TO MRS M'LEHOSE. [CASTLE DOUGLAS, 25th June 1794.] Before you ask me why I have not written you, first let me be informed by you, how I shall write you. 'In friendship' you say; and I have many a time taken up my pen to try an epistle of 'friendship' to you; but it will not do: 'tis like Jove grasping a pop-gun, after having wielded thunder. When I take up the pen, recollection ruins me. Ah! my ever dearest Clarinda! Clarinda! What a host of memory's tenderest offspring crowd on my fancy at that sound! But I must not indulge that subject. You have forbid it. I am extremely happy to learn that your health is re-established and that you are once more fit to enjoy that satisfaction in existence which health'alone can give us. My old friend Ainslie has indeed been kind to you. I had a letter from him a while ago, but it was so dry, so distant, so like a card to one of his clients that I could scarce bear to read it, and have not yet answered it. He is a good honest fellow, and can write a friendly letter, which would do equal honour to his head and his heart, as a whole sheaf of his letters which I have by me will witness; and though Fame does not blow her trumpet at my approach now, as she did then, when he first honored me with his friendship, yet I am as proud as ever; and when I am laid in my grave I wish to be stretched at my full length, that I may occupy every inch of ground I have a right to. You would laugh were you to see me where I am just now. Would to Heaven you were here to laugh with me, though I am afraid that crying would be our first employment! Here am I set, a solitary hermit, in the solitary room of a solitary inn, with a solitary bottle of wine by me, as grave and as stupid as an owl, but like that owl, still faithful to my old song; in confirmation of which, my dear Mrs Mac., here is your good health! May the hand-waled [specially-selected] benisons o' Heaven bless your bonie face; and the wratch wha skellies [makes grimaces] at your welfare, may the auld tinkler deil get him, to clout [patch] his rotten heart! Amen. You must know, my dearest Madam, that these now many years, wherever I am, in whatever company, when a married lady is called as a toast, I constantly give you; but as your name has never passed my lips, even to my most intimate friend, I give you by the name of Mrs Mac.' This is so well known among my acquaintances that when any married lady is called for, the toast-master will say: '0, we need not ask him who it is: here's Mrs Mac!' I have also, among my convivial friends, set on foot a round of toasts, which I call a round of Arcadian Shepherdesses, that is, a round of favourite ladies, under female names celebrated in ancient song; and then you are my Clarinda.' So, my lovely Clarinda, I devote this glass of wine to a most ardent wish for your happiness. In vain would Prudence with decorous sneer Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear : I know its worst and can that worst despise. 'Wronged, injured, shunned, unpitied, unredrest, I have been rhyming a little of late, but I do not know if they are worth postage. Tell me what you think of the following monody.* The subject of the foregoing is a woman of fashion in this country, with whom, at one period, I was well acquainted. By some scandalous conduct to me, and two or three other gentlemen here as well as me, she steered so far to the north of my good opinion that I have made her the theme of several illnatured things. The following Epigram+ struck me the other day, as I passed her carriage. PINNED TO MRS R[IDDEL]'S COACH. If you rattle along like your Mistress's tongue, But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road R. B. ROBERT BURNS TO GEORGE THOMSON. July 1794. Is there no news yet, my dear Sir, of Pleyel? Or is your work to be at a dead stop, until these glorious Crusaders, the Allies, set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage thraldom of Democrat Discords? Alas the day! And woe is me! That auspicious period, pregnant with the happiness of Millions-that golden age, spotless with Monarchical innocence and Despotic purity-That Millenium, of which the earliest * Monody on a lady famed for her caprice,' see pp. 79, 80. The manuscript of the closing portion-beginning 'Tell me'-of this letter is now in the National Portrait Gallery, Edinburgh. dawn will enlighten even Republican turbulence and show the swinish multitude that they are but beasts and, like beasts, must be led by the nose and goaded in the backside-these days of sweet chords and concords seem by no means near. O that my eyes were fountains of waters, for thy rueful sake, poor Prussia!