The Letters of Robert Burns by Robert Burns

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My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year.
_Vive l'amour, 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: I took up one or other, as it
suited the momentary 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 conning 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 through whim,
and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, 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 true
poet, not worth a sixpence.

I was obliged to give up this scheme; the clouds of misfortune were
gathering thick round my father's head; and, what was worst of all, he
was visibly far gone in a consumption; and, to crown my distresses, a
_belle fille_, 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 I 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.[40] He was the son of a simple mechanic; but a great man in
the neighbourhood 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, after 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.

In some measure I succeeded; I had pride before, but he taught it to
flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior
to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the only man I ever
saw who was a greater fool than myself where woman was the presiding
star; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor, which
hitherto I had regarded with horror. Here his friendship did me a
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, I had given up; but meeting 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 this farm with a full resolution, "Come, go to, I will be
wise!" I read farming books; I calculated crops; I attended markets;
and, in short, in spite of the devil, 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 personæ_ 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 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 might 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 rationality. 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, that, _pauvre inconnu_ 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 pretty 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 novelty of West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off
six hundred copies, of which I had got subscriptions for about three
hundred and fifty. My vanity was highly gratified by the reception I met
with 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. Blacklock to a friend of mine
overthrew all my 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. _Oubliez moi, grand Dieu, si jamais je
l'oublie_!

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 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 Williams.[41] 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. Creech[42] 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.[43]

[Footnote 40: Richard Brown.]

[Footnote 41: A young poetical lady, though not a poetess.]

[Footnote 42: His Edinburgh publisher; a bookseller, afterwards Lord
Provost of the city.]

[Footnote 43: The foregoing biographical letter brings us down to
Burns's 29th year.]

* * * *

LVIL.--To MR. ARCHIBALD LAWRIE.[44]

EDINBURGH, 14_th August_ 1787.

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 standish, a friend whose kindness 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 weather 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 I 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 veneration, or rather
idolatrization, for the clerical character, that even a little _futurum
esse_ priestling, with his _penna pennæ_, 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.

[Footnote 44: Son, and successor, to the minister of Loudon.]

* * * *

LVIII.--To MR. ROBERT MUIR, KILMARNOCK.

STIRLING, 26_th August_ 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,
Borrowstounness, 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
Caledonia over the hole in a blue whinstone, where Robert de Bruce fixed
his royal standard on the banks of Bannockburn 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[45] 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 Hughoc[46] 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.

[Footnote 45: A shopkeeper on the North Bridge, Edinburgh.]

[Footnote 46: The wee Hughoc mentioned in "Poor Maillie."]

* * * *

LIX.--TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON.

STIRLING, _28th 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 Harvieston. After
breakfast, we made a party to go and see the famous Caudron-linn, a
remarkable cascade in the Devon, 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[47] 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 still, 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.

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[48] 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 respectful
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.

[Footnote 47: Step-brother, more correctly.]

[Footnote 48: This is the "Wee Curlie Johnnie" mentioned in Burns's
_Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq._]

* * * *

LX.--To MR. WALKER, BLAIR OF ATHOLE.[49]

INVERNESS, _5th September_ 1787.

MY DEAR SIR,--I have just time to write the foregoing,[50] 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 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.

The "little angel-band!" I declare I prayed for them very sincerely
today at the Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family-piece I
saw at Blair; the amiable, the 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.

[Footnote 49: Mr. Walker was tutor to the children of the Duke of
Athole. He afterwards became Professor of Humanity in the University
of Glasgow.]

[Footnote 50: The Humble Petition of Bruar Water.]

* * * *

LXI.--To His BROTHER, MR. GILBERT BURNS, MOSSGIEL.

EDINBERG, 17_th 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 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 rehearsing; 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,[51]
but am not likely to be successful. Farewell. R. B.

[Footnote 51: Their youngest brother, afterwards a journeyman
saddler.]

* * * *

LXII.--TO MR. PATRICK MILLER,[52] DALSWINTON.

EDINBURGH, 20_th 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--
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.

[Footnote 52: His future landlord, at Ellisland.]

* * * *

LXIII.-To REV. JOHN SKINNER.

Edinburgh, _October_ 25_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 is a certain
something in the old Scotch songs, a wild happiness 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."

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