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The Complete Works

LIV. TO MR. SIBBALD, BOOKSELLER IN EDINBURGH

[This letter first appeared in that very valuable work, Nicholl’s Illustrations of Literature.]

Lawn Market.

Sir,

So little am I acquainted with the words and manners of the more public and polished walks of life, that I often feel myself much embarrassed how to express the feelings of my heart, particularly gratitude:—

 
“Rude am I in my speech,
And little therefore shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself—“
 

The warmth with which you have befriended an obscure man and a young author in the last three magazines—I can only say, Sir, I feel the weight of the obligation, I wish I could express my sense of it. In the mean time accept of the conscious acknowledgment from,

Sir,

Your obliged servant,

R. B.

LV. TO DR. MOORE

[The book to which the poet alludes, was the well-known View of Society by Dr. Moore, a work of spirit and observation.]

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787.

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 fortnight, and after a few pilgrimages over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cowden Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, &c., I shall return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I have no equivalent to offer; 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.

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.

LVI. TO MRS. DUNLOP

[This letter was in answer to one of criticism and remonstrance, from Mrs. Dunlop, respecting “The Dream,” which she had begged the poet to omit, lest it should harm his fortunes with the world.]

Edinburgh, 30th April, 1787.

– 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, &c., as all these respective gentry do by my bardship. I know what I may expect from the word, by and by—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.

LVII. TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR

[The answer of Dr. Blair to this letter contains the following passage: “Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singular: and in being brought out all at once from the shades of deepest privacy to so great a share of public notice and observation, you had to stand a severe trial. I am happy you have stood it so well, and, as far as I have known or heard, though in the midst of many temptations, without reproach to your character or behaviour.”]

Lawn-market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1787.

Reverend and much-respected Sir,

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, patronage, and friendship you have shown me. I often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation; drawn forth from the veriest shades of life to the glare of remark; and honoured by the notice of those illustrious names of my country whose works, while they are applauded to the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my appearance in the world might attract notice, and honour me with the acquaintance of the permanent lights of genius and literature, those who are truly benefactors of the immortal nature of man, I knew very well that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over; I have made up my mind that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not surprise me in my quarters.

I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo’s work^[174] for me, done on Indian paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony with what heart-warm gratitude I am, &c.

R. B.

LVIII. TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN

[The poet addressed the following letter to the Earl of Glencairn, when he commenced his journey to the Border. It was first printed in the third edition of Lockhart’s Life of Burns; an eloquent and manly work.]

My Lord,

I go away to-morrow morning early, and allow me to vent the fulness of my heart, in thanking your lordship for all that patronage, that benevolence and that friendship with which you have honoured me. With brimful eyes, I pray that you may find in that great Being, whose image you so nobly bear, that friend which I have found in you. My gratitude is not selfish design—that I disdain—it is not dodging after the heels of greatness—that is an offering you disdain. It is a feeling of the same kind with my devotion.

R. B.

LIX. TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR

[William Dunbar, Colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles. The name has a martial sound, but the corps which he commanded was club of wits, whose courage was exercised on “paitricks, teals, moorpowts, and plovers.”]

Lawn-market, Monday morning.

Dear Sir,

In justice to Spenser, I must acknowledge that there is scarcely a poet in the language could have been a more agreeable present to me; and in justice to you, allow me to say, Sir, that I have not met with a man in Edinburgh to whom I would so willingly have been indebted for the gift. The tattered rhymes I herewith present you, and the handsome volumes of Spenser for which I am so much indebted to your goodness, may perhaps be not in proportion to one another; but be that as it may, my gift, though far less valuable, is as sincere a mark of esteem as yours.

The time is approaching when I shall return to my shades; and I am afraid my numerous Edinburgh friendships are of so tender a construction, that they will not bear carriage with me. Yours is one of the few that I could wish of a more robust constitution. It is indeed very probable that when I leave this city, we part never more to meet in this sublunary sphere; but I have a strong fancy that in some future eccentric planet, the comet of happier systems than any with which astronomy is yet acquainted, you and I, among the harum scarum sons of imagination and whim, with a hearty shake of a hand, a metaphor and a laugh, shall recognise old acquaintance:

“Where wit may sparkle all its rays,

Uncurs’d with caution’s fears;

That pleasure, basking in the blaze,

Rejoice for endless years.”

