. My reception was quite to my mind : from the lady 
 of the house quite flattering. She sometimes hits on a 
 couplet or two, impromptu. She repeated one or two to 
 the admiration of all present. My suffrage as a professional 
 man was expected : I for once went agonising over the 
 belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored house- 
 hold gods, independence of spirit, and integrity of soul ! 
 In the course of conversation, Johnson'' s Musical Musetim, 
 a collection of Scottish songs with the music, was talked of. 
 We got a song on the harpsichord, 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 cafFis better than ither folks' corn." I was going 
 to make a New Testament quotation about " casting 
 pearls," but that would be too virulent, for the lady is 
 actually a woman of sense and taste. 
 
 After all that has been said on the other side of the 
 question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do not 
 speak of the selected few, favoured by partial heaven, whose 
 souls are tuned to gladness amidst riches and honours, and 
 prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected many,
 
 LETTERS. 177 
 
 whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days are sold to the 
 minions of fortune. 
 
 If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for 
 you a stanza of an old Scottish ballad, called " The Life 
 and Age of Man ; " beginning thus : — 
 
 'Twas in the sixteenth hundred year 
 
 Of God and fifty-three 
 Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 
 
 As writings testifie. 
 
 I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a 
 while in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he 
 was, was long blind ere he died, during which time his 
 highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my 
 mother would sing the simple old song of " The Life and 
 Age of Man." 
 
 It is this way of thinking ; it is these melancholy truths, 
 that make religion so precious to the poor, miserable 
 children of men. If it is a mere phantom, existing only in 
 the heated imagination of enthusiasm, 
 
 What truth on earth so precious as the lie ? 
 
 My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, 
 but the necessities of my heart always give the cold 
 philosophisings the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned 
 from earth ; the soul affianced to her God ; the corres- 
 pondence fixed with heaven; the pious supplication and 
 devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of even 
 and morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the court, the 
 palace, in the glare of public life? No ; to find them 
 in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must 
 search among the obscure recesses of disappointment, 
 affliction, poverty, and distress. 
 
 I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more than pleased 
 with the length of my letters. I return to Ayrshire middle 
 of next week : and it quickens my pace to think that there 
 will be a letter from you waiting mc there. I must be here 
 again very soon for my harvest. R. Ij. 
 
 431
 
 178 LETTERS. 
 
 CI. — To Mr. Beugo, Engraver, Edinburgh. 
 
 Ellisland, ^th Sept. 1788. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — There is not in Edinburgh above the 
 number of the graces whose letters would have given so 
 much pleasure as yours of the 3rd instant, which only 
 reached me yesternight. 
 
 I am here on my farm, busy with my harvest ; but for all 
 that most pleasuralDle part of life called social communica- 
 tion, I am here at the very elbow of existence. The only 
 things that are to be found in this country, in any degree of 
 perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose they only 
 know in graces, prayers, etc., and the value of these they 
 estimate, as they do their plaiding webs, by the ell ! As for 
 the muses, they have as much an idea of a rhinoceros as of 
 a poet. For my old, capricious, but good-natured hussy of 
 
 a muse, 
 
 By banks of Nith I sat and wept 
 
 When Coila I thought on, 
 In midst thereof I hung my harp 
 
 The willow trees upon. 
 
 I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my 
 "darling Jean," and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my 
 horny fist across my becobwebbed lyre, much in the same 
 manner as an old wife throws her hand across the spokes of 
 her spinning-wheel. 
 
 I will send you the " Fortunate Shepherdess " as soon as 
 I return to Ayrshire, for there I keep it with other precious 
 treasure. I shall send it by a careful hand, as I would not 
 for anything it should be mislaid or lost. I do not wish to 
 serve you from any benevolence, or other grave Christian 
 virtue ; 'tis purely a selfish gratification of my own feelings 
 whenever I think of you. 
 
 If your better functions would give you leisure to write 
 me, I should be extremely happy ; that is to say, if you 
 neither keep nor look for a regular correspondence. I hate 
 the idea of being obliged to write a letter. I sometimes 
 write a friend twice a week ; at other times once a quarter.
 
 LETTERS. 179 
 
 I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in making the 
 author you mention place a map of Iceland, instead of his 
 portrait, before his works ; 'twas a glorious idea. 
 
 Could you conveniently do me one thing ? — whenever 
 you finish any head, I should like to have a proof copy of 
 it. I might tell you a long story about your fine genius ; 
 but, as what everybody knows cannot have escaped you, I 
 shall not say one, syllable about it. R, B. 
 
 CII. — To Mr. Robert Graham, of Fintray. 
 
 Sir, — When I had the honour of being introduced to you 
 at Athole House, I did not think so soon of asking a favour 
 of you. When Lear, in Shakespeare, asked Old Kent why 
 he wished to be in his service, he answers, " Because you 
 have that in your face which I would fain call master." For 
 some such reason, Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. 
 You know, I dare say, of an application I lately made to 
 your Board to be admitted an oihcer of the Excise. I have, 
 according to form, been examined by a supervisor, and to- 
 day I gave in his certificate, with a request for an order for 
 instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall 
 but too much need a patronising friend. Propriety of 
 conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention as an officer, I 
 dare engage for; but with anything like business, except 
 manual labour, I am totally unacquainted, 
 
 I had intended to have closed my late appearance on the 
 stage of life in the character of a country farmer ; but, after 
 discharging some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could 
 only fight for existence in that miserable manner, which I 
 have lived to see throw a venerable parent into the jaws of 
 a jail, whence death, the poor man's last and often best 
 friend, rescued him. 
 
 I know. Sir, that to need your goodness, is to have a 
 claim on it ; may I, therefore, beg your patronage to forward 
 me in this affair, till I be appointed to a division, where, by 
 the help of rigid economy, I will try to support that
 
 igo LETTERS. 
 
 independence so dear to my soul, but which has been too 
 often so distant from my situation. R. B. 
 
 CIII. — To His Wife, at Mauchline. 
 
 Ellisland, Friday, 12th Sep. 1788. 
 
 My Dear Love, — I received your kind letter with a 
 pleasure which no letter but one from you could have given 
 me. I dreamed of you the whole night last ; but alas ! I fear 
 it will be three weeks yet ere I can hope for the happiness of 
 seeing you. My harvest is going on. I have some to cut 
 down still, but I put in two stacks to-day, so I'm as tired as 
 a dog. 
 
 You might get one of Gilbert's sweet-milk cheeses, and 
 send it to. . . . On second thoughts I believe you had best 
 get the half of Gilbert's web of table linen and make it up ; 
 though I think it damnable dear, but it is no outlaid money 
 to us, you know. I have just now consulted my old land- 
 lady about table linen, and she thinks I may have the best 
 for two shillings a yard ; so, after all, let it alone till I 
 return ; and some day soon I will be in Dumfries and ask 
 the price there. I expect your new gowns will be very 
 forward or ready to make, against I be home to get the 
 baiveridge.* 
 
 I have written my long-thought-on letter to Mr. Graham, 
 the Commissioner of Excise ; and have sent a sheetful of 
 poetry besides. 
 
 CIV. — To Miss Chalmers, Edinburgh. 
 
 Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. \Gth, 1788. 
 
 Where are you ? and how are you ? and is Lady 
 Mackenzie recovering her health ? for I have had but one 
 
 * On her first appearance in public in a new dress a young woman 
 was subject to this tax, if claimed by the young man who happened first 
 to meet her.
 
 ' LE TIERS. i8i 
 
 solitary letter from you. I will not think you have forgot 
 me, Madam ; and, for my part, 
 
 When thee, Jerusalem, I forget, 
 Skill part from my right hand ! 
 
 " My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as 
 that sea." I do not make my progress among mankind as 
 a bowl does among its fellows — rolling through the crowd 
 without bearing away any mark or impression, except 
 where they hit in hostile collision. 
 
 I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad 
 weather; and as you and your sister once did me the 
 honour of interesting yourselves much d. P egard de mot, I 
 sit down to beg the continuation of your, goodness. I can 
 truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw two 
 whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings of my soul — I 
 will not say more, but so much, as Lady Mackenzie and 
 Miss Chalmers. When I think of you — hearts the best, 
 minds the noblest of human kind — unfortunate even in the 
 shades of life — when I think I have met with you, and 
 have lived more of real life with you in eight days than I 
 can do with almost anybody I meet with in eight years — 
 when I think on the improbability of meeting you in this 
 world again — I could sit down and cry like a child ! If 
 ever you honoured me with a place in your esteem, I trust 
 I can now plead more desert. I am secure against that 
 crushing grip of iron poverty, which, alas ! is less or more 
 fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, the noblest 
 souls ; and a late important step in my life has kindly 
 taken me out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities, 
 which, however overlooked in fashionable licence, or 
 varnished in fashionable phrase, are indeed but lighter and 
 deeper shades of villainy. 
 
 Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I married " my 
 Jean." This was not in consequence of the attachment of 
 romance, perhaps ; but I had a long and much-loved fellow- 
 creatnrc's happiness or misery in my determination, and I 
 durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Nor have I.
 
 1 82 LETTERS. 
 
 any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, 
 modish manners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened 
 and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school 
 affectation; and I have got the handsomest figure, the 
 sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest 
 heart in the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her 
 creed, that I am le plus bel esprit, et k plus honnete honwie 
 in the universe ; although she scarcely ever in her life, 
 except the Scriptures of the old and New Testament, and 
 the Psalms of David in metre, spent five minutes together 
 on either prose or verse. I must except also from this last 
 a certain late publication of Scots poems, which she has 
 perused very devoutly ; and all the ballads in the country, 
 as she has (O the partial lover ! you will cry) the finest 
 "wood note wild " I ever heard. I am the more particular 
 in this lady's character, as I know she will henceforth have 
 the honour of a share in your best wishes. She is still at 
 Mauchline, as I am building my house ; for this hovel that 
 I shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to every 
 blast that blows, and every shower that falls ; and I am 
 only preserved from being chilled to death, by being 
 suffocated with smoke. I do not find my farm that penny- 
 worth I was taught to expect, but I believe, in time, it may 
 be a saving bargain. You will be pleased to hear that I 
 have laid aside the idle eclat, and bind every day after my 
 reapers. 
 
 To save me from that horrid situation of at any time 
 going down, in a losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I 
 have taken my Excise instructions, and have my commission 
 in my pocket for any emergency of fortune. If I could set 
 all before your view, whatever disrespect you, in common 
 with the world, have for this business, I know you would 
 approve of my idea. 
 
 I will make no apology, dear Madam, for this egotistic 
 detail ; I know you and your sister will be interested in 
 every circumstance of it. What signify the silly, idle gew- 
 gaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness ! When 
 fellow-partakers of the same nature fear the same God,
 
 LETTERS. 183 
 
 have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of 
 soul, the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the 
 same scorn at everything unworthy — if they are not in the 
 dependence of absolute beggary, in the name of common 
 sense, are they not equals ? And if the bias, the instinc- 
 tive bias of their souls run the same way, why may they not 
 be friends ? 
 
 . ^^'hen I may have an opportunity of sending you this, 
 Heaven only knows. Shenstone says, " When one is con- 
 fined idle within doors by bad weather, the best antidote 
 against ejinui is to read the letters of, or write to, one's 
 friends ; " in that case then, if the weather continues thus, I 
 may scrawl you half a quire. 
 
 I very lately — to wit, since harvest began — wrote a poem, 
 not in imitation, but in the manner of Pope's Moral Epistles. 
 It is only a short essay, just to try the strength of my Muse's 
 pinion in that way. I will send you a copy of it, when 
 once I have heard from you. I have likewise been laying 
 the foundation of some pretty large poetic works ; how the 
 superstructure will come on, I leave to that great maker 
 and marrer of projects, time. Johnson's collection of 
 Scots songs is going on in the third volume ; and, of 
 consequence, finds me a consumpt for a great deal of idle 
 metre. One of the most tolerable things I have done in 
 that way, is two stanzas I made to an air a musical gentle- 
 man of my acquaintance composed for the anniversary of 
 his wedding-day, which happens on the seventh of Novem- 
 ber. Take it as follows : — 
 
 The day returns — my bosom burns — 
 The blissful day we twa did meet, etc. 
 
 I shall give over this letter for shame. If I should be 
 seized with a scribbling fit, before this goes away, I shall 
 make it another letter ; and then you may allow your 
 patience a week's respite between the two. I have not 
 room lor more than the old, kin(i, hearty farewell ! 
 
 To make some amends, mes chores Mesdames, for dragging
 
 1 84 LETTERS. 
 
 you on to this second sheet ; and to reUeve a little the tire- 
 someness of my unstudied and uncorrectible prose, I shall 
 transcribe you some of my late poetic bagatelles ; though I 
 have, these eight or ten months, done very little that way. 
 One day, in a hermitage on the banks of Nith, belonging to 
 a gentleman in my neighbourhood, who is so good as give 
 me a key at pleasure, I wrote as follows ; supposing myself 
 the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the lonely mansion. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE. 
 
 Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
 Be thou clad in russet weed, etc. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CV. — To Mr. Morison, Wright, Mauchline, 
 
 Ellisland, September 22nd, 1788. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — Necessity obliges me to go into my 
 new house, even before it be plastered. I will inhabit the 
 one end until the other is finished. About three weeks 
 more, I think, will at farthest be my time, beyond which I 
 cannot stay in this present house. If ever you wish to de- 
 serve the blessing of him that was ready to perish ; if ever 
 you were in a situation that a little kindness would have 
 rescued you from many evils ; if ever you hope to find rest 
 in future states of untried being — get these matters of mine 
 ready.* My servant will be out in the beginning of next 
 week for the clock. My compliments to Mrs Morison. — I 
 am, after all my tribulation, Dear Sir, yours, R. B. 
 
 CVI. — To Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop. 
 
 MauchlinEj 27M SepL 1788. 
 
 I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more than once ; 
 but scarcely ever with more pleasure than when I received 
 
 * The letter refers to chairs and other articles of furniture v/hich tlie 
 Poet had ordered.
 
 LETTERS. 185 
 
 yours of the 12th instant. To make myself understood; I 
 had wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem addressed to 
 him, and the same post which favoured me with yours 
 brought me an answer from him. It was dated the very 
 day he had received mine ; and I am quite at a loss to say 
 whether it was most polite or kind. 
 
 Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are truly the 
 work of a friend. They are not the blasting depredations 
 of a canker-toothed, caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair 
 statement of cold impartiality, balancing with unfeeling 
 exactitude the pro and con of an author's merits ; they are 
 the judicious observations of animated friendship, select- 
 ing the beauties of the piece. I am just arrived from 
 Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was on horse- 
 back this morning by three o'clock ; for between my wife 
 and my farm is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on in the 
 dark, I was taken with a poetic fit, as follows : 
 
 "Mrs. Ferguson of Craigdarroch's lamentation for the 
 death of her son ; an uncommonly promising youth of 
 eighteen or nineteen years of age : — 
 
 Fate gave the word — the arrow sped, 
 And pierced my darling's heart," {etc.) 
 
 You will not send me your poetic rambles, but, you see, 
 I am no niggard of mine. I am sure your impromptus give 
 me double pleasure ; what falls from your pen can neither 
 be unentertaining in itself, nor indifferent to me. 
 
 The one fault you found is just : but I cannot please 
 myself in an emendation. 
 
 What a life of solicitude is the life of a parent ! You 
 interested me much in your young couple. 
 
 I would not take my folio paper for this epistle, and now 
 I repent it. I am so jaded with my dirty long journey, that 
 I was afraid to drawl into the essence of dulness with any- 
 thing larger than a quarto, and so I must leave out another 
 rhyme of this morning's manufacture. 
 
 1 will pay the sapientipotent George most cheerfully, to 
 hear from you ere I leave Ayrshire. R. B,
 
 1 86 LETTERS. 
 
 CVIL— To Mr. Peter Hill. 
 
 Mauchline, \st October 1788. 
 
 I HAVE been here in this country about three days, and 
 all that time my chief reading has been the " Address to 
 Lochlomond " you were so obliging as to send to me. Were 
 I impanneled one of the author's jury, to determine his 
 criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my verdict should be 
 " Guilty! A poet of nature's making ! " It is an excellent 
 method for improvement, and what I believe every poet 
 does, to place some favourite classic author in his walks of 
 study and composition before him as a model. Though 
 your author had not mentioned the name, 1 could have, at 
 half a glance, guessed his model to be Thomson. AVill my 
 brother-poet forgive me if I venture to hint that his imita- 
 tion of that immortal bard is, in two or three places, rather 
 more servile than such a genius as his required : — e.g. 
 
 To soothe the maddening passions all to peace. 
 
 Address. 
 
 To soothe the throbbing passions into peace. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 I think the "Address" is in simplicity, harmony, and 
 elegance of versification, fully equal to the "Seasons." Like 
 Thomson, too, he has looked into nature for himself : you 
 meet with no copied description. One particular criticism 
 I made at first reading ; in no one instance has he said too 
 much. He never flags in his progress, but, like a true poet 
 of nature's making, kindles in his course. His beginning is 
 simple and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of his 
 passion ; only, I do not altogether like — 
 
 Truth, 
 The soul of every song that's nobly great. 
 
 Fiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly great. 
 Perhaps I am wrong : this may be but a prose criticism. 
 Is not the phrase, in line 7, page 6, "Great lake," too much 
 vulgarised by every-day language for so sublime a poem ?
 
 LETTERS. 187 
 
 Great mass. of waters, theme for nobler song. 
 
 is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a com- 
 parison with other lakes is at once harmonious and poetic. 
 Every reader's ideas must sweep the 
 
 Winding margin of a hundred miles. 
 
 The perspective that follows mountains blue — the im- 
 prisoned billows beating in vam — the wooded isles — the 
 digression on the yew-tree — "Benlomond's lofty, cloud- 
 envelop'd head," etc., are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a 
 subject which has been often tried, yet our poet, in his 
 grand picture, has interjected a circumstance, so far as I 
 know, entirely original in 
 
 the gloom 
 Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire. 
 
 In his preface to the Storm, '-the glens how dark 
 between," is noble highland landscape ! The " rain plough- 
 ing the red mould," too, is beautifully fancied. " Ben- 
 lomond's lofty, pathless top," is a good expression ; and the 
 surrounding view from it i^ truly great : the 
 
 silver mist. 
 Beneath the beaming sun, 
 
 is well described; and here he has contrived to enliven his 
 poem with a little of that passion which bids fair, I think, 
 to usurp the modern muses altogether. I know not how 
 far this episode is a beauty on the whole, but the swain's 
 wish to carry " some faint idea of the vision bright," to 
 entertain her " partial listening ear," is a pretty thought. 
 But, in my opinion, the most beautiful passages in the 
 whole poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to 
 Lochlomond's " hospitable flood ; " their wheeling round, 
 their lighting, mixing, diving, etc.; and the glorious descrip- 
 tion of the sportsman. This last is equal to anything in the 
 " Seasons." The idea of " the floating tribes distant seen, 
 far glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he is 
 obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic genius.
 
 1 88 LETTERS. 
 
 The "howling winds," the "hideous roar" of "the white 
 cascades," are all in the same style. 
 
 I forget that while I am thus holding forth, with the 
 heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you 
 with nonsense. I must, however, mention that the last 
 verse of the sixteenth page is one of the most elegant com- 
 pliments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice that 
 beautiful paragraph beginning "The gleaming lake," etc. 
 I dare not go into the particular beauties of the last two 
 paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. 
 
 I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl. I 
 had no idea of it when I began — I should like to know who 
 the author is ; but, whoever he be, please present him 
 with • my grateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
 afforded me.* 
 
 A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two 
 books. Letters on the Religion essential to Man^ a book you 
 sent me before ; and The World Unmasked^ or the 
 Philosopher the greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first 
 opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly elegant ; I 
 only wish it had been in two volumes. R. B. 
 
 CVIII. — To THE Editor of the " Star." 
 
 November "ith, 1788. 
 
 Sir, — Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with 
 which some of our philosophers and gloomy sectarians 
 have branded our nature — the principle of universal selfish- 
 ness, the proneness to all evil, they have given us — still, the 
 detestation in which inhumanity to the distressed, or 
 insolence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, shows that 
 they are not natives of the human heart. Even the 
 unhappy partner of our kind who is undone, the bitter con- 
 
 * The poem, entitled " An Address to Lochlomond," is said to have 
 been written by one of the masters of the High School of Edinburgh.
 
 LETTERS. 189 
 
 sequence of his follies or his crimes — who but sympathises 
 with the miseries of this ruined profligate brother? We 
 forget the injuries, and feel for the man. 
 
 I went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, most 
 cordially to join in grateful acknowledgment to the 
 Author of all Good for the consequent blessings of the 
 glorious Revolution. To that auspicious event we owe no 
 less tharf our liberties, civil and religious ; to it we are 
 likewise indebted for the present Royal Family, the ruling 
 features of whose adminstration have ever been mildness to 
 the subject, and tenderness of his rights. 
 
 Bred and educated in revolution principles, the principles 
 of reason and common sense, it could not be any silly 
 political prejudice which made my heart revolt at the harsh, 
 abusive manner in which the reverend gentleman mentioned 
 the House of Stuart, and which, I am afraid, was too much 
 the language of the day. We may rejoice sufficiently in our 
 deliverance from past evils, without cruelly raking up the 
 ashes of those whose misfortune it was, perhaps as much as 
 their crime, to be the authors of those evils ; and we may 
 bless God for all His goodness to us as a nation, without, 
 at the same time, cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who 
 only harboured ideas, and made attempts, that most of us 
 would have done, had we been in their situation. 
 
 " The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart " may be 
 said with propriety and justice, when compared with the 
 present Royal Family, and the sentiments of our days ; but 
 is there no allowance to be made for the manners of the 
 times ? Were the royal contemporaries of the Stuarts more 
 attentive to their subjects' rights ? Might not the epithets 
 of " bloody and tyrannical " be, with at least equal justice, 
 applied to the House of Tudor, of York, or any other of 
 their predecessors ? 
 
 The simple state of the case. Sir, seems to be this : — At 
 that period, the science of government, the knowledge of 
 the true relation between king and subject, was, like other 
 sciences and other knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging 
 from dark ages of ignorance and barbarity.
 
 TOO LETTERS. 
 
 y 
 
 The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives which they 
 knew their predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their 
 contemporaries enjoying ; but these prerogatives were 
 inimical to the happiness of a nation and the rights of 
 subjects. 
 
 In this contest between prince and people, the con- 
 sequence of that light of science which had lately dawned 
 over Europe, the monarch of France, for example, was 
 victorious over the struggling liberties of his people : with 
 us, luckily, the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable 
 pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and happiness. 
 Whether it was owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, 
 or to the justling of parties, I cannot pretend to determine ; 
 but, likewise, happily for us, the kingly power was shifted 
 into another branch of the family, who, as they owed the 
 throne solely to the call of a free people, could claim 
 nothing inconsistent with the covenanted terms which 
 placed them there. 
 
 The Stuarts have been condemned and laughed at, for 
 the folly and impracticability of their attempts in 17 15, and 
 1745. That they failed, I bless God; but cannot join in 
 the ridicule against them. Who does not know that the 
 abilities or defects of leaders and commanders are often 
 hidden, until put to the touchstone of exigency ; and that 
 there is a caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particular 
 accidents and conjunctures of circumstances, which exalt us 
 as heroes, or brand us as madmen, just as they are for 
 or against us ? 
 
 Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsistent 
 being : who would believe. Sir, that in this our Augustan 
 age of liberality and refinement, while we seem so justly 
 sensible and jealous of our riglits and liberties, and animated 
 with such indignation against the very memory of those who 
 would have subverted them — that a certain people under 
 our national protection should complain, not against our 
 monarch and a few favourite advisers, but against our 
 M^HOLE LEGISLATIVE BODY, for similar Oppression, and 
 almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers did of the
 
 LETTERS. 191 
 
 House of Stuart ! I will not, I cannot, enter into the 
 merits of the cause ; but I dare say the American Congress, 
 in 1776, will be allowed to be as able and enlightened as 
 the English Convention was in 1688 ; and that their 
 posterity will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance 
 from us, as duly and sincerely, as we do ours from the 
 oppressive measures of the wrong-headed House of Stuart. 
 
 To conclude. Sir ; let every man who has a tear for the 
 many miseries incident to humanity, feel for a family 
 illustrious as any in Europe, and unfortunate beyond 
 historic precedent ; and let every Briton (and particularly 
 every Scotsman) who ever looked with reverential pity on 
 the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal mistake 
 of the Kings of his forefathers. R. B. 
 
 CIX. — To Mrs. Dunlop, at Moreham Mains. 
 
 Mauchline, iTyth November 17S8. 
 
 Madam, — I had the very great pleasure of dining at 
 Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter women because 
 they are weak, if it is so, poets must be weaker still ; for 
 Misses R. and K. and Miss G. M'K., with their flattering 
 attentions, and artful compliments, absolutely turned my 
 head. I own they did not lard me over as many a poet 
 does his patron, but they so intoxicated me with their sly 
 insinuations and delicate innuendos of compliment, that if 
 it had not been for a lucky recollection, how much 
 additional weight and lustre your good opinion and friend- 
 ship must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked 
 upon myself as a person of no small consequence. I dare 
 not say one word how much I was charmed with the 
 Major's friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute 
 remark, lest I should be thought to balance my orientalisms 
 of applause over-against the finest heifer in Ayrshire, which 
 he made me a present of to help and adorn my farm-stock. 
 As it was on hallow-day, I am determined annually as that
 
 192 LETTERS. 
 
 day returns, to decorate her liorns with an ode of gratitude 
 to the family of Dunlop. 
 
 So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take 
 the first conveniency to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to 
 you and friendship, under the guarantee of the Major's 
 hospitality. There will soon be three score and ten miles 
 of permanent distance between us ; and now that your 
 friendship and friendly correspondence is entwisted with 
 the heart-strings of my enjoyment of life, I must indulge 
 myself in a happy day of "the feast of reason and the flow 
 of soul." R. B. 
 
 ex. — To Dr. Blacklock. 
 
 Mauchline, November i^ih, 178S. 
 
 Reverend and Dear Sir, — As I hear nothing of 
 your motions, but that you are, or were, out of town, I do 
 not know where this may find you, or whether it will find 
 you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated from the land 
 of matrimony, in June ; but either it had not found you, or, 
 what I dread more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too 
 precarious a state of health and spirits to take notice of an 
 idle packet. 
 
 I have done many little things for Johnson since I had 
 the pleasure of seeing you ; and I have finished one piece, 
 in the way of Pope's " Moral Epistles ; " but, from your 
 silence, I have everything to fear, so I have only sent you 
 two melancholy things, which I tremble to fear may 
 too well suit the tone of your present feelings. 
 
 In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to Nithsdale ; 
 till then, my direction is at this place ; after that period, it 
 will be at Ellisland, near Dumfries. It would extremely 
 oblige me, were it but half a line, to let me know how you 
 are, and where you are. Can I be indifferent to the fate of 
 a man to whom I owe so much — a man whom I not only 
 esteem, but venerate ? 
 
 My warmest good wishes and most respectful compli-
 
 LETTERS. 193 
 
 ments to Mrs. Blacklock, and Miss Johnson, if she is with 
 you. 
 
 I cannot conclude without telling you that I am more 
 and more pleased with the step I took respecting " my 
 Jean." Two things, from my happy experience, I set down 
 as apophthegms in life, — a wife's head is immaterial, com- 
 pared with her heart ; and " Virtue's (for wisdom, what 
 poet pretends to it ?) ways are ways of pleasantness, and all 
 her paths "tire peace." Adieu ! R. B.* 
 
 CXI.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, I'jth Decemler 1788. 
 
 My Dear Honoured Friend, — Yours, dated Edin- 
 burgh, which I have just read, makes me very unhappy. 
 "Almost blind and wholly deaf" are melancholy news 
 of human nature ; but when told of a much-loved and 
 honoured friend, they carry misery in the sound. Goodness 
 on your part, and gratitude on mine, began a tie which has 
 gradually entwisted itself among the dearest chords of my 
 bosom, and I tremble at the omens of your late and 
 present ailing habit and shattered health. You miscalcu- 
 late matters widely, when you forbid my waiting on you, 
 lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. My small scale of 
 farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than what you 
 have lately seen at Moreham Mains. But, be that as it 
 may, the heart of the man and the fancy of the poet are the 
 two grand considerations for which I live : if miry ridges 
 and dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the 
 functions of my soul immortal, I had better been a rook or 
 a magpie at once, and then I should not have been plagued 
 with any ideas superior to breaking of clods and picking up 
 grubs ; not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, 
 creatures with which I could almost exchange lives at any 
 
 * Here follow "The mother's lament for the loss of her son," and 
 the song beginning " The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill." 
 
 432
 
 194 LETTERS. 
 
 time. If you continue so deaf, I am afraid a visit will be 
 no great pleasure to either of us ; but if I hear you are got 
 so well again as to be able to relish conversation, look you 
 to it. Madam, for I will make my threatenings good. I am 
 to be at the New-year-day fair of Ayr, and, by all that is 
 sacred in the world, friend, I will come and see you. 
 
 Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your 
 old schoolfellow and friend, was truly interesting. Out 
 upon the ways of the world! They spoil these "social 
 of^prings of the heart." Two veterans of the "men of the 
 world " would have met with little more heart-workings than 
 two old hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the 
 Scotch phrase, " Auld lang syne," exceedingly expressive ? 
 There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled 
 through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old 
 Scotch song. I shall give you the verses on the other 
 sheet, as I suppose Mr. Kerr* will save you the postage. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot ? 
 
 Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven-inspired 
 poet who composed this glorious fragment ! There is more 
 of the fire of native genius in it than in half a dozen of 
 modern English Bacchanalians ! Now I am on my hobby- 
 horse, I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas, which 
 please me mightily : — 
 
 Go fetch to n-e a pint o' wine, eta 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CXII.— To Mr. John Tennant. 
 
 December 2.2nd, 1788. 
 
 I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whisky for the first time, 
 and I assure you it does you great credit. It will bear five 
 waters, strong : or six ordinary toddy. The whisky of this 
 country is a most rascally liquor ; and, by consequence, 
 
 * Postmaster in Edinburgh.
 
 LETTERS. 195 
 
 only drunk l>y the most rascally part of the inhabitants. I 
 am persuaded, if you once get a footing here, you might do 
 a great deal of business, in the way of consumpt ; and 
 should you commence distiller again, this is the native 
 barley country. I am ignorant if, in your present way of 
 dealing, you would think it worth your while to extend your 
 business so far as this country-side. I write you this on the 
 account of an accident, which I must take the merit of 
 having partly designed too. A neighbour of mine, a John 
 Currie, miller, in Carse Mill — a man who is, in a word, 
 a very good man, even for a ;^5oo bargain — he and his 
 wife were in my house the time I broke open the cask. 
 They keep a country pubHc-house and sell a great deal of 
 foreign spirits, but all along thought that whisky would 
 have degraded their house. They were perfectly astonished 
 at my whisky, both for its taste and strength ; and, by their 
 desire, I write you to know if you could supply them with 
 liquor of an equal quality, and what price. Please write me 
 by first post, and direct to me at Ellisland, near Dumfries. 
 If you could take a jaunt this way yourself, I have a spare 
 spoon, knife, and fork, very much at your service. My 
 compliments to Mrs. Tennant, and all the good folks in 
 Glenconnel and Barguharrie. R. B. 
 
 CXIIT.— To Mrs, Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, New-year-day Morning, 17S9. 
 
 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 tnuch. In that case, 
 Madam, you should welcome in a year full of blessings : 
 everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self- 
 enjoyment should be removed, and every pleasure that frail 
 humanity can taste, should be yours. I own myself so 
 little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times and seasons 
 of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking in on
 
 196 LETTERS. 
 
 that habituated routine of hfe and thought, which is so apt 
 to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or even some- 
 times, and with some minds, to a state very little superior to 
 mere machinery. 
 
 This day ; the first Sunday of May ; a breezy blue-skyed 
 noon some time about the beginning, and a hoary morning 
 and calm sunny day about the end of autumn ; these, time 
 out of mind, have been with me a kind of holiday. 
 
 I believe I owe this to that glorious 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 
 having 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 meditation 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, makes no extraordinary impression. I have 
 some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the 
 mountain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier- 
 rose, the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view 
 and hang over with particular delight. I never hear 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 poetry. Tell me, my dear 
 friend, to what can this be owing ? Are we a piece of 
 machinery, which, like the ^olian 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 
 reaUties — a God that made all things — man's immaterial 
 and immortal nature — and a world of weal or woe beyond 
 death and the grave. R. B,
 
 LETTERS. 197 
 
 CXIV.— To Dr. Moore, London. 
 
 Ellisland, d^ihjan. 1789. 
 
 Sir, — As often as I think of writing to you, which has 
 been three or four times every week these six months, it gives 
 me something so hke the idea of an ordinary-sized statue 
 oifering at a conversation with the Rhodian Colossus, that 
 my mind misgives me, and the affair ahvays miscarries 
 somewhere between purpose and resolve. I have at last 
 got some business with you, and business letters are written 
 by the style-book. I say my business is with you. Sir, for 
 you never had any with me, except the business that 
 benevolence has in the mansion of poverty. 
 
