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The Complete Works

CCCXXVIII. TO MRS. RIDDEL

[Mrs. Riddel was, like Burns, a well-wisher to the great cause of human liberty, and lamented with him the excesses of the French Revolution.]

Dumfries, 20th January, 1796.

I cannot express my gratitude to you, for allowing me a longer perusal of “Anacharsis.” In fact, I never met with a book that bewitched me so much; and I, as a member of the library, must warmly feel the obligation you have laid us under. Indeed to me the obligation is stronger than to any other individual of our society; as “Anacharsis” is an indispensable desideratum to a son of the muses.

The health you wished me in your morning’s card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. I have not been able to leave my bed to-day till about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him.

The muses have not quite forsaken me. The following detached stanza I intend to interweave in some disastrous tale of a shepherd.

R. B.

CCCXXIX. TO MRS. DUNLOP

[It seems that Mrs. Dunlop regarded the conduct of Burns, for some months, with displeasure, and withheld or delayed her usual kind and charming communications.]

Dumfries, 31st 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 in the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely 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.

 
“When pleasure fascinates the mental sight,
Affliction purifies the visual ray,
Religion hails the drear, the untried night,
And shuts, for ever shuts! life’s doubtful day.”
 

R. B.

CCCXXX. TO MR. THOMSON

[Cromek informed me, on the authority of Mrs. Burns, that the “handsome, elegant present” mentioned in this letter, was a common worsted shawl.]

February, 1796.

Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your handsome, elegant present to Mrs. Burns, and for my remaining volume of P. Pindar. Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. I am much pleased with your idea of publishing a collection of our songs in octavo, with etchings. I am extremely willing to lend every assistance in my power. The Irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding verses for.

I have already, you know, equipt three with words, and the other day I strung up a kind of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I admire much.

Awa’ wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms.^[291]

If this will do, you have now four of my Irish engagement. In my by-past songs I dislike one thing, the name Chloris—I meant it as the fictitious name of a certain lady: but, on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. Of this, and some things else, in my next: I have more amendments to propose. What you once mentioned of “flaxen locks” is just: they cannot enter into an elegant description of beauty. Of this also again—God bless you!^[292]

R. B.

CCCXXXI. TO MR. THOMSON

[It is seldom that painting speaks in the spirit of poetry Burns perceived some of the blemishes of Allan’s illustrations: but at that time little nature and less elegance entered into the embellishments of books.]

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 Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which for these many years has been my howff, and where our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. Allan’s etchings. “Woo’d an’ married an’ a’,” is admirable! 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 * * * *, if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller than her lover. Poor Cleghorn! I sincerely sympathize with him. Happy I am to think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in this world. As for me—but that is a sad subject.

R. B.

CCCXXXII. TO MR. THOMSON

[The genius of the poet triumphed over pain and want,—his last songs are as tender and as true as any of his early compositions.]

My dear Sir,

I once mentioned to you an air which I have long admired—“Here’s a health to them that’s awa, hiney,” but I forget if you took any notice of it. I have just been trying to suit it with verses, and I beg leave to recommend the air to your attention once more. I have only begun it.

[Here follow the first three stanzas of the song, beginning,

Here’s a health to ane I loe dear;^[293]

the fourth was found among the poet’s MSS. after his death.]

R. B.

CCCXXXIII. TO MR. THOMSON

[John Lewars, whom the poet introduces to Thomson, was a brother gauger, and a kind, warm-hearted gentleman; Jessie Lewars was his sister, and at this time but in her teens.]

This will be delivered by Mr. Lewars, a young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, if you choose, to write me by him: and if you have a spare half-hour to spend with him, I shall place your kindness to my account. I have no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy to review them all, and possibly may mend some of them; so when you have complete leisure, I will thank you for either the originals or copies.^[294] I had rather be the author of five well-written songs than of ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of returning health. I have now reason to believe that my complaint is a flying gout—a sad business!

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remember me to him.

This should have been delivered to you a month ago. I am still very poorly, but should like much to hear from you.

R. B.

CCCXXXIV. TO MRS. RIDDEL, Who had desired him to go to the Birth-Day Assembly on that day to show his loyalty

[This is the last letter which the poet wrote to this accomplished lady.]

Dumfries, 4th June, 1796.

I am in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. Rackt as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every face with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam—“Come, curse me Jacob; and come, defy me Israel!” So say I—Come, curse me that east wind; and come, defy me the north! Would you have me in such circumstances copy you out a love-song?

I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball.—Why should I? “man delights not me, nor woman either!” Can you supply me with the song, “Let us all be unhappy together?”—do if you can, and oblige, le pauvre miserable

R. B.

CCCXXXV. TO MR. CLARKE, SCHOOLMASTER, FORFAR

[Who will say, after reading the following distressing letter, lately come to light, that Burns did not die in great poverty.]

Dumfries, 26th June, 1796.

My dear Clarke,

Still, still the victim of affliction! Were you to see the emaciated figure who now holds the pen to you, you would not know your old friend. Whether I shall ever get about again, is only known to Him, the Great Unknown, whose creature I am. Alas, Clarke! I begin to fear the worst.

As to my individual self, I am tranquil, and would despise myself, if I were not; but Burns’s poor widow, and half-a-dozen of his dear little ones—helpless orphans!—there I am weak as a woman’s tear. Enough of this! ’Tis half of my disease.