I have the honour to be, with the warmest sincerity, dear Sir, &c.

R. B.

LX. TO JAMES JOHNSON

[James Johnson was an engraver in Edinburgh, and proprietor of the Musical Museum; a truly national work, for which Burns wrote or amended many songs.]

Lawn-market, Friday noon, 3 May, 1787.

Dear Sir,

I have sent you a song never before known, for your collection; the air by M’Gibbon, but I know not the author of the words, as I got it from Dr. Blacklock.

Farewell, my dear Sir! I wished to have seen you, but I have been dreadfully throng, as I march to-morrow. Had my acquaintance with you been a little older, I would have asked the favour of your correspondence, as I have met with few people whose company and conversation gives me so much pleasure, because I have met with few whose sentiments are so congenial to my own.

When Dunbar and you meet, tell him that I left Edinburgh with the idea of him hanging somewhere about my heart.

Keep the original of the song till we meet again, whenever that may be.

R. B.

LXI. TO WILLIAM CREECH, ESQ. Edinburgh.

[This characteristic letter was written during the poet’s border tour: he narrowly escaped a soaking with whiskey, as well as with water; for according to the Ettrick Shepherd, “a couple of Yarrow lads, lovers of poesy and punch, awaited his coming to Selkirk, but would not believe that the parson-looking, black-avised man, who rode up to the inn, more like a drouket craw than a poet, could be Burns, and so went disappointed away.”]

Selkirk, 13th May, 1787.

My honoured friend,

The enclosed I have just wrote, nearly extempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day’s riding. I have been over most of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, and Selkirk-shires; and next week I begin a tour through the north of England. Yesterday I dined with Lady Harriet, sister to my noble patron,^[175] Quem Deus conservet! I would write till I would tire you as much with dull prose, as I dare say by this time you are with wretched verse, but I am jaded to death; so, with a grateful farewell,

I have the honour to be,

Good Sir, yours sincerely,

R. B.

 
Auld chuckie Reekie’s sair distrest,
Down drops her ance weel burnish’d crest,
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest
Can yield ava;
Her darling bird that she loves best,
Willie’s awa.^[176]
 

LXII. TO MR. PATISON, Bookseller, Paisley.

[This letter has a business air about it: the name of Patison is nowhere else to be found in the poet’s correspondence.]

Berrywell, near Dunse, May 17th, 1787.

Dear Sir,

I am sorry I was out of Edinburgh, making a slight pilgrimage to the classic scenes of this country, when I was favoured with yours of the 11th instant, enclosing an order of the Paisley banking company on the royal bank, for twenty-two pounds seven shillings sterling, payment in full, after carriage deducted, for ninety copies of my book I sent you. According to your motions, I see you will have left Scotland before this reaches you, otherwise I would send you “Holy Willie” with all my heart. I was so hurried that I absolutely forgot several things I ought to have minded, among the rest sending books to Mr. Cowan; but any order of yours will be answered at Creech’s shop. You will please remember that non-subscribers pay six shillings, this is Creech’s profit; but those who have subscribed, though their names have been neglected in the printed list, which is very incorrect, are supplied at subscription price. I was not at Glasgow, nor do I intend for London; and I think Mrs. Fame is very idle to tell so many lies on a poor poet. When you or Mr. Cowan write for copies, if you should want any direct to Mr. Hill, at Mr. Creech’s shop, and I write to Mr. Hill by this post, to answer either of your orders. Hill is Mr. Creech’s first clerk, and Creech himself is presently in London. I suppose I shall have the pleasure, against your return to Paisley, of assuring you how much I am, dear Sir, your obliged humble servant,

R. B.

LXIII. TO W. NICOL, ESQ., Master of the High School, Edinburgh.

[Jenny Geddes was a zealous old woman, who threw the stool on which she sat, at the Dean of Edinburgh’s head, when, in 1637, he attempted to introduce a Scottish Liturgy, and cried as she threw, “Villain, wilt thou say the mass at my lug!” The poet named his mare after this virago.]