 The character and employment of a poet were formerly 
 my pleasure, but are now my pride. I know that a very 
 great deal of my late dclat was owing to the singularity of 
 my situation, and the honest prejudice of Scotsmen ; but 
 still, as I said in the preface to my first edition, I do look 
 upon myself as having some pretensions from nature to the 
 poetic character. I have not a 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;" but I 
 as firmly believe that excellence in the profession is the fruit 
 of industry, labour, attention, and pains. At least I am 
 resolved to try my doctrine by the test of experience. 
 Another appearance from the press I put off to a very 
 distant day, a day that may never arrive — but poesy I am 
 determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has 
 given very few, if any, of the profession, tlie talents of shin- 
 ing in every species of composition. I shall try (for until 
 trial it is impossible to know) whether she has qualified me 
 to shine in any one. The worst of it is, by the time one 
 has finished a piece, it has been so often viewed and 
 reviewed before the mental eye, that one loses in a good 
 measure the powers of critical discrimination. Here the 
 best criterion I know is a friend — not only of abilities to 
 judge, but with good-nature enough, like a prudent teacher
 
 igS LETTERS. 
 
 with a young learner, to praise perhaps a Uttle more than is 
 exactly just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most 
 deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart-breaking despond- 
 ency ot himself. D.ire I, Sir, already immensely indebted 
 to your goodness, ask the additional obligation of your 
 being that friend to me? I inclose you an essay of mine in 
 a walk of poesy to me entirely new; I mean the epistle 
 addressed to R. G., Esq., or Robert Graham, of Fintry, 
 Esq., a gentleman of uncommon worth, to whom I lie 
 under very great obligations. The story of the poem, like 
 most of my poems, is connected with my own story, and to 
 give you the one, I must give you something of the other. 
 I cannot boast of Mr. Creech's mgenuous fair deahng to me. 
 He kept me hanging about Edinburgh from the yth August 
 1787 until the 13th April 1788 before he would conde- 
 scend to give a statement of affairs ; nor had I got it even 
 then, but tor an angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his 
 pride. "I could" not a "tale," but a detail "unfold"; but 
 what am I that should speak against the Lord's anointed 
 Bailie of Edinburgh ?* 
 
 I believe I shall, in whole, ;^ioo copyright included, 
 clear about ^^400, some little odds ; and even part of this 
 depends upon what the gentleman has yet to settle with me. 
 I give you this information, because you did me the honour 
 to interest yourself much in my welfare. 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. 
 
 To give the rest of my story in brief, 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. I have a younger brother, who 
 supports my aged mother, another still younger brother, 
 and three sisters, in a farm. On my last return from 
 Edmburgh it cost me about ;^i8o to save them from rum. 
 * Creech ; remarkable for his reluctance to settle accounts.
 
 LETTERS. 199 
 
 Not that I have lost so much — I only interposed between 
 my brother and his impending fate by the loan of so much. 
 I give myself no airs on this, for it was mere selfishness on 
 my part ; I was conscious that the wrong scale of the 
 balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that 
 throwing a little filial piety and fraternal affection into the 
 scale in my favour, might help to smooth matters at the 
 grand reckoning. There is still one thing would make my 
 circumstances quite easy — I have an excise ofificer's commis- 
 sion, and I live in the midst of a country division. My 
 request to Mr. Graham, who is one of the commissioners of 
 excise, was, if in his power, to procure me that division. If 
 I were very sanguine, I might hope that some of my great 
 patrons might procure me a treasury warrant for supervisor, 
 surveyor-general, etc. 
 
 'J hus, secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet poetry, 
 delightful maid,"* I would consecrate my future days. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CXV. — To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 
 
 ^i^iAS-LA^D, January 6!h, 1789. 
 
 Many happy returns of the season to you, my dear Sir ! 
 May you be comparatively happy, up to your comparative 
 worth among the sons of men ; which wish would, I am 
 sure, make you one of the most blessed of the human race. 
 
 I do not know if passing a "Writer to the Signet" be a 
 trial of scientific merit, or a mere business of friends and 
 interest. However it be, let me quote you my two favourite 
 passages, which, though I have repeated them ten thousand 
 times, still they rouse my manhood and steel my resolution 
 like inspiration. 
 
 On Reason build resolve, 
 That column of true majesty in man. 
 
 Young. 
 
 * Goldsmith's " Deserted Village."
 
 200 LETTERS. 
 
 Hear, Alfred, hero of the state, 
 
 Thy genius heaven's high will declare ; 
 
 The triumph of the truly great, 
 
 Is never, never to despair ! 
 
 Is never to despair ! 
 
 Masque of Alfred. 
 
 I grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle for bread, 
 business, notice, and distinction, in common with hundreds. 
 But who are they ? Men like yourself, and of that aggregate 
 body your compeers, seven-tenths of them come short of 
 your advantages, natural and accidental ; while two of those 
 that remain, either neglect their parts, as flowers blooming 
 in a desert, or misspend their strength like a bull goring a 
 bramble bush. 
 
 But to change the theme: I am still catering for 
 Johnson's publication ; and among others, I have brushed 
 up the following old favourite song a little, with a view to 
 your worship. I have only altered a word here and there ; 
 but if you like the humour of it, we shall think of a stanza 
 or two to add to it. R. B. 
 
 CXVI. — -To Professor Dugald Stewart. 
 
 Ellisland, loth Ian. 1789. 
 
 Sir, — The inclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh, a 
 few days after I had the happiness of meeting you in Ayr- 
 shire, but you were gone for the Continent. I have now 
 added a few more of my productions, those for which I am 
 indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. The piece inscribed to 
 R. G., Esq., is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham, of 
 Fintry, accompanying a request for his assistance in a 
 matter to me of very great moment. To that gentleman I 
 am already doubly indebted; for deeds of kindness of 
 serious import to my dearest interests, done in a manner 
 grateful to the delicate feelings of sensibility. This poem is 
 a species of composition new to me, but I do not intend it
 
 LETTERS. 20 1 
 
 shall be my last essay of the kind, as you will see by the 
 "Poet's Progress." These fragments, if my design succeed, 
 are but a small part of the intended whole. I propose it 
 shall be the work of my utmost exertions, ripened by years ; 
 of course I do not wish it much known. The fragment 
 beginning "A little upright, pert, tart," etc., I have not 
 shown to man living, till I now send it you. It forms the 
 postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, 
 if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. 
 This particular part I send you merely as a sample of my 
 hand at portrait-sketching ; but, lest idle conjecture should 
 pretend to point out the original, please to let it be for your 
 single, sole inspection. 
 
 Need I make any apology for this trouble, to a gentleman 
 who has treated me with such marked benevolence and 
 peculiar kindness ; who has entered into my interests with 
 so much zeal, and on whose critical decisions I can so 
 fully depend ? A poet as I am by trade, these decisions 
 are to me of the last consequence. My late transient 
 acquaintance among some of the mere rank and file of 
 greatness, I resign with ease ; but to the distinguished 
 champions of genius and learning, I shall be ever ambitious 
 of being known. The native genius and accurate discern- 
 ment in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures ; the justness (iron 
 justice, for he has no bowels of compassion for a poor 
 poetic sinner) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and the delicacy 
 of Professor Dalzel's taste, I shall ever revere. 
 
 I shall be in Edinburgh some time next month. — I have 
 the honour to be, Sir, your highly obliged, and very humble 
 servant, R. B. 
 
 CXVII. — To Mr. Robert Cleghorn, Saughton Mills. 
 
 Ellisland, 22,rdjan. 17S9. 
 
 I MUST take shame and confusion of face to myself, my 
 dear friend and brother Farmer, that I have not written you 
 much sooner. The truth is I have been so tossed about
 
 202 LETTERS. 
 
 between Ayrshire and Nithsdale that, till now I have got 
 my family liere, I have had time to think of nothing except 
 now and then a stanza or so as I rode along. Were it not 
 for our gracious monarch's cursed tax of postage I had sent 
 you one or two pieces of some length that I have lately 
 done. I have no idea of the Press. I am more able to 
 support myself and family, though in a humble, yet an 
 independent way ; and I mean, just at my leisure, to pay 
 court to the tuneful sisters in the hope that they may one 
 day enable me to carry on a work of some importance. The 
 following are a few verses which I wrote in a neighbouring 
 gentleman's hermitage to which he is so good as let me have 
 a key. 
 
 CXVIII. — To Bishop Geddes, Edinburgh. 
 
 Ellisland, yd Feb. 1789. 
 
 Venerable Father,— As I am conscious that wherever 
 I am, you do me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- 
 fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you, that I am here at 
 last, stationary in the serious business of life, and have now 
 not only the retired leisure, but the hearty inclination, to 
 attend to those great and important questions, — what I am ? 
 where I am ? and for what I am destined. 
 
 In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there was 
 ever but one side on which I was habitually blameable, and 
 there I have secured myself in the way pointed out by 
 nature and nature's God. I was sensible that, to so helpless 
 a creature as a poor poet, a wife and family were incum- 
 brances, which a species of prudence would bid him shun ; 
 but when the alternative was, being at eternal warfare with 
 myself, on account of habitual follies, to give them no worse 
 name, which no general example, no licentious wit, no 
 sophistical infidelity, would, to me, ever justify, I must have 
 been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman to have made 
 another choice. Besides, I had in "my Jean " a long and
 
 LETTERS. 203 
 
 much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery among my 
 hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit ? 
 
 In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself tolerably 
 secure : I have good hopes of my farm, but should they 
 fail, I have an excise commission, which, on my simple 
 petition, will, at any time, procure me bread. There is a 
 certain stigma affixed to the character of an excise ofhcer, 
 but I do not pretend to borrow honour from my profession ; 
 and though the salary be comparatively small, it is luxury 
 to anything that the first twenty-five years of my life taught 
 me to expect. 
 
 Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, you may 
 easily guess, my reverend and much-honoured friend, that 
 my characteristical trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, 
 more than ever an enthusiast to the Muses. I am deter- 
 mined to study man and nature, and in that view incessantly ; 
 and to try if the ripening and corrections of years can 
 enable me to produce something worth preserving. 
 
 You will see in your book, which I beg your pardon for 
 detaining so long, that I have been tuning my lyre on the 
 banks of Nith. Some large poetic plans that are floating in 
 my imagination, or partly put in execution, I shall impart 
 to you when I have the pleasure of meeting with you ; 
 which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I shall have about the 
 beginning of March. 
 
 That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which you were 
 pleased to honour me, you must still allow me to challenge ; 
 for, with whatever unconcern I give up my transient 
 connection with the merely great, I cannot lose the 
 patronising notice of the learned and good without the 
 bitterest regret. R. B. 
 
 CXIX. — To Mr. James Burness. 
 
 Ellisland, 9M Feb. 1789. 
 My Dear Sir, — Why I did not write to you long a<To is 
 what, even on the rack, I could not answer. If you can in 
 your mind form an idea of indolence, dissipation, hurry,
 
 204 
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 cares, change of country, entering on untried scenes of life, 
 all combined, you will save me the trouble of a blushing 
 apology. It could not be want of regard for a man for 
 whom I had a high esteem before I knew him — an esteem 
 which has much increased since I did know him ; and this 
 caveat entered, I shall plead guilty to any other indictment 
 with which you shall please to charge me. 
 
 After 1 parted from you, for many months my life was one 
 continued scene of dissipation. Here at last I am become 
 stationary, and have taken a farm and — a wife. 
 
 The farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, a large river 
 that runs by Dumfries, and falls into the Solway frith. I 
 have gotten a lease of ray farm as long as I please ; but 
 how it may turn out is just a guess, and it is yet to improve 
 and inclose, etc. ; however, I have good hopes of my bargain 
 on the whole. 
 
 My wife is my Jean, with whose story you are partly 
 acquainted. I found I had a much-loved fellow-creature's 
 happiness or misery among my hands, and I durst not 
 trifle with so sacred a deposit. Indeed, I have not any 
 reason to repent the step I have taken, as I have attached 
 myself to a very good wife, and have shaken myself loose 
 of every bad failing. 
 
 I have found my book a very profitable business, and 
 with the profits of it I have begun Hfe pretty decently. 
 Should fortune not favour me in farming, as I have no 
 great faith in her fickle ladyship, I have provided myself in 
 another resource, which, however some folks may affect to 
 despise it, is still a comfortable shift in the day of mis- 
 fortune. In the hey-day of my fame, a gentleman, whose 
 name at least I daresay you know, as his estate lies 
 somewhere near Dundee, Mr. Graham, of Fintry, one of 
 the commissioners of Excise, offered me the commission of 
 an excise officer. I thought it prudent to accept the offer; 
 and, accordingly, I took my instructions, and have my 
 commission by me. Whether I may ever do duty, or be a 
 penny the better for it, is what I do not know ; but I have 
 the comfortable assurance that, come whatever ill fate will,
 
 LETTERS. 205 
 
 I can, on my simple petition to the Excise Board, get into 
 employ. 
 
 We have lost poor uncle Robert this winter. He has 
 long been veiy weak, and with very little alteration on him; 
 he expired 3rd January. 
 
 His son William has been with me this winter, and goes 
 in iVIay to be an apprentice to a mason. His other son, the 
 eldest, John, comes to me I expect in summer. They are 
 both remarkably stout young fellows, and promise to do 
 well. His only daughter, Fanny, has been with me ever 
 since her father's death, and I purpose keeping her in my 
 family till she is woman grown, and fit for better service. 
 She is one of the cleverest girls, and has one of the most 
 amiable dispositions I have ever seen. 
 
 All friends in this country and Ayrshire are well. 
 Remember me to all friends in the north. My wife joins 
 me in compliments to Mrs. B. and family.— I am ever, my 
 dear cousin, yours sincerely, R. B.* 
 
 CXX.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 ElXiSLAND, £fth March 1789. 
 
 Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the 
 capital. To a man who has a home, however humble or 
 remote — if that home is like mine, the scene of domestic 
 comfort — the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of 
 sickening disgust. 
 
 Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you ! 
 
 When I must skulk into a corner, lest the ratding equip- 
 age 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, 
 
 * " Fanny Burns, the Poet's relation, merited all the commendations 
 he hns here bestowed. I remember her while she lived at Ellisland, 
 and better still as the wife of Adam Armour, the brother of bonnie 
 lean." — Cunningham.
 
 2o6 LETTERS. 
 
 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 (in Spain 
 I think it was) who was so out of humour with the 
 Ptolemean 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 
 humble stealth through the pomp of Princes Street, it has 
 suggested itself to me, as an improvement on the present 
 human figure, that a man, in proportion to his own conceit 
 of his consequence 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 prodigious 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 angle of rever- 
 ence, or an inch of the particular point of respectful 
 distance, which the important creature itself requires, as a 
 measuring-glance at its towering altitude would determine 
 the affair like instinct. 
 
 You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor Mylne's 
 poem, which he has addressed to me. The piece has a 
 good deal of merit, but it has one great fault — it is, by tar, 
 too long. Besides, my success has encouraged such a 
 shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public notice, 
 under the title of Scottish Poets, that the very term 
 Scottish Poetry borders on the burlesque. When I write to 
 Mr. Carfrae, I shall advise him rather to try one of his 
 deceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigiously 
 hurried with my own matters, else I would have requested a 
 perusal of all Mylne's poetic performances, and would have 
 offered his friends my assistance in either selecting or
 
 LETTERS. 207 
 
 correcting what would be proper for the press. What it is 
 that occupies me so much, and perhaps a Httle oppresses 
 my present spirits, shall fill up a paragraph in some future 
 letter. In the meantime, allow me to close this epistle with 
 a it.'^ lines done by a friend of mine. ... I give you 
 them, that, as you have seen the original, you may guess 
 whether one or two alterations I have ventured to make in 
 them, be any real improvement. 
 
 Like the fair plant that from or.r touch withdraws, 
 Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause, 
 Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream. 
 And all you are, my charming Rachel, seem. 
 Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
 Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows, 
 Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
 Your form shall be the image of your mind ; 
 Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
 That all shall long to know the worth they guess : 
 Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love. 
 And even sick'ning envy must approve. 
 
 R. B.* 
 
 CXXI. — To Mrs. M'Lehose (formerly Clarinda). 
 
 Ellisland, Mar. ^th, 1789. 
 
 Madam, — The letter you wrote me to Heron's carried its 
 own answer. You forbade me to write you unless I was 
 willing to plead guilty to a certain indictment you were 
 pleased to bring against me. As I am convinced of my 
 own innocence, and, though conscious of high imprudence 
 and egregious folly, can lay my hand on my breast and 
 attest the rectitude of my heart, you will pardon me, 
 Madam, if I do not carry my complaisance so far as 
 humbly to acquiesce in the name of "Villain" merely out 
 of compliment to your opinion, much as I esteem your 
 judgment and warmly as I regard your worth. 
 
 I have already told you, and I again aver it, that, at the 
 time alluded to, I was not under the smallest moral tie to 
 
 * These lines are Mrs. Dunlop's own, addressed to her daughter.
 
 2o8 LETTERS. 
 
 Mrs. Burns ; nor did I, nor could I, then know all the 
 powerful circumstances that omnipotent necessity was busy 
 laying in wait for me. When you call over the scenes that 
 have passed between us, you will survey the conduct of an 
 honest man struggling successfully with temptations the most 
 powerful that ever beset humanity, and preserving untainted 
 honour in situations where the austerest virtue would have 
 forgiven a fall ; situations that, I will dare to say not a single 
 individual of all his kind, even with half his sensibility and 
 passion, could have encountered without ruin ; and 1 leave 
 you, Madam, to guess how such a man is likely to digest an 
 accusation of " perfidious treachery." 
 
 ■ • • • • 
 
 When I shall have regained your good opinion, perhaps 
 I may venture to solicit your friendship ; but, be that as it 
 may, the first of her sex I ever knew shall always be the 
 object of my warmest good wishes. Robt. Burns. 
 
 CXXIL— To Dr. Moore. 
 
 Ellisland, 2'^rd March 1789. 
 
 Sir, — The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr. 
 Nielson, a worthy clergyman in my neighbourhood, and a 
 very particular acquaintance of mine. As I have troubled 
 him with this packet, I must turn him over to your good- 
 ness, to recompense him for it in a way in which he much 
 needs your assistance, and where you can effectually serve 
 him. Mr. Nielson is on his way for France, to wait on his 
 Grace of Queensberry, on some little business of a good 
 deal of importance to him, and he wishes for your in- 
 structions respecting the most eligible mode of travelling, 
 etc., for him, when he has crossed the channel. I should 
 not have dared to take this liberty with you, but that I am 
 told, by those who have the honour of your personal 
 acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotsman is a 
 letter of recommendation to you, and that to have it in
 
 LETTERS. 209 
 
 your power to serve such a character, gives you much 
 pleasure. 
 
 The inclosed ode is a compliment to the memory of the 
 late Mrs. Oswald of Auchencruive. You probably knew 
 her personally, an honour of which I cannot boast ; but I 
 spent my early years in the neighbourhood, and among her 
 servants and tenants. I know that she was detested with 
 the most heartfelt cordiality. However, in the particular 
 part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath, she was 
 much less blameable. In January last, on my road to 
 Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Whigham's, in Sanquhar, 
 the only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, 
 and the grim evening and howling wind were ushering in a 
 night of snow and drift. My horse and I were both much 
 fatigued with the labours of the day, and just as my friend 
 the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the storm, over a 
 smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late 
 great Mrs. Oswald, and poor I am forced to brave all the 
 horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my horse, my 
 young favourite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, 
 twelve miles farther on, through the wildest moors and hills 
 of Ayrshire, to New Cum.nock, the next inn. The powers 
 of poesy and prose sink under me, when I would describe 
 what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire at New 
 Cumnock had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down 
 and wrote the inclosed ode. 
 
 I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr. 
 Creech ; and I must own, that at last, he has been amicable 
 and fair with me. R. B. 
 
 CXXIJI. — To HIS Brother, Mr. William Burns. 
 
 Isle, March 25//;, 1789. 
 
 I HAVE stolen from my corn-sowing this minute to write a 
 line to accompany your shirt and hat, for I can no more. 
 Your sister Nannie arrived yesternight, and begs to be 
 remembered to you. Write me every opportunity — never 
 
 433
 
 2 10 LETTERS. 
 
 mind postage. My head, too, is as addle as an egg this 
 morning, with dining abroad yesterday. I received yours 
 by the mason. Forgive me this fooHsh looking scrawl of an 
 epistle. — I am ever, my dear William, yours, R. B. 
 
 P.S. — If you are not then gone from Longtown, I'll write 
 you a long letter by this day se'ennight. If you should not 
 succeed in your tramps, don't be dejected, or take any rash 
 step — return to us in that case, and we will court Fortune's 
 better humour. Remember this, I charge you. R. B. 
 
 CXXIV. — To Mr. Hill, Bookseller, Edinburgh. 
 
 Ellisland, 2nd April 1789. 
 
 I WILL make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus (God forgive 
 me for murdering language !) that I have sat down to write 
 you on this vile paper. 
 
 It is economy, Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, prudence ; 
 so I beg you will sit down, and either compose or borrow a 
 panegyric. If you are going to borrow, apply to* ... to 
 compose, or rather to compound, something very clever on 
 my remarkable frugality ; that I write to one of my most 
 esteemed friends on this wretched paper, which was 
 originally intended for the venal fist of some drunken 
 exciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault of an 
 ale-cellar. 
 
 O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand blessings — 
 thou cook of fat beef and dainty greens ! — thou manu- 
 facturer of warm Shetland hose, and comfortable surtouts ! 
 — thou old housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with 
 thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ! — lead me, hand 
 me in thy clutching palsied fist, up those heights, and 
 through those thickets, hitherto inaccessible, and impervious 
 to my anxious, weary feet : — not those Parnassian crags, 
 bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame 
 * Creech ? or Rainsay of The Courant ?
 
 LETTERS. 21 T 
 
 are, breathless, clambering, hanging between heaven and 
 hell ; but those glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the. all- 
 sufficient, all-powerful deity, wealth, holds his immediate 
 court of joy and pleasures ; where the sunny exposure of 
 plenty, and the hot walls of profusion, produce those blissful 
 fruits of luxury, exotics in this world, and natives of 
 paradise ! — Thou withered sibyl, my sage conductress, usher 
 me into thy refulgent, adored presence ! — The power, 
 splendid and potent as he now is, was once the puling 
 nursling of thy faithful care and tender arms ! Call me thy 
 son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the 
 god by the scenes of his infant years, no longer to repulse 
 me as a stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with his 
 peculiar countenance and protection ! He daily bestows 
 his great kindness on the undeserving and the worthless — 
 assure him that I bring ample documents of meritorious 
 demerits ! Pledge yourself lor me, that, for the glorious 
 cause of lucre, I will do anything, be anything ; but the 
 horse-leech of private oppression, or the vulture of public 
 robbery ! 
 
 But to descend from heroics. 
 
 I want a Shakespeare ; I want likewise an English 
 dictionary, — Johnson's, I suppose, is best. In these and all 
 my prose commissions, the cheapest is always the best for 
 me. There is a small debt of honour that I owe Mr. 
 Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, and 
 your well-wisher. Please give him, and urge him to take it, 
 the first time you see him, ten shillings worth of anything 
 you have to sell, and place it to my account. 
 
 The library scheme that I mentioned to you is already 
 begun under the direction of Captain Riddel. There is 
 another in emulation of it going on at Closeburn, under the 
 auspices of Mr. Monteith of Closeburn, which will be on a 
 greater scale than ours. Captain Riddel gave his infant 
 society a great many of his old books, else I had written 
 you on that subject ; but, one of these days, I shall trouble 
 you with a commission lor " The Monkland Friendly 
 Society," a copy of The Spectator, Minor, and Loufiger,
 
 212 LETTERS. 
 
 Man of Feeling, Man of the World, Gtdhrie^s Geographical 
 Grammar, with some religious pieces, will likely be our first 
 order. 
 
 When I grow richer, I will write to you on gilt-post, to 
 make amends for this sheet. At present every guinea has a 
 five guinea errand with, my dear Sir, your faithful, poor, 
 but honest friend, R. B. 
 
 CXXV. — To Mrs. M'Murdo, Drumlanrig. 
 
 Ellisland, 2nd May 1789. 
 
 Madam, — I have finished the piece which had the happy 
 fortune to be honoured with your approbation ; and never 
 did little Miss, with more sparkling pleasure, show her 
 applauded sampler to partial Mamma, than I now send my 
 poem to you and Mr. M'Murdo,* if he is returned to 
 Drumlanrig. You cannot easily imagine what thin-skinned 
 animals — what sensitive plants poor poets are. How do we 
 shrink into the imbittered corner of self-abasement, when 
 neglected or condemned by those to whom we look up ! 
 and how do we, in erect importance, add another cubit to 
 our stature on being noticed and applauded by those whom 
 we honour and respect ! My late visit to Drumlanrig has, 
 I can tell you. Madam, given me a balloon waft up 
 Parnassus, where, on my fancied elevation, I regard my 
 poetic self with no small degree of complacency. Surely 
 with all their sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful 
 creatures — I recollect your goodness to your humble guest 
 — I see Mr. M'Murdo adding to the politeness of the 
 gentleman, the kindness of a friend, and my heart swells as 
 it would burst, with warm emotions and ardent wishes ! It 
 may be it is not gratitude — it may be a mixed sensation. 
 That strange, shifting, doubling animal, man, is so generally, 
 at best, but a negative, often a worthless creature, that we 
 
 * The piece beginning — • 
 
 There was a lass and she was fair.
 
 LETTERS. 21,3 
 
 cannot see real goodness and native worth, without feeling 
 the bosom glow with sympathetic approbation. 
 
 With every sentiment of grateful respect, I have the 
 honour to be, Madam, your obliged and grateful humble 
 servant, R. B. 
 
 CXXVI.— To Mr. Cunningham. 
 
 Ellisland, ifth May 1789. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — Your duty-free favour of the 25th April 
 I received two days ago ; I will not say I perused it with 
 pleasure ; that is the cold compliment of ceremony ; I 
 perused it, Sir, with delicious satisfaction ; — in short, it is 
 such a letter, that not you, nor your friend, but the legisla- 
 ture, by express proviso in their postage laws, should frank. 
 A letter informed with the soul of friendship is such an 
 honour to human nature, that they should order it free 
 ingress and egress to and from their bags and mails, as an 
 encouragement and mark of distinction to supereminent 
 virtue. 
 
 I have just put the last hand to a little poem, which I 
 think will be something to your taste.* 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 neighbouring 
 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 some- 
 thing 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. 
 
 Let me know how you like my poem. I am doubtful 
 whether it would not be an improvement to keep out the 
 last stanza but one altogether. 
 
 * See the poem on the " Wounded Hare."
 
 214 LETTERS. 
 
 Cruikshank is a glorious production of the author of man. 
 You, he, and the noble Colonel* of the Crochallan Fencibles 
 are to me 
 
 Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart. 
 
 I have got a good mind to make verses on you all, to the 
 tune of " Three guid fellows ayont the glen" 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CXXVIL— To Mr. Richard Brown. 
 
 Mauchline, list May 1789. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — I was in the country by accident, 
 and hearing of your safe arrival, I could not resist the 
 temptation of wishing you joy on your return — wishing you 
 would write to me before you sail again — wishing that you 
 would always set me down as your bosom friend — wishing 
 you long life and prosperity, and that every good thmg may 
 attend you — wishing Mrs. Brown and your little ones as 
 free of the evils of this world as is consistent with humanity 
 — wishing you and she were to make two at the ensuing 
 lying-in, with which Mrs. B. threatens very soon to favour 
 me — wishing I had longer time to write to you at present ; 
 and, finally, wishing that if there is to be another state of 
 existence, Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Burns, our little ones of both 
 families, and you and I, in some snug retreat, may make 
 a jovial party to all eternity ! 
 
 My direction is at Ellisland, near Dumfries. — Yours, 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CXXVIIL— To Mr. Robert Ainslie. 
 
 Ellisland, Sih /une 1789. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — I am perfectly ashamed of myself 
 when I look at the date of your last. It is not that I forget 
 the friend of my heart and the companion of my peregrina- 
 
 * That is, William Dunbar, W.S.
 
 LETTERS. 215 
 
 tions ; but I have been condemned to drudgery beyond 
 sufferance, though not, thank God, beyond redemption. I 
 have had a collection of poems by a lady put into my hands 
 to prepare them for the press ; which horrid task, with 
 sowing corn with my own hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, 
 plasterers, etc., to attend to, roaming on business through 
 Ayrshire — all this was against me, and the very first dreadful 
 article was of itself too much for me. 
 
 13th. I have not had a moment to spare from incessant 
 toil since the 8th. Life, my dear Sir, is a serious matter. 
 You know by experience that a man's individual self is a 
 good deal, but believe me, a wife and family of children, 
 whenever you have the honour to be a husband and a 
 father, will show you that your present and most anxious 
 hours of solitude are spent on trifles. The welfare of those 
 who are very dear to us, whose only support, hope, and 
 stay we are — this, to a generous mind, is another sort of 
 more important object of care than any concerns whatever 
 which centre merely in the individual. On the other hand, 
 let no young, rakehelly dog among you, make a song of his 
 pretended liberty and freedom from care. If the relations 
 we stand in to king, country, kindred, and friends, be any- 
 thing but the visionary fancies of dreaming metaphysicians ; 
 if religion, virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity and 
 justice, be ought but empty sounds ; then the man who 
 may be said to live only for others, for the beloved, 
 honourable female, whose tender faithful embrace endears 
 life, and for the helpless little innocents who are to be the 
 men and women, the worshippers of his God, the subjects 
 of his king, and the support, nay the very vital existence of 
 his COUNTRY, in the ensuing age ; — compare such a man 
 with any fellow whatever, who, whether he bustle and push 
 in business among labourers, clerks, statesmen \ or whether 
 he roar and rant, and drink and sing in taverns — a fellow 
 over whose grave no one will breathe a single heigh-ho, 
 except from the cobweb-tie of what is called good fellowship 
 — who has no view nor aim but what terminates in himsell 
 — if there be any grovelling earth-born wretch of our species,
 
 2i6 LETTERS. 
 
 a renegado to common sense, who would fain believe that 
 the noble creature, man, is no better than a sort of fungus, 
 generated out of nothing, nobody knows how, and soon 
 dissipating in nothing, nobody knows where ; such a stupid 
 beast, such a crawling reptile, might balance the foregoing 
 unexaggerated comparison, but no one else would have the 
 patience. 
 
 Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. To make 
 you amends, I shall send you soon, and more encouraging 
 still, without any postage, one or two rhymes of my later 
 manufacture. R. B. 
 
 CXXIX.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, 2\st June 1789. 
 
 Dear Madam, — Will you take the effusions, the miser- 
 able effusions of low spirits, just as they flow from their bitter 
 spring ? I know not of any particular cause for this worst 
 of all my foes besetting me ; but for some time my soul 
 has been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil 
 imaginations and gloomy presages. 
 
 Monday Evening. 
 
 I have just heard Mr. Kilpatrick preach a sermon. He 
 is a man famous for his benevolence, and I revere him ; 
 but from such ideas of my Creator, good Lord, deliver me ! 
 Religion, my honoured friend, is surely a simple business, 
 as it equally concerns the ignorant and the learned, the 
 poor and the rich. That there is an incomprehensible 
 Great Being, to whom I owe my existence, and that He 
 must be intimately acquainted with the operations and pro- 
 gress of the internal machinery, and consequent outward 
 deportment of this creature which He has made ; these are, 
 I think, self-evident propositions. That there is a real and 
 eternal distinction between virtue and vice, and conse- 
 quently, that I am an accountable creature ; that from the 
 seeming nature of the human mind, as well as from the evident 
 imperfection, nay, positive injustice, in the administration
 
 LETTERS. 217 
 
 of affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, there must be 
 a retributive scene of existence beyond the grave ; must, I 
 think, be allowed by every one who will give himself a 
 moment's reflection, I will go farther, and affirm, that 
 from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of his doctrine 
 and precepts, unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom 
 and learning of many preceding ages, though, to appear- 
 ance, he, himself, was the obscurest and most illiterate of 
 our species ; therefore Jesus Christ was from God. 
 
 Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness 
 of others, this is my criterion of goodness ; and whatever 
 injures society at large, or any individual in it, this is my 
 measure of iniquity. 
 
 What think you, Madam, of my creed ? I trust that I 
 have said nothing that will lessen me in the eye of one, 
 whose good opinion I value almost next to the approbation 
 of my own mind. R. B. 
 
 CXXX. — To Miss Helen Maria Williams. 
 
 Ellisland, 1789. 
 
 Madam, — Of the many problems in the nature of that 
 wonderful creature, man, this is one of the most extra- 
 ordinary — that he shall go on from day to day, from week 
 to week, from month to month, or perhaps from year to 
 year, suffering a hundred times more in an hour from the 
 impotent consciousness of neglecting what he ought to do, 
 than the very doing of it would cost him. I am deeply 
 indebted to you, first, for a most elegant poetic compli- 
 ment ; then for a polite, obliging letter ; and, lastly, for 
 your excellent poem on the Slave Trade ; and yet, wretch 
 that I am ! though the debts were debts of honour, and the 
 creditor a lady, I have put off and put off even the very 
 acknowledgment of the obligation, until you must indeed 
 be the very angel I take you for, if you can forgive me. 
 
 Your poem I have read with the highest i)leasure. I 
 have a way whenever I read a book — I mean a book in our
 
 2i8 LETTERS. 
 
 own trade, Madam, a poetic one, and when it is my own 
 property — that I take a pencil and mark at the ends of 
 verses, or note on margins and odd paper, little criticisms 
 of approbation or disapprobation as I peruse along. I will 
 make no apology for presenting you with a few unconnected 
 thoughts that occurred to me in my repeated perusals of 
 your poem. I want to show you that I have honesty 
 enough to tell you what I take to be truths, even when they 
 are not quite on the side of approbation ; and I do it in the 
 firm faith that you have equal greatness of mind to hear 
 them with pleasure. [Here follows a list of strictures.] 
 
 I had lately the honour of a letter from Dr. Moore, where 
 he tells me that he has sent me some books ; they are not 
 yet come to hand, but I hear they are on the way. 
 
 Wishing you all success in your progress in the path of 
 fame, and that you may equally escape the danger of 
 stumbling through incautious speed, or losing ground 
 through loitering neglect, I am, etc. R. B. 
 
 CXXXI. — To Mr. Robert Graham, of Fintry, 
 
 Ellisland, -^isijuly 1789. 
 
 Sir, — The language of gratitude has been so prostituted 
 by servile adulation and designing flattery that I know not 
 how to express myself when I would acknowledge receipt of 
 your last letter. I beg and hope, ever-honoured " Friend 
 of my life and patron of my rhymes," that you will always 
 give me credit for the sincerest, chastest gratitude. I dare 
 call the Searcher of hearts and Author of all Goodness to 
 witness hovv truly grateful I am. 
 
 Mr. Mitchell* did not wait my calling on him, but sent me 
 a kind letter, giving me a hint of the business ; and yesterday 
 he entered with the most friendly ardour into my views and 
 interests. He seems to think, and from my private know- 
 ledge I am certain he is right, that removing the officer who 
 now does, and for these many years has done, duty in the 
 * A collector in the Excise.
 
