Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove Where first I owned that virgin-love How aften didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for aye be mine; And my fond heart, itsel' sae true, Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, Ye mustering thunders from above, But spare and pardon my fause love, Miss Peacock had answered Burns's letter of the 6th of December, giving him an account of the return of Mrs M'Lehose to Scotland, but apparently not encouraging him to renew his correspondence with that lady. The letter did not reach the hands of the poet for a considerable time, in consequence of an accident. When at length made aware that his Clarinda was once more in Edinburgh, he addressed her-and the letter is certainly very characteristic: TO CLARINDA. I suppose, my dear madam, that by your neglecting to inform me of your arrival in Europe-a circumstance that could not be indifferent to me, as indeed no occurrence relating to you can-you meant to leave me to guess and gather that a correspondence I once had the honour and felicity to enjoy, is to be no more. Alas! what heavy-laden sounds are these-No more!' The wretch who has never tasted pleasure has never known wo; what drives the soul to madness is the recollection of joys that are 'no more!' But this is not language to the world: they do not understand it. But come, ye few-the children of Feeling and Sentiment!-ye whose trembling bosom-chords ache to unutterable anguish as recollection gushes on the heart!-ye who are capable of an attachment keen as the arrow of Death, and strong as the vigour of immortal beingcome! and your ears shall drink a tale- But, hush! I must not, cannot tell it; agony is in the recollection, and frenzy in the recital! But, madam, to leave the paths that lead to madness, I congratulate your friends on your return; and I hope that the precious health, which Miss P. tells me is so much injured, is restored or restoring. There is a fatality attends Miss Peacock's correspondence and mine. Two of my letters, it seems, she never received; and her last came while I was in Ayrshire, was unfortunately mislaid, and only found about ten days or a fortnight ago, on removing a desk of drawers. I present you a book: may I hope you will accept of it? I daresay you will have brought your books with you. The fourth volume of the Scots Songs is published: I will presume to send it you. Shall I hear from you? But first hear me. No cold language -no prudential documents: I despise advice and scorn control. If you are not to write such language, such sentiments as you know I shall wish, shall delight to receive, I conjure you, by wounded pride, by ruined peace, by frantic, disappointed passion, by all the many ills that constitute that sum of human woes, a broken heart!!!-to me be silent for ever! * R. B. The pride of Burns, and that impatience under reproach which his pride dictated, are here strongly delineated. Clarinda would probably in reply revert to her former wish, that Sylvander could have been brought to feel a little of genuine gospel humility.' Yet he was capable of the deepest self-humiliation-only it was necessary, for the development of the feeling, that no fellow-worm should presume to taunt, or even to advise him. TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 3d March 1793. Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time to write you further. When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, means that the three demons, Indolence, 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 daresay he thinks I have used him unkindly; and, I must own, with too much appearance of truth. Apropos, do you know the much-admired old Highland air called The Sutor's Dochter? It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have written what I reckon one of my best songs to it. I will send it to you as it was sung, with great applause, in some fashionable circles, by Major Robertson of Lude, who was here with his corps. There is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately lost a valuable scal, a present from a departed 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 armorialbearing 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 woodlark 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 by, 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 Cunningham, 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 a mutual league. Let Wealth shelter and cherish unprotected Merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit will richly repay it. R. B. 1 Some of the earlier letters to Mr Thomson retain the impression of a small seal with the device, very characteristic of and suitable to our poet, of a heart transfixed by cross darts. * A seal with these fanciful bearings was actually cut for the poet, and used by him for the remainder of his life. Its impression is represented under a profile of the poet in Cunningham's edition of Burns, vol. viii. p. 168. The poet here alludes to David Allan, painter, usually called the Scottish Hogarth. He was born at Alloa in 1744, and educated through the kindness of some generous ladies. His serious paintings are not much admired; but he had a happy knack at hitting off Scottish rustic figures. At his death in 1796, he left a series of drawings illustrative of Burns's works. BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 20th March 1793. MY DEAR SIR-The song prefixed [Mary Morison1] 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, &c., 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. BURNS TO MR THOMSON. March 1793. WANDERING WILLIE. Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie, And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting, Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave of your slumbers, But if he's forgotten his faithfulest Nannie, O still flow between us, thou wide-roaring main! But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain! I leave it to you, my dear sir, to determine whether the above, or the old Through the Lang Muir, be the best. 1 See vol. I., p. 68. The song is here headed by the poet with a reference to the tune of Duncan Davidson. For this is substituted in Mr Thomson's hand, Bide ye yet. The song was adapted by the late John Wilson, vocalist, to the tune of Merry may the Maid be, which is certainly much more suitable. TO MISS BENSON.1 DUMFRIES, 21st 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 probabilities 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 take 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 acquainted 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. Miss Hamilton tells me, that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the enclosed sonnet; though, to tell you the real truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have the opportunity of declaring with how much respectful esteem I have the honour to be, &c. R. B. Burns was acquainted with Mr Craik of Arbigland, through his friend and landlord, Captain Hamilton, a connection of the family. He had at Arbigland met Miss Benson, who was there on a visit. The lady has related the following anecdote of the occasion: 'I dined with Burns at Arbigland; he was witty, drank as others drank, and was long in coming to the tea-table. It was then the fashion for young ladies to be busy about something-I was working a flower. The poet sat down beside me, talked of the beauty of what I was imitating, and put his hand so near the work, that I said: "Well, take it, and do a bit yourself." "O 1 Afterwards Mrs Basil Montagu. |