* that as thy ire has deluged the plains of Flanders, so might my grief inundate the regions of Gallovidia [Galloway]! Ye children of success, ye sons of prosperity-ye who never shed the tear of sorrow or felt a wish unsatisfied, spare your reproaches on the left-handed shifts and shuffling of unhappy Brandenburg! Once was his Rectitude straight as the shafts of the Archers of Edina and stubborn as the granite of Gallovidian hills-the Batavian witnessed his bowels of compassion and Sarmatia [Russia] rejoiced in his truth. But alas! The needy man who has known better times [can only console himself with a song, thus']: A TIPPLING BALLAD,† on the duke OF BRUNSWICK'S BREAKING UP HIS CAMP, AND THE DEFEAT OF THE AUSTRIANS BY DUMOURIEZ, NOV. 1792. When Princes and Prelates And hot-headed zealots All Europe had set in a lowe, Nor envies a crown, And comforts himself, &c., flame * But truce with commotions And Charlotte his queen, And lang may they ring, &c. Frederick William II. of Prussia carried on a very expensive and useless war with Holland in 1787. With utterly exhausted finances, he in April 1794 agreed to the humiliating Treaty of the Hague, by which he hired out an army of 64,000 men to England and the coalition against France. The complete ballad contains eight stanzas and a chorus, and is included in The Merry Muses. So much for nonsense! I have sent you by my much-valued friend, Mr Syme of this place, the pebble for my seal. You will please remember that my holly is a bush, not a tree. I have three or four songs on the way for you; but I have not yet put the last hand to them. Pray, are you going to insert 'Bannockburn' or Wilt thou be my dearie?' in your Collection? If you are not, let me know; as in that case I will give them to Johnson's Museum. I told you that our friend Clarke is quite an enthusiast in the idea that the air 'Nancy's to the green-wood gane' is capable of sentiment and pathos in a high degree. In this, if I remember right, you did not agree with him. I intend setting my verses which I wrote and sent you, for 'The last time I came o'er the moor' to this air. I have made an alteration in the beginning of the song, which you will find on the new page. Song-Tune, 'Nancy 's to the greenwood gane.' Farewell, thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza's dwelling! &c.* I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a muchvalued and much-honored friend of mine, Mr Graham of Fintry. I wrote on the blank side of the title-page the following address to the young lady : Here, where the Scotish Muse immortal lives In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joined, So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast Or Pity's notes in luxury of tears, As modest Want the tale of woe reveals; [DUMFRIES, 31st January 1794.] I have also promised the young lady a copy of your Sonatas: will you have the goodness to send a copy, directed to Miss Graham of Fintry? * See p. 166. Another friend of mine goes to town in a week or so, when you shall again have another packet of nonsense from Yours, R. B. Though Burns had on several occasions, in 1793, acted on his own principle, 'to jouk and let the jaw flee o'er,' he sometimes liberated his soul about passing events, both in conversation and in private letters. In a lady's pocket-book he inscribed an extempore quatrain : Grant me, indulgent Heaven, that I may live More bitter was the verse which he called THE CREED OF POVERTY. In Politics if thou wouldst mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind, be deaf and blind, Burns and Syme, with a physician named Maxwell, who afterwards attended the poet on his death-bed, and several others, all liberals and opponents of the government, held occasional symposia of a strictly private nature, at which they could speak their minds freely. It is said that they locked the door of the room in which they met, a circumstance which would, of course, set the popular imagination at work, and draw upon them unwarrantable suspicions. An opposition club of Anti-Gallicans was formed, with the title of the 'Loyal Natives;'† and it appears that one of the members ventured on one occasion to launch a political pellet at the three friends of the people. A very miserable pellet it was: * Dr Maxwell was one of the Maxwells of Kirkconnel. He was educated in France, and commenced practice in Paris. He took part in the Revolution, and was one of the National Guards at the execution of the king. It was only in this year (1794) that he came home and settled in Dumfries, where he lived and worked till 1834, when he retired. He was naturally a kind of head centre of the liberal party in the town. It was first established on 18th January 1793 for Preserving Peace, Liberty, and Property, and for supporting the Laws and Constitution of the Country.' |