 LETTERS. 219 
 
 Division in the middle of which I live, will be productive of 
 at least no disadvantage to the revenue, and may likewise 
 be done without any detriment to him. Should the 
 Honourable Board [of Excise] think so, and should they 
 deem it eligible to appoint me to officiate in his present 
 place, I am then at the top of my wishes. The emoluments 
 in my office will enable me to carry on, and enjoy those 
 improvements on my farm, which but for this additional 
 assistance, I might in a year or two have abandoned. 
 Should it be judged improper to place me in this Division, 
 I am deliberating whether I had not better give up my 
 farming altogether, and go into the Excise whenever I can 
 find employment. Now that the salary is j[^^o per annum, 
 the Excise is surely a much superior object to a farm, 
 which, without some foreign assistance, must for half a 
 lease be a losing bargain. The worst of it is — I know there 
 are some respectable characters who do me the honour to 
 interest themselves in my welfare and behaviour, and, as 
 leaving the farm so soon may have an unsteady, giddy- 
 headed appearance, I had better perhaps lose a httle money 
 than hazard their esteem. 
 
 You see. Sir, with what freedom I lay before you all my 
 little matters — little indeed to the world, but of the most 
 important magnitude to me. . . . Were it not for a very 
 few of our kind, the very existence of magnanimity, 
 generosity, and all their kindred virtues, would be as much 
 a question with metaphysicians as the existence of witch- 
 craft. Perhaps the nature of man is not so much to blame 
 for this, as the situation in which by some miscarriage or 
 other he is placed in this worl 1. The poor, naked, helpless 
 wretch, with such voracious appetites and such a famine of 
 provision for them, is under a cursed necessity of turn- 
 ing selfish in his own defence. Except a few instances 
 of original scoundrelism, thoroughpaced selfishness is 
 always the work of time. Indeed, in a little time, we 
 generally grow so attentive to ourselves and so regardless 
 of others that I have often in poetic frenzy looked on this 
 world as one vast ocean, occupied and commoved by
 
 220 LETTERS. 
 
 innumerable vortices, each whirling round its centre. These 
 vortices are the children of men. The great design and, if I 
 may say so, merit of each particular vortex consists in how 
 widely it can extend the influence of its circle, and how 
 much floating trash it can suck in and absorb. 
 
 I know not why I have got into this preaching vein, 
 except it be to show you that it is not my ignorance but my 
 knowledge of mankind which makes me so much admire 
 your goodness to me. 
 
 I shall return your books very soon. I only wish to give 
 Dr. Adam Smith one other perusal, which I will do in one 
 or two days. R, B. 
 
 CXXXII. — To David Sillar, Merchant, Irvine.* 
 
 Ellisland, 5 Aug. 1789. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I was half in thoughts not to have 
 written to you at all, by way of revenge for the two damn'd 
 business letters you sent me. I wanted to know all about 
 your publications — your news, your hopes, fears, etc., in 
 commencing poet in print. In short, I wanted you to write 
 to Robin like his old acquaintance Davie, and not in the 
 style of Mr. Tare to Mr. Tret, as thus : — 
 
 " Mr. Tret. — Sir, — This comes to advise you that fifteen 
 barrels of herrings were, by the blessing of God, shipped 
 safe on board the Lovely Janet, Q.D.C., Duncan Mac- 
 Leerie, master, etc." 
 
 I hear you have commenced married man — so much the 
 better. I know not whether the nine gipsies are jealous of 
 my lucky, but they are a good deal shyer since I could 
 boast the important relation of husband. 
 
 I have got about eleven subscribers for your book. . . . 
 My best compliments to Mrs. Sillar, and believe me to be, 
 dear Davie, ever yours, Robt. Burns. 
 
 * This letter was first published in 1879. The original is probably 
 lost, but a copy is to be found in the minute-book of the Irvine Burns 
 Club. Sillar was " Davie, a brother poet."
 
 LETTERS. 221 
 
 CXXXIII. — To Mr. John Logan, of Knock Shinnock. 
 Ellisland, near Dumfries, Ith Aug. 1789. 
 
 Dear Sir, — I intended to have written you long ere now, 
 and, as I told you, I had gotten three stanzas on my way 
 in a poetic epistle to you ; but that old enemy of all good 
 works, the Devil, threw me into a prosaic mire, and for the 
 soul of me I cannot get out of it. I dare not write you a 
 long letter, as I am going to intrude on your time with a 
 long ballad. I have, as you will shortly see, finished " The 
 Kirk's Alarm ; " but now that it is done, and that I have 
 laughed once or twice at the conceits in some of the stanzas, 
 I am determined not to let it get into the public ; so I send 
 you this copy, the first that I have sent to Ayrshire, except 
 some few of the stanzas, which I wrote off in embryo for 
 Gavin Hamilton, under the express provision and request 
 that you will only read it to a few of us, and do not on any 
 account give, or permit to be taken, any copy of the ballad. 
 If I could be of any service to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, 
 though it should be at a much greater expense than 
 irritating a few bigoted priests, but I am afraid serving him 
 in his present embnrras is a task too hard for me. I have 
 enemies enow, God knows, though I do not wantonly add 
 to the number. Still, as I think there is some merit in two 
 or three of the thoughts, I send it to you as a small, but 
 sincere testimony how much, and with what respectful 
 esteem, I am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant, 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CXXXIV. — To Mr. Peter Stuart, Editor, London. 
 
 End of Aug. 17S9. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — The hurry of a farmer in this particular 
 season, and the indolence of a poet at all seasons, will, I 
 hope, plead my excuse for neglecting so long to answer your 
 obliging letter of the 5th August.
 
 222 LETTERS. 
 
 . . . When I received your letter I was transcribing for 
 T/ie Star my letter to the magistrates of the Canongate of 
 Edinburgh, begging their permission to place a tombstone 
 over poor Fergusson.* Poor Fergusson ! if there be a life 
 beyond the grave, which I trust there is ; and if there be a 
 good God presiding over all nature, which I am sure there 
 is, thou art now enjoying existence in a glorious world 
 where worth of heart alone is distinction in the man ; where 
 riches, deprived of their pleasure-purchasing powers, return 
 to their native sordid matter ; where titles and honours are 
 the disregarded reveries of an idle dream ; and where that 
 heavy virtue, which is the negative consequence of steady 
 dulness, and those thoughtless though often destructive 
 follies, which are the unavoidable aberrations of frail 
 human nature, will be thrown into equal oblivion as if they 
 had never been ! R. B. 
 
 CXXXV. — To HIS Brother, William Burns, Saddler, 
 
 Newcastle-on-Tyne. 
 
 Ellisland, \i^h Aug. 1789. 
 
 My Dear William, — I received your letter, and am very 
 happy to hear that you have got settled for the winter. I 
 enclose you the two guinea-notes of the Bank of Scotland, 
 which I hope will serve your need. It is, indeed, not quite 
 so convenient for me to spare money as it once was, but I 
 know your situation, and, I will say it, in some respects 
 your worth. I have no time to write at present, but I beg 
 you will endeavour to pluck up a little more of the Man 
 than you used to have. Remember my favourite quotations : 
 
 On reason build resolve, 
 That pillar of true majesty in man.t 
 
 * A young Scottish poet of undoubted ability who perished miserably 
 in Edinburgh at the age of twenty-four. He was the senior of Burns, 
 who greatly admired and mourned him, by about eight years. 
 
 t From Young.
 
 LETTERS. 223 
 
 and 
 
 What proves the hero truly great, 
 Is never, never to despair !* 
 
 Your mother and sisters desire their compliments. A 
 Dieu je vous commende. Robt, Burns. 
 
 CXXXVI.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, ()th Sept. 1789. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I have mentioned, in my last, my 
 appointment to the Excise, and the birth of little Frank; 
 who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to the 
 honourable name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly 
 countenance, and a figure that might do credit to a liitle 
 fellow two months older ; and likewise an excellent good 
 temper, though when he pleases he has a pipe, only not 
 quite so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake blew 
 as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling bridge. 
 
 I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, and part 
 prosaic, from your poetess Miss. J. Litlle,t a very ingenious, 
 but modest composition. I should have written her as she 
 requested, but for the hurry of this new business. I have 
 heard of her and her compositions in this country ; and I 
 am happy to add, always to the honour of her character. 
 The fact is, I knew not well how to write to her : I should 
 sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how to stain. 
 I am no dab at fine-drawn letter-writing ; and, except when 
 prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, which happens 
 extremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her 
 name) that presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, when 
 necessitated to write, as I would sit down to beat hemp. 
 
 Some parts of your letter of the 20th August struck me 
 with the most melancholy concern for the state of your 
 mind at present. 
 
 Would I could write you a letter of comfort, I would sit 
 
 * From Thomson. 
 
 t A maid servant at Loudon house.
 
 224 LETTERS. 
 
 down to it with as much pleasure as I would to write an 
 epic poem of my own composition that should equal the 
 Iliad I Religion, my dear friend, is the true comfort. A 
 strong persuasion in a future state of existence ; a proposi- 
 tion so obviously probable, that, setting revelation aside, 
 every nation and people, so far as investigation has reached, 
 for at least near four thousand years, have, in some mode or 
 other, firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and 
 pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring 
 pitch ; but, when I reflected that I was opposing the most 
 ardent wishes and the most darling hopes of good men, and 
 flying in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was 
 shocked at my own conduct. 
 
 I know not whether I have ever sent you the following 
 lines ; or if you have ever seen them ; but it is one of my 
 favourite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my 
 progress through life, in the language of the book of Job, 
 
 Against the day of battle and of war — 
 spoken of religion : 
 
 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 
 'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night, 
 When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few ; 
 When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue : 
 Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
 Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; 
 Wiihin the breast bids purest raptures rise. 
 Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies. 
 
 I have been busy with Zeliico. The Doctor is so obliging 
 as to request my opinion of it : and I have been revolving 
 in my mind some kind of criticisms on novel-writing, but it 
 is a depth beyond my research. I shall, however, digest my 
 thoughts on the subject as well as I can. Zeluco is a most 
 sterling performance. 
 
 Farewell ! A Dicu, le bon Dieu, je vous commende }
 
 LETTERS. 225 
 
 CXXXVII. — To Captain Riddel, Friars Carse. 
 
 Ellisland, xdth October 1789. 
 
 Sir, — Big with the idea of this important day at Friars 
 Carse, I have watched the elements and skies, in the full 
 persuasion that they would announce it to the astonished 
 world by some phenomena of terrific portent. Yesternight 
 until a very late hour, did I wait with anxious horror for 
 the appearance of some comet firing half the sky, or aerial 
 armies of sanguinary Scandinavians, darting athwart the 
 startled heavens, rapid as the ragged lightning, and horrid 
 as those convulsions of nature that bury nations. 
 
 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 
 astonished, and astonished sing " 
 
 The WHISTLE and the man I sing, 
 The man that won the whistle, etc. 
 
 To leave the heights of Parnassus and come to the 
 humble vale of prose. I have some misgivings that I take 
 too much upon me, when I request you to get your guest, 
 Sir Robert Lawrie, to frank the two inclosed covers for me, 
 the one of them to Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- 
 land, Bart., at Kilmarnock, — the other, to Mr. Allan 
 Masterton, Writing-Master, Edinburgh. The first has a 
 kindred claim on Sir Robert, as being a brother Baronet, 
 and likewise a keen Foxiie ; the other is one of the 
 worthiest men in the world, and a man of real genius ; so, 
 allow me to say, he has a fraternal claim on you. I want 
 them franked for to-morrow, as I cannot get them to the 
 post to-night. I shall send a servant again for them in the 
 evening. Wishing that your head may be crowned with 
 
 * Sir Robert I.awrie of Maxwellton, the holder of the \\Tiistle, 
 Alexander Fergusson of Craigdarroch,. and Captain Riddel. See the 
 I'oem. Burns was apparently absent. 
 
 434
 
 2 26 LETTERS. 
 
 laurels to-night, and free from aches to-morrow, I have 
 
 the honour to be, Sir, your deeply indebted humble 
 
 Servant, R. B. 
 
 CXXXVIIL— To Mr. Robert Ainslie, W.S. 
 
 Ellisland, \st Nm. 1789- 
 
 My Dear Friend, — I had written you ere now, could I 
 have guessed where to find you, for I am sure you have 
 more good sense than to waste the precious days of 
 vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh. 
 Wherever you are, God bless you, and lead you not into 
 temptation, but deliver you from evil ! 
 
 I do not know if I have informed you that I am now 
 appointed to an Excise division, in the middle of which 
 my house and farm lie. In this I was extremely lucky. 
 Without ever having been an expectant, as they call their 
 journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to all 
 intents and purposes an officer of Excise ; there to flourish 
 and bring forth fruits — worthy of repentance. 
 
 I know not how the word exciseman, or still more 
 opprobrious, ganger, 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 are 
 things which have a wonderful power in blunting these 
 kind of sensations. Fifiy pounds a year for life, and a pro- 
 vision for widows and orphans, you will allow is no bad 
 settlement for a poet. For the ignominy of the profession, 
 I have the encouragement which I once heard a recruiting 
 sergeant give to a numerous, if not a respectable audience, in 
 the streets of Kilmarnock : — " Gentlemen, for your further 
 and better encouragement, I can assure you that our 
 regiment is the most blackguard corps under the crown, 
 and consequently with us an honest fellow has the surest 
 chance for preferment." 
 
 You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant 
 and disagreeable circumstances in my business ; but I am
 
 LETTERS. 227 
 
 tired with and disgusted at the language of complaint 
 against the evils of life. Human existence in the most 
 favourable situations does not abound with pleasures, and 
 has its inconveniences and ills : capricious foolish man 
 mistakes these inconveniences and ills as if they were the 
 peculiar property of his particular situation ; and hence 
 that eternal fickleness, that love of charge, which has 
 ruined, and daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as well as 
 many a blockhead, and is almost, without exception, a 
 constant source of disappointment and misery. 
 
 I long to hear from you how you go on — not so much in 
 business as in life. Are you pretty well satisfied with your 
 own exertions, and tolerably at ease in your internal reflec- 
 tions ? Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer, but 
 beyond comparison more to be a great character as a man. 
 That you may be both the one and the other is the earnest 
 wish, and that you will be both is the firm persuasion of, 
 my dear Sir, etc. R. B. 
 
 CXXXIX. — To Mr. Richard Brown, Port-Glasgow. 
 
 Ellisland, i,th November 1789. 
 
 I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear friend, that 
 though I got both your letters, I have not been able to 
 command an hour to answer them as I wished; and even 
 now, you are to look on this as merely confessing debt, and 
 craving days. Few things could have given me so much 
 pleasure as the news that you were once more safe and 
 sound on terra firma, and happy in that place where 
 happiness is alone to be found, in the fireside circle. May 
 the benevolent Director of all things peculiarly bless you in 
 all those endearing connections consequent on the tender 
 and venerable names of husband and father ! I have indeed 
 been extremely lucky in getting an additional income of ;^5o 
 a-ycar, while, at the same time, the appointment will not 
 cost me above j[^\o or ;^i2 per annum of expenses more
 
 228 LETTERS. 
 
 than I must have inevitably incurred. The worst circum- 
 stance is, that the Excise division which I have got is so 
 extensive, no less than ten parishes to ride over ; and it 
 abounds besides with so much business, that I can scarcely 
 steal a spare moment. However, labour endears rest, and 
 both together are absolutely necessary for the proper 
 enjoyment of human existence. I cannot meet you 
 anywhere. No less than an order from the Board of Excise, 
 at Edinburgh, is necessary before I can have so much time 
 as to meet you in Ayrshire. But do you come, and see 
 me. We must have a social day, and perhaps lengthen it 
 out with 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 the green period of 
 human life. Ihe twig would easily take a bent, but would 
 as easily return to its former state. You and I not only 
 took a mutual bent, but, by the melancholy, though strong 
 influence of being both of the family of the unfortunate, we 
 were entwined with one another in our growth towards 
 advanced age ; and blasted be the sacrilegious hand that 
 shall attempt to undo the union ! You and I must have 
 one bumper to my favourite toast, " May the companions 
 of our youth be the friends of our old age ! " Come and 
 see me one year ; I shall see you at Port-Glasgow the next, 
 and if we can contrive to have a gossiping between our two 
 bed-fellows, it will be so much additional pleasure. Mrs. 
 Burns joins me in kind compliments to you and Mrs. 
 Brown. Adieu ! — I am ever, my dear Sir, yours, R. B. 
 
 CXL. — To Mr. R. Graham, of Fintry. 
 
 ^th December 17S9. 
 
 Sir, — I have a good while had a wish to trouble you 
 
 with a letter, and had certainly done it long ere now, but 
 
 for a humiliating something that throws cold water on the 
 
 resolution, as if one should say, " You have found Mr.
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 229 
 
 Graham a very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that 
 interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, you 
 ought by everything in your power to keep alive and 
 cherish." Now, though since God has thought proper 
 to make one powerful and another helpless, the connection 
 of obliger and obliged is all lair; and though my being 
 under your patronage is to me highly honourable, yet, Sir, 
 allow me to flatter myself that, as a poet and an honest 
 man you first interested yourself in my welfare, and 
 principally as such still, you permit me to approach you. 
 
 I have found the Excise business go on a great deal 
 smoother with me than I expected ; owing a good deal to 
 the generous friendship of Mr. Mitchell, my collector, and 
 the kind assistance of Mr. Findlater, my supervisor. I 
 dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find my 
 hurried life greatly inimical to my correspondence with the 
 Muses. Their visits to me, indeed, and I believe to most 
 of their acquaintance, hke the visits of good angels, are 
 short and far between ; but I meet them now and then as 
 I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on 
 the banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to inclose you a 
 few bagatelles, all of them the productions of my leisure 
 thoughts in my excise rides. 
 
 If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the 
 antiquarian, you will enter into any humour that is in the 
 verses on him. Perhaps you have seen them before, as 
 I sent them to a London newspaper. Though, I dare say, 
 you have none of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire, 
 which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and 
 the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard 
 of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his here- 
 tical book. God help him, poor man ! Thouuh he is one 
 of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole 
 priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that 
 ambiguous term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous 
 family are in imminent danger of being thrown out to the 
 mercy of the winter-winds. The inclosed ballad on that 
 business is, I confess, too local, but I laughed myself at
 
 230 LETTERS. 
 
 some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my 
 conscience that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it 
 too.* 
 
 The election ballad,! as you will see, alludes to the 
 present canvass in our string of boroughs. I do not believe 
 there will be such a hard run match in the whole general 
 election. 
 
 I am too little a man to have any political attachments ; 
 I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration 
 for, individuals of both parties ; but a man:}: who has it in his 
 power to be the father of a country, and who is only known 
 to that country by the mischiefs he does in it, is a character 
 that one cannot speak of with patience. 
 
 Sir J. J. does " what man can do," but yet I doubt his 
 fate. R. B. 
 
 CXLI.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, 13M December 1789. 
 
 Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheetful of rhymes. 
 Though at present I am below the veriest prose, yet from 
 you everything pleases. I am groaning under the miseries 
 of a diseased nervous system ; a system, the state of which 
 is most conducive to our happiness — or the most productive 
 of our misery. For now near three weeks I have been 
 so ill with a nervous headache, that I have been obliged for 
 a time to give up my excise-books, being scare able to lift 
 my head, much less to ride once a week over ten muir 
 parishes, = What is pian ? To-day, in the luxuriance of 
 health, exulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a few 
 days, perhaps in a few hours, loaded with conscious painful 
 being, counting the tardy pace of the lingering moments by 
 the repercussions of anguish, and refusing or denied a 
 comforter. Day follows night, and night comes after day, 
 only to curse him with life which gives him no pleasure ; 
 and yet the awful, dark termination of that life, is some- 
 thing at which he recoils. 
 * The Kirk's Alarm, t The Five Carliiies. % Duke of Queensberry.
 
 LETTERS. ' 231 
 
 Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 
 
 Disclose the secret 
 
 I] hat ' tis yoii are, and we must shortly be ? 
 
 'Tis no matter : 
 A little time will make us learn'd as you are. 
 
 Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail, feverish 
 being, I shall still find myself in conscious existence ? 
 When the last gasp of agony has announced that I am no 
 more to those that knew me, and the few who loved me ; 
 when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is 
 resigned into the earth, to be the prey of unsightly reptiles, 
 and to become in time a trodden clod, shall I be yet warm 
 in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye vener- 
 able sages, and holy flamens, is there probability in your 
 conjectures, truth in your stories, of another world beyond 
 death ; or are they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricated 
 fables ? 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 believed it, as I ardently wish it ! There I should 
 meet an aged parent, now at rest from the many buffetings 
 of an evil world, against which he so long and so bravely 
 struggled. There should I meet the friend, the disinter- 
 ested friend of my early life ; the man who rejoiced to see 
 me, because he loved me and could serve me. Muir, thy 
 weaknesses were the aberrations of human nature, but thy 
 heart glowed with everything generous, manly, and noble ; 
 and if ever emanation from the All-good Being animated a 
 human form, it was thine ! There should I, with speech- 
 less agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, my ever dear 
 Mary ! whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, con- 
 stancy, and love. 
 
 My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! I trust thou 
 art no impostor, and that thy revelation of blissful scenes of
 
 232 LETTERS. 
 
 existence beyond deaih and the grave, is not one of the 
 many impositions which time after time have been palmed 
 on credulous mankind. I trust that in thee " shall all the 
 families of the- earth be blessed," by being yet connected 
 together in a better world, where every tie that bound heart 
 to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, far beyond our 
 present conceptions, more endearing. 
 
 I am a good deal inclined to think with those who main- 
 tain, that what are called nervous affections are in fact 
 diseases of the mind. I cannot reason, I cannot think ; 
 and but to you I would not venture to write anything above 
 an order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of the ills 
 of life not to sympathise with a diseased wretch, who has 
 impaired more than half of any faculties he possessed. 
 Your goodness will excuse this distracted scrawl, which the 
 writer dare scarcely read, and which he would throw into 
 the fire, were he able to write anything better, or indeed 
 anything at all. 
 
 Rumour told me something of a son of yours, who was 
 returned from the East or West Indies. If you have gotten 
 news from James or Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let 
 me know ; as I promise you, on the sincerity of a man, who 
 is weary of one world, and anxious about another, that 
 scarce anything could give me so much pleasure as to hear 
 of any good thing befalling my honoured friend. 
 
 If you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in pity 
 to le pauvre tniserable R. B. 
 
 CXLII. — To Lady Winifred M. Constable. 
 
 Ellisland, \(sth December 1789. 
 
 My Lady, — In vain have I from day to day expected to 
 hear from Mrs. Young, as she promised me at Dalswinton 
 that she would do me the honour to introduce me at 
 Tinwald ; and it was impossible, not from your Ladyship's 
 accessibility, but from my own feelings, that I could go
 
 LETTERS. 233 
 
 alone. Lately, indeed, Mr. Maxwell, of Currachan, in his 
 usual goodness, offered to accompany me, when an unlucky 
 indisposition on my part hindered my embracing the oppor- 
 tunity. To court the notice or the tables of the great, 
 except where I sometimes have had a little matter to ask of 
 them, or more often the pleasanter task of witnessing my 
 gratitude to them, is what I never have done, and I trust 
 never shall do. But with your Ladyship I have the honour 
 to be connected by one of the strongest and most endear- 
 ing ties in the whole moral world. Common sufferings, in 
 a cause where even to be unfortunate is glorious — the cause 
 of heroic loyalty ! Though my fathers had not illustrious 
 honours and vast properties to hazard in the contest, though 
 they left their humble cottages only to add so many units 
 more to the unnoted crowd that followed their leaders, 
 yet what they could they did, and what they had they 
 lost ; with unshaken firmness and unconcealed political 
 attachments, they shook hands with Ruin for what they 
 esteemed the cause of their king and their country. This 
 language and the inclosed verses are for your Ladyship's eye 
 alone. Poets are not very famous for their prudence ; but 
 as I can do nothing for a cause which is now nearly no 
 more, I do not wish to hurt myself. — I have the honour to 
 be, my lady, your Ladyship's obliged and obedient humble 
 servant. R. B, 
 
 CXLIIL — To Mr. Charles K. Sharpe, of Hoddam. 
 
 Under ajiclitiotis Sigttature, inclosing a Ballad, 1 790 or 1 79 1. 
 
 It is true, Sir, you are a gentleman of rank and fortune, 
 and I am a poor devil; you are a feather in the cap of 
 society, and I am a very hobnail in his shoes ; yet I have 
 the honour to belong to the same family with you, and on 
 that score 1 now address you. You will perhaps suspect 
 
 * " Here Burns plays high Jacobite to that singular old curmudgeon. 
 Lady Constable. I imagine his lacobitism, like my own, belonged to 
 the fancy rather than the reason. — ScoU.
 
 234 LETTERS. 
 
 that I am going to claim affinity with the ancient and 
 honourable house of Kirkpatrick. No, no, Sir. I cannot 
 indeed be properly said to belong to any house, or even any 
 province or kingdom ; as my mother, who for many years 
 was spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into this bad 
 world, aboard the packet-boat, somewhere between Donagh- 
 adee and Portpatrick, By our common family, I mean. 
 Sir, the family of the Muses. I am a fiddler and a poet ; 
 and you, I am told, play an exquisite violin, and have a 
 standard taste in the belles lettres. The other day, a 
 brother catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your com- 
 position. If I was pleased with the tune, I was in raptures 
 with the title you have given it, and, taking up the idea, I 
 have spun it into the three stanzas inclosed. Will you 
 allow me. Sir, to present you them, as the dearest offering 
 that a misbegotten son of poverty and rhyme has to give ? 
 I have a longing to take you by the hand and unburden my 
 heart by saying, " Sir, I honour you as a man who supports 
 the dignity of human nature, amid an age when frivolity and 
 avarice have, between them, debased us below the brutes 
 that perish ! " But, alas. Sir ! to me you are unapproach- 
 able. It is true, the Muses baptised me in Castalian 
 streams ; but the thoughtless gipsies forgot to give me a 
 name. As the sex have served many a good fellow, the 
 Nine have given me a great deal of pleasure ; but, bewitch- 
 ing jades ! they have beggared me. Would they but spare 
 me a little of their cast-linen ! Were it only to put it in my 
 power to say, that I have a shirt on my back ! But the idle 
 wenches, like Solomon's lilies, " they toil not, neither do 
 they spin ; " so I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of a 
 cravat, like the hangman's rope, round my naked throat, 
 and coax my galligaskins to keep together their many- 
 coloured fragments. As to the affair of shoes, I have given 
 that up. My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, from town to 
 town, and on your stony-hearted turnpikes too, are not what 
 even the hide of Job's behemoth could bear. The coat on 
 my back is no more : I shall not speak evil of the dead. It 
 would be equally unhandsome and ungrateful to find fault
 
 LETTERS. 235 
 
 with my old surtout, which so kindly supplies and conceals 
 the want of that coat. My hat, indeed, is a great favourite ; 
 and though I got it literally for an old song, I would not 
 exchange it for the best beaver in Britain. I was, during 
 several years, a kind of fac-totum servant to a country 
 clergyman, where I picked up a good many scraps of learn- 
 ing, particularly in some branches of the mathematics. 
 Whenever I feel inclined to rest myself on my way, I take 
 my seat under a hedge, laying my poetic wallet on the one 
 side, and my fiddle-case on the other, and placing my hat 
 between my legs, I can by means of its brim, or rather 
 brims, go through the whole doctrine of the Conic Sections. 
 However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as if I would 
 interest your pity. Fortune has so much forsaken me, that 
 she has taught me to live without her ; and, amid all my 
 rags and poverty, I am as independent, and much more 
 happy than a monarch of the world. According to the 
 hackneyed metaphor, I value the several actors in the great 
 drama of life, simply as they act their parts. I can look on 
 a worthless fellow of a duke with unqualified contempt, and 
 can regard an honest scavenger with sincere respect. As 
 you. Sir, go through your role with such distinguished merit, 
 permit me to make one in the chorus of universal applause, 
 and assure you that with the highest respect, I have the 
 honour to be, etc. 
 
 CXLIV. — To HIS Brother, Gilbert Burns, 
 
 MOSSGIEL. 
 
 Ellisland, will January 1790. 
 
 Dear Brother, — I mean to take advantage of the frank, 
 though I have not in my present frame of mind much appe- 
 tite 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 has undone my 
 enjoyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. 
 But let it go to hell ! I'll fight it out and be off with it.
 
 236 LETTERS. 
 
 We have gotten a set of very decent players here just 
 now. I have seen them an evening or two. David Camp- 
 bell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the manager of the company, a 
 Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent worth. On New- 
 year-day evening I gave him the followmg prologue, which 
 he spouted to his audience with applause : — 
 
 No song nor dance I bring from yon great city, etc. 
 
 I can no more. If once I was clear of this curst farm, I 
 should respire more at ease. 
 
 CXLV.— To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S. 
 
 EllisLAND, l^hjan. 1790. 
 
 Since we are here creatures of a day, since " a few sum- 
 mer days, a few winter nights, and the life of man is at an 
 end," why, my dear much esteemed Sir, should you and I 
 let negligent indolence, for I know it is nothing worse, step 
 in between us and bar the enjoyment of a mutual corre- 
 spondence ? We are not shapen out of the common, heavy, 
 methodical clod, the elemental stuff of the plodding selfish 
 race, the sons of Arithmetic and Prudence ; our feelings and 
 hearts are not benumbed and poisoned by the cursed influ- 
 ence of riches, which, whatever blessing they may be in 
 other respects, are no friends to the nobler qualities of the 
 heart; in the name of random sensibility, then, let never 
 the moon change on our silence any more. I have had a 
 tract of bad health the most part of this winter, else you had 
 heard from me long ere now. Thank heaven, I am now 
 got so much better as to be able to partake a little in the 
 enjoyments of life. 
 
 Our friend, Cunningham, will perhaps have told you of 
 my going mto the Excise. The truth is, I found it a very 
 convenient business to have ;^5o per annum, nor have I 
 yet felt any of these mortifying circumstances in it that I 
 was led to fear.
 
 LETTERS. 237 
 
 Feb. 2nd. — I have not for sheer hurry of business been 
 able to spare five minutes to finish my letter. Besides my 
 farm business, I ride on my Excise matters at least two 
 hundred miles every week. I have not by any means given 
 up the Muses. You will see in the third volume of Johnson's 
 Scots songs that I have contributed my mite there. 
 
 But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up to you for 
 paternal protection are an important charge. I have already 
 two fins healthy stout little fellows, and I wish to throw 
 some light upon them. I have a thousand reveries and 
 schemes about them, and their future destiny. Not that I 
 am an Utopian projector in these things. I am resolved 
 never to breed up a son of mine to any of the learned pro- 
 fessions. I know the value of independence ; and since I 
 cannot give my sons an independent fortune, I shall give 
 them an independent line of life. What a chaos of hurry, 
 chance, and changes is this world, when one sits soberly 
 down to reflect on it ! To a father, who himself knows the 
 world, the thought that he shall have sons to usher into it, 
 must fill him with dread ; but if he have daughters, the 
 prospect in a thoughtful moment is apt to shock him. 
 
 I hope Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies are well. 
 Do let me forget that they are nieces of yours, and let me 
 say that I never saw a more interesting, sweeter pair of 
 sisters in my life. I am the fool of my feelings and attach- 
 ments. I often take up a volume of my Spenser to realise 
 you to my imagination,* and think over the social scenes 
 we have had together. God grant that there may be 
 another world more congenial for honest fellows beyond 
 this ; a world where these rubs and plagues of absence, dis- 
 tance, misfortunes, ill-health, etc., shall no more damp 
 hilarity and divide friendship. This I know is your throng 
 season, but half a page will much oblige, my dear Sir, yours 
 sincerely, R. B. 
 
 * Mr. Dunbar had made him a present of Spenser's Pocm.s.
 
 238 LETTERS. 
 
 CXLVL— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, 2^th January 1790. 
 
 It has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I 
 have not written to you, Madam, long ere now. My health 
 is greatly better, and I now begin once more to share in 
 satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow- 
 creatures. 
 
 Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your kind 
 letters ; but why will you make me run the risk of being 
 contemptible and mercenary in my own eyes ? When I 
 pique myself on my independent spirit, I hope it is neither 
 poetic licence, nor poetic rant ; and I am so flattered with 
 the honour you have done me in making me your compeer 
 in friendship and friendly correspondence, that I cannot 
 without pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded of 
 the real inequality between our situations. 
 
 Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam, in the 
 good news of Anthony. Not only your anxiety about his 
 fate, but my own esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, 
 manly young fellow, in the little I had of his acquaintance, 
 has interested me deeply in his fortunes. 
 
 Falconer, the unfortunate author of the "Shipwreck," 
 which you so much admire, is no more. After witnessing 
 the dreadful catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his 
 poem, and after weathering many hard gales of fortune, he 
 went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! 
 
 I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving 
 him birth ; but he was the son of obscurity and misfortune.* 
 He was one of those daring, adventurous spirits, which 
 Scotland, beyond any other country, is remarkable for pro- 
 ducing. Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs 
 delighted over the sweet little leech at her bosom, where 
 the poor fellow may hereafter wander, or what may be his 
 fate. I remember a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, 
 which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly 
 to the heart : — 
 
 * He was of poor parentage, and a native of Edinburgh.
 
 LETTERS. 239 
 
 Little did my mother think, 
 
 That day she cradled me, 
 What land I was to travel in, 
 
 Or what death I should dee ! 
 
 Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and 
 pursuit of mine, and now I am on that subject, allow me to 
 give you two stanzas of another old simple ballad, which I 
 am sure will please you. The catastrophe of the piece is a 
 poor ruined female, lamenting her fate. She concludes 
 with this pathetic wish : — 
 
 O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 
 
 O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 
 O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 
 
 But that I had died when I was young ! 
 
 O that the grave it were my bed ; 
 
 My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
 The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' ; 
 
 And O sae sound as I should sleep ! 
 
 I do not remember in all my reading to have met with 
 anything more truly the language of misery than the 
 exclamation in the last line. Misery is like love ; to speak 
 its language truly, the author must have felt it. 
 
 I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little 
 godson the small-pox. They are rife in the country, and I 
 tremble for his fate. By the way, I cannot help con- 
 gratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every person who 
 sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest 
 child he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the 
 manly swell of his little chest, and a certain miniature 
 dignity in the carriage of his head, and the glance of his 
 fine black eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
 independent mind. 
 