I duly received your last, enclosing the note. It came extremely in time, and I am much obliged by your punctuality. Again I must request you to do me the same kindness. Be so very good, as, by return of post, to enclose me another note. I trust you can do it without inconvenience, and it will seriously oblige me. If I must go, I shall leave a few friends behind me, whom I shall regret while consciousness remains. I know I shall live in their remembrance. Adieu, dear Clarke. That I shall ever see you again, is, I am afraid, highly improbable.

R. B.

CCCXXXVI. TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, EDINBURGH

[“In this humble and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work of which he was principally the founder, and to which he had contributed gratuitously not less than one hundred and eighty-four original, altered, and collected songs! The editor has seen one hundred and eighty transcribed by his own hand, for the ‘Museum.’”—Cromek. Will it be believed that this “humble request” of Burns was not complied with! The work was intended as a present to Jessie Lewars.]

Dumfries, 4th July, 1796.

How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your fifth volume? 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. In the meantime let us finish what we have so well begun.

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 possibly it may give us more, though, alas! I fear it. This protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his middle career, and will turn over the poet to other and 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.

Let me hear from you as soon as convenient.—Your work is a great one; and now that it is finished, I see, if we were to begin again, two or three things that might be mended; yet I will venture to prophesy, that to future ages your publication will be the text-book and standard of Scottish song and music.

I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have been so very good already; but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, a young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to present the “Scots Musical Museum.” If you have a spare copy, will you be so obliging as to send it by the very first fly, as I am anxious to have it soon.

The gentleman, Mr. Lewars, a particular friend of mine, will bring out any proofs (if they are ready) or any message you may have. I am extremely anxious for your work, as indeed I am for everything concerning you, and your welfare.

Farewell,

R. B.

P. S. You should have had this when Mr. Lewars called on you, but his saddle-bags miscarried.

CCCXXXVII. TO MR. CUNNINGHAM

[Few of the last requests of the poet were effectual: Clarke, it is believed, did not send the second note he wrote for: Johnson did not send the copy of the Museum which he requested, and the Commissioners of Excise refused the continuance of his full salary.]

Brow, Sea-bathing quarters, 7th July, 1796.

My dear Cunningham,

I received yours here this moment, and am indeed highly flattered with the approbation 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 rheumatism, 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 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 35l. instead of 50l.—What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse in country quarters—with a wife and five children at home, on 35l.? 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 poëte—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 Cunningham Burns. My last was James Glencairn, so you can have no objection to the company of nobility. Farewell.

R. B.

CCCXXXVIII. TO MR. GILBERT BURNS

[This letter contained heavy news for Gilbert Burns: the loss of a brother whom he dearly loved and admired, was not all, though the worst.]

10th July, 1796.

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 I 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.

CCCXXXIX. TO MR. JAMES ARMOUR, MASON, MAUCHLINE

[The original letter is now in a safe sanctuary, the hands of the poet’s son, Major James Glencairn Burns.]

July 10th [1796.]

For Heaven’s sake, and as you value the we[l]fare of your daughter and my wife, do, my dearest Sir, write to Fife, to Mrs. Armour to come if possible. My wife thinks she can yet reckon upon a fortnight. The medical people order me, as I value my existence, to fly to sea-bathing and country-quarters, so it is ten thousand chances to one that I shall not be within a dozen miles of her when her hour comes. What a situation for her, poor girl, without a single friend by her on such a serious moment.

I have now been a week at salt-water, and though I think I have got some good by it, yet I have some secret fears that this business will be dangerous if not fatal.

Your most affectionate son,

R. B.

CCCXL. TO MRS. BURNS

[Sea-bathing, I have heard skilful men say, was injudicious: but it was felt that Burns was on his way to the grave, and as he desired to try the influence of sea-water, as well as sea-air, his wishes were not opposed.]

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.

CCCXLI. TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[“The poet had the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory explanation of this lady’s silence,” says Currie, “and an assurance of the continuance of her friendship to his widow and children.”]

Brow, Saturday, 12th 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 bourn whence no traveller returns. Your friendship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart.

Farewell!!!

R. B.

CCCXLII. TO MR. THOMSON

[Thomson instantly complied with the dying poet’s request, and transmitted the exact sum which he requested, viz. five pounds, by return of post: he was afraid of offending the pride of Burns, otherwise he would, he says, have sent a larger sum. He has not, however, told us how much he sent to the all but desolate widow and children, when death had released him from all dread of the poet’s indignation.]

Brow, on the Solway-firth, 12th 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 commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God’s sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. 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 “Rothemurche” 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’s banks.^[295]

R. B.

CCCXLIII. TO MR. JAMES BURNESS, WRITER, MONTROSE

[The good, the warm-hearted James Burness sent his cousin ten pounds on the 29th of July—he sent five pounds afterwards to the family, and offered to take one of the boys, and educate him in his own profession of a writer. All this was unknown to the world till lately.]

Brow, 12th July.

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 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 doubly for me! Alas! I am not used to beg! The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely; you know, and my physician assured me, that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease; guess then my horrors since this business began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, quite well in a manner. How shall I use the language to you, O do not disappoint me! but strong necessity’s curst command.

I have been thinking over and over my brother’s affairs, and I fear I must cut him up; but on this I will correspond at another time, particularly as I shall [require] your advice.

Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post;—save me from the horrors of a jail!

My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know what I have written. The subject is so horrible I dare not look it over again.

Farewell.

R. B.