Carlisle, June 1., 1787.

Kind, honest-hearted Willie,

I’m sitten down here after seven and forty miles ridin’, e’en as forjesket and forniaw’d as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o’ my land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrowfu’ hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi’ auld Reekie.

My auld, ga’d gleyde o’ a meere has huch-yall’d up hill and down brae, in Scotland and England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil 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 minuwae, 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 ringbanes and spavies, her crucks and cramps, and fairly soupl’d, she beets to, beets to, and ay 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-stricket a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail.

I hae dander’d owre a’ the kintra frae Dumbar to Selcraig, and hae forgather’d wi’ monie a guid fallow, and monie a weelfar’d huzzie. I met wi’ twa dink quines in particular, ane o’ them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and bonnie; the tither was clean-shankit, straught, tight, weelfar’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 presbytries that you and I baith ken. They play’d me sik a deevil o’ a shavie that I daur say if my harigals were turn’d out, ye wad see twa nicks i’ the heart o’ me like the mark o’ a kail-whittle in a castock.

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgie me, I gat mysel sae noutouriously bitchify’d 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.

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.

LXIV. TO MR. JAMES SMITH, at Miller and Smith’s Office, Linlithgow.

[Burns, it seems by this letter, had still a belief that he would be obliged to try his fortune in the West Indies: he soon saw how hollow all the hopes were, which had been formed by his friends of “pension, post or place,” in his native land.]

Mauchline, 11th June, 1787.

My ever dear Sir,

I date this from Mauchline, where I arrived on Friday even last. I slept at John Dow’s, and called for my daughter. Mr. Hamilton and your family; your mother, sister, and brother; my quondam Eliza, &c., all well. If anything had been wanting to disgust me completely at Armour’s family, their mean, servile compliance would have done it.

Give me a spirit like my favourite hero, Milton’s Satan:

 
Hail, horrors! hail,
Infernal world! and thou proufoundest hell,
Receive thy new possessor! he who brings
A mind not be chang’d by place or time!
 

I cannot settle to my mind.—Farming, the only thing of which I know anything, and heaven above knows but little do I understand of that, I cannot, dare not risk on farms as they are. If I do not fix I will go for Jamaica. Should I stay in an unsettled state at home, I would only dissipate my little fortune, and ruin what I intend shall compensate my little ones, for the stigma I have brought on their names.

I shall write you more at large soon; as this letter costs you no postage, if it be worth reading you cannot complain of your pennyworth.

I am ever, my dear Sir,

Yours,

R. B.

P.S. The cloot has unfortunately broke, but I have provided a fine buffalo-horn, on which I am going to affix the same cipher which you will remember was on the lid of the cloot.

LXV. TO WILLIAM NICOL, ESQ

[The charm which Dumfries threw over the poet, seems to have dissolved like a spell, when he sat down in Ellisland: he spoke, for a time, with little respect of either place or people.]

Mauchline, June 18, 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 gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith; and was highly pleased both with the cordial welcome 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 bardship, 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 anything 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 independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hardship, in that great personage, Satan. ’Tis true, I have just 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 influences 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 fatui, 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 emphatically says “is strong as death.” My compliments 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.

LXVI. TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH

[Candlish was a classic scholar, but had a love for the songs of Scotland, as well as for the poetry of Greece and Rome.]

Edinburgh, 1787.

My dear Friend,

If once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure of that correspondence being renewed which has been so long broken. At present I have time for nothing. Dissipation and business engross every moment. I am engaged in assisting an honest Scotch enthusiast,^[177] a friend of mine, who is an engraver, and has taken it into his head to publish a collection of all our songs set to music, of which the words and music are done by Scotsmen. This, you will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly to my taste. I have collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the songs I could meet with. Pompey’s Ghost, words and music, I beg from you immediately, to go into his second number: the first is already published. I shall show you the first number when I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a fortnight or less. Do be so kind as to send me the song in a day or two; you cannot imagine how much it will oblige me.

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank’s, St. James’s Square, New Town, Edinburgh.

R. B.