 I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time 
 forbids. I promise you poetry until you are tired of it, 
 next time I have the honour of assuring you how truly I 
 am, etc. R. B,
 
 240 LETTERS. 
 
 CXLVII. — To Mr. Peter Hill, Bookseller, 
 Edinburgh, 
 
 Ellisland, znd Feb. 1790. 
 
 No ! I will not say one word about apologies or excuses 
 for not writing — I am a poor, rascally gauger, condemned to 
 gallop at least 200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds 
 and yeasty barrels, and where can I find time to write to, 
 or importance to interest anybody? The upbraidings of 
 my conscience, nay, the upbraidings of my wife, have 
 persecuted me on your account these two or three months 
 past, I wish to God I was a great man, that my corres- 
 pondence might throw light upon you, to let the world see 
 what you really are : and then I would make your fortune, 
 without putting my hand in my pocket for you, which, like 
 all other great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as 
 possible. What are you doing, and how are you doing ? 
 Have you lately seen any of my few friends ? What has 
 become of the borough reform, or how is the fate of my 
 poor namesake Mademoiselle Burns decided? O man ! 
 but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dishonest 
 artifices, that beauteous form, and that once innocent and 
 still ingenuous mind, might have shone conspicuous and 
 lovely in the faithful wife, and the affectionate mother ; and 
 shall the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have no 
 claim on thy humanity ! 
 
 I saw lately, in a review, some extracts from a new 
 poem, called the "Village Curate;" send it me. I want 
 likewise a cheap copy of The World. Mr. Armstrong, 
 the young poet, who does me the honour to mention me so 
 kindly in his works, please give him my best thanks for the 
 copy of his book.* — I shall write him, my first leisure hour. 
 I like his poetry much, but I think his style in prose quite 
 astonishing. 
 
 Your book came safe, and I am going to trouble you 
 with farther commissions. I call it troubling you, because 
 
 * John Armstrong, student in the University of Edinburgh, who had 
 recently published a volume of Juvenile Poems.
 
 LETTERS. 24 1 
 
 I want only books ; the cheapest way, the best ; so you 
 may have to hunt for them in the evening auctions. I want 
 Smollett's Works, for the sake of his incomparable humour. 
 I have already Roderick Random and Httmphrey Clinker ; 
 — Peregrine Pickle, Laiincelot Greaves, and Ferdinand, 
 Count Pathoni, I still want ; but, as I said, the veriest 
 ordinary copies will serve me. I am nice only in the 
 appearance of my poets. I forget the price of Cowper's 
 Poems, but, I believe, I must have them. I saw the other 
 day, proposals for a publication, entitled Banks's New 
 and Complete Christian Family Bible, printed for C. 
 Cooke, Paternoster Row, London. He promises at least 
 to give in the work, I think it is three hundred and odd 
 engravings, to which he has put the names of the first 
 artists in London. You will know the character of the 
 performance, as some numbers of it are published, and if 
 it is really what it pretends to be, set me down as a sub- 
 scriber, and send me the published numbers. 
 
 Let me hear from you, your first leisure minute, and trust 
 me, you shall in future have no reason to con'iplain of my 
 silence. The dazzling perplexity of novelty will dissipate, 
 and leave me to pursue my course in the quiet path of 
 methodical routine. R. B. 
 
 CXLVIIL— To Mr. W. Nicol. 
 
 Ellisland, Feb. (jth, 1790, 
 
 Mv Dear Sir, — That damn'd mare of yours is dead. I 
 would freely have given her price to have saved her ; she 
 has vexed me beyond description. Indebted as I was to 
 your goodness beyond what I can ever repay, 1 eagerly 
 grasped at your offer to have the mare with me. That I 
 might at least show my readiness m wishing to be grateful, 
 I took every care of her in my power. She was never 
 crossed for riding above half a score of times by me or in 
 my keeping. I drew her in the plou'j;h, one of three, for 
 one poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which 
 
 435
 
 242 LETTERS. 
 
 was the highest bode I could squeeze for her. I fed her up 
 and had her in fine order for Dumfries fair, when, four or 
 five days before the fair, she was seized with an unaccount- 
 able disorder in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of 
 the neck — with a weakness or total want of power in her 
 fillets ; and, in short, the whole vertebras of her spine seemed 
 to be diseased and unhinged, and in eight and forty hours, 
 in spite of the two best farriers in the country, she died and 
 be damn'd to her ! The farriers said that she had been 
 quite strained in the fillets beyond cure before you had 
 bought her ; and that the poor devil, though she might keep 
 a little flesh, had been jaded and quite worn out with 
 fatigue and oppression. While she was with me she was 
 under my own eye, and I assure you, my much valued 
 friend, everything was done for her that could be done ; and 
 the accident has vexed me to the heart. In fact, I could 
 not pluck up spirits to write to you, on account of the 
 unfortunate business. 
 
 There is little new in this country. Our theatrical com- 
 pany, of which you must have heard, leave us this week. 
 Their merit and character are indeed very great, both on 
 the stage and in private life ; not a worthless creature 
 among them ; and their encouragement has been accord- 
 ingly. Their usual run is from eighteen to twenty-five 
 pounds a night ; seldom less than the one, and the house 
 will hold no more than the other. There have been 
 repeated instances of sending away six, and eight, and ten 
 pounds a night for want of room. A new theatre is to be 
 built by subscription ; the first stone is to be laid on Friday 
 first to come. Three hundred guineas have been raised by 
 thirty subscribers, and thirty more might have been got if 
 wanted. The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was introduced to 
 me by a friend from Ayr ; and a worthier or cleverer fellow 
 I have rarely met with. Some of our clergy have slipt in 
 by stealth now and then ; but they have got up a farce of 
 their own. You must have heard how the Rev. Mr. 
 Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. Kirk- 
 patrick of Dunscore, and the rest of that faction, have
 
 LETTERS. 243 
 
 accused, in formal process, the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. 
 Heron of Kirkgunzeon, that in ordaining Mr. Nielson to the 
 cure of souls in Kirkbean, he, the said Heron, feloniously 
 and treasonably bound the said Nielson to the confession of 
 faith, so Jar as it was agreeable to reason and the word of 
 God! 
 
 Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most gratefully to you. 
 Little Bobby and Frank are charmingly well and healthy. I 
 am jaded to death with fatigue. For these two or three 
 months, on an average, 1 have not ridden less than two 
 hundred miles per week. I have done httle in the poetic 
 way. I have given Mr. Sutherland two Prologues, one of 
 which was delivered last week. I have likewise strung four 
 or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of Chevy Chase, by 
 way of Elegy on your poor unfortunate mare, beginning (the 
 name she got here was Peg Nicholson), — 
 
 Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
 
 As ever trod on aim ; 
 But now she's floating down the Nith, 
 
 And past the mouth o' Cairn. 
 
 My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and little Neddy, 
 and all the family ; I hope Ned is a good scholar, and will 
 come out to gather nuts and apples with me next harvest. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CXLIX. — To Mr. Cunningham, Writer, Edinburgh. 
 
 Ellisland, 13M February 1790. 
 
 I BEG your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for 
 writing to you on this very unfashionable, unsightly sheet — 
 My poverty but not my will consents. 
 
 But to make amends, since of modish post I have none, 
 except one poor widowed half-sheet of gilt, which lies in my 
 drawer, among my plebeian foolscap pages, like the widow 
 of a man of fashion, whom that unpolite scoundrel, Neces- 
 sity, has driven from Burgundy and Pineapple to a dish of 
 Bohea, with the scandal-bearing help-mate of a village-
 
 244 LETTERS. 
 
 priest ; or a glass of whisky-toddy with a ruby-nosed yoke- 
 fellow of a foot-padding exciseman — I make a vow to mclose 
 this sheet-full of epistolary fragments in that my only scrap 
 of gilt paper. 
 
 I am, indeed, your unworthy debtor for three friendly 
 letters. I ought to have written to you long ere now, but 
 it is a literal fact, I have scarcely a spare moment. It is 
 not that I will not write to you : Miss Burnet is not more 
 dear to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke of 
 Qucensberry to the powers of darkness, than my friend 
 Cunningham to me. It is not that I cannot write to you ; 
 should you doubt it, take the following fragment, which was 
 intended for you soriie time ago, and be convinced that I 
 can aiitithesize sentiment, and circunivolute periods, as well 
 as any coiner of phrase in the regions of philology. 
 
 December 1789. 
 
 My Dear Cunningham, — Where are you? And what 
 are you doing ? Can you be that son of levity, who takes 
 up a friendship as he takes up a fashion ; or are you, like 
 some other of the worthiest fellows in the world, the victim 
 of indolence, laden with fetters of ever-increasing weight ? 
 
 What strange beings we are ! Since we have a portion of 
 conscious existence, equally capable of enjoying pleasure, 
 happiness, and rapture, or of suffering pain, wretchedness, 
 and misery, it is surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there 
 be not such a thing as a science of life ; whether method, 
 economy, and fertility of expedients, be not applicable to 
 enjoyment ; and whether there be not a want of dexterity 
 in pleasure, which renders our little scantling of happiness 
 still less ; and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss, which 
 leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhorrence. There is not 
 a doubt but that health, talents, character, decent com- 
 petency, respectable friends, are real substantial blessings ; 
 and yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many or all of 
 these good things, contrive, notwithstanding, to be as un- 
 happy as others to whose lot few of them have fallen ? I 
 believe one great source of this mistake or misconduct is
 
 LETTERS. 245 
 
 owing to a certain stimulus, with us called ambition, which 
 goads us up the hill of life, not as we ascend other 
 eminences, for the laudable curiosity of viewing an extended 
 landscape, but rather for the dishonest pride of looking 
 down on others of our fellow-creatures, seemmgiy diminutive 
 in humbler stations, etc., etc. 
 
 Sunday, \s,th February 1790. 
 
 God help me ! I am now obliged to join 
 
 Night to day, and Sunday to the week. 
 
 If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, 
 I am damn'd past redemption, and what is worse, damn'd to 
 all eternity. I am deeply read in Boston's Four-fold State, 
 Marshal On Sniiciificatmi, Guthrie's Trial of a Saving 
 IntiTest, etc., but " there is no balm in Gilead, there is no 
 physician there," forme ; so I shill e'en turn Arminian, and 
 trust to " Sincere though imperfect obedience." 
 
 Tuesday, i6fh. 
 
 Luckily for me, I was prevented from the discussion of 
 the knotty point at which 1 had just made a full stop. All 
 my fears and cares are of this world ; if there is another, an 
 honest man has nothing to fear from it. 1 hate a man that 
 wishes to be a deist; but I fear, every fair, unprejudiced 
 inquirer must in some degree be a sceptic. It is not that 
 there are any very staggering arguments against the 
 immortality of man ; but, like electricity, phlogiston, etc., 
 the subject is so involved in darkness, that we want data to 
 go upon. One thing frightens me much : that we are to 
 live for ever seems too good news to be true. That we are 
 to enter into a new scene of existence, where, exempt from 
 want and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends 
 without satiety or separation — how much should I be 
 indebted to any one who could fully assure me that this was 
 certain ! 
 
 My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr. 
 Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all his concerns ! 
 And may all the powers that preside over conviviality and
 
 246 LETTERS. 
 
 friendship, be present with all their kindest influence, when 
 the bearer of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wish I could 
 also make one. 
 
 Finally, brethren, farewell ! ^Vhatsoever things are 
 lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, whatsoever things are 
 charitable, whatsoever things are kind, think on these 
 things, and think on R. B. 
 
 CL. — To Mr. Hill, Bookseller, Edinburgh. 
 
 Ellisland, 2nd March 1790. 
 
 At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly Society, it 
 was resolved to augment their library by the following 
 books, v/hich you are to send us as soon as possible : — Ihe 
 Mirror, The Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
 (these, for my own sake, I wish to have by the first carrier), 
 Knox's IListory of the Refor7nation, Rae's History of the 
 Rebellion in 1715, any good History of the Rebellion in 
 1745, A Display oj the Secession Act and Testimony, by i\Ir. 
 Gib, Hervey's Meditations, Beveridge's Thoughts, and 
 another copy of Watson's Body of Divifiity. 
 
 I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four months ago, to 
 pay some money he owed me into your hands, and lately I 
 wrote to you to the same purpose, but I have heard from 
 neither one nor other of you. 
 
 In addition to the books I commissioned in my last, I 
 want very much, an Index to the Excise Laws, or an 
 Abridgment of all the statutes now in force, relative to the 
 Excise, by Jellini^er Symons; I want three copies of this 
 book : if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, get it for me. 
 An honest country neighbour of mine wants too a Family 
 Bible, the larger the better, but second-handed, for he does 
 not choo-e to give above ten shillings for the book. I 
 want likewise for myself, as you can pick them up, second- 
 handed or cheap, copies of Otway's Dramatic Works, Ben 
 Jonson's, Dryden's, Congreve's, Wycherley's, Vanbrugh's, 
 Gibber's, or any Dramatic Works of the more modern 
 Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Colman, or Sheridan. A good
 
 LETTERS. 247 
 
 copy too of Moliere, in French, I much want. Any other 
 good dramatic authors in that language I want also ; but 
 comic authors chiefly, though I should wish to have Racine, 
 Corneille, and Voltaire too. I am in no hurry for all, or 
 any of these, but if you accidentally meet with them very 
 cheap, get them for me. 
 
 And now, to quit the dry walk of business, how do you 
 do, my dear friend ? and how is Mrs. Hill ? I trust, if now 
 and then not so elegantly handsome, at least as amiable, and 
 sings as divinely as ever. My good wife too has a charming 
 " wood-note wild ; " now could we four get together, etc. 
 
 I am out of all patience with this vile world, for one 
 thing. Mankind are by nature benevolent creatures, except 
 in a few scoundrelly instances. I do not think that avarice 
 of the good things we chance to have, is born with us ; but 
 we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and hunger, 
 and poverty, and want, that we are under a cursed necessity 
 of studying selfishness, in order that we may exist ! Still 
 there are, in every age, a few souls that all the wants and 
 woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even to the 
 necessary alloy of caution and prudence. If ever I am in 
 danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate myself on this 
 side of my disposition and character. God knows I am no 
 saint ; I have a whole host of follies and sins to answer for ; 
 but if I could — and I believe I do it as far as I can — I 
 would wipe away all tears from all eyes. y\dieu ! R. B. 
 
 CLL— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, \oth April 1790. 
 
 I HAVE just now, my ever honoured friend, enjoyed a 
 very high luxury, in reading a paper of the Lounger. 
 You know my national prejudices. I had often read 
 and admired the Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, and 
 World, but still with a certain regret, that they were so 
 thoroughly and entirely Engli^-h. Alas ! have I often said 
 to myself, what are all the boasted advantages which my
 
 2 43 LETTERS. 
 
 country reaps from the Union, that can counterbalance the 
 annihilation of her independence, and even her very name ? 
 I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, Goldsmith — 
 
 States of native liberty possest, 
 Tho' very poor, may yet be very blest. 
 
 Nothing can reconcile me to the common terms, 
 " English ambassador," " English court," etc., and I am out 
 of all patience to see that equivocal character, Hastings, 
 impeached by " the Commons of England." Tell me, my 
 friend, is this weak prejudice ? I believe in my conscience 
 such ideas as "my country ; her independence ; her honour; 
 the illustrious names that mark the history of my native 
 land," etc. — I believe these, among your men of the world, 
 men who, in fact, guide for the most part and govern our 
 world, are looked on as so many modifications of wrong- 
 headedness. They know the use of bawling out such terms, 
 to rouse or lead the rabble ; but for their own private use, 
 with almost all the able statesvieti that ever existed, or now 
 exist, when they talk of right and wrong they only mean 
 proper and improper ; and their measure of conduct is, not 
 what they ought, but what they dare. For the truth of 
 this I shall not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to 
 one of the ablest judges of men that ever lived — the cele- 
 brated Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could 
 thoroughly control his vices whenever they interfered with 
 his interests, and who could completely put on the appear- 
 ance of every virtue as often as it suited his purposes, is, on 
 the Stanhopian plan, the perfect man ; a man to lead 
 nations. But are great abilities, complete without a flaw, 
 and polished without a blemish, the standard of human 
 excellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion of men 
 of the world; but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to 
 give the Stygian doctrine a loud negative ! However, this 
 must be allowed, that, if you abstract from man the idea of 
 an existence beyond the grave, then, the true measure of 
 human conduct is, proper and improper : virtue and vice, as 
 dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, of scarcely the
 
 LETTERS. 249 
 
 same import and value to the world at large, as harmony 
 and discord in the modifications of sound ; and a delicate 
 sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it may 
 sometimes give the possessor an ecstacy unknown to the 
 coarser organs of the herd, yet, considering the harsh 
 gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this ill-tuned state of being, 
 it is odds but the individual would be as happy, and 
 certainly would be as much respected by the true judges of 
 society as it would then stand, without either a good ear or 
 a good heart. 
 
 You must know I have just met with the Mir7or and 
 Lounger for the first time, and I am quite in raptures with 
 them ; I should be glad to have your opinion of some of the 
 papers. The one I have just read, Lounger^ No. 61, has 
 cost me more honest tears than anything I have read for a 
 long time. Mackenzie has been called the Addison of the 
 Scots, and in my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the 
 comparison. If he has not Addison's exquisite humour, he 
 as certainly outdoes him in the tender and the pathetic. 
 His Alan of Feeling (but I am not counsel learned in the 
 laws of criticism) I estimate as the first performance in its 
 kind I ever saw. From what book, moral or even pious, 
 will the susceptible young mind receive impressions more 
 congenial to humanity and kindness, generosity and benevo- 
 lence \ in short, more of all that ennobles the soul to 
 herself, or endears her to others — than from the simple 
 affecting tale of poor Harley? 
 
 Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie's writings, I 
 do not know if they are the fittest reading for a young man 
 who is about to set out, as the phrase is, to make his way 
 into life. Do you not think, Madam, that among the few 
 favoured of Heaven in the structure of their minds (for such 
 there certainly arc) there may be a purity, a tenderness, a 
 dignity, an elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in 
 some degree, absolutely disqualifying for the truly important 
 business of making a man's way into life ? If I am not 
 much mistaken, my gallant young friend, Antony, is very 
 much under these disqualifications ; and for the young
 
 250 LETTERS. 
 
 females of a family I could mention, well may they excite 
 parental solicitude ; for I, a common acquaintance, or as my 
 vanity will have it, an humble friend, have often trembled 
 for a turn of mind which may render them eminently happy 
 — or peculiarly miserable ! 
 
 I have been manufacturing some verses lately ; but as I 
 have got the most hurried season of Excise business over, I 
 hope to have more leisure to transcribe any thing that may 
 show how much I have the honour to be, Madam, yours, 
 etc. R. B. 
 
 CLII. — To Dr. John Moore, London. 
 
 Dumfries, Excise-Office, i^h/uly 1790. 
 
 Sir, — Coming into town this morning to attend my duty 
 in this office, it being collection-d:iy, I met with a gentleman 
 who tells me he is on his way to London ; so I take the 
 opportunity of writing to you, as franking is at present 
 under a temporary death. I shall have some snatches of 
 leisure through the day, amid our horrid business and 
 bustle, and I shall improve them as well as I can ; but let 
 my letter be as stupid as. . . ., as miscellaneous as a 
 newspaper, as short as a hungry grace-belbre-meat, or as 
 long as a law-paper in the Douglas cause ; as ill spelt as 
 country John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty 
 Byre-Mucker's answer to it ; I hope, considering circum- 
 stances, you will forgive it ; and as it will put you to no 
 expense of postage, I shall have the less reflection about it. 
 
 I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my thanks for 
 your most valuable present, Zehico. In fact, you are in 
 some degree blameable for my neglect. You were pleased 
 to express a wish for my opinion of the work, which so 
 flattered me, that nothing less would serve my over-weening 
 fancy, than a formal criticism on the book. In fact, I have 
 gravely planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, 
 Richardson, and Smollett, in your different qualities and 
 merits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my ridiculous
 
 LETTERS. 251 
 
 vanity, and I may probably never bring the business to bear ; 
 but I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shows in the book 
 of Job — "And I said, I will also declare my opinion." I 
 have quite disfigured my copy of the book with my annota- 
 tions. I never take it up without at the same time taking 
 my pencil, and marking with asterisms, parentheses, etc., 
 wherever I meet with an original thoui^ht, a nervous remark 
 on life and manners, a remarkably well-turned period, or a 
 character sketched with uncommon precision. 
 
 Though I should hardly think of fairly writing out my 
 " Comparative View," I shall certainly trouble you with my 
 remarks, such as they are. 
 
 I have just received from my gentleman that horrid 
 summons in the Book of Revelation — "that time shall be 
 
 no more." 
 
 The little collection of sonnets have some charming 
 poetry in them. If indeid I am indebted to the fair author 
 for the book, and not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated 
 author of the other sex, I should certainly have written to 
 the lady, with my grateful acknowledgmtnts, and my own 
 idea of the comparative excellence of her pieces.* I would 
 do this last, not from any vanity of thinking that my 
 remarks could be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but 
 merely from my own feelings as an author, doing as I would 
 be done by. R. B. 
 
 CLIIT. — To Mr. Murdoch,! Teacher of French, 
 
 London. 
 
 El.LlSLAND, lidy i6tk, 1790. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I received a letter from you a long time 
 a-^o, but unfortunately, as it was in the time of my peregrina- 
 tions and journeymgs through Scotland, I mislaid or lost it, 
 and by consequence your direction along with it. Luckily 
 
 * Sonnets of Charlotte Smith. 
 
 t He had been Burns's schoolmaster at Mount Oliphant.
 
 252 LETTERS. 
 
 my good star brought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, 
 who, I understand, is an acquaintance of yours : and by 
 his means and mediation I hope to replace that hnk, which 
 my unfortunate negHgence had so unluckily broke, in the 
 chain of our correspondence. I was the more vexed at the 
 vile accident, as my brother William, a journeyman saddler, 
 has been for some time in London ; and wished above all 
 things for your direction, that he might have paid his respects 
 to his father's friend. 
 
 His last address he sent me was, "Wm. Burns, at Mr. 
 Barber's, saddler. No. i8i Strand." I writ him by Mr. 
 Kennedy, but neglected to ask him for your address ; so, if 
 you find a spare half minute, please let my brother know by 
 a card where and when he will find you, and the poor 
 fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of the few surviving 
 friends of the man whose name, and Christian name too, he 
 has the honour to bear. 
 
 The next letter I write you shall be a long one. I have 
 much to tell you of " hair-breadth 'scapes in th' immment 
 deadly breach," with all the eventful history of a life, the 
 early years of which owed so much to your kind tutorage ; 
 but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest compliments to 
 Mrs. Murdoch and family. — I am ever, my dear Sir, your 
 obliged friend, R. B. 
 
 CLIV. — To Mr. Cunningham. 
 
 Ellisland, Wi Augtisi 1790. 
 
 Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear friend, my 
 seeming negligence. You cannot sit down and fancy the 
 busy life I lead. 
 
 I laid down my goose feather to beat my brains for an 
 apt simile, and had some thoughts of a country grannum at 
 a family christening ; a bride on the marktt-day belore her 
 marriage; or a tavern-keeper at an election dinner; but 
 the resemblance that hits my fancy best is, that blackguard
 
 LETTERS. 253 
 
 miscreant, Satan, who roams about like a roaring lion, 
 seeking, searching, whom he may devour. However, 
 tossed about as I am, if I choose (and who would not 
 choose) to bind down with the crampets of attention the 
 brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear up the super- 
 structure of Independence, and from its daring turrets bid 
 defiance to the storms of fate. And is not this a 
 " consummation devoutly to be wished ? " 
 
 Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 
 
 Lord of the lion heart, and eagle-eye ! 
 Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 
 
 Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky ! 
 
 Are not these noble verses ? They are the introduction 
 of Smollett's Ode to Independence : if you have not seen 
 the poem, I will send it to you. How wretched is the man 
 that hangs on by 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 glitter, and stately 
 hauteur^ is but a creature formed as thou art — and perhaps 
 not so well formed as thou art — came into the world a 
 puling infant as thou didst, and must go out of it as all men 
 must, a naked corse, ... R. B. . 
 
 CLV.— To Mr. Crauford Tait,* W.S., Edinburgh. 
 
 Ellisland, i^th October 1790. 
 
 Dear Sir, — Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance 
 the bearer, Mr. Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, whom I 
 have long known and long loved. His father, whose only 
 son he is, has a decent little property in Ayrshire, and has 
 bred the young man to the law, in which department he 
 comes up an adventurer to your good town. I shall 
 give you my friend's character in two words : as to his head, 
 he has talents enough, and more than enough for common 
 
 * Son of Mr. Tait of Ilarviestoun, where Burns was a happy guest 
 in the autumn of 17S7. He was also father of the late Archbishop 
 Tait.
 
 254 LETTERS. 
 
 life ; as to his heart, when nature had kneaded the kindly 
 clay that composes it, she said, " I can no more." 
 
 You, my good Sir, were born under kinder stars ; but 
 your fraternal sympathy, I well know, can enter into the 
 feelings of the young man who goes into life with the laud- 
 able ambition to do something, and to be something among 
 his fellow-creatures ; but whom the consciousness of 
 friendless obscurity presses to the earth and wounds to 
 the soul ! 
 
 Even the fairest of his virtues are against him. That 
 independent spirit, and that ingenuous modesty, qualities 
 inseparable from a noble mind, are, with the million, cir- 
 cumstances not a little disqualifying. What pleasure is in 
 the power of the fortunate and the happy, by their notice 
 and patronage, to brighten the countenance and glad the 
 heart of such depressed youth ! I am not so angry with 
 mankind for their deaf economy of the purse — the goods 
 of this world cannot be divided without being lessened — 
 but why be a niggard of that which bestows bliss on a 
 fellow-creature, yet takes nothing from our own means of 
 enjoyment ? We wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our own 
 better fortune, and turn away our eyes, lest the wants and 
 woes of our brother-mortals should disturb the selfish apathy 
 of our souls ! 
 
 I am the worst hand in the world at asking a favour. 
 That indirect address, that insinuating implication, which, 
 without any positive request, plainly expresses your wish, is 
 a talent not to be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell me, then, 
 for you can, in what periphrasis of language, in what cir- 
 cumvolution of phrase, I shall envelope, yet not conceal, 
 the plain story. " My dear Mr. Tait, my friend, Mr. Dun- 
 can, whom I have the pleasure of introducing to you, is a 
 young lad of your own profession, and a gentleman of much 
 modesty and great worth. Perhaps it maybe in your power 
 to assist him in the, to him, important consideration of 
 getting a place ; but, at all events, your notice and acquaint- 
 ance will be a very great acquisition to him ; and I dare 
 pledge myself that he will never disgrace your favour."
 
 LETTERS. 255 
 
 You may possibly be surprised, Sir, at such a letter from 
 me ; 'tis, I own, in the usual way of calculating these mat- 
 ters, more than our acquaintance entitles me to ; but my 
 answer is short : Of all the men at your time of life whom I 
 knew in Edinburgh, you are the most accessible on the side 
 on which I have assailed you. You are very much altered 
 indeed from what you were when I knew you, if generosity 
 point the path you will not tread, or humanity call to you 
 in vain. 
 
 As to myself, a being to whose interest I believe you are 
 still a well-wisher ; I am here, breathing at all times, think- 
 ing sometimes, and rhyming now and then. Every situation 
 has its share of the cares and pains of life, and my situation 
 I am persuaded has a full ordinary allowance of its pleasures 
 and enjoyments. 
 
 My best compliments to your father and Miss Tait. If 
 you have an opportunity, please remember me in the solemn 
 league and covenant of friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay.* I 
 am a wretch for not writing her ; but I am so hackneyed 
 with self-accusation in that way, that my conscience lies in 
 my bosom with scarce the sensibility of an oyster in its 
 shell. Where is Lady M'Kenzie? wherever she is, God 
 bless her ! I likewise beg leave to trouble you with com- 
 pliments to Mr. Wm. Hamilton ; Mrs. Hamilton and 
 family ; and Mrs. Chalmers, when you are in that country. 
 Should you meet with Miss Nimmo, please remember me 
 kindly to her. R. B. 
 
 CLVL— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, November 1790. 
 
 " As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a 
 far country." 
 
 Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, 
 in return for the many tidings of sorrow which I have 
 
 * Miss Peggy Chalmers.
 
 256 LETTERS. 
 
 received. In this instance I most cordially obey the 
 apostle — " Rejoice with them that do rejoice ; " for me, to 
 sing for joy, is no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I 
 have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch 
 of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before. 
 
 I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy. How 
 could such a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep 
 his seat on the receipt of the best news from his best friend. 
 I seized my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis- 
 pensably necessary in the moment of inspiration and rapture ; 
 and stride, stride — quick and quicker — out skipt I among 
 the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my joy by retail. 
 To keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs. 
 Little's is a more elegant, but not a more sincere compU- 
 ment to the sweet httle fellow, than I, extempore almost, 
 poured out to him in the following verses : — 
 
 Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, etc.* 
 
 I am much flattered by your approbation of my " Tam o' 
 Shanter," which you express in your former letter ; though, 
 by-the-bye, you load me in that said letter with accusations 
 heavy and many ; to all which I plead, not guilty ! Your 
 book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As to printing 
 of poetry, when you prepare it for the press, you have only 
 to spell it right, and place the capital letters properly : as to 
 the punctuation, the printers do that themselves. 
 
 I have a copy of " Tam o' Shanter " ready to send 
 you by the first opportunity: it is too heavy to send by 
 post. 
 
 I heard of Mr. Corbet lately.! He, in consequence of 
 your recommendation, is most zealous to serve me. Please 
 favour me soon with an account of your good folks ; if Mrs. 
 H. is recovering, and the young gentleman doing well. 
 
 R. B. 
 * See Poems. t A Supervisor of Excise.
 
 LETTERS. 257 
 
 CLVIL— To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S. 
 
 Ellisland, I'jth Jamiary 1791. 
 
 I a:\i not gone to Elysium, most noble Colonel,* but am 
 still here in this sublunary world, serving my God by pro- 
 pagatmg His image, and honouring my king by begettmg 
 him loyal subjects. 
 
 Many happy returns of the season await my friend. May' 
 the thorns of care never beset his path ! May peace be an 
 inmate of his bosom, and rajiture a frequent visitor of his 
 soul ! May the blood-hounds of misfortune never track his 
 steps, nor the screech-owl of sorrow alarm his dwelling ! 
 May enjoyment tell thy hours, and pleasure number thy 
 days, thou friend of the Bard ! " Blessed be he that 
 blesseth thee, and cursed be he that curseth thee II!" 
 
 As a farther proof that I am still in the land of existence, 
 I send you a poem, the latest I have composed. I have a 
 particular reason for wishing you only to show it to select 
 friends, should you think it worthy a friend's perusal : but 
 if at your first leisure hour you will favour me with your 
 opinion of, and strictures on the performance, it will be an 
 additional obligation on, dear Sir, your deeply indebted 
 humble servant, R. B. 
 
 CLVIIL— To Mr. Peter Hill. 
 
 Ellisland, \lth Jamiary 1791. 
 
 Take these two guineas, and place them over against 
 that damn'd account of yours which has gagged my mouth 
 these five or six months. I can as little write good things 
 as apologies to the man I owe money to. O the supreme 
 misery of making three guineas do the business of five ! 
 Not all the labours of Hercules ; not all the Hebrews' three 
 centuries of Egyptian bondai^e, were such an insuperable 
 business, such an infernal task ! Poverty, thou hali-sister of 
 death, thou cousin-german of hell ! where shall I find force 
 
 * Colonel of Volunteers.- 
 
 436
 
 258 LETTERS. 
 
 of execration equal to the amplitude of thy demerits ? 
 Oppressed by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in 
 the practice of every virtue, laden with years and wretched- 
 ness, implores a little, little aid to support his existence, 
 from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, whose sun of 
 prosperity never knew a cloud ; and is by him denied and 
 insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of sentiment, whose 
 heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility, 
 inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul 
 under the contumely of arrogant unfeeling wealth. 
 Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill-starred 
 ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable and 
 polite, must see in suffering silence his remark neglected 
 and his person despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot 
 attempts at wit, shall meet with countenance and applause. 
 Nor is it only the family of worth that have reason to com- 
 plain of thee ; the children of folly and vice, though in 
 common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally under 
 thy rod. Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate disposi- 
 tion and neglected education, is condemned as a fool for 
 his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy wretch, 
 when his follies as usual bring him to want ; and when his 
 unprincipled necessities drive him to dishonest practices, he 
 is abhorred as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of 
 his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the man of 
 family and fortune. His early follies and extravagance are 
 spirit and fire ; his consequent wants are the embarrassments 
 of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he 
 has gained a legal commission to plunder distant provinces, 
 or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, perhaps, laden 
 with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and 
 respected ; and dies a scoundrel and a lord. Nay, worst of 
 all, alas for helpless woman ! . . . 
 
 ( ( • • a ■ • 
 
 Well ! divines may say of it what they please ; but execra- 
 tion is to the mind, what phlebotomy is to the body ; the 
 overloaded sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their 
 respective evacuations. R. B.
 
 LETTERS. 259 
 
 CLIX.— To Dx-i. Moore. 
 
 Ellisland, 2.%th Jamtary 1791. 
 
 I DO not know, Sir, whether you are a subscriber to 
 Grose's Afitiqiiities of Scotland. If you are, the inclosed 
 poem will not be altogether new to you. Captain Grose did 
 me the favour to send me a dozen copies of the proof sheet, 
 of which this is one. Should you have read the piece before, 
 still this will answer the principal end I have in view : it will 
 give me another opportunity of thanking you for all your 
 goodness to the rustic bard ; and also of showing you, that 
 the abilities you have been pleased to commend and 
 patronise, are still employed in the way you wish. 
 
 The Elegy ott Captain Henderson is a tribute to the 
 memory of the man I loved much. Poets have in this the 
 same advantage as Roman Catholics ; they can be of service 
 to their friends after they have passed that bourne where 
 all other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether, after all, 
 either the one or the other be of any real service to the 
 dead, is, I fear, very problematical ; but I am sure they are 
 highly gratifying to the living : and as a very orthodox text, 
 I forget where in Scripture, says, "whatsoever is not of 
 faith is sin ; " so say I, whatsoever is not detrimental to 
 society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of 
 all good things, and ought to be received and enjoyed by 
 His creatures with thankful delight. As almost all my 
 religious tenets originate from my heart, I am wonderfully 
 pleased with the idea, that I can still keep up a tender inter- 
 course with the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly 
 beloved mistress, who is gone to the world of spirits. 
 
 The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy 
 with Percy's Rcliques of English Poetry. By the way, how 
 much is every honest heart, which has a tincture of 
 Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your glorious story 
 of Buchanan and Targe ! 'Twas an unequivocal proof of 
 your loyal gallantry of soul giving Targe the victory. I 
 sliould have been mortified to the ground if you had not. 
 
 I have just read over, once more of many times, your
 
 26o LETTERS. 
 
 Zeluco. I marked with my pencil as I went along, every 
 passage that pleased me above the rest ; and one or two, 
 which, with humble deference, I am disposed to think 
 unequal to the merits of the book. I have sometimes 
 thought to transcribe these marked passages, or at least so 
 much of them as to point where they are, and send them to 
 you. (Original strokes that strongly depict the human heart, 
 is your and Fielding's province, beyond any other novelist I 
 have ever perused. Richardson, indeed, might, perhaps, 
 be excepted ; but unhappily, his dramatis personce. are beings 
 of another world; and however they may captivate the 
 unexperienced romantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will 
 ever, in proportion as we have made human nature our 
 study, dissatisfy our riper years. 
 
 As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax- 
 gatherer before the Lord, and have lately had the interest to 
 get myself ranked on the list of excise as a supervisor. I 
 am not yet employed as such, but in a few years I shall fall 
 into the file of supervisorship by seniority, I have had an 
 immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn — the 
 patron from whom all my fame and fortune took its rise. 
 Independent of my grateful attachment to him, which was 
 indeed so strong that it pervaded my very soul, and was 
 entwined with the thread of my existence ; so soon as the 
 prince's friends had got in, (and every dog, you know, has 
 his day) my getting forward in the excise would have been 
 an easier business than otherwise it will be. Though this 
 was a consummation devoutly to be wished, yet, thank 
 Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am ; and as to my boys, 
 poor little fellows ! if I cannot place them on as high an 
 elevation in life as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured so 
 much of the Disposer of events as to see that period, fix 
 them on as broad and independent a basis as possible. 
 Among the many wise adages which have been treasured up 
 by our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best — Better be 
 the head d the commonalty than the tail d the gentry. 
 
 But I am got on a subject which, however interesting to 
 me, is of no manner of consequence to you ; so I shall give
 
 LETTERS. 261 
 
 you a short poem on the other page, and close this with 
 assurin,<4 you how sincerely I have the honour to be, 
 yours, etc., R. B. 
 
 Written on the blank leaf of a book which I presented to 
 a very young lady, whom I had formerly characterised 
 under the denomination of The Rose Bud."^ 
 
 CLX.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, Tlh Feb. 1791. 
 
 When I tell you. Madam, that by a fall, not from my 
 horse, but with my horse, I have been a cripple some time, 
 and that this is the first day my arm and hand have been 
 able to serve me in writing, — you will allow that it is too 
 good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful silence. I 
 am now getting better, and am able to rhyme a little, which 
 implies some tolerable ease ; as I cannot think that the 
 most poetic genius is able to compose on the rack. 
 
 I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you my having 
 an idea of composing an elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of 
 Monboddo. I had the honour of being pretty well ac- 
 quainted with her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss 
 of an acquaintance, as when I heard that so amiable and 
 accomplished a piece of God's work was no more. I have, 
 as yet, gone no farther than the following fragment, of 
 which please let me have your opinion. You know that 
 elegy is a subject so much exhausted, that any new idea on 
 the business is not to be expected : 'tis well if we can place 
 an old idea in a new light. How far I have succeeded as 
 to this last, you will judge from what follows. I have 
 proceeded no further. 
 
 Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance of your 
 godson, came safe. '1 his last, Madam, is scarcely what niy 
 pride can benr. As to the little fellow,! he is, partiality 
 
 * See Tocms — " Lines to Miss Cruikshank." 
 
 t The infant was Francis Wallace, the Poet's second son.
 
 262 LETTERS. 
 
 apart, the finest boy I have of a long time seen. He is 
 now seventeen months old, has the small-pox and measles 
 over, has cut several teeth, and never had a grain of doctor's 
 drugs in his bowels. 
 
 I am truly happy to hear that the " little floweret " is 
 blooming so fresh and fair, and that the " mother plant " is 
 rather recovering her drooping head. Soon and well may 
 her " cruel wounds " be healed ! I have written thus far 
 with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a little abler you 
 shall hear farther from, Madam, yours, R. B. 
 
 CLXI. — To THE Rev. Arch. Alison. 
 
 Ellisland, near Dumjries, YOfih Feb. 1791. 
 
 Sir, — ^You must by this time have set me down as one of 
 the most ungrateful of men. You did me the honour to 
 present me with a book, which does honour to science and 
 the intellectual powers of man, and I have not even so much 
 as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, you yourself 
 are to blame for it. Flattered as I was by your telling me 
 that you wished to have my opinion of the work, the old 
 spiritual enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity is 
 one of the sins that most easily beset me, put it into my 
 head to ponder over the performance with the look-out of a 
 critic, and to draw up forsooth a deep learned digest of 
 strictures on a composition, of which, in fact, until I read 
 the book, I did not even know the first principles. I own, 
 Sir, that at first glance, several of your propositions startled 
 me as paradoxical. That the martial clangour of a trumpet 
 had something in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, 
 than the twingle twangle of a Jews-harp ; that the delicate 
 flexure of a rose-twig, when the half-blown flower is heavy 
 with the tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and 
 elegant than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that from 
 something innate and independent of all associations of 
 ideas ; — these I had set down as irrefragable, orthodox
 
 LETTERS. 263 
 
 truths, until perusing your book shook my faith. In short, 
 Sir, except Euclid's Elements of Geometry, which I made 
 a shift to unravel by my father's fire-side, in the winter 
 evening of the first season I held the plough, I never read 
 a book Vi'hich gave me such a quantum of information, and 
 added so much to my stock of ideas, as your Essays on 
 the Frhidples of Taste. One thing, Sir, you must forgive 
 my mentioning as an uncommon merit in the \\'ork, I mean 
 the language. To clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of 
 style, sounds something like a contradiction in terms ; but 
 you have convinced me that they are quite compatible. 
 
 I inclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composi- 
 tion. The one in prinr is my first essay in the way of 
 telling a tale.- — I am, Sir, etc. K, B. 
 
 CLXII.— To THE Rev. G. Baird. 
 
 EllislanDj 1791. 
 Reverend Sir, — Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me 
 in such a hesitating style on the business of poor Bruce?* 
 Don't I know, and have I not felt, the many ills, the peculiar 
 ills, that poetic flesh is heir to? You shall have your choice 
 of all the unpublished poemsf I have ; and had your letter 
 had my direction so as to have reached me sooner (it only 
 came to my hand this moment) I should have directly put 
 you out of suspense on the subject. I only ask, that some 
 prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as the subscrip- 
 tion bills, may bear, that the publication is solely for the 
 benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not put it in the power 
 of ignorance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I club- 
 bed a share in the work from mercenary motives. Nor 
 need you give me credit for any remarkable generosity in 
 my part of the business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, 
 failings, follies, and backslidings (anybody but myself might 
 
 * Michael Bruce, a yoiuif; jioet of Kinross-sliire. 
 •|' 'la/n 0' Shaiiler included ! It was refused ! !
 
 6, LETTERS. 
 
 2'0\ 
 
 perhaps give some of them a worse appellation), that by way 
 of some balance, however triflin'^^, in the account, I am fain 
 to do any good that occurs in my very limited power lo a 
 fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a little 
 the vista of retrospection. R- B. 
 
 CLXIII.— To Mr. Cunningham, Writkr, Edinburgh. 
 
 Elusland, \ith March 1791. 
 
 If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, let me 
 have them. For my own part, a thing I have just com- 
 posed always appears through a double portion of that 
 partial medium in which an author will ever view his own 
 works. I believe, in general, novelty has something in it 
 that inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates 
 and fumes away like other intoxication, and leaves the poor 
 patient, as usual, with an aching heart. A striking instance 
 of this might be adduced, in the revolution of many a 
 hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into stupid prose, 
 and so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my parish 
 priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you 
 another song of my late composition, which will appear 
 perhaps in Johnson's work, as well as the former. 
 
 You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, There'll never be 
 peace till Jamie comes hame. When political combustion 
 ceases to be the object of princes and patriots, it then, you 
 know, becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets. 
 
 By yon castle wa' at the close of the day, 
 I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey ; 
 And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — 
 There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
 
 If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you 
 cannot imagine, my dear friend, how much you would 
 oblige me, if, by the charms of your delightful voice, you
 
 LETTERS. 265 
 
 would give my honest effusion, to "the memory of joys 
 th It are past," to the few friends whom you indulge in that 
 pleasure. But I have scribbled on till I hear the clock has 
 inumattd the near approach of 
 
 That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. 
 
 So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and delectable 
 your dreams ! Apropos, how do you like this thought in a 
 ballad I have just now on the tapis? — 
 
 I look to the west when I gae to my rest, 
 
 That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 
 
 Far, far in the west is he I lo'e best, 
 
 The lad that is dear to my babie and me ! 
 
 Good night once more, and God bless you ! R. B. 
 
 CLXIV.— To ^Irs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, wth April 1791. 
 
 I AIM once more able, my honoured friend, to return 
 you, with my own hand, thanks for the many instances of 
 your friendship, and particularly for your kind anxiety in 
 this last disaster that my evil genius had in store for me. 
 However, life is chequered— joy and sorrow — for on Satur- 
 day morning last, Mrs. Burns made me a present of a fine 
 boy ; rather stouter, but not so handsome as your godson 
 was at his time of life. Indeed, I look on your little name- 
 sake to be my chef d' 0:11V re m that species of manufacture, as 
 I look on " Tam o' Shanter " to be my standard performance 
 in the poetical line. Tis true, both the one and the other 
 discover a spice of roguish waggery, that might perhaps be 
 as well spared ; but then they also show, in my opinion, a 
 force of genius, and a finishing polisli, that I despair of ever 
 excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and laid as 
 lustily about her to-day at breakfast, as a reaper from the 
 corn-ridge. That is the peculiar jirivilege and blessing of 
 our hale sprightly damsels, that arc bred among the hay
 
 266 LETTERS. 
 
 and heather. We cannot hope for that highly polished 
 mind, that charming delicacy of soul, which is found among 
 the female world in the more elevated stations of life, and 
 which is certainly by far the most bewitching charm in the 
 famous cestus of Venus. It is indeed such an inestimable 
 treasure, that where it can be had in its native heavenly 
 purity, unstained by some one or other of the many shades 
 of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or other of the 
 many species of caprice, I declare to Heaven I should 
 think it cheaply purchased at the expense of every other 
 earthly good ! But as this angelic creature is, I am afraid, 
 extremely rare in any station and rank of life, and totally 
 denied to such an humble one as mine, we meaner mortals 
 must put up with the next rank of female excellence. As 
 fine a figure and face we can produce as any rank of life 
 whatever ; rustic, native grace ; unaffected modesty and un- 
 sullied purity ; nature's mother-wit and the rudiments of 
 taste ; a simplicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because un- 
 acquainted with, the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, 
 disingenuous world ; and the dearest charm of all the rest, 
 a yielding sweetness of disposition, and a generous warmth 
 of heart, grateful for love on our part, and ardently glowing 
 with a more than equal return ; these, with a healthy frame, 
 a sound, vigorous constitution, which your higher ranks can 
 scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman 
 in my humble walk of life. 
 
 This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. 
 Do let me hear, by first post, how cher petit Monsieur coyhqs 
 on with his small-pox. May Almighty goodness preserve 
 and restore him ! R. B. 
 
 CLXV.— To Mr. Cunningham. 
 
 nth /tine 1 79 1. 
 
 Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of 
 the gentleman who waits on you with this. He is a Mr. 
 Clarke, of Moffat, principal schoolmaster there, and is at
 
 LETTERS. 267 
 
 present suffering severely under the persecution of one or 
 two powerful individuals of his employers. He is accused 
 of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. God 
 help the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and 
 such is my friend Clarke, when a booby father presents him 
 with his booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays of 
 science in a fellow's head whose skull is impervious and 
 inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture with a 
 cudgel : a fellow whom in fact it savours of impiety to 
 attempt making a scholar of, as he has been marked a 
 blockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty fiat of his 
 Creator. 
 
 The patrons of Moffat school are the ministers, magis- 
 trates, and town council of Edinburgh ; and as the busmess 
 comes now before them, let me beg my dearest friend to do 
 every thing in his power to serve the interests of a man of 
 genius and worth, and a man whom I particularly respect 
 and esteem. You know some good fellows among the 
 magistracy and council, but particularly you have much to 
 say with a reverend gentleman to whom you have the 
 honour of being very nearly related, and whom this country 
 and age have had the honour to produce. I need not name 
 the historian of Charles V.* I tell him through the medium 
 of his nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman 
 who will not disgrace even his patronage. I know the 
 merits of the cause thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is 
 falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance. 
 
 God help the children of dependence ! Hated and per- 
 secuted by their enemies, and too often, alas ! almost unex- 
 ceptionally always, received by their friends with disrespect 
 and reproach, under the thin disguise of cold civility and 
 humiliating advice, O ! to be a sturdy savage, stalking in 
 the pride of his independence, amid the solitary wilds of his 
 deserts, rather than in civilised life, helplessly to tremble for 
 a subsistence precarious as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! 
 Every man has his virtues, and no man is without his 
 failings; and plague on that privileged plain-dealing of 
 * Ui. Robertson, uncle to Mr. Alexander Cunningham.
 
 2 68 LETTERS. 
 
 friendship, which, in the hour of my calamity, cannot reach 
 forth the helping hand without at the same time pointing 
 out those lailin-s, and apportioning them their share in 
 procuring my present distress. My friends, for such the 
 world calls ye, and such ye think yourselves to be, pass by 
 my virtues if you please, but do, also, spare my follies ; the 
 first will witness in my breast for themselves, and the last 
 will give pain enough to the ingenuous mind without you. 
 And since deviating more or less from the paths of propriety 
 and rectitude must be incident to human nature, do thou, 
 Fortune, put it in my power, always from myself, and of 
 myself, to bear the consequence of those errors ! I do not 
 want to be independent that I may sin, but I want to be 
 independent in my sinning. 
 
 To return in this rambling letter to the subject I set out 
 with, let me recommend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your 
 acquaintance and good offices ; his worth entitles him to 
 the one, and his gratitude will merit the other. I long 
 much to hear from you. Adieu ! R. B, 
 
 CLXVL— To Mr. Thomas Sloan.* 
 
 Ellisland, Sept. \st, 1791. 
 
 My Dear Sloan, — Suspense is worse than disappoint- 
 ment ; for that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now 
 learn that Mr. Baliantine does not choose to interfere more 
 in the business. I am truly sorry for it, but cannot help it. 
 
 You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will 
 please to recollect that you omitted one little necessary 
 piece of information ; — your address. 
 
 However, you know equally well my hurried life, indolent 
 temper, and strength of attachment. It must be a longer 
 period than the longest life " in the world's hale and 
 undegenerate days," that will make me forget so dear a 
 
 * Of Wanlockhead. Burns got to know him during his frequent 
 journeys between Ellisland and Mauchline in 1788-9.
 
 LETTERS. 269 
 
 friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough at times, but I 
 will not part with such a treasure as that. 
 
 I can easily enter into the etnbarras of your present 
 situation. You know my favourite quotation from Young — 
 
 On Reason build Resolve ! 
 That column of true majesty in man, — 
 
 and that other favourite one from Thomson's " Alfred " — 
 
 WTiat proves the hero truly great, 
 Is, never, never to despair. 
 
 Or, shall I quote you an author of your acquaintance ? — • 
 
 Whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
 You may do miracles by — persevering. 
 
 I have nothing new to tell you. The few friends we have 
 are going on in the old way. I sold my crop on this day 
 se'ennight, and sold it very well. A guinea an acre, on an 
 average, above value. But such a scene of drunkenness 
 was hardly ever seen in this country. After the roup w?.s 
 over, about thirty people engaged in a battle, every man for 
 his own hand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was 
 the scene much better in the house. No fighting, indeed, 
 but folks lying drunk on the floor, and decanting, until 
 both my dogs got so drunk by attending them, that they 
 could not stand. You will easily guess how I enjoyed the 
 scene, as I was no farther over than you used to see me. 
 
 Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire these many 
 weeks. 
 
 Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear Friend ! R. B. 
 
 CLXVII.— To Mr. Ainslie. 
 
 Ellisland, 1 791. 
 
 Mv Dear Ainslie, — Can you minister to a mind 
 
 diseased ? can you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, 
 
 remorse, head-ache, nausea, and all the rest of the danin'd 
 
 hounds of hell that beset a poor wretch who has been
 
 2 70 LETTERS. 
 
 guilty of the sin of drunkenness — can you speak peace to a 
 troubled soul ? 
 
 Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried every thing that 
 used to amuse me, but in vain ; here must I sit, a monu- 
 ment of the vengeance laid up in store for the wicked, 
 slowly counting every click of the clock as it slowly, slowly 
 numbers over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, damn 
 them, are ranked up before me, every one at his neighbour's 
 backside, and every one with a burthen of anguish on his 
 back, to pour on my devoted head — and there is none to 
 pity me. My wife scolds me, my business torments me, 
 and my sins come staring me in the face, every one telling a 
 more bitter tale than his fellow. — When I tell you even 
 
 has lost its power to please, you will guess something 
 
 of my hell within, and all around me. — I began Elibanks 
 and Elibraes^ but the stanzas fell unenjoyed and unfinished 
 from my listless tongue : at last I luckily thought of reading 
 over an old letter of yours, that lay by me in my bookcase, 
 and I felt something for the first time since I opened my 
 
 eyes, of pleasurable existence. Well — I begin to breathe 
 
 a little, since I began to write to you. How are you, and 
 what are you doing ? How goes Law ? Apropos, for 
 correction's sake do not address to me supervisor, for that 
 is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am on the list, as we 
 call it, for a supervisor, and will be called out by-and-by to 
 act as one ; but at present I am a simple ganger, tho' 
 t'other day I got an appointment to an excise division of 
 ;^2 5 per anmiin better than the rest. My present income, 
 down money, is ^£^0 per anman. 
 
 I have one or two good fellows here whom you would be 
 glad to know. R. B. 
 
 CLXVni.— To Miss Davies. 
 
 It is impossible, Madam, that the generous warmth and 
 angelic purity of your youthful mind can have any idea of 
 that moral disease under which I unhappily must rank as
 
 LETTERS. 271 
 
 the chief of sinners ; I mean a torpitiide of the moral 
 powers that may be called a lethargy of conscience. In 
 vain Remorse rears her horrent crest, and rouses all her 
 snakes : beneath the deadly-fixed eye and leaden hand of 
 Indolence their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the 
 bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter in the chink of a 
 ruined wall. Nothing less, Madam, could have made me 
 so long neglect your obliging commands. Indeed, I had 
 one apology — the bagatelle was not worth presenting. 
 Besides, so strongly am I interested in Miss Davies's fate 
 and welfare in the serious business of life, amid its chances 
 and changes, that to make her the subject of a silly ballad 
 is downright mockery of these ardent feelings ; 'tis like an 
 impertinent jest to a dying friend. 
 
 Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity between our wishes 
 and our powers ? Why is the most generous wish to make 
 others blest impotent and ineffectual as the idle breeze 
 that crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks of life I have 
 met with a few people to whom how gladly would I have 
 said — " Go, be happy ! I know that your hearts have been 
 wounded by the scorn of the proud, whom accident has 
 placed above you ; or worse still, in whose hands are, per- 
 haps, placed many of the comforts of your life. But there ! 
 ascend that rock. Independence, and look justly down on 
 their littleness of soul. Make the worthless tremble under 
 your indignation, and the foolish sink before your contempt ; 
 and largely impart that happiness to others which, I am 
 certain, will give yourselves so much pleasure to bestow." 
 
 Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this delightful 
 reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why, amid my generous 
 enthusiasm, must I find myself poor and powerless, incapable 
 of wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or of adding one 
 comfort to the friend I love ? Out upon the world ! say I, 
 that its affairs are administered so ill ! They talk of 
 reform ; — good Heaven ! what a reform would I make 
 among the sons, and even the daughters of men ! Down, 
 immediately, should go fools from the high places where 
 misbegotten chance has perked them up, and through life
 
 272 LETTERS. 
 
 ~ I - 
 
 should they skulk, ever haunted by their native insignifi- 
 cance, as the body marches accompanied by its shadow. 
 As for a much more formidable class, thi knaves, I am at a 
 loss what to do with them : had I a world, there should not 
 be a knave in it. 
 
 But the hand that could give, I would liberally fill : and 
 I would pour delight on the heart that could kindly forgive, 
 and generously love. 
 
 Still the inequalities of life are, among men, comparatively 
 tolerable ; but there is a delicacy, a tenderness, accompany- 
 ing ever)' view in which we can place lovely Woman, that 
 are grated and shocked at the rude, capricious distinctions 
 of Fortune. Woman is the blood-royal of life : let there be 
 slight degrees of precedency among them — but let them be 
 ALL sacred. Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, 
 I am not accountable : it is an original component feature 
 of my mind. R. B. 
 
 CLXIX.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 ^th [amiary 1792. 
 
 You see my hurried life, IMa.dam : I can only con:mand 
 starts of time \ however, I am glad of one thing ; since I 
 finished the other sheet, the political blast that threatened 
 my welfare is overblown. I have corresponded with Com- 
 missioner Graham, for the Board had made me the subject 
 of their animadversions ; and now I have the pleasure of 
 informing you that all is set to rights in that quarter. Now 
 
 as to these informers, may the devil be let loose to 
 
 but, hold ! I was praying most fervently in my last sheet, 
 and I must not so soon fall a swearing in this. 
 
 Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly officious think 
 what mischief they do by their malicious insinuations, 
 mdirect impertinence, or thoughtless babblings, ^^^lat a 
 difference there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevolence, 
 generosit}', kindness, — in all the charities and all the 
 virtues — between one class of human beings and another !
 
 LETTERS. 273 
 
 For instance, the amiable circle I so lately mixed with 
 in the hospitable hall of Dunlop, their generous hearts — 
 their uncontaminated dignified minds — their informed and 
 polished understandings — what a contrast, when compared — 
 if such comparing were not downright sacrilege — with the 
 soul of the miscreant who can deliberately plot the destruc- 
 tion of an honest man that never offended him, and with a 
 gnn of satisfaction see the unfortunate being, his faithful 
 wife, and prattling innocents, turned over to beggary and 
 ruin ! 
 
 Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I had two 
 worthy fellows dining with me the other day, when I, with 
 great formality, produced my whigmeleerie cup, and told 
 them that it had been a family-piece among the descendants 
 of William Wallace. This roused such an enthusiasm, that 
 they insisted on bumpering the punch round in it ; and by- 
 and-by, never did your great ancestor lay a Southron more 
 completely to rest than for a time did your cup my two 
 friends. Apropos, this is the season of wishing. May God 
 bless you, my dear friend, and bless me, the humblest and 
 sincerest of your friends, by granting you yet many returns 
 of the season ! May all good things attend you and yours 
 wherever they are scattered over the earth I R. E. 
 
 CLXX. — To Mr. William Smp:llie, Printer. 
 
 DUMFRUCS, 22iid January 1792. 
 
 I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young lady* to 
 you, and a lady in the first ranks of fashion, too. What a 
 task ! to you — -who care no more for the herd of animals 
 called young ladies than you do for the herd of animals 
 called young gentlemen ; to you— who despise and detest 
 the groupings and combinations of lashion, as an idiot 
 painter that seems industrious to place staring fools and 
 
 * Maria Riddell, a ^ay, clever, youncj Creole, wife of Waller, brother 
 of Captain Riddell. 
 
 437
 
 2 74 LETTERS. 
 
 unprincipled knaves in the foreground of his picture, while 
 men of sense and honesty are too often thrown in the 
 dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddell, who will take this letter to 
 town with her, and send it to you, is a character that, even 
 in )-our own way as a naturalist and a philosopher, would be 
 an acquisition to your acquaintance. The lady, too, is a 
 votary of the muses ; and as I think myself somewhat of a 
 judge in my own trade, I assure you that her verses, always 
 correct, and often elegant, are much beyond the common 
 run of the lady poe 'esses of the day, She is a great admirer 
 of your book ; and, hearing me say that I was acquainted 
 with you, she begged to be known to you, as she is just 
 going to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. I 
 told her that her best way was to desire her near relation, 
 and your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to have you at his 
 house while she was there ; and lest you might think of a 
 lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too 
 often deserve to be thought of, I should take care to remove 
 that prejudice. To be impartial, however, in appreciating 
 the lady's merits, she has one unlucky faihng — a failing 
 which you will easily discover, as she seems rather pleased 
 with indulging in it ; and a failing that you will easily 
 pardon, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself; — 
 where she dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no more 
 a secret of it, than where she esteems and respects. 
 
 I will not present you with the unmeaning compliments of 
 the season, but I will send you my warmest wishes and most 
 ardent prayers, that Fortune may never throw your sub- 
 sistence to the mercy of a knave, or set your character 
 on the judgment of a fool ; but that, upright and erect, 
 you may walk to an honest grave, where men of letters shall 
 say, here lies a man who did honour to science, and men of 
 worth shall say, here lies a man who did honour to human 
 nature. R. B.
 
 LETTERS. 275 
 
 CLXXI.— To Mr. William Nicol. 
 
 20th February 1792. 
 
 O THOU wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of 
 prudence, full moon of discretion, and chief of many 
 counsellors ! How infinitely is thy puddle-headed, rattle- 
 headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy 
 super-eminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy 
 own right-lined rectitude, thoti lookest benignly down on an 
 erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag wanderings defy all the 
 powers of calculation, from the simple copulation of units, 
 up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May one feeble 
 ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, 
 straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of 
 inspiration, may it be my portion, so that I may be less un- 
 worthy of the face and favour of that father of proverbs and 
 master of maxims, that antipode of folly, and magnet 
 among the sages, the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen ! 
 Amen ! Yea, so be it ! 
 
 For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing ! 
 From the cave of my ignorance, amid the fogs of my 
 dulness, and pestilential fumes of my political heresies, I 
 look up to thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred 
 lucarne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory of a 
 summer sun ! Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, 
 When shall my name be the quotation of the wise, and my 
 countenance be the delight of the godly, like the illustrious 
 lord of Laggan's many hills?* As for him, his works 
 are perfect : never did the pen of calumny blur the fair 
 page of his reputation, nor the bolt of hatred fly at his 
 dwelling. 
 
 Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfin lamp of my 
 glimmerous understanding, purged from sensual appetites 
 and gross desires, shine like the constellation of thy intel- 
 lectual powers. As for thee, thy thoughts are pure and thy 
 
 * Mr. Nicol had purchased a small jnccc of ground called Laggan, 
 on llie Nitli. There look i)lace the Bacchanalian scene which called 
 forth " Willie brew'd a peck o" ALiul.
 
 276 LETTERS. 
 
 lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath of the 
 powers of darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute 
 tlie sacred flame of thy sky-descended and heaven-bound 
 desires : never did the vapours of impurity stain the un- 
 clouded serene of thy cerulean imagination. O that like 
 thine were the tenor of my life, like thine the tenor of my 
 conversation ! then should no friend fear for my strength, 
 no enemy rejoice in my weakness! Then should I lie down 
 and rise up, and none to make me afraid. May thy pity 
 and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou lamp of wisdom 
 and mirror of morality ! thy devoted slave, R. B. 
 
 CLXXII.— To Mr. Francis Grose, F.S.A. 
 
 Dumfries, 1792. 
 
 Among the many witch stories I have heard, relating to 
 AUoway Kirk, I distinctly remember only two or three. 
 
 Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind, and 
 bitter blasts of hail ; in short, on such a night as the devil 
 would choose to take the air in ; a farmer or farmer's 
 servant was plodding and plashing homeward with his 
 plough-irons on his shoulder, having been getting some 
 repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His way lay by 
 the kirk of Alloway, and being rather on the anxious look 
 out in approaching a place so well known to be a favourite 
 haunt of the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, he 
 was struck aghast by discovering through the horrors of the 
 storm and stormy night, a light, which on his nearer ap- 
 proach plainly showed itself to proceed from the haunted 
 edifice. Whether he had been fortified from above on his 
 devout supplication, as is customary with people when they 
 suspect the immediate presence of Satan ; or whether, 
 according to another custom, he got courageously drunk at 
 the smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; but so it was 
 that he ventured to go up to, nay, into the very kirk. As 
 luck would have it his temerity came off unpunished.
 
 LETTERS. 277 
 
 The members of the infernal junto were all out on some 
 midnight business or other, and he saw nothing but a kind 
 of kettle or caldron, depending from the roof, over the fire, 
 simmering some heads of unchristened children, limbs of 
 executed malefactors, etc., for the business of the night. 
 It was in for a penny, in for a pound, with the honest 
 ploughman : so without ceremony he unhooked the caldron 
 from off the fire, and, pouring out the damn'd ingredients, 
 inverted it on his head, and carried it fairly home, where it 
 remained long in the family, a living evidence of the truth 
 of the story. 
 
 Another story, which I can prove to be equally authentic, 
 is as follows : 
 
 On a market day in the town of Ayr a farmer from 
 Carrick, and consequently whose way lay by the very gate 
 of Alloway kirk-yard, in order to cross the river Doon at the 
 old Bridge, which is about two or three hundred yards 
 farther on than the said gate, had been detained by his 
 business, till by the time he reached Alloway it was the 
 wizard hour, between night and morning. 
 
 Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the 
 kirk, yet as it is a well-known fact that to turn back on these 
 occasions is running by far the greatest risk of mischief, he 
 prudently advanced on his road. When he had reached 
 the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and entertained, 
 through the ribs and arches of an old gothic window, which 
 still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches merrily 
 footing it round their old sooty blackguard master, who was 
 keeping thtm all alive with the power of his bagpipe. 1 he 
 farmer stopping his horse to observe them a little, could 
 plainly descry the faces of many old women of his acquaint- 
 ance and neighbourhood. How the gentleman was dressed 
 tradition does not say; but that tlie ladies were all in their 
 smocks : and one of them happening unluckily to have a 
 smock which was considerably too short to answer all the 
 purpose of that piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled 
 that he involuntarily burst out with a loud laugh, " Weel 
 luppen, Maggy wi' the short sark ! " and recollecting
 
 2 7S LETTERS. 
 
 himself, instantly spurred his horse to the top of his speed. 
 I need not mention the universally known fact, that no 
 diabolical power can pursue you beyond the middle of a 
 running stream. Lucky it was for the poor farmer that the 
 river Doon was so near, for, notwithstanding the speed of 
 his horse, which was a good one, against he reached the 
 middle of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the 
 middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags were so 
 close at his heels, that one of them actually sprung to 
 seize him ; but it was too late ; nothing was on her side of 
 the stream but the horse's tail, which immediately gave way 
 at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke of lightning; 
 but the farmer was beyond her reach. However, the 
 unsightly, tail-less condition of the vigorous steed was to 
 the last hour of the noble creature's life, an awful warning 
 to the Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in Ayr markets. 
 
 The last relation I shall give, though equally true, is not 
 so well identified as the two former, with regard to the 
 scene ; but as the best authorities give it for Alloway, I shall 
 relate it. 
 
 On a summer's evening, about the time nature puts on 
 her sables to mourn the expiry of the cheerful day, a shep- 
 herd boy, belonging to a farmer in the immediate neighbour- 
 hood of Alloway kirk, had just folded his charge, and was 
 returning home. As he passed the kirk, in the adjoining 
 field he fell in with a crew of men and women, who were 
 busy pulling stems of the plant ragwort. He observed that 
 as each person pulled a ragwort, he or she got astride of it, and 
 called out, " Up, horsie ! " on which the ragwort flew off, like 
 Pegasus, through the air with its rider. The foolish boy 
 likewise pulled his ragwort, and cried with the rest, " Up, 
 horsie !" and, strange to tell, away he flew with the company. 
 The first stage at which the cavalcade stopt was a merchant's 
 wine-cellar in Bourdeaux, where, without saying " By your 
 leave," they quaffed away at the best the cellar could afford, 
 until the morning, foe to the imps and works of darkness, 
 threatened to throw light on the matter, and frightened 
 them from their carousals.
 
 LETTERS. 279 
 
 The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stranger to the 
 scene and the liquor, heedlessly got himself drunk; and 
 when the rest took horse, he fell asleep, and was found so 
 next day by some of the people belonging to the merchant. 
 Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him what he was, 
 he said such-a-one's herd in AUoway, and by some means 
 or other getting home again, he lived long to tell the world 
 the wondrous tale.* R- B, 
 
 CLXXIII.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Annan Water Foot, 22nd August 179?. 
 
 Do not blame me for it, Madam — my own conscience, 
 hackneyed and weather-beaten as it is, in watching and 
 reproving my vagaries, follies, indolence, etc., has continued 
 to punish me sutificiently. 
 
 Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured friend, 
 that I could be so lost to gratitude for many favours ; to 
 esteem for much worth ; and to the honest, kind, pleasurable 
 tie of, now old acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of 
 progressive, increasing friendship— as, for a single day, not 
 to think of you nor to ask the Fates what they are doing and 
 about to do with my nmch loved friend and her wide scat- 
 tered connections, and to beg of them to be as kind to you 
 and yours as they possibly can ? 
 
 Apropos ! (though how it is apropos I have not leisure to 
 explain) do you know that I am almost in love with an 
 acquaintance of yours ? — Almost ! said I — I am in love, 
 souse ! over head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable 
 abyss of the boundless ocean; but the word Love, owing 
 to the inlermingledoms of the good and the bad, the pure 
 and the impure, in this world, being rather an equivocal 
 term for expressing one's sentiments and sensations, I must 
 do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment. Know, 
 then, that the heart-struck awe ; the distant humble 
 approach ; the delight we should have in gazing upon and 
 listening to a Messenger of Heaven, appearing in all the 
 ♦ C/. Iloirg's Witch of fife.
 
 2 So LETTERS. 
 
 unspotted purity of his celestial home, among the coarse, 
 polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver to them tidings 
 that make their hearts swim in joy, and their imaginations 
 soar in transport — such, so delighting and so pure, were the 
 emotions of my soul on meeting the other day with Miss 
 Lesley Baillie, your neighbour at Mayfield. Mr. B., with his 
 two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. of G., passing 
 through Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to En;4a.nd, 
 did me the honour of calling on me ; on which I took my 
 horse (though God knows I could ill spare the time), and 
 accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and dined and 
 spent the day with them. 'Twas about nme, I think, when 
 I left them, and, riding home, I composed the following 
 ballad, of which you will probably think you have a dear 
 bargain, as it will cost you another groat of postage. You 
 must know that there is an old ballad beginning with — 
 
 My bonnie Lizzie Bailie, 
 
 I'll rowe thee in my plaidie, (etc.) 
 
 So I parodied it as follows, which is Hterally the first copy, 
 " unanointcd, unanneal'd," as Hamlet says, — 
 
 O saw ye bonny Lesley 
 
 As she gaed o'er the border ? 
 She's gane, like Alexander, 
 
 To spread her conquests farther, (etc.) 
 
 So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to the 
 east country, as I am to be in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. 
 This world of ours, notwithstanding it has many good 
 things in it, yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three 
 people, who would be the happier the oftener they met 
 together, are, almost without exception, always so placed as 
 never to meet but once or twice a-year, which, considering 
 the few years of a man's life, is a very great " evil under the 
 sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon has mentioned 
 in his catalogue of the miseries of man. I hope and believe 
 that there is a state of existence beyond the grave, where 
 the worthy of this life will renew their former intimacies, 
 with this endearing addition, that " we meet to part no 
 piore ! "
 
 LETTERS. 281 
 
 Tell us, ye dead, 
 Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
 What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ! 
 
 A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the 
 departed sons of men, but not one of them has ever thought 
 fit to answer the question. "O that some courteous ghost 
 would blab it out ! " but it cannot be ; you and I, my 
 friend, must make the experiment by ourselves, and for our- 
 selves. However, I am so convinced that an unskaken faith 
 in the doctrines of religion is not only necessary, by making 
 us better men, but also by making us happier men, that I 
 shall take every care that your little godson, and every 
 little creature that shall call me father, shall be taught them. 
 So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at this v.ild 
 place of the world, in the intervals of my labour of dis- 
 cliarging a vessel of rum from Antigua. R. B. 
 
 CLXXIV. — To Mr. Cunningham. 
 
 Dumfries, \oth September I'jqz. 
 No ! I will not attempt an apology. Amid all my hurry 
 of business, grinding the faces of the publican and the 
 sinner on the merciless wheels of the Excise ; making 
 ballads, and then drinking, and singing them ; and, over and 
 above all, the correcting the press-work of two different 
 publications ; still, still I might have stolen five minutes to 
 dedicate to one of the first of my friends and fellcw- 
 creatures. I might have done, as I do at present — snatched 
 an hour near " witcliing time of night," and scrawled a page 
 or two; I might have congratulated my friend on his 
 marriage ; or I might have thanked the Caledonian archers 
 for the honour they have done me (though, to do myself 
 justice, I intended to have done both in rhyme, else I had 
 done both long ere now). Well, then, here is to your good 
 health ! for you must know, I have set a nipperkin of toddy
 
 282 LETTERS. 
 
 by me, just by way of spell, to keep away the meikle horned 
 deil, or any of his subaltern imps who may be on their 
 nightly rounds. 
 
 But what shall I write to you ? — " The voice said, cry," 
 and I said, " What shall I cry?" — O, thou spirit ! whatever 
 thou art, or wherever thou makest thyself visible ! be thou 
 a bogle by the eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary 
 glen through which the herd-callan maun bicker in his 
 gloamin route frae the fauld ! — Be thou a brownie, set, at 
 dead of night, to thy task by the blazing ingle, or in the 
 solitary barn, where the repercussions of thy iron flail half 
 affright thyself, as thou performest the work of twenty of the 
 sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy 
 ample cog of substantial brose. Be thou a kelpie, haunting 
 the ford or ferry, in the starless night, mixing thy laughing 
 yell with the howling of the storm and the roaring of the 
 flood, as thou viewest the perils and miseries of man on the 
 foundering horse, or in the tumbling boat ! — Or, lastly, be 
 thou a ghost, paying thy noclurnal visits to the hoary ruins 
 of decayed grandeur ; or performing thy mystic rites in the 
 shadow of the time-worn church, while the moon looks, 
 without a cloud, on the silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead 
 around thee ; or taking thy stand by the bedside of the 
 villain, or the murderer, portraying on his dreaming fancy, 
 pictures, dreadful as the horrors of unveiled hell, and ter- 
 rible as the wrath of incensed Deity 1 — Come, thou spirit, 
 but not in these horrid forms ; come with the milder, gentle, 
 easy inspirations, which thou breathest round the wig of a 
 prating advocate, or the tetc of a tea-sipping gossip, while 
 their tongues run at the li^ht-horse gallop of clish-maclavcr 
 for ever and ever — come and assist a poor devil who is 
 quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea among half 
 a hundred words ; to fill up four quarto pages, while he has 
 not got one single sentence of recollection, information, or 
 remark worth putting pen to paper for. 
 
 I feel, I feel the presence of supernatural assistance ! 
 Circled in the embrace of my elbow-chair, my breast labours, 
 liked the bloated Sibyl on her three-footed stool, and like
 
 LETTERS. 285 
 
 her too, labours with Nonsense. Nonsense, auspicious 
 name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the mystic mazes 
 of law ; the cadaverous paths of physic : and particularly in 
 the sightless soarings of school divinity, who, leaving 
 Common Sense confounded at the strength of his pinion ; 
 Reason delirious with eyeing his giddy flight; and Truth 
 creeping back into the bottom of her well, cursing the hour 
 that ever she offered her scorned alliance to the wizard 
 power of Theologic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds : — 
 " On earth discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, opening her 
 jealous gates to the nineteen-thousandth part of the tithe 
 of mankind ! and below, an inescapable and inexorable 
 hell, expanding its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of 
 mortals ! ! ! " — O doctrine ! comfortable and healing to the 
 weary wounded soul of man ! Ye sons and daughters of 
 affliction, ye fauvres miserables, to whom day brings no 
 pleasure, and night yields no rest, be comforted ! 'Tis 
 but one to nineteen hundred thousand that your situation 
 will mend in this world ; so, alas, the experience of the 
 poor and needy too often affirms ; and 'tis nineteen hun- 
 dred thousand to one,, by the dogmas of Theology, that you 
 will be condemned eternally in the world to come ! 
 
 But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is the most 
 nonsensical ; so enough, and more than enough, of it. 
 Only, by-the-bye, will you, or can you tell me, my clear 
 Cunningham, why a sectarian turn of mind has always a 
 tendency to narrow and illiberalise the heart? They are 
 orderly ; they may be just ; nay, I have known them mer- 
 ciful : but still your children of sanctity move among their 
 fellow-creatures with a nostril snuffing putrescence, and a 
 foot spurning filth — in short, with a conceited dignity that 
 your titled Douglases, or any other of your Scottish lordlings 
 of seven centuries standing, display when they accidentally 
 mix among the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. I 
 remember, in my plough-boy days, I could not conceive it 
 possible that a nol)le lord could be a fool, or a godly man 
 could be a knave. How ignorant are plough-boys I — Nay, 
 I have since discovered that a godly woman may be a !
 
 284 LETTERS. 
 
 —But hold — here's t'ye again — this rum is generous Antigua, 
 so a very unfit menstruum for scandal. 
 
 Apropos, how do you like, I mean really like, the married 
 life ? Ah, my friend ! matrimony is quite a different thing 
 from what your love-sick youths and sighing girls take it to 
 be ! But marriage, we are told, is appointed by God, and 
 I shall never quarrel with any of His institutions. I am a 
 husband of older standing than you, and shall give you my 
 ideas of the conjugal state, (en passojit — you know I am no 
 Latinist — is not conjugal derived from Jugn?n, a yoke ?) 
 Well, then, the scale of good wifeship I divide into ten 
 parts. Good-nature, four ; Good Sense, two ; Wit, one ; 
 Personal Charms, viz., a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine 
 limbs, graceful carriage (I would add a fine waist too, but that 
 is so soon spoilt, you know), all these, one ; as for the other 
 qualities belonging to, or attending on, a wife, such as For- 
 tune, Connections, Education (I mean education extra- 
 ordinary). Family blood, etc., divide the two remaining 
 degrees among them as you please ; .only, remember that 
 all these minor properties must be expressed by fractions, 
 for there is not any one of thenl, in the aforesaid scale, 
 entitled to the dignity of an integer. 
 
 As for the rest of my fancies and reveries — how I lately 
 met with Miss Lesley Baillie, the most beautiful, elegant 
 woman in the world — how I accompanied her and her 
 father's family fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure 
 devotion, to admire the loveliness of the works of God, in 
 such an unequalled display of them — how, in galloping 
 home at night, I made a ballad on her, of which these two 
 stanzas make a part — 
 
 Thou, bonnie Lesley, art a queen, 
 
 Thy subjects we before thee ; 
 Thou, bonnie Lesley, art divine, 
 
 The hearts o' men adore thee. 
 The very deil he could na scathe 
 
 Whatever wad belang thee ! 
 Ile'd look into thy bonnie face 
 
 And say, " I canna wrang thee"—
 
 LETTERS. 285 
 
 behold all these things are written in the chronicles of my 
 imagination, and shall be read by thee, my dear friend, 
 and by thy beloved spouse, my other dear friend, at a more 
 convenient season. 
 
 Now to thee and thy wife \etc. — a mock benediction.] 
 
 K. B. 
 
 CLXXV.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Dumfries, 24//^ September 1792. 
 
 I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, yours of tne 
 twenty-third. All your other kind reproaches, your news, 
 etc., are out of my head when I read and think of Mrs. 
 Henri's* situation. Good God ! a heart-wounded helpless 
 young woman — in a strange, foreign land, and that land 
 convulsed with every horror that can harrow the human 
 feelings — sick — looking, longing for a comforter, but find- 
 ing none — a mother's feelings, too : — but it is too much : 
 He who wounded (He only can) may He heal ! 
 
 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. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, unconscionable 
 rent, a cursed life I As to a laird farming his own property ; 
 sowing his own corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite of 
 brittle weather, in gladness ; knowing that none can say 
 unto him, "What do.st thou?" — fattening his herds; shear- 
 ing 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 reaping the fruits that another must eat ! 
 
 Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing me 
 when I make my Ayrshire visit. I cannot leave Mrs. Burns 
 until her nine months' race is run, which may perhaps be in 
 three or four weeks. She, too, seems determined to make 
 me the patriarchal leader of a band. However, if Heaven 
 will be so obliging as to let me have them in the proportion 
 of three boys to one girl, I shall be so much the more 
 * Her daughter, ill in France.
 
 286 LETTERS. 
 
 pleased. 1 hope, if I am spared with them, to show a set 
 of boys that will do honour to my cares and name ; but I 
 am not equal to the task of rearing girls. Besides, I am 
 too poor ; a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, 
 your little godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very deil. 
 He, though two years younger, has completely mastered his 
 brother. Robert is indeed the mildest, gentlest creature I 
 ever saw. He has a most surprising memory, and is quite 
 the pride of his schoolmaster. 
 
 You know how readily we get into prattle upon a subject 
 dear to our heart : you can excuse it. God bless you and 
 yours ! 
 
 CLXXVI.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Supposed (o have been written on the Death of Airs. Henri, her 
 Daughter, at Mtiges. 
 
 I HAD been from home, and did not receive your letter 
 until my return the other day. What shall I say to comfort 
 you, my much-valued, much-afflicted friend ! I can but 
 grieve with you ; consolation I have none to offer, except 
 that which religion holds out to the children of affliction — 
 chiidre7i of affliction f — how just the expression ! and like 
 every other family, they have matters among them which 
 they hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-important manner, 
 of which the world has not, nor cares to have, any idea, 
 The world looks indifferently on, makes the passing remark, 
 and proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 
 
 Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many years ? What 
 is it but to drag existence until our joys gradually expire, 
 and leave us in a night of misery : like the gloom which 
 blots out the stars, one by one, from the face of night, and 
 leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howling waste ! 
 
 I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon 
 hear Irom me again. R. B.
 
 LETTERS. 287 
 
 CLXXVIL— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Dumfries, dth December 1792. 
 
 I SHALT, be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; and, if at all 
 possible, I shall certainly, my much esteemed friend, have 
 the pleasure of visiting at Dunlop House. 
 
 Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in this world, 
 that we have reason to congratulate ourselves on accessions 
 of happiness ! I have not passed half the ordinary term of 
 an old man's life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary 
 of a newspaper that I do not see some names that I have 
 known, and which I and other acquaintances little thought 
 to meet with there so soon. Every other instance of the 
 mortality of our kind makes us cast an anxious look into the 
 dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with apprehen- 
 sion for our own fate. But of how different an importance 
 are the lives of different individuals ! Nay. of what 
 importance is one period of the same life more than 
 another ? A few years ago I could have lain down in the 
 dust, "careless of the voice of the morning; " and now not 
 a few, and these most helpless individuals, would, on losing 
 me and my exertions, lose both "staff and shield." By the 
 way, these helpless ones have lately got an addition — Mrs. 
 B. having given me a fine girl since I wrote you. There is 
 a charming passage in Thomson's " Edward and Eleanora : " 
 
 The valiant, in Jiiviself, what can he sufter? 
 Or what need he regard his single woes ? (etc. ) 
 
 I do not remember to have heard you mention Thomson's 
 dramas. I pick up favourite quotations, and store them in 
 my mind as ready armour, offensive or defensive, amid the 
 struggle of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a very 
 favourite one, from his " Alfred : " 
 
 Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
 
 And offices of life ; to life itself, 
 
 With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose. 
 
 Probably I have quoted these to you formerly, as indeed, 
 when 1 wiitc iiuiu the hcail, I am apt tu be guilty of
 
 288 LETTERS. 
 
 repetitions. The compass of the heart, in the musical 
 style of expression, is much more bounded than that of the 
 imagination ; so the notes of the former are extremely apt 
 to run into one another ; but in return for the paucity of its 
 compass, its few notes are much more sweet. . . . 
 
 I see you are in for double postage, so I shall e'en 
 scribble out t'other sheet. We in this country here have 
 many alarms of the reforming, or rather the republican 
 spirit, of your part of the kingdom. Indeed, we are a good 
 deal in commotion ourselves. For me, I am a placeman, 
 you know ; a very humble one indeed, Heaven knows, but 
 still so much as to gag me. What my private sentiments 
 are, you will find out without an interpreter. 
 
 I have taken up the subject, and the other day, for a 
 pretty actress's benefit night, I wrote an address, which 
 I will give on the other page, called " The Rights of Woman." 
 I shall have the honour of receiving your criticisms in person 
 at Dunlop. R. B. 
 
 CLXXVIIL— To Mr. R. Graham, Fintry. 
 
 December 1792. 
 
 Sir, — I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted, 
 by Mr. Mitchel, the collector, telling me that he has 
 received 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 disgraced from a situation in which 
 they had been respectable and respected, and left almost 
 without the necessary support of a miserable existence. 
 Alas, Sir ! must I think that such, soon, will be my lot ! and 
 from the damn'd, dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy 
 too ! I believe, Sir, I may aver it, and in the sight of 
 Omniscience, that I would not tell a deliberate falsehood, no,
 
 LETTERS. 289 
 
 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. You, Sir, have been 
 much and generously my friend : Heaven knows how 
 warmly I have felt the obhgation, and how gratefully I have 
 thanked you. 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 ; were 
 such my insular, unconnected situation, I would despise the 
 tear that now swells in my eye — I could brave misfortune, 
 I could face ruin ; for at the worst, "Death's thousand doors 
 stand open ; " but, good God ! the tender concerns that 
 I have mentioned, the claims and ties that 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 
 Irom that misery which threatens to overwhelm me, and 
 which, with my latest breath I will say it, I have not 
 deserved. R. B. 
 
 CLXXIX.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Dumfries, 2,'ist December 1792. 
 
 Dear Madam, — A hurry of business, thrown in heaps by 
 my absence, has until now prevented my returning my 
 grateful acknowledgments to the good family of Dunlop, 
 and you in particular, for that hospitable kindness which 
 rendered the four days I spent under that genial roof, four 
 of the pleasantest I ever enjoyed. Alas, my dearest friend ! 
 how few and fleeting are those things we call pleasures ! on 
 my road to Ayrshire I spent a night with a friend whom I 
 much valued ; a man whose days promised to be many ; 
 and on Saturday last we laid him in the dust ! 
 
 438
 
 290 LETTERS. 
 
 Jail, 2nd, 1793. 
 
 I have just received yours of the 30th, and feel much for 
 your situation. Hovvever, I heartily rejoice in your prospect 
 of recovery from that vile jaundice. As to myself, I am 
 better, though not quite free of my complaint. You must 
 not think, as you seem to insinuate, that 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 country, that do me the mischief — but even this I have 
 more than half given over. 
 
 Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at present ; at 
 least I should be shy of applying. I cannot possibly be 
 settled as a supervisor for several years. I must wait the 
 rotation of the list, and there are twenty names before mine. 
 — I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a settled 
 supervisor was ill, or aged ; but that hauls me from my family, 
 as I could not remove them on such an uncertainty. Be- 
 sides, some envious, malicious devil has raised a little 
 demur on my political principles, and I wish to let that 
 matter settle before I offer myself too much in the eye of 
 my supervisors. I have set, henceforth, a seal on my lips, 
 as to these unlucky politics ; but to you I must breathe my 
 sentiments. In this, as in everything else, I shall show the 
 undisguised emotions of my soul. War I deprecate : misery 
 and ruin to thousands are in the blast that announces the 
 destructive demon. But. ... R. B. 
 
 CLXXX. — To Mr. Robert Graham of Fintry. 
 
 Dumfries, Mortiing of ^th Jan. 1793. 
 
 Sir, — I am this moment honoured with your letter. 
 With what feelings I received this other instance of your 
 goodness I shall not pretend to describe. 
 
 Now to the charges which malice and misrepresentation
 
 LETTERS. 291 
 
 have brought against me.* It has been said, it seems, that 
 I not only belong to, but head a disaffected party in this 
 town. I know of no party here, republican or reform, 
 except an old Burgh-Reform party, with which I never had 
 anything to do. Individuals, both republican and reform, we 
 have, though not many of either ; but if they have associated, 
 it is more than I have the least knowledge of, and if such 
 an association exist it must consist of such obscure, nameless 
 beings as precludes any possibility of my being known to 
 them, or they to me. 
 
 I was in the playhouse one night when Ci Ira was 
 called for. I was in the middle of the pit, and from the 
 pit the clamour arose. One or two persons, with whom I 
 occasionally associate, were of the party, but I neither knew 
 of, nor joined in the plot, nor at all opened my lips to hiss 
 or huzza that, or any other political tune whatever. I 
 looked on myself as far too obscure a man to have any 
 weight in quelling a riot, and at the same time as a person 
 of higher respectability than to yell to the bowlings of a 
 rabble. I never uttered any invectives against the king. 
 His private worth it is altogether impossible that such a man 
 as I can appreciate ; but in his public capacity I always 
 revered, and always will with the soundest loyalty revere 
 the monarch of Great Britain as — to speak in masonic — 
 the sacred keystone of our royal arch constitution. As to 
 Reform principles, I look upon the British Constitution, as 
 settled at the Revolution, to be the most glorious on earth, 
 or that perhaps the wit of man can frame ; at the same 
 time I think, not alone, that we have a good deal deviated 
 from the original principles of that Constitution, — par- 
 ticularly, that an alarming system of corruption has pervaded 
 the connection between the Executive and the House of 
 Commons. This is the whole truth of my Reform opinions, 
 which, before I knew the complexion of these innovat- 
 ing times, I too unguardedly as I now see sported with : 
 henceforth I seal up my lips. But I never dictated to, 
 
 * liccause of what Burns elsewhere called " Some temeraire conduct 
 of mine, in the political opinions of the day."
 
 292 LETTERS. 
 
 corresponded with, or had the least connection with any 
 pohtical association whatever. Of Johnstone, the pubHsher 
 of the Edinburgh Gazettee?-, I know nothing. One evening, 
 in company with four or five friends, we met with his pro- 
 spectus, which we thought manly and independent ; and I 
 wrote to him, ordering his paper for us. If you think I act 
 improperly in allowing his paper to come addressed to me, 
 I shall immediately countermand it. I never wrote a line of 
 prose to The Gazetteer in my life. An address, spoken by 
 Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, and which I called 
 "The Rights of Woman," I sent to The Gazetteer, as also 
 some stanzas on the Commemoration of the poet Thomson : 
 both of these I will subjoin for your perusal. You will see 
 they have nothing whatever to do with politics. 
 
 As to France, I was her enthusiastic votary in the begin- 
 ning of the business. When she came to shew her old 
 avidity for conquest by annexing Savoy and invading the 
 rights of Holland, 1 altered my sentiments. 
 
 This, my honoured patron, is all. To this statement I 
 challenge disquisition. Mistaken prejudice or unguarded 
 passion may mislead, have often misled me; but when 
 called on to answer for my mistakes, though no man can 
 feel keener compunction for them, yet no man can be more 
 superior to evasion or disguise. — I have the honour to be, 
 Sir, your ever grateful, etc., Robt. Burns. 
 
 CLXXXL— To Mr. Alex. Cunningham, W.S., Edinburgh. 
 
 Dumfries, loth Feb. 1793. 
 
 What are you doing? "What hurry have you got on 
 
 your head, my dear Cunningham, that I have not heard 
 
 from you ? Are you deeply engaged in the mazes of the 
 
 law, the mysteries of love, or the profound wisdom of 
 
 politics ? Curse on the word ! 
 
 Q. What is Politics ? 
 
 A. It is a science wherewith, by means of nefarious
 
 LETTERS. 293 
 
 cunning and hypocritical pretence, we govern civil politics 
 {sic) for the emolument of ourselves and adherents. 
 
 Q. What is a minister ? 
 
 A. An unprincipled fellow who, by the influence of 
 hereditary or acquired wealth, by superior abilities or by a 
 lucky conjuncture of circumstances, obtains a principal 
 place in the administration of the affairs of government. 
 
 Q. What is a patriot ? 
 
 A. An individual exactly of the same description as a 
 minister, only out of place. 
 
 I was interrupted in my Catechism, and am returned at a 
 late hour just to subscribe my name, and to put you in 
 mind of the forgotten friend of that name who is still in the 
 land of the living, though I can hardly say in the place of 
 hope. 
 
 I made the enclosed sonnet* the other day. Adieu ! 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 CLXXXII.— To Mr. Cunningham. 
 
 yd March 1793. 
 
 Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not 
 had time to write to you farther. When I say that I had 
 not time, that, as usual, means that the three demons, indo- 
 lence, business, and ennui, have so completely shared my 
 hours among them, as not to leave me a five minutes' 
 fragment to take up a pen in. 
 
 Thank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards with 
 the renovating year. Now I shall in good earnest take up 
 Thomson's songs. I dare say he thinks I have used him 
 unkindly, and I must own with too much appearance of 
 truth. . , . 
 
 There is one commission that I must trouble you with. 
 I lately lost a valuable seal, a present from a departed 
 
 * " On Hearing a Thrush Sing."
 
 2 94 LETTERS, 
 
 friend, which vexes me much. I have gotten one of your 
 Highland pebbles, which I fancy would make a very decent 
 one ; and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it ; will you 
 be so obliging as inquire what will be the expense of such 
 a business ? I do not know that my name is matriculated, 
 as the heralds call it, at all ; but I have invented arms for 
 myself, so you know I shall be chief of the name ; and, by 
 courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to supporters. 
 These, however, I do not intend having on my seal. I am 
 a bit of a herald, and shall give you, secundum artem, my 
 arms. On a field, azure, a holly bush, seeded, proper, in 
 base ; a shepherd's pipe and crook, saltier-wise, also proper, 
 in chief. On a wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching 
 on a sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes ; 
 round the top of the crest, Wood notes wild ; at the bottom 
 of the shield, in the usual place, Better a wee bush than nae 
 bield. By the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the 
 nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a Stock and Horn, and 
 a Club, such as you see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in 
 Allan's quarto edition of the " Gentle Shepherd." By-the- 
 bye, do you know Allan ? He must be a man of very great 
 genius — Why is he not more known ? — Has he no patrons ? 
 or do "Poverty's cold wind and crushing rain beat keen 
 and heavy " on him ? I once, and but once, got a glance 
 of that noble edition of the noblest pastoral in the world : 
 and dear as it was, I mean dear as to my pocket, I would 
 have bought it ; but I was told that it was printed and 
 engraved for subscribers only. He is the only artist who 
 has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my dear Cunning- 
 ham, is there in riches, that they narrow and harden the 
 heart so ? I think, that were I as rich as the sun, I should 
 be as generous as the day : but as I have no reason to 
 imagine my soul a nobler one than any other man's, I must 
 conclude that wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the 
 possessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, would 
 have revolted. What has led me to this, is the idea of such 
 merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches as a nabob or 
 government contractor possesses, and why they do not form
 
 LETTERS. 295 
 
 a mutual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish unpro- 
 tected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit 
 will richly repay it, R. B. 
 
 CLXXXIII. — To Miss Benson, York, afterwards 
 Mrs. Basil Montagu. 
 
 Dumfries, "Zist March 1793. 
 
 Madam, — Among many things for which I envy those 
 hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is this in 
 particular, that when they met with anybody after their own 
 heart, they had a charming long prospect of many, many 
 happy meetings with them in after-life. 
 
 Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting 
 existence, when you now and then, in the Chapter of 
 Accidents, meet an individual whose acquaintance is a real 
 acquisition, there are all the probabihties against you, that 
 you shall never meet with that valued character more. On 
 the other hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is none 
 of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there is 
 any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you 
 despise, the ill-run of the chances shall be so against you, 
 that in the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of life, pop ! 
 at some unlucky corner, eternally comes the wretch upon 
 you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt a 
 moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the 
 powers of darkness, I lake these to be the doings of that 
 old author of mischief, the devil. It is well known that he 
 has some kind of short-hand way of taking down our 
 thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is perfectly ac- 
 quainted with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson ; how 
 much I admired her abilities and valued her worth, and how 
 very fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. For 
 this last reason, my dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes 
 of the very great pleasure of meeting with you again. — I am, 
 etc. R. B.
 
 296 LETTERS. 
 
 CLXXXIV.— To Mr. John Francis Erskine, of Mar. 
 
 Dumfries, 13//^ April 1793. 
 
 Sir, — Degenerate as human nature is said to be — and in 
 many instances worthless and unprincipled it is — still there 
 are bright examples to the contrary : examples that, even in 
 the eyes of superior beings, must shed a lustre on the name' 
 of Man. 
 
 Such an example have I now before me, when you, Sir, 
 came forward to patronise and befriend a distant and obscure 
 stranger, merely because poverty had made him helpless, 
 and his British hardihood of mind had provoked the 
 arbitrary of wantonness and power. My much esteemed 
 friend, Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, has just read me a 
 paragraph of a letter he had from you. Accept, Sir, of the 
 silent throb of gratitude, for words would but mock the 
 emotions of my soul. 
 
 You have been misinformed as to my final dismissal 
 from the Excise ; I am still in the service. Indeed, but for 
 the exertions of a gentleman who must be known to you, 
 Mr. Graham of Fintry, a gentleman v/ho 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. 
 Had I had any other resource, probably I might have saved 
 them the trouble of a dismissal ; but the little money I 
 gained by my publication is almost every guinea embarked 
 to save from ruin an only brother, who, though one of the 
 worthiest, is by no means one of the most fortunate of 
 men. 
 
 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 con- 
 sideration of my being situated in a department, however 
 humble, immediately in the hands of people in power, I had
 
 LETTERS. 297 
 
 forborne taking any active part, either personally, 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. Some such sentiments 
 as these I stated in a letter to my generous patron, Mr. 
 Graham, which he laid before the Board at large ; where, it 
 seems, my last remark gave great offence : and one of our 
 supervisors-general, a Mr. Corbet, was instructed to inquire 
 on the spot, and to document me — " that my business was 
 to act, 7wt to think ; and that whatever might be men or 
 measures, it was for me to be silent and obedient^ 
 
 Mr. Corbet was likewise 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. 
 
 Now, Sir, to the business in which I would more 
 immediately interest you. The partiality of my countrymen 
 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. Reasons of no less weight than the 
 support of a wife and family, have pointed out as the 
 eligible, and situated as I was, the only eligible line of life 
 for me, my present occupation. Still my honest fame is my 
 dearest concern ; and a thousand times have I trembled at 
 the idea of those degradifig epithets that malice or mis- 
 representation may affix to my name. I have often, in 
 blasting anticipation, listened to some future hackney 
 scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage 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
 
 298 LETTERS. 
 
 of his insignificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and 
 among the vilest of mankind." 
 
 In your illustrious hands, Sir, permit me to lodge my 
 disavowal and defiance of these slanderous falsehoods. 
 Burns was a poor man from birth, and an exciseman by 
 necessity ; but — I will say it ! the sterling of his honest 
 worth no poverty could debase, and his independent 
 British mind, oppression might bend, but could not subdue. 
 Have not I, to me a more precious stake in my country's 
 welfare, than the richest dukedom in it ? — I have a large 
 family of children, and the prospect of more. I have 
 three sons, who, I see already, have brought into the world 
 souls ill qualified to inhabit the bodies of slaves. — Can I 
 look tamely on, and see any machinations to wrest from 
 them the birthright of my boys, — the little independent 
 Britons, in whose veins runs my own blood ? — No ! I will 
 not ! should my heart's blood stream around my attempt to 
 defend it ! 
 
 Does any man tell me that my full efforts can be of no 
 service ; and that it does not belong to my humble stauon 
 to meddle with the concerns of a nation ? 
 
 I can tell him that it is on such individuals as I that a 
 nation has to rest, both for the hand of support and the eye 
 of intelligence. The uninformed mob may swell a nation's 
 bulk ; and the titled, tinsel, courtly throng may be its 
 feathered ornament ; but the number of those who are 
 elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect, yet low 
 enough to keep clear of the venal contagion of a court ! — 
 these are a nation's strength. 
 
 I know not how to apologise for the impertinent length 
 of this epistle ; but one small request I must ask of you 
 farther — When you have honoured this letter with a perusal, 
 please to commit it to the flames. Burns, in whose behalf 
 you have so generously interested yourself, I have here, in 
 his native colours, drav.'n as he is ; but should any of the 
 people in whose hands is the very bread he eats, get the 
 least knowledge of the picture, it would ruin the poor bard 
 for ever ! '
 
 LETTERS. 299 
 
 My poems having just come out in another edition, I beg 
 leave to present you with a copy as a small mark of that 
 high esteem and ardent gratitude with which I have the 
 honour to be, Sir, your deeply indebted, and ever devoted, 
 humble servant, E.. B.* 
 
 CLXXXV. — To Miss M'Murdo, Drumlanrig. 
 
 Dumfries, yz/'j 1793. 
 
 . . . Now let me add a few wishes which every man, who 
 has himself the honour of being a father, must breathe 
 when he sees female youth, beauty, and innocence about to 
 enter into this chequered and very precarious world. May 
 you, my young madam, escape that Irivolity which threatens 
 universally to pervade the minds and manners of fashion- 
 able life. The mob of fashionable female youth — what are 
 they? Are they anything? They prattle, laugh, sing, 
 dance, finger a lesson, or perhaps turn the pages of a 
 fashionable novel ; but are their minds stored with any 
 information worthy of the noble powers of reason and 
 judgment ? and do their hearts glow with sentiment, ardent, 
 generous, or humane ? Were I to poetize on the subject I 
 would call them the butterflies of the human kind, remark- 
 able only for the idle variety of their ordinary glare, sillily 
 straying from one blossoming weed to another, without a 
 meaning or an aim, the idiot prey of every pirate of the 
 skies who thinks them worth his while as he wings his way 
 by them, and speedily by wintry time swept to that oblivion 
 whence they might as well never have appeared. Amid this 
 crowd of nothings may you be something, etc. R. B. 
 
 * This letter was penned in response to the sympathy which Mr. 
 Erskine had expressed for Burns in a letter to Captain Riddell of Carse, 
 when Burns was taken to task by the Board of Excise for his political 
 opinions.
 
 300 LETTERS. 
 
 CLXXXVT.— To John M'Murdo, Esq., Drumlanrig. 
 
 This is a painful, disagreeable letter, and the first of the 
 kind I ever wrote. I am truly in serious distress for three 
 or four guineas : can you, my dear sir, accommodate me ? 
 These accursed times by tripping up importation have, for 
 this year at least, lopped off a full third of my income 3* 
 and with my large family this is to me a distressing matter. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CLXXXVII.— To Mrs. Riddel. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I meant to have called on you yester- 
 night, but as I edged up to your box-door, the first object 
 which greeted my view, was one of those lobster-coated 
 puppiest sitting like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian 
 fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so obligingly 
 offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz 
 a part of your box-furniture on Tuesday ; when we may 
 arrange the business of the visit. 
 
 Among the profusion of idle compliments, which insidious 
 craft, or unmeaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine — 
 a shrine, how far exalted above such adoration — permit me, 
 were it but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest tribute of 
 a warm heart and an independent mind ; and to assure you 
 that I am, thou most amiable, and most accomplished of 
 thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, and fervent regard, 
 thine, etc. R. B. 
 
 CLXXXVIIL— To Mrs. Riddel. 
 
 I M^iLL wait on you, my ever valued friend, but whether 
 in the morning I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of 
 our curst revenue business, and may probably keep me 
 employed with my pen until noon. Fine employment for a 
 
 * Never more than ^^70. + Military officers.
 
 LETTERS. 301 
 
 poet's pen ! There is a species of human genus that I call 
 the gm-/iorse class : what enviable dogs they are ! Round, 
 and round, and round they go, — Mundell's ox, that drives 
 his cotton mill, is their exact prototype — without an idea or 
 wish beyond their circle; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, 
 and contented ; while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a 
 damn'd melange of fretfulness and melancholy; not enough 
 of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose 
 me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and fluttering round her 
 tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of winter, 
 and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that 
 it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he fore- 
 told — " And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his 
 heart, it shall not prosper ! " If my resentment is awaked, 
 it is sure to be where it dare not squeak ; and if — . . . . 
 Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CLXXXIX.— To Mrs. Riddel. 
 
 I HAVE often told you, my dear friend, that you had a 
 spice of caprice in your composition, and you have as often 
 disavowed it ; even perhaps while your opinions were, at the 
 moment, irrefragably proving it. Could atiy thing estrange 
 me from a friend such as you ? — No ! To-morrow I shall 
 have the honour of waiting on you. 
 
 Farewell, thou first of friends, and most accomplished of 
 women I even with all thy little caprices ! R B. 
 
 CXC— To Mrs. Riddel. 
 
 Madam, — I return your commonplace book. I have 
 perused it with much pleasure, and would have continued 
 my criticisms, but as it seems the critic has forfeited your 
 esteem, his strictures must lose their value. 
 
 If it is true that " offences come only from the heart,"
 
 302 LETTERS. 
 
 before you I am guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize 
 you as the most accomplished of women, and the first of 
 friends — if these are crimes, I am the most offending thing 
 alive. 
 
 In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of 
 friendly confidence, 7iow to find cold neglect and con- 
 temptuous scorn — is a wrench that my heart can ill bear. 
 It is, however, some kind of miserable good luck, that while 
 de-haut-en-bas rigour may depress an unoffending wretch to 
 the ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn something 
 in his bosom, which, though it cannot heal the wounds of 
 his soul, is at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy. 
 
 With the profoundest respect for your abilities, the most 
 sincere esteem and ardent regard for your gentle heart and 
 amiable manners, and the most fervent wish and prayer for 
 your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to be. 
 Madam, your most devoted humble servant. R. B. 
 
 CXCI. — To Mr. Cunningham. 
 
 2^th February I794- 
 
 Canst thou minister to a mind diseased ? Canst thou 
 speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, 
 without one friendly star to guide her course, and dreadmg 
 that the next surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give 
 to a frame, tremblingly alive to the tortures of suspense, the 
 stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the blast ? 
 If thou canst not do the least of these, why wouldst thou 
 disturb me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? 
 
 For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. 
 My constitution and frame were, ab orighie, blasted with a 
 deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my 
 existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and 
 some pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed times ; 
 losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill 
 bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times could
 
 LETTERS. 303 
 
 only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence 
 that dooms it to perdition. 
 
 Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I have 
 exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at 
 ease would have been charmed with my sentiments and 
 reasonings ; but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot 
 preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould the hearts 
 of those around him, but his own kept its native 
 incorrigibility. 
 
 Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the 
 wTeck of misfortune and misery. The one is composed of 
 the different modifications of a certain noble, stubborn 
 something in a man, known by the names of courage, 
 fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those 
 feelings and sentiments, which, however the sceptic may 
 deny them, or the enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am 
 convinced, original and component parts of the human 
 soul; those senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the 
 expression, which connect us with, and link us to, those 
 awful obscure realities — an all-powerful, and equally benefi- 
 cent God ; and a world to come, beyond death and the 
 grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of 
 hope beams on the field : the last pours the balm of 
 comfort into the wounds which time can never cure. 
 
 I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and 
 I ever talked on the subject of religion at all. I know 
 some who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty few, to lead 
 the undiscerning many ; or at most, as an uncertain 
 obscurity which mankind can never know anything of, 
 and with which they are fools if they give themselves much 
 to do. Nor would I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, 
 any more than I would for his want of a musical ear. I 
 would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to 
 others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is 
 in this point of a view, and for this reason, that I will deeply 
 imbue the mind of every child of mine with religion. If 
 my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sentiment, 
 and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let
 
 304 LETTERS. 
 
 me flatter myself that this sweet httle fellow, who is just now 
 running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, 
 glowing heart ; and an imagination, delighted with the 
 painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure him wander- 
 ing out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and 
 enjoy the glowing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the 
 while in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on 
 all nature, and through nature up to nature's God. His 
 soul, by swift delighting degrees, is rapt above this sublunary 
 sphere until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into 
 the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson, 
 
 These, as they change, Ahnighty Father, these 
 Are but the varied God. The roUing year 
 Is full of thee. 
 
 And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming 
 hymn. These are no ideal pleasures, they are real delights ; 
 and I ask, what of the delights among the sons of men are 
 superior, not to say equal to them? And they have this 
 precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them 
 for her own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into 
 the presence of a witnessing, judging, and approving God. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CXCII.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Castle Douglas, 25/// Itaie 1 794. 
 
 Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by 
 myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may. Solitary 
 confinement, you know, is Howard's favourite idea of 
 reclaiming sinners ; so let me consider by what fatality it 
 happens, that I have so long been exceeding sinful as to 
 neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have 
 •on earth. To tell you that I have been in poor health will 
 not be excuse enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I 
 am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medical 
 friends threaten m.e with a flying gout ; but I trust they are 
 mistaken.
 
 LETTERS. 305 
 
 V 
 
 I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the 
 first sketch of a stanza I have been framing, as I passed 
 along the road. The subject is Liberty : you know, my 
 honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design it 
 an irregular ode for General Washington's birth-day. After 
 having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms I come 
 to Scotland thus : 
 
 Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
 Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 
 
 To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
 Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
 Immingled with the mighty dead ! 
 
 Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies ! 
 Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ; 
 
 Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep, 
 
 Disturb ye not the hero's sleep. 
 
 You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage 
 or two. R. B. 
 
 CXCIII.— To Mr. James Johnson. 
 
 Dumfries, 1794. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — You should have heard from me 
 long ago ; but over and above some vexatious share in the 
 pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have all this 
 winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so that 
 / have almost hung my harp on the ivillow trees. 
 
 I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my 
 poems, and this, with my ordinary business, finds me in full 
 employment. 
 
 I send you by my friend, Mr. Wallace, forty-one songs for 
 your fifth volume ; if we cannot finish it any other way, 
 what would you think of Scotch words to some beautiful 
 Irish airs ? In the meantime, at your leisure, give a copy 
 of the Museum to my worthy friend, Mr. Peter Hill, book- 
 seller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly 
 as he did the Laird of Glenriddel's, that I may insert every 
 anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and 
 
 439
 
 3o6 LETTERS. 
 
 remarks on the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave 
 with you, the editor, to publish at some after period, by way 
 of making the Museum a book famous to the end of time, 
 and you renowned for ever. 
 
 I have got a highland dirk, for which I have great 
 veneration, as it once was the dirk of Lord Bahnerino. It 
 fell into bad hands, who stripped it of the silver mounting, 
 as well as the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of 
 sending it to your care, to get it mounted anew. — Yours, 
 etc., R. B. 
 
 CXCIV.— To Mr. Peter Miller, Jun.,* of 
 Dalswinton. 
 
 Dumfries, Nov. 1794. 
 
 Dear Sir, — Your offer is indeed truly generous, and 
 most sincerely do I thank you for it ; but in my present 
 situation, I find that I dare not accept it. You well know 
 my political sentiments ; and were I an insular individual, 
 unconnected with a wife and a family of children, with the 
 most fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my 
 services ; I then could and would have despised all 
 consequences that might have ensued. 
 
 My prospect in the Excise is something ; at least, it is — 
 encumbered as I am with the welfare, the very existence, of 
 near half-a-score of helpless individuals — what I dare not 
 sport with. 
 
 In the meantime, they are most welcome to my Ode : 
 only, let them insert it as a thing they have met with by 
 accident and unknown to me. Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose 
 honour, after your character of him, I cannot doubt, if he 
 will give me an address and channel by which anything will 
 come safe from those spies with which he may be certain 
 that his correspondence is beset, I will now and then send 
 him any bagatelle that I may write. In the present hurry 
 
 * He had offered Burns a post on the staff of The Morning Chronicle, 
 of which newspaper Mr. Perry was proprietor.
 
 LETTERS. 307 
 
 of Europe, nothing but news and politics will be regarded ; 
 but against the days of peace, which Heaven send soon, my 
 little assistance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a 
 newspaper. I have long had it in my head to try my hand 
 in the way of little prose essays, which I propose sending 
 into the world through the medium of some newspaper ; 
 and should these be worth his while, to these Mr. Perry 
 shall be welcome ; and all my reward shall be, his treating 
 me with his paper, which, by-the-by, to anybody who has 
 the least relish for wit, is a high treat indeed. 
 
 With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, Dear Sir, 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CXCV.— To Mrs. Riddel. 
 
 Madam, — I dare say that this is the first epistle you ever 
 received from this nether world. I write you from the 
 regions of hell, amid the horrors of the damn'd. The time 
 and manner of my leaving your earth I do not exactly 
 know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of 
 intoxication, contracted at your too hospitable mansion ; 
 but, on my arrival here, I was fairly tried, and sentenced to 
 endure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal confine for 
 the space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- 
 nine days, and all on account of the impropriety of my 
 conduct yesternight under your roof. Here am I, laid on 
 a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined on a 
 pillow of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, 
 wrinkled, and old, and cruel — his name I think is Recollec- 
 tion — with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to 
 approach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, 
 Madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated in the good 
 opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last night so 
 much injured, I think it would be an alleviation to my tor- 
 ments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To 
 the men of the company I will make no apology. — Your 
 husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose,
 
 3o8 LETTERS. 
 
 has no right to blame me , and the other gentlemen were 
 partakers of my guilt. But to you, IMadam, I have much 
 to apologise. Your good opinion I valued as one of the 
 greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly 
 
 a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss I too, a woman 
 
 of fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners — do make, on 
 my part, a miserable damn'd wretch's best apology to her. 
 
 A Mrs. G , a charming woman, did me the honour to 
 
 be prejudiced in my favour; this makes me hope that I 
 have not outraged her beyond all forgiveness. — To all the 
 other ladies please present my humblest contrition for my 
 conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. O all ye 
 powers of decency and decorum ! whisper to them that my 
 errors, though great, were involuntary — that an intoxicated 
 man is the vilest of beasts — that it was not in my nature to 
 be brutal to any one — that to be rude to a woman, when in 
 my senses, was impossible with me — but — 
 
 I • • . I 
 
 Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell hounds that 
 ever dog my steps and bay at my heels, spare me ! spare 
 me ! 
 
 Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of. Madam, 
 your humble slave, R. B. 
 
 CXCVL—To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 \^th December 1795. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — As I am in a complete Decemberish 
 humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the Deity of 
 Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a heavy 
 letter with a number of heavier apologies for my late 
 silence. Only one I shall mention, because I know you 
 will sympathise with it : these four months, a sweet little girl, 
 my youngest child, has been so ill, that every day a week 
 or less threatened to terminate her existence. There had 
 much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of 
 husband and father, for, God knows, they have many
 
 LETTERS. 309 
 
 peculiar cares. I cannot deecribe to you the anxious, 
 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. A father on 
 his deathbed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has 
 indeed woe enough ; but the man of competent fortune 
 leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends ; 
 while I — but I shall run distracted if I think any longer 
 on the subject ! 
 
 To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing 
 with the old Scots ballad — 
 
 O that I had ne'er been married, 
 
 I would never had nae care ; 
 Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 
 
 They cry crov/die evermair. 
 
 Crowdie ance, crowdie twice : 
 
 Crowdie three times in a day : 
 An ye crowdie ony mair, 
 
 Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away. 
 
 25///, Chrhtmas Mornin'f. 
 
 This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes ; 
 accept mine — so Heaven hear me as they are sincere ! that 
 blessings may attend your steps, and afifliction know you 
 not ! In the charming words of my favourite author — 
 " The Man of Feeling," " May the Great Spirit bear up the 
 weight of thy grey hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings 
 them rest ! " 
 
 Now that I talk of authors, how do you like Cowper ? Is 
 noi the " Task " a glorious poem ? The religion of the 
 " Task," bating a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the 
 religion of God and Nature ; the religion that exalts, that 
 ennobles man. Were not you to send me your Zehico in 
 return for mine ? Tell me how you like my marks and
 
 310 LETTERS. 
 
 notes through the book. I would not give a farthing for a 
 book, unless I were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CXCVII. — To Mrs. Dunlop, in London. 
 
 Dumfries, 20th Deceinber 1795. 
 I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in this London 
 journey of yours. ... Do let me hear from you the 
 soonest possible. As I hope to get a frank from my 
 friend Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take up 
 the pen and gossip away whatever comes first, prose or 
 poetry, sermon or song. In this last article I have 
 abounded of late. I have often mentioned to you a superb 
 publication of Scottish songs, which is making its appear- 
 ance in our great metropolis, and where I have the honour 
 to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage 
 than Peter Pindar does over the English. 
 
 December z^th. 
 
 Since I began this letter, I have been appointed to act in 
 the capacity of supervisor here, and I assure you, what with 
 the load of business, and what with that business being 
 new to me, I could scarcely have commanded ten minutes 
 to have spoken to you, had you been in town, much less to 
 have written you an epistle. This appointment is only 
 temporary, and during the illness of the present incumbent; 
 but I look forward to an early period when I shall be 
 appointed in full form : a consummation devoutly to be 
 wished ! My political sins seem to be forgiven me. 
 
 This is the season (New Year's day is now my date) of 
 wishing, and mine are most fervently offered up for you ! 
 May life to you be a positive blessing while it lasts, for your 
 own sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged is my 
 wish for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of your 
 friends ! What a transient business is life ! Very lately I 
 was a boy; but t'other day I was a young man; and I
 
 LETTERS. 31 1 
 
 already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of 
 old age coming fast o'er my frame. With all my follies of 
 youth, and, I fear, a few vices of manhood, still I con- 
 gratulate myself on having had in early days religion 
 strongly impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to 
 any one as to which sect he belongs to, or what creed he 
 believes : but I look on the man who is firmly persuaded 
 of infinite Wisdom and Goodness superintending and 
 directing every circumstance that can happen in his lot — I 
 felicitate such a man for having a solid foundation for his 
 mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure stay, in the hour 
 of difficulty, trouble, and distress ; and a never-failing 
 anchor of hope when he looks beyond the grave. R. B, 
 
 CXVIII.— To The Hon. The Provost, Etc., of 
 
 Dumfries. 
 
 Gentlemen, — The literary taste, and liberal spirit, of your 
 good town has so ably filled the various departments of 
 your schools, as to make it a very great object for a parent 
 to have his children educated in them. Still, to me, a 
 stranger, with my large family, and very stinted income, to 
 give my young ones the education I wish, at the high-school 
 fees which a stranger pays, will bear hard upon me. 
 
 Some years ago, your good town did me the honour of 
 making me an honorary Burgess. Will you allow me 
 to request that this mark of distinction may extend so far, 
 as to put me on a footing of a real freeman of the town, in 
 the schools ? 
 
 If you are so very kind as to grant my request, it will 
 certainly be a constant incentive to me to strain every nerve 
 where I can officially serve you ; and will, if possible, 
 increase that grateful respect with which I have the honour 
 to be. Gentlemen, youi- devoted humble servant, R, B.* 
 
 * With the Poet's request the Magistrates of Dumfries very 
 handsomely complied. He was induced to make the request througli the 
 persuasions of Mr. James Gray and Mr. Tliomas White, Masters of the 
 Grammar School, Dumfries whose memories are still green on the 
 banks of the Nith.— Cunningham.
 
 312 LETTERS. 
 
 CXCIX.— To Mrs. Dunlop.* 
 
 DuMFRiES, T^isi January 1796. 
 
 These many months you have been two packets in my 
 debt — what sin of ignorance I have committed against so 
 highly valued a friend I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! 
 Madam, ill can I afford, at this time, to be deprived of any 
 of the small remnant of my pleasures. I have lately 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.f I had scarcely begun 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. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 CC. — To Mr. James Johnson. 
 
 Dumfries, ^k /uly 1796. 
 
 How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your 
 fifth volume ?t 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 on me ! Personal and domestic affliction 
 have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with 
 which I used to woo the rural muse of Scotia. 
 
 You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good 
 right to live in this world — because you deserve it. Many 
 a merry meeting this publication has given us, and pos- 
 sibly it may give us more, though, alas ! I fear it. This 
 
 * Cunningham says — "It seems all but certain that Mrs, Dunlop 
 regarded the Poet with some little displeasure during the evening of his 
 days," 
 
 t This child died at Mauchline. J Of the Musical Museum.
 
 LETTERS. 313 
 
 protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over me will, 
 I doubt much, my dear friend, arrest my sun before he has 
 well reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet 
 to far 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 I can. 
 
 I am ashamed to ask another favour of }'0U, because you 
 have been so very good already ; but my wife has a very 
 particular friend, a young lady who sings well, to whom she 
 wishes to present the Scots Musical Altiseum. If you have 
 a spare copy, will )^ou be so obliging as to send it by the 
 very first fly, as I am anxious to have it soon. — Yours ever, 
 
 R. B.* 
 
 CCI. — To Mr. Cunningham. 
 
 Brow, Sea-bathim^ quarters, "Jthjuly 1 796. 
 
 My Dear Cunningham, — I received yours here this 
 moment, and am indeed highly flattered with the approba- 
 tion of the literary circle you mention ; a literary circle 
 inferior to none in the two kingdoms. 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 rheuma- 
 tism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You 
 actually would not know me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, 
 and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair — 
 my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on the subject — 
 only the medical folks tell me that my last and only chance 
 is bathing and country quarters, and riding. The deuce of 
 the matter is this — when an exciseman is off duty, his 
 salary is reduced to ;/^35 instead of ;^5o. "What way, in 
 the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse 
 
 * "In this humble manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work 
 to which he had contributed, .or^,';///o/«/y, not less than \i^ original, 
 altej-ed, and collected songs I " — CrOiM ek.
 
 314 LETTERS 
 
 in country quarters, with a wife and five children at home, 
 on ;^35? I mention this, because I had intended to beg 
 your utmost interest, and that of all the friends you can 
 muster, to move our Commissioners of Excise to grant me 
 the full salary ; I dare say you know them all personally. 
 If they do not grant it me, I must lay my account with an 
 exit truly en poete; if I die not of disease, I must perish with 
 hunger.* 
 
 I have sent you one of the songs ; the other my memory 
 does not serve me with, and I have no copy here, but I 
 shall be at home soon, when I will send it you. Apropos 
 to being at home, Mrs. Burns threatens in a week or two 
 to add one more to my paternal charge, which, if of the 
 right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the world by 
 the respectable designation of Alexander Cumiingham 
 Burns. ]\Iy last was James Glencairn, so you can have no 
 objection to the company of nobility. Farewell. R. B. 
 
 ecu.— To Mr, Gilbert Burns. 
 
 xoth July 1795. 
 
 Dear Brother, — 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. I have been a 
 week at sea-bathing, and will continue there, or in a friend's 
 house in the country, all the summer. God keep my wife 
 and children ; if I am taken from their head, they will be 
 poor indeed. I have contracted one or two serious debts, 
 partly from my illness these many months, partly from too 
 much thoughtlessness as to expense when I came to town, 
 that will cut in too much on the little I leave them in your 
 hands. Remember me to my mother. — Yours, R. B. 
 
 * Not granted.
 
 LETTERS. 315 
 
 CCIIL— To Mrs. Burns* 
 
 Brow, Thursday. 
 My Dearest Love, — I delayed writing until I could tell 
 you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. It would 
 be injustice to deny that it has eased my pains, and I think 
 has strengthened me ; but my appetite is still extremely bad. 
 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 
 Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and 
 kindest compliments to her, and to all the children, I will 
 see you on Sunday. — Your affectionate husband, R. B. 
 
 CCIV.— To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Brow, Sa'.urday, \ith July 1796. 
 
 Madam, — I have written you so often, without receiving 
 any answer, that I would not trouble you 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 whettce 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 
 entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did I use 
 lo break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one 
 pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! ! 
 
 R. B. 
 
 * One evening, while at the Brow, Burns was visited by two young 
 ladies. The sun, setting on the western hills, threw a strong light 
 upon him through the window. One of them perceiving tliis, pro- 
 ceeded to draw the curtain ; " Let me look at the sun, my dear," said 
 the sinking poet, " he will not long shine on me."
 
 3i6 LETTERS. 
 
 CCV. — To Mr. James Burness, Writer, Montrose. 
 
 Dumfries, \2thjuly. 
 
 My Dear Cousin,— When you offered me money 
 assistance, little did I think I should want it so soon. A 
 rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable bill, 
 taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a 
 process against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated 
 body into jail. Will you be so good as to accommodate 
 me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds? O 
 James, did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel 
 doiibly for me ! Alas ! I am not used to beg ! The worst 
 of it is, my health was coming about finely. Melancholy 
 and low spirits are half my disease. If I had it settled, I 
 would be, I think, quite well in a manner. R. B. 
 
 CCVI,— To his Father-in-law, James Armour, 
 
 Mason,* Mauchline. 
 
 Dumfries, iWiJuly 179^3. \j) 
 
 My Dear Sir, — Do, for heaven's sake, send Mrs. Armour 
 here immediately. My wife is hourly expecting to be put 
 to bed. Good God ! what a situation for her to be in, poor 
 girl, without a friend ! I returned from sea-bathing quarters 
 to-day, and my medical friends would almost persuade me 
 that I am better, but I think and feel that my strength is 
 so gone that the disorder will prove fatal to me. — Your son- 
 in-law, . R. B. 
 
 * Mrs. Burns's father. This is the very last of Burns's compositions, 
 being written only three days before his death.
 
 THE THOMSON LETTERS.
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 This correspondence began in September 1792, when Burns 
 had already been domiciled nine months in the town of 
 Dumfries, and ended only with his death in July 1796. It 
 originated in the request of a stranger for a series of songs to 
 suit a projected collection of the best Scottish airs. The stranger 
 was George Thomson, a young man of about Burns's own age, 
 and head clerk in the office of the Board of Manufactures in 
 Edinburgh. Thomson outlived his great correspondent by 
 more than half a century. He died so recently as 185 1, at the 
 advanced age of ninety-two, Robert Chambers has described 
 him as a most honourable man, of singularly amiable character 
 and cheerful manners. It may interest some people to know 
 that his granddaughter was the wife of Dickens, the famous 
 novelist.
 
 THE THOMSON LETTERS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Dumfries, i6ih September 1792, 
 
 Sir, — I have just this moment got your letter. As the 
 request you make to me will positively add to my enjoy- 
 ments in complying 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. 
 Only, don't hurry me. " Deil tak the hindmost " is by no 
 means the crie de guerre of my muse. Will you, as I am 
 inferior to none of you in enthusiastic attachment to the 
 poetry and music of old Caledonia, and, since you request 
 it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assistance — will you 
 let me have a list of your airs, with the first line of the 
 printed verses you intend for them, that I may have an 
 opportunity of suggesting any alteration that may occur to 
 me ? You know 'tis in the way of my trade ; still leaving 
 you, gentlemen,* the undoubted rights of publishers, to 
 approve or reject at your pleasure, for your own publication. 
 Apropos, 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. English verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, 
 that have merit, are certainly very eligible. "Tweedside;" 
 '•Ah! the Poor Shepherd's Mournful Fate;" "Ah! Chloris, 
 
 * Thomson in his letter spoke of coadjutors, but in less than a year 
 he became sole editor of the collection.
 
 320 LETTERS. 
 
 could I now but sit," etc., you cannot mend ; but such 
 insipid stuff as " To Fanny fair, could I impart," etc., 
 usually set to " The Mill, Mill, O," is a disgrace to the 
 collections in which it has already appeared, and would 
 doubly disgrace a collection that will have the very superior 
 merit of yours. But more of this in the farther prosecution 
 of the business, if I am to be called on for my strictures and 
 amendments — I say, amendments ; for I will not alter, 
 accept where I myself, at least, think that I amend. 
 
 As to any renumeration, you may think my songs either 
 above or below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one 
 or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I 
 embark in your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, 
 hire, etc., would be downright sodomy of soul ! A proof of 
 each of the songs that I compose or amend I shall receive 
 as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, " Gude 
 speed the wark ! " — I am, Sir, your very humble servant, 
 
 R. Burns. 
 
 P.S. — I have some particular reasons for wishing my 
 interference to be known as little as possible. 
 
 II. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — Let me tell you that you are too 
 fastidious in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that 
 your criticisms are just ; the songs you specify in your list 
 have, all but one, the faults you remark in them ; but how 
 shall we mend the matter ? Who shall rise up and say — 
 Go to, I will make a better? For instance, on reading 
 over " The Lea-rig," I immediately set about trying my hand 
 on it, and, after all, I could make nothing more of it than 
 the following, which, Heaven knows, is poor enough : — 
 
 When o'er the hill the eastern star 
 Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, (etc.) 
 
 Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's ballad 
 to the air, " Nannie O," is just. It is besides, perhaps, the
 
 LETTERS. 321 
 
 most beautiful ballad in the English language. But let me 
 remark to you, that in the sentiment and style of our 
 Scottish airs there is a pastoral simplicity, a something that 
 one may call the Doric style and dialect of vocal music, to 
 which a dash of our native tongue and manners is particu- 
 larly, nay, peculiarly apposite. For this reason, and upon 
 my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as 
 I told you before, my opinion is yours, freely yours to 
 approve or reject as you please) that my ballad of "Nannie, 
 O," might perhaps do for one set of verses to the tune. 
 Now don't let it enter into your head that you are under 
 any necessity of taking my verses. I have long ago made 
 up my mind as to my own reputation in the business of 
 authorship ; and have nothing to be pleased or offended at, 
 in your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though you 
 should reject one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased 
 with your adopting the other half, and shall continue to 
 serve you with the same assiduity. 
 
 In the printed copy of my "Nannie, O," the name of the 
 river is horridly prosaic. I will alter it, 
 
 Behind yon hills where Lugar flows. 
 
 Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the 
 stanza best, but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of 
 syllables. 
 
 I will soon give you a great many more remarks on this 
 business ; but I have just now an opportunity of conveying 
 you this scrawl, free of postage, an expense that it is ill able 
 to pay ; so, with my best compliments to honest Allan,* 
 goodbye to ye. 
 
 Friday night. Saturday morning. 
 
 As I find I have still an hour to spare this morning 
 before my conveyance goes away, I will give you " Nannie, 
 O," at length. 
 
 Your remarks on " Ewe-bughts, Marion," are just ; still 
 it has obtained a place among our more classical Scottish 
 
 * David Allan, the artist. 
 
 440
 
 322 LETTERS. 
 
 songs ; and what with many beauties in its composition, 
 and more prejudices in its favour, you will not find it easy 
 to supplant it. 
 
 In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to 
 the West Indies, I took the following farewell of a dear girl. 
 It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the merits of " Ewe- 
 bughts," but it will fill up this page. You must know that 
 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 a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose 
 they were, and who perhaps alone cared for them, would 
 have defaced the legend of my heart, which was so faithfully 
 inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplicity was, as they 
 say of wines, their race. 
 
 Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, (etc.) 
 
 "Gala Water," and " Auld Rob Morris," I think, will 
 most probably be the next subject of my musings. How- 
 ever, even on my verses^ speak out your criticisms with equal 
 frankness. My wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomply- 
 ing bigot of ophiidtrete, but cordially to join issue with you 
 in the furtherance of the work. Gude speed the wark ! 
 Amen. 
 
 HI. 
 
 November ?>th, 1792. 
 
 If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your 
 collection shall be poetry of the first merit, I am afraid you 
 will find more difficulty in the undertaking than you are 
 aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our 
 airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, 
 or what I would call the feature-notes of the tune, that 
 cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable 
 difficulties. For instance, in the air, " My Wife's a wanton 
 wee Thing," if a few lines, smooth and pretty, can be 
 adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The enclosed were
 
 LETTERS. 323 
 
 made extempore to it ; and though, on farther study, I 
 might give you something more profound, yet it might not 
 suit the hght-horse gallop of the air so well as this random 
 clink. 
 
 I have just been looking over the "Collier's bonny 
 Dochter," and if the enclosed rhapsody which I composed the 
 day, on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Baillie, as she passed 
 through this place to England, will suit your taste better 
 than the "Collier Lassie," fall on and welcome. 
 
 I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more pathetic airs 
 until more leisure, as they will take, and deserve a greater 
 effort. However, they are all put into your hands, as clay 
 into the hands of the potter, to make one vessel to honour, 
 and another to dishonour. Farewell, etc. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Inclosing " Highland Mary." — Tune — Katharine Ogle. 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, (etc.) 
 
 l^th November 1792. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I agree with you, that the song " Kath- 
 arine Ogie," is very poor stuff, and unworthy, altogether 
 unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it ; but 
 the awkward sound "Ogie," recurring in the rhyme, spoils 
 every attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. The 
 foregoing song pleases myself ; I think it is in my happiest 
 manner ; you will see at the first glance that it suits the air. 
 The subject of the song is one of the most interesting 
 passages of my youthful days ; and I own that I should be 
 much flattered 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. 
 
 I have partly taken your idea of " Auld Rob Morris." I 
 have adopted the two first verses, and am going on with the
 
 324 LETTERS. 
 
 song on a new plan, which promises pretty well. I take 
 up one or another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes in 
 my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans ceretnonie, make what use 
 you choose of the productions. Adieu ! etc. 
 
 V. 
 
 26th famiary 1793. 
 
 I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie's 
 essay will of itself be a treasure. On my part, I mean to 
 draw up an appendix to the Doctor's essay, containing my 
 stock of anecdotes, etc., of our Scots songs. All the late 
 Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken down in the 
 course of my acquaintance with him, from his own mouth. 
 I am such an enthusiast, that in the course of my several 
 peregrinations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage to the 
 individual spot from which every song took its rise, 
 Lochaber and the Braes of Ballendean excepted. So far as 
 locality, either from the title of the air, or the tenor of the 
 song, could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the 
 particular shrine of every Scots Muse. 
 
 I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable 
 collection of Jacobite songs — but would it give no offence ? 
 In the meantime, do not you think that some of them, 
 particularly "The Sow's Tail to Geordie," as an air, with 
 other words, might be well worth a place in your collection 
 of lively songs ? 
 
 If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be 
 proper to have one set of Scots words to every air, and that 
 the set of words to which the notes ought to be set. There 
 is a naivete, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of 
 Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at 
 least to my taste, and, I will add, to every genuine 
 Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic sprightli- 
 ness of our native music, than any English verses whatever. 
 
 The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your 
 work. His " Gregory " is beautiful. I have tried to give
 
 LETTERS. 325 
 
 you a set of stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which 
 are at your service. Not that I intend to enter the Hsts 
 with Peter ; that would be presumption indeed. My song, 
 though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of 
 the ballad simplicity in it. 
 
 LORD GREGORY. 
 
 O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, (etc.) 
 
 Your remark on the first stanza of my " Highland Mary " 
 is just, but I cannot alter it, without injuring the poetry. 
 
 VI. 
 
 20th March 1793. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — The song prefixed (" Mary Morison ") 
 is one of my juvenile works. I leave it in your hands. I 
 do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or 
 demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it so in my stinted 
 powers) to be always original, entertaining, and witty. 
 
 What is become of the list, etc., of your songs ? I shall 
 be out of all temper with you by and by. I have always 
 looked on myself as the prince of indolent correspondents, 
 and valued myself accordingly ; and I will not, cannot bear 
 rivalship from you, nor anybody else. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ']th April 1793. 
 
 Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot 
 imagine how much this business of composing for your 
 publication has added to my enjoyments. What, with my 
 early attachment to ballads, your book, etc., ballad-making 
 is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever fortification 
 was Uncle Toby's ; so 1 11 e'en canter it away till I come to 
 the limit of my race (God grant that I may take the right
 
 326 LETTERS. 
 
 side of the winning-post !) and then cheerfully looking back 
 on the honest folks with whom I have been happy, I shall 
 say, or sing, " Sae merry as we a' hae been," and raising my 
 last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the 
 voice of Coila shall be, •' Good night, and joy be wi' you 
 a' ! " So much for my last words ; now for a few present 
 remarks as they have occurred at random, on looking over 
 your list. 
 
 The first lines of " The last time I came o'er the Moor," 
 and several other lines in it, are beautiful ; but in my 
 opinion — pardon me, revered shade of Ramsay ! — the song 
 is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to inake or mend. 
 " For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove," is a charming song ; 
 but "Logan Burn and Logan Braes" are sweetly susceptible 
 of rural imagery; I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, 
 the other song may class among the English ones. I 
 remember the two last lines of a verse in some of the old 
 songs of " Logan Water " (for I know a good many 
 different ones), which I think pretty — 
 
 Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, far frae me, and Logan braes. 
 
 "My Patie is a lover gay," is unequal. "His mind is 
 never muddy," is a muddy expression indeed. 
 
 Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
 And syne my cockernony — 
 
 This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. 
 My song, " Rigs of Barley," to the same tune, does not 
 altogether please me ; but if I can mend it, and thresh a 
 few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it to your 
 consideration. The " Lass o' Patie's Mill " is one of 
 Ramsay's best songs ; but there is one loose sentiment in 
 it, which my much-valued friend, Mr. Erskine, will take 
 into his critical consideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's statistical 
 volumes are two claims, one I think, from Aberdeensh're, 
 and the other from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song. 
 The following anecdote, which I had from the present Sir
 
 LETTERS. 327 
 
 William Cunningham, of Robertland, who had it of the 
 late John, Earl of Loudon, I can on such authorities 
 believe. 
 
 Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the 
 then Earl, father to Earl John ; and one forenoon, riding or 
 walking out together, his lordship and Allan passed a sweet 
 romantic spot on Irwine water, still called " Patie's Mill," 
 where a bonnie lass was " tedding hay, bareheaded on the 
 green." My lord observed to Allan, that it would be a fine 
 theme for a song, Ramsay took the hint, and lingering 
 behind, he composed the first sketch of it, which he 
 produced at dinner. 
 
 " One day I heard Mary say," is a fine song ; but for 
 consistency's sake, alter the name "Adonis." Was there 
 ever such banns published, as a purpose of marriage 
 between Adonis and Mary? I agree with you that my 
 song, "There's nought but care on every hand," is much 
 superior to "Poortith Cauld." The original song, "The 
 Mill, Mill, O," though excellent, is, on account of delicacy, 
 inadmissible ; still I like the title, and think a Scottish song 
 would suit the notes best ; and let your chosen song, which 
 is very pretty, follow, as an English set. The " Banks of 
 Dee" is, you know, literally "Langolee" to slow time. 
 The song is well enough, but has some false imagery in it, 
 for instance, 
 
 And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree. 
 
 In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, 
 but never from a tree ; and in the second place, there never 
 was a nightingale seen or heard on the banks of the Dee, 
 or on the banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic 
 rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If I could hit 
 on another stanza equal to " The small birds rejoice," etc., 
 I do myself honestly avow that I think it a superior song. 
 "John Anderson, my jo" — the song to this tune in 
 Johnson's Museum is my composition, and I think it not 
 my worst : if it suit you, take it and welcome. Your 
 collection of sentimental and pathetic songs is, in my
 
 328 LETTERS. 
 
 opinion, very complete ; but not so your comic ones. 
 Where are " Tullochgorum," " Lumps o' Puddin'," " Tibbie 
 Fowler," and several others, which, in my humble judgment, 
 are well worthy of preservation ? There is also one senti- 
 mental song of mine in the Museum, which never was 
 known out of the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it 
 taken down from a country girl's singing. It is called 
 " Craigie-burn Wood ; " and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke 
 is one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an 
 enthusiast about it ; and I would take his taste in Scottish 
 music against the taste of most connoisseurs. 
 
 You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, 
 though they are certainly Irish. "Shepherds, I have lost 
 my love," is to me a heavenly air — what would you think of 
 a set of Scottish verses to it ? I have made one a good 
 while ago, which I think is the best love song* I ever com- 
 posed in my life ; but in its original state it is not quite a 
 lady's song. I enclose an altered, not amended copy for 
 you, if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish 
 verses follow. 
 
 Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his "Lone Vale " 
 is divine. — Yours, etc. 
 
 Let me know just how you like these random hints. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 April 1793. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I own my vanity is flattered when you 
 give my songs a place in your elegant and superb work ; but 
 to be of service to the work is my first wish. As I have 
 often told you, I do not in a single instance wish you, out 
 of compliment to me, to insert anything of mine. One hint 
 let me give you — whatever Mr. Peyel does, let him not 
 alter one iota of the original Scottish airs ; I mean in the 
 song department ; but let our national music preserve its 
 
 * " Yestreen I had a pint o' wine."
 
 LETTERS. 329 
 
 native features. 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. 
 
 IX. 
 
 June 1793. 
 
 When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine, in 
 whom I am much interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these 
 accursed times, you will easily allow that it might unhinge 
 me for doing any good among ballads. My own loss, as to 
 pecuniary matters, is trifling ; but the total ruin of a much- 
 loved friend is a loss indeed. Pardon my seeming 
 inattention to your last commands. 
 
 I cannot alter the disputed lines in the " Mill, Mill, 
 O."* What you think a defect I esteem as a positive 
 beauty ; so you see how doctors differ. I shall now, with 
 as much alacrity as I can muster, go on with your 
 commands. 
 
 You know Frazer, the hautboy player in Edinburgh — he 
 is here instructing a band of music for a fencible corps 
 quartered in this country. Among many of the airs that 
 please me, there is one well known as a reel, by the name 
 of " The Quaker's Wife ; " and which I remember a grand- 
 aunt of mine used to sing, by the name of " Liggeram Cosh, 
 my bonnie wee lass." Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with 
 an expression that quite charms me. I became such an 
 enthusiast about it that I made a song for it, which I here 
 subjoin, and inclose Frazer's set of the tune. If they hit 
 your fancy, they are at your service ; if not, return me the 
 tune, and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I think the 
 song is not in my worst manner. 
 
 lilithe hae I been on yon hill, (etc.) 
 
 I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 
 
 * The lines were the third and fourth — 
 
 Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
 And mony a widow mourning.
 
 330 LETTERS. 
 
 X. 
 
 June 2^th 1793. 
 
 Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to 
 burst with indignation on reading of those mighty villains 
 who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, 
 and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or 
 often from still more ignoble passions ? In a mood of this 
 kind to-day I recollected the air of *' Logan Water ; " and 
 it occurred to me that its querulous melody probably had 
 its origin from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, 
 suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of some public 
 destroyer, and overwhelmed with private distress, the 
 consequence of a country's ruin. If I have done anything 
 at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, com- 
 posed in three quarters of an hour's meditation in my 
 elbow-chair, ought to have some merit. 
 
 [Here follows " Logan Water."] 
 
 Do you know the following beautiful little fragment in 
 Witherspoon's Collection of Scots So?igs ? 
 
 Air — Hughie Graham, 
 
 O gin my love were yon red rose, 
 
 That grows upon the castle wa', 
 And I mysel' a drap o' dew 
 
 Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 
 
 Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
 
 I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 
 Seal'd on her silk saft faulds to rest. 
 
 Till fley'd awa by Phoebus light. 
 
 This thought is inexpressibly beautiful ; and quite, so far 
 as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would 
 forswear you altogether, unless you gave it a place. I have 
 often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing 
 myself for a musing five minutes, on the hind legs of my 
 elbow-chair, I produced the following. The verses are 
 far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess ; but if worthy
 
 LETTERS. 331 
 
 of insertion at all, they might be first in place; as every 
 poet, who knows anything of his trade, will husband his 
 best thoughts for a concluding stroke. 
 
 O were my love yon lilac fair, 
 
 Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 
 And I a bird to shelter there, 
 
 When wearied on my little wing ; 
 
 How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
 
 By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 
 But I wad sing on wanton wing, 
 
 When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 
 
 xr. 
 
 July 1793. 
 
 I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you truly hurt me with 
 your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. 
 However, to return it would savour of affectation ; but as to 
 any more traffic of that debtor or creditor kind, I swear by 
 that Honour which crowns the upright statue of Robert 
 BuRNs's Integrity — on the least motion of it, I will 
 indignantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that 
 moment commence entire stranger to you ! Burns's 
 character for generosity of sentiment and independence of 
 mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, which the 
 cold, unfeeling ore can supply : at least, I will take care 
 that such a character he shall deserve. 
 
 Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did 
 my eyes behold, in any musical work, such elegance and 
 correctness. Your preface, too, is admirably written ; only, 
 your partiality to me has made you say too much : how- 
 ever, it will bind me down to double every effort in the 
 future progress of the work. The following are a few 
 remarks on the songs in the list you sent me. I never copy 
 what I write to you, so I may be often tautological, or 
 perhaps contradictory. 
 
 " The Flowers of the Forest " is charming as a poem j
 
 332 LETTERS. 
 
 and should be, and must be, set to the notes ; but, though 
 out of your rule, the three stanzas, beginning, 
 
 I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling, 
 
 are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalise the author 
 of them, who is an old lady* of my acquaintance, and at this 
 moment living in Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn ; I 
 forget of what place; but from Roxburghshire. What a 
 charming apostrophe is 
 
 O fickle Fortune, why this cruel sporting, 
 Why, why torment us — poor sons of a day ! 
 
 The old ballad, "I wish I were where Helen lies," is 
 silly, to contemptibiUty. My alteration of it, in Johnson's, 
 is not much better. 
 
 XII. 
 
 August 1793. 
 
 That tune, " Cauld Kail," is such a favourite of yours, 
 that I once more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the 
 muses ; when the muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, 
 or rather my old inspiring dearest 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 
 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 ; secondly, the last stanza of 
 this song I send you is the very words that Coila taught me 
 many years ago, and which I set to an old Scots reel in 
 Johnson's Museum. 
 
 Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in 
 it than in all the year else. God bless you. 
 
 * Nee Rutherford, of Selkirkshire. She was then 81 years old.
 
 LETTERS. 333 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Sept. 1793. 
 
 You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any exertion in 
 my power is heartily at your service. But one thing I must 
 hint to you ; the very name of Peter Pinder is of great 
 service to your publication, so get a verse from him now 
 and then ; though I have no objection, as well as I can, to 
 bear the burden of the business. 
 
 You know that my pretensions to musical taste are merely 
 a few of nature's instincts, untaught and untutored by art. 
 For this reason, many musical compositions, particularly 
 where much of the merit lies in counterpoint, however they 
 may transport and ravish the ears of your connoisseurs, 
 affect my simple lug no otherwise than merely as melodious 
 din. On the other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted 
 with many little melodies which the learned musician 
 despises as silly and insipid. I do not know whether the 
 old air " Hey tuttie taittie " may rank among this number ; 
 but well I know that, with Frazer's hautboy, it has often 
 filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I 
 have met with in many places of Scotland, that it was 
 Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This 
 thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch 
 of enthusiasm on the theme of Liberty and Independence, 
 which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, 
 that one might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's 
 address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning. 
 
 BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS, 
 
 ON THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 Hey tuttie taittie. 
 Scots, wha hae wi" Wallace bled, (etc.) 
 
 So may God ever defend the cause of Truth and Liberty, 
 as He did that day ! — Amen. 
 
 P.S. — I showed the 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
 
 334 LETTERS. 
 
 the accidental recollection of that glorious struggle for 
 freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of some other 
 struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, roused 
 my rhyming mania, Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, 
 you will find in the Mtiseimi ; though I am afraid that the air 
 is not what will entitle it to a place in your elegant selection. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 September 1793. 
 
 I HAVE received your list, my dear Sir, and here go my 
 observations on it.* 
 
 " Down the burn, Davie." I have this moment tried an 
 alteration, leaving out the last half of the third stanza, and 
 the first half of the last stanza, thus : — 
 
 As down the burn they took their way, 
 
 And thro' the flowery dale, 
 His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 
 
 And love was aye the tale. 
 
 With " Mary, when shall we return, 
 
 Sic pleasure to renew ? " 
 Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn. 
 
 And aye shall follow you." 
 
 " Thro' the wood, laddie." I am decidedly of opinion 
 that both in this and " There'll never be peace till Jamie 
 comes hame," the second or high part of the tune being a 
 repetition of the first part an octave higher, is only for 
 instrumental music, and would be much better omitted in 
 singing. 
 
 " Cowden-knowes." Remember in your index that the 
 song in pure English, to this tune, beginning 
 
 When summer comes, the swains on Tweed, 
 
 is the production of Crawford ; Robert was his Christian 
 
 name. 
 
 * Songs for his publication. Burns goes through the whole ; but 
 only his remarks of any importance are presented here.
 
 LETTERS. 335 
 
 " Laddie lie near me," must lie by me for some time. I 
 do not know the air ; and until I am complete master of a 
 tune in my own singing (such as it is), I never can compose 
 for it. My way is : 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 nature 
 around me that are in unison or harmony with the cogita- 
 tions 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 fireside of my study, and there commit my effusions 
 to paper ; swinging at intervals 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. What cursed egotism ! 
 
 " Gil Morice " I am for leaving out. It is a plaguy 
 length ; the air itself is never sung, and its place can well 
 be supplied by one or two songs for fine airs that are not in 
 your list. For instance, " Craigieburn-wood " and " Roy's 
 Wife." The first, besides its intrinsic merit, has novelty ; 
 and the last has high merit, as well as great celebrity. I have 
 the original words of a song for the last air in the hand- 
 writing of the lady who composed it, and they are superior 
 to any edition of the song which the public has yet seen. 
 
 "Highland Laddie." The old set will please a mere 
 Scotch ear best ; and the new an Italianised one. There 
 is a third, and what Oswald calls the " Old Highland 
 Laddie," which pleases we more than either of them. It is 
 sometimes called "Jinglan Johnnie," it being the air of an 
 old humorous tawdry song of that name. You will find it 
 in the Museum, " I hae been at Crookie-den," etc. I 
 would advise you in this musical quandary, to offer up your 
 prayers to the muses for inspiring direction ; and, in the 
 meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow a libation to 
 Bacchus, and there is not a doubt but you will hit on a 
 judicious choice. Frobatiim est.
 
 336 LETTERS. 
 
 " Auld Sir Simon," I must beg you to leave out, and put 
 in its place " The Quaker's Wife." 
 
 "Blythe hae I been on yon hill" is one of the finest 
 songs ever I made in my life ; and, besides, is composed 
 on a young lady positively the most beautiful, lovely woman 
 in the world. As I purpose giving you the names and 
 designations of all my heroines, to appear in some future 
 edition of your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must 
 certainly include the bonniest lass in a' the warld in your 
 collection. 
 
 " Daintie Davie " I have heard sung nineteen thousand, 
 nine hundred, and ninety-nine times, and always with the 
 low part of the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so much 
 as your opinion on this subject. If it will not suit, as I 
 propose, we will lay two of the stanzas together, and then 
 make the chorus follow. 
 
 " Fee him, Father." I enclose you Frazer's set of this 
 tune when he plays it slow ; in fact, he makes it the 
 language of despair. I shall here give you two stanzas in 
 that style, merely to try if it will be any improvement. 
 Were it possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos which 
 Frazer gives it in playing, it would make an admirable 
 pathetic song. I do not give these verses for any merit 
 they have. I composed them at the time at which Patie 
 Allan's mither died; that was the back d tnidnight ; and by 
 the lee-side of a bowl of punch, which had overset every 
 mortal in the company, except the hautbois and the muse. 
 
 Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, (etc.) 
 
 " Jockie and Jenny " I would discard, and in its place 
 would put " There's nae luck about the house," which has 
 a very pleasant air ; and which is positively the finest love- 
 ballad in that style in the Scottish, or perhaps in any other 
 language. " When she came ben she bobbet," as an air, 
 is more beautiful than either, and in the andante way would 
 unite with a charming sentimental ballad. 
 
 " Saw ye my father " is one of my greatest favourites. 
 The evening before last I wandered out, and began a tender
 
 LETTERS. 337 
 
 song, in what I think its native style. I must premise that 
 the old way, and the way to give most effect, is to have no 
 starting note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst at once into 
 the pathos. Every country girl sings — " Saw ye my father," 
 etc. 
 
 My song is just begun ; and I should like, before I 
 proceed, to know your opinion of it. I have sprinkled it 
 with the Scottish dialect, but it may be easily turned into 
 correct English, 
 
 FRAGMENT. — Tune — " Saw ye my Father." 
 Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, (etc. ) 
 
 "Todlin hame:" Urbani mentioned an idea of his, 
 which has long been mine ; and this air is highly susceptible 
 of pathos ; accordingly, you will soon hear him,' at your 
 concert, try it to a song of mine in the Museuvi — "Ye banks 
 and braes o' bonnie Doon." One song more and I have 
 done: " Auld langsyne." The air is but w^<^/(?(rr^; but the 
 following song, the old song of the olden times, and which 
 has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took 
 it down from an old man's singing, is enough to recommend 
 
 any air.* 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE. 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, (eta ) 
 
 Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. You 
 must, after all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so 
 called, "Gil Morice," " Tranent Muir," "M'Pherson's Fare- 
 well," " Battle of Sheriff-Muir," or "We ran and they ran " 
 (I know the author of this charming ballad, and his history) ; 
 " Hardiknute," " Barbara Allan " (I can furnish a finer set 
 of this tune than any that has yet appeared), and besides, do 
 you know that I really have the old tune to which " The 
 Cherry and the Slae " was sung ? and which is mentioned as 
 a well-known air in Scotlatid 's Complaint^ a book published 
 before poor Mary's days. It was then called "The Banks 
 o' Helicon ; " an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to 
 light. You will see all this in Tytler's History of Scottish 
 
 * It is believed to have leen his own composition. 
 
 441
 
 338 LETTERS. 
 
 Music. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great 
 merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many 
 original things of this kind. 
 
 XV. 
 
 .September 1793. 
 
 " Who shall decide when doctors disagree ? " My ode* 
 pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. Your proposed 
 alterations would, in my opinion, make it tame. I am 
 exceedingly obliged to you for putting me on reconsidering 
 it; as I think I have much improved it. Instead of 
 " sodger ! hero ! " I will have it " Caledonian ! on wi' me! " 
 
 I have scrutinised it over and over ; and to the world 
 some way or other it shall go as it is. At the same time it 
 will not in the least hurt me, should you leave it out alto- 
 gether, and adhere to your first intention of adopting Logan's 
 verses. 
 
 I have finished my song to " Saw ye my Father;" and in 
 English, as you will see. That there is a syllable too much 
 for the expression of the air, is true ; but allow me to say, 
 that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crotchet 
 and a quaver is not a great matter ; however, in that, I 
 have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of the 
 poetry I speak with confidence ; but the music is a business 
 where I hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 May 1794. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I return you the plates, with which I 
 am highly pleased. I would humbly propose, instead of 
 the younker knitting stockings, to put a stock and horn 
 into his hands. A friend of mine, who is positively the 
 ablest judge on the subject I have ever met with, and 
 
 * Scots 2vha hoe.
 
 LETTERS. 339 
 
 though an unknown, is yet a superior artist with the burin, 
 is quite charmed with Allan's manner. I got him a peep 
 of the " Gentle Shepherd,'' and he pronounces Allan a most 
 original artist of great excellence. 
 
 For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's choosing my favourite 
 poem for his subject to be one of the highest compliments 
 I have ever received. 
 
 I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up in France, 
 as it will put ah entire stop to our work. Now, and for six 
 or seven months, I shall be quite in song, as you shall see 
 by-and-by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by 
 Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which she calls " The 
 Banks of Cree." Cree is a beautiful romantic stream, and, 
 as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written 
 the following song to it : — 
 
 Here is the glen, and here the bower, (etc. ) 
 
 XVH. 
 
 Sept. 1794. 
 
 I SHALL withdraw my " On the seas and far away " 
 altogether; it is unequal, and unworthy of the work. 
 Making a poem is like begetting a son ; you cannot know 
 whether you have a wise man or a fool, until you produce 
 him to the world and try him. 
 
 Yox that reason I have sent you the offspring of my brain, 
 abortions and all ; and as such, pray look over them, and 
 forgive them, and burn them. I am flattered at your 
 adopting " Ca' the yowes to the knowes," as it was owing 
 to me that it ever saw the light. About seven years ago I 
 was well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a clergy- 
 man, a Mr. Clunie, who sung it charmingly : and, at my 
 request, Mr. Clarke took it down from his singing. When 
 I gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the song, 
 and mended others, but still it will not do for you. In a 
 solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a 
 few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the chorus.
 
 340 LETTERS. 
 
 which I would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities 
 and imperfections on its head. 
 
 Ca' the yowes, (etc.) 
 
 I shall give you my opinion of your other newly adopted 
 songs, my first scribbling fit. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 \<)th October 1794. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — By this morning's post I have your 
 list, and, in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at 
 more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. Clarke 
 goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I wish you would call 
 on him and take his opinion in general ; you know his 
 taste is a standard. He will return here again in a week or 
 two, so please do not miss asking for him. One thing I 
 hope he will do — persuade you to adopt my favourite, 
 " Craigie-burn wood," in your selection ; it is as great a 
 favourite of his as of mine. The lady on whom it was 
 made is one of the finest women in Scotland ; and, in fact 
 {entre nous), is in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza 
 was to him — a mistress, a friend, or what you will, in the 
 guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now, don't put any 
 of your squinting constructions on this, or have any 
 clishmaclaiver about it among our acquaintances.) I assure 
 you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many of 
 your best songs of mine. 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 divine emanation ? Tout au 
 contraire I I have a glorious recipe — the very one that for 
 his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and
 
 LETTERS, 341 
 
 poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put 
 myself on a regimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in pro- 
 portion to the adorabihty 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 ! 
 
 To descend to business ; if you like my idea of " When 
 she cam ben she bobbit," the enclosed stanzas of mine, 
 altered a little from what they were formerly when set to 
 another air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanzas. 
 
 Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. "The Posie " 
 (in the Mtiseuni) is my composition ; the air was taken 
 down from Mrs. Burns's voice. It is well known in the 
 West Country, but the old words are trash. By-the-bye, 
 take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you do not 
 think it is the original from which " RosUn Castle" is 
 composed. The second part in particular, for the first 
 two or three bars, is exactly the old air. " Strathallan's 
 Lament" is mine; the music is by our right trusty and 
 deservedly well beloved, Allan Masterton. " Donocht head " 
 is not mine ; I would give ten pounds if it were. It appeared 
 first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and came to the editor of 
 that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it.* " Whistle 
 o'er the lave o't " is mine \ the music is said to be by a John 
 Bruce, a celebrated violin player in Dumfries, about the 
 beginning of this century. This I know, Bruce, who was 
 an honest man, though a redwud Highlandman, constantly 
 claimed it ; and by all the old musical people here is 
 believed to be the author of it. 
 
 " Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to which this is 
 set in the Museum is mine ; and was composed on Miss 
 
 * Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht head, 
 
 The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale, 
 The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck, 
 
 And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale. 
 "Cauld is the night, O let me in, 
 
 And dinna let your minstrel fa', 
 And dinna let his winding-sheet 
 
 Be naething but a wreath o' snaw." (etc.)
 
 342 LETTERS. 
 
 Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and deservedly 
 called the " Flower of Strathmore." 
 
 " How lang and dreary is the night." I met with some 
 such words in a collection of songs somewhere, which I 
 altered and enlarged ; and to please you, and to suit your 
 favourite air, I have taken a stride or two across the room, 
 and have arranged it anew, as you will find on the other 
 page. 
 
 Tune — Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. 
 
 How lang and dreary is the night, (etc.) 
 
 Tell me how you like this. I differ from your idea of the 
 expression of the tune. There is, to me, a great deal of 
 tenderness in it. 
 
 I would be obliged to you if you would procure me a 
 sight of Ritson's Collection of E?t,^nsh Songs, which you 
 mention in your letter. I will thank you for another 
 information, and that as speedily as you please — whether 
 this miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not 
 completely tired you of my correspondence. 
 
 XTX. 
 
 November I'jg^. 
 
 Many thanks to you, my dear sir, for your present : it is 
 a book of the utmost importance to me. I have yesterday 
 begun my anecdotes, etc., for your work. I intend drawing 
 it up in the form of a letter to you, which will save me from 
 the tedious dull business of systematic arrangement. 
 Indeed, as all I have to say consists of unconnected remarks, 
 anecdotes, scraps of old songs, etc., it would be impossible 
 to give the work a beginning, a middle, and an end ; which 
 the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a work. In 
 my last, I told you my objections to the song you had 
 selected for " My lodging is on the cold ground." On my 
 visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic 
 name of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested
 
 LETTERS. 343 
 
 an idea, which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into 
 the following song : — 
 
 My Chloris, mark how green the groves, (etc. ) 
 
 How do you like the simplicity and tenderness of this 
 pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 
 
 I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the 
 story of 7na chtre amie. I assure you, I was never more in 
 earnest in my life than in the account of that affair which 
 I sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion which 
 I deeply feel and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does 
 not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the 
 passion, 
 
 Where Love is Uberty, and Nature law. 
 
 Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of which the 
 gamut is scanty and confined, but the tones inexpressibly 
 sweet ; while the last has powers equal to all the intellectual 
 modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet, in 
 my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness 
 of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment 
 that pervades my soul ; and whatever pleasures I might wish 
 for, or whatever might be the raptures they would give me, 
 yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having 
 these pleasures at a dishonest price; and justice forbids, 
 and generosity disdains, the purchase ! . . . 
 
 XX. 
 
 I AM out of temper that you should set so sweet, so tender 
 an air, as " Deil tak the wars," to the foolish old verses. You 
 talk of the silliness of " Saw ye my father : " by heavens, the 
 odds is gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, though now 
 pretty well modernised into the Scottish language, is, 
 originally, and in the early editions, a bungling low imita- 
 tion of the Scottish manner, by that genius, Tom D'Urfeyj 
 so has no pretensions to be a Scottish production. There is
 
 344 LETTERS. 
 
 a pretty English song by Sheridan in the " Duenna," to this 
 air, which is out of sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins, 
 
 When sable night each drooping plant restoring. 
 
 The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the 
 very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. I 
 have again gone over my song to the tune as follows.* 
 
 There is an air, "The Caledonian Hunt's delight," 
 to which I wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. 
 " Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 3" this air, I think, 
 might find a place among your hundred, as Lear says of his 
 knights. Do you know the history of the air? It is 
 curious enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James 
 Miller, writer in your good town, a gentleman whom pos- 
 sibly you know, was in company with our friend Clarke ; 
 and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent 
 ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, 
 partly by way of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of 
 the harpsichord, and preserve some kind of rhythm, and he 
 would infallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is, that in 
 a few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, 
 which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and corrections, 
 fashioned into the tune in question. Ritson, you know, 
 has the same story of the " Black keys ;" but this account 
 which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke informed me of 
 several years ago. Now, to shew you how difficult it is to 
 trace the origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly 
 asserted that this was an Irish air ; nay, I met with an Irish 
 gentleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among 
 the old women; while, on the other hand, a countess 
 informed me, that the first person who introduced the air 
 into this country was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, 
 who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in' the Isle 
 of Man. How difficult then to ascertain the truth respect- 
 ing our poesy and music ! I, myself, have lately seen a 
 
 * Our Bard remarks upon it, "I could easily throw this into an 
 English mould ; but, to my taste, in the simple and the tender of the 
 pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish has an inimitable effect."
 
 LETTERS. 345 
 
 couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with 
 my name at the head of them as the author, though it was 
 the first time I had ever seen them. 
 
 I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request ; 'tis 
 dunning your generosity ; but in a moment when I had for- 
 gotten whether I was rich or poor, I promised Chloris a 
 copy of your songs. It wrings my honest pride to write 
 you this; but an ungracious request is doubly so, by a 
 tedious apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I 
 have extracted the necessary information out of them, I 
 will return you Ritson's volumes. 
 
 The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so dis- 
 tinguished a figure in your collection, and I am not a little 
 proud that I have it in my power to please her so much. 
 Lucky it is for your patience that my paper is done, for 
 when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to 
 give over. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 19/^ Nov. 1794. 
 
 Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want 
 the trifling circumstance of being known to one another to 
 be the best friends on earth) that I much suspect he has, in 
 his plates, mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I 
 have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude instrument. 
 It is composed of three parts ; the stock, which is the 
 hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton- 
 ham, the horn, which is a common Highland cow's horn, 
 cut off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large 
 enough to admit the stock to be pushed up through the 
 horn, until it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone; 
 and, lastly, an oaten reed exactly cut and notched like that 
 which you see every shepherd boy have, when the corn 
 stems are green and full-grown. The reed is not made Cast 
 in the bone, but is held up by the lips, and plays loose in 
 the smaller end of the stock ; while the stock, with the horn
 
 346 LETTERS. 
 
 hanging on its larger end, is held by the hands in playing. 
 The stock has six or seven ventiges on the upper side, and 
 one back ventige, like the common flute. This of mine 
 was made by a man from the Braes of Athole, and is 
 exactly what the shepherds wont to use in that country. 
 
 However, either it is not quite properly bored in the 
 holes, or else we have not the art of blowing it rightly ; for 
 we can make little of it. If Mr. Allan chooses, I will send 
 him a sight of mine ; as I look on myself to be a kind of 
 brother-brush with him. " Pride in poets is nae sin," and 
 I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be 
 the only genuine and real painters of Scottish costume in 
 the world. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 January 1795. 
 
 I FEAR for my songs ; however a few may please, yet 
 originality is a coy feature in composition, and in a multi- 
 plicity of efforts in the same style, disappears altogether. 
 For these three thousand years we poetic folks have been 
 describing the spring, for instance ; and, as the spring con- 
 tinues the same, there must soon be a sameness in the 
 imagery, etc., of these said rhyming folks. 
 
 A great critic, Aikin on Songs, 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. 
 
 FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 
 Is there for honest poverty, (etc.) 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 EcCLEFECHAN,* 'jth Feb. 1795. 
 My Dear Thomson, — You cannot have any idea of the 
 * The birthplace of Carlyle.
 
 LETTERS. 347 
 
 predicament in which I write to you. In the course of my 
 duty as supervisor (in which capacity I have acted of late) 
 I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked Httle village. 
 I have gone forward, but snows of ten feet deep have 
 impeded my progress : I have tried to " gae back the gate 
 I cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me up within 
 insuperable bars. To add to my misfortune, since dinner, 
 a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that would 
 have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of 
 a butcher, and thinks himself, on that very account, exceed- 
 ing good company. In fact, I have been in a dilemma, 
 either to get drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang 
 myself, to get rid of them ; like a prudent man (a character 
 congenial to my every thought, word, and deed) I of two 
 evils have chosen the least, and am very drunk at your 
 service ! 
 
 I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had not time then 
 to tell you all I wanted to say; and Heaven knows, at present 
 I have not capacity. 
 
 Do you know an air — I am sure you must know it, 
 •' We'll gang nae mair to yon town ? " I think, in slowish 
 time, it would make an excellent song. I am highly 
 delighted with it; and if you should think it worthy of your 
 attention, I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would 
 consecrate it. 
 
 As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good night. 
 
 XXIV. 
 You see how I answer your orders ; your tailor could not 
 be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit of poetising, 
 provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. 
 If you can, in a post or two, administer a little of the in- 
 toxicating potion of your applause, it will raise your humble 
 servant's frenzy to any height you want. I am at this 
 moment " holding high converse " with the Muses, and 
 have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as 
 you are.
 
 348 LETTERS. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 April 1796. 
 
 Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some time ere 
 I tune my lyre again ! "By Babel streams I have 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 without 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 ? 
 
 This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop, landlady 
 of the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has 
 been my hoivff, and where our friend Clarke and I have had 
 many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. 
 Allan's etchings. "Woo'd and married and a'," is admir- 
 able ! The grouping is beyond all praise. The expression 
 of the figures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is 
 absolutely faultless perfection. I next admire "Turnim- 
 spike." What I like least is, "Jenny said to Jockey." 
 Besides the female being in her appearance quite a virago, 
 if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least 
 two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I 
 sincerely sympathise with him ! Happy am I to think that 
 he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment 
 in this world. As for me — but that is a damning subject ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 {Probably May 1796.] 
 
 My Dear Sir, — Inclosed is a certificate which (although 
 a little different from the model) I suppose will amply
 
 LETTERS, 349 
 
 answer the purpose, and I beg you will prosecute the mis- 
 creants* without mercy. When your publication is finished, 
 I intend publishing a collection, on a cheap plan, of all the 
 songs I have written for you, The Museum, and others — at 
 least, all the songs of which I wish to be called the 
 author. I do not propose this so much in the way of emolu- 
 ment as to do justice to my muse, lest I should be 
 blamed for trash I never saw, or be defrauded by false 
 claimants of what is justly ray own. The post is going. — I 
 will write you again to-morrow. Many thanks for the 
 beautiful seal. R. B. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Brow-on-Solway, i,th July 1796. 
 
 My Dear Sir, — I received your songs ; but my health is 
 so precarious, nay, dangerously situated, that, as a last effort, 
 I am here at sea-bathing quarters. Besides an inveterate 
 rheumatism, my appetite is quite gone, and I am so 
 emaciated as to be scarce able to support myself on my own 
 legs. Alas I Is this a time for me to woo the muses ? 
 However, I am still anxiously willing to serve your work, 
 and if possible shall try. I would not like to see another 
 employed — unless you could lay your hand upon a poet 
 whose productions would be equal to the rest. Farewell, 
 and God bless you. R. Burns. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Brow, on the Sol way Firth, \2th July 1796. 
 
 After all my boasted independence, curst necessity 
 compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel 
 wretch of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, 
 taking it into his head that I am dying, has com- 
 menced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. 
 
 * For infringement of copyright.
 
 350 LETTERS. 
 
 Do, for God's sake, send toe that sum, and that by 
 return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the 
 horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not 
 ask all this gratuitously ; for, upon returning health, I 
 hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds 
 worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. I tried my 
 hand on " Rothiemurchie " this morning. The measure is 
 so difficult that it is impossible to infuse much genius into 
 the lines ; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! 
 
 Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
 
 Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
 Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
 
 And smile as thou wert wont to do ? (etc.)* 
 
 * These verses, and the letter inclosing them, are written in a 
 character that marks the very feeble state of their author. 
 
 I'rinlcd by Waltek Scott, Felling, Newcastlc-upon- Tync.
 
 TKe C^Rl^rLury Poel5. 
 
 Edited by William Sharp. 
 WITH INTRODUCTORY NOTICES BY VARIOUS CONTRIBUTORS. 
 
 In SHILLING Monthly Volumes, Square 8vo. 
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 contains from 300 to 350 pages- 
 
 Cloth, Red Edges - Is. 
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 THE FOLLOWING VOLUMES ARE NOW READY. 
 
 CHRISTIAN YEAR. 
 
 By Rev. John Keble. 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
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 Edited by Eva Hope. 
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 Edited by A. J. Symington. 
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 SHELLEY'S ESSAYS AND LETTERS. 
 
 Edited by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 PROSE WRITINGS OF SWIFT. Edited by W. Lewin. 
 MY STUDY WINDOWS. Edited bv R. Gamett, LL.D. 
 GREAT ENGLISH PAINTERS. Edited by W. Sharp. 
 LORD BYRON'S LETTERS. Edited by M. Blind. 
 
 ESSAYS BY LEIGH HUNT. Edited by A. Symons. 
 
 LONGFELLOW'S PROSE. Edited by W. Tirebuck. 
 
 GREAT MUSICAL COMPOSERS. 
 
 Edited, with Introduction, by Mrs. Sharp. 
 
 MARCUS AURELIUS. Edited by Alice Zimmem. 
 
 SPECIMEN DAYS IN AMERICA. By Walt Whitman. 
 
 WHITE'S NATURAL HISTORY of SELBORNE. 
 
 Edited, with Introduction, by Richard Jefferies. 
 
 DEFOE'S CAPTAIN SINGLETON- 
 
 Edited, with Introduction, by H. Halliday Sparling. 
 
 ESSAYS : Literary and Political. By Joseph iviazzini. 
 
 Edited, with Introduction, by William Clarke. 
 
 THE PROSE WRITINGS OF HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 Edited, with Introduction, by Havelock Ellis. 
 
 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS' DISCOURSES. 
 
 Edited, with Introduction, by Helen Zimmem. 
 
 THE LOVER, and other Papers of Steele and 
 Addison. Edited, with Introduction, by Walter Lewin. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS'S LETTERS. 
 
 Edited, with Introduction, by J. Logie Robertson, M.A. 
 
 London : Walter Scott, 24 Warwick Lane, Paternoster Row.
 
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