Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow, in the little I had of his acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Shipwreck, which you so much admire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering many hard gales of fortune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate! I forget what part of Scotland had the honour of giving him birth, but he was the son of obscurity and misfortune.' He was one of those daring, adventurous spirits which Scotland, beyond any other country, is remarkable for producing. Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs delighted over the sweet little leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, and what may be his fate. I remember a stanza in an old Scottish ballad," which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the heart: 'Little did my mother think, That day she cradled me, Or what death I should die!' Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit of mine; and, now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of another old simple ballad, which I am sure will please you. The catastrophe of the piece is a poor ruined female lamenting her fate. She concludes with this pathetic wish: 'O that my father had ne'er on me smiled; O that my mother had ne'er to me sung! O that the grave it were my bed; My blankets were my winding-sheet; The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; And O sae sound as I should sleep!' I do not remember in all my reading, to have met with anything more truly the language of misery than the exclamation in the last line. Misery is like love; to speak its language truly, the author must have felt it. I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson 1 Falconer was the son of a tradesman in the Netherbow of Edinburgh. 2 Queen Mary had four attendants of her own Christian name. In the ballad mentioned by Burns, one of these gentlewomen is described as murdering her illegitimate child, and suffering for the crime; and the verse quoted is one of her last expressions at the place of execution. The incident is supposed to be fictitious. The bard's second son, Francis, the small-pox. They are rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every person who sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest child he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the manly swell of his little chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his head, and the glance of his fine black eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of an independent mind. I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promise you poetry until you are tired of it next time I have the honour of assuring you how truly I am, &c., R. B. About this time the Clarinda correspondence was for a moment renewed, the following letter appearing as an answer to one from the lady, which has not been preserved. It is remarkable for the admission it makes of misconduct in his past career, though inferring that the circumstances in which imprudence had involved him left him no means of a spotless escape. There can scarcely be a doubt that the song with which it closes was written in compliment to his correspondent. From few men besides Burns could any lady have expected, along with an apology for deserting her only twenty months ago, a pleasant-faced canzonet of compliment declaring the world to be lightless without love. SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. [About end of January 1790.]' I have, indeed, been ill, madam, this whole winter. An incessant headache, depression of spirits, and all the truly miserable consequences of a deranged nervous system, have made dreadful havoc of my health and peace. Add to all this, a line of life, into which I have lately entered, obliges me to ride upon an average at least two hundred miles every week. However, thank Heaven, I am now greatly better in my health. * * * I cannot, will not, enter into extenuatory circumstances; else I could shew you how my precipitate, headlong, unthinking conduct, leagued with a conjuncture of unlucky events to thrust me out of a possibility of keeping the path of rcctitude; to curse me by an irreconcilable war between my duty and my nearest wishes, and to damn me with a choice only of different species of error and misconduct. I dare not trust myself further with this subject. The following In the authorised edition of the correspondence, this letter is conjecturally dated spring of 1791. The hypochondria complained of, and the allusion to the recent entrance upon the Excise business, bring it for certain a year further back. song is one of my latest productions, and I send it you as I would do anything else, because it pleases myself: MY LOVELY NANCY. TUNE-The Quaker's Wife. Thine am I, my faithful fair, To thy bosom lay my heart, There to throb and languish : Take away those rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure; Turn away thine eyes of love, What is life when wanting love? Love's the cloudless summer sun, There is in existence' a small fragment of a letter which Burns appears to have addressed to Mrs M'Lehose, immediately after receiving a reply to the preceding. Mere snatch as it is, it contains one characteristic burst of sentiment: 'I could not answer your last letter but one. When you in so many words tell a man that you look on his letters with a smile of contempt, in what language, madam, can he answer you? Though I were conscious that I had acted wrong—and I am conscious that I have acted wrongyet would I not be bullied into repentance; but your last letter Madam, determined as you... On the same sheet, the poet has transcribed, To Mary in Heaven. Towards the conclusion of the theatrical season at Dumfries, Coila came once more to the aid of Mr Manager Sutherland; but it cannot be said that her effusion was such as to hold forth a very favourable prognostic of dramatic effort. 1 In possession of Mr B. Nightingale, Wandsworth Road, London. It has been endorsed, 'Received Feb. 5, 1790.' the small-pox. They are rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every person who sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest child he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the manly swell of his little chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his head, and the glance of his fine black eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of an independent mind. I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promise you poetry until you are tired of it next time I have the honour of assuring you how truly I am, &c., R. B. About this time the Clarinda correspondence was for a moment renewed, the following letter appearing as an answer to one from the lady, which has not been preserved. It is remarkable for the admission it makes of misconduct in his past career, though inferring that the circumstances in which imprudence had involved him left him no means of a spotless escape. There can scarcely be a doubt that the song with which it closes was written in compliment to his correspondent. From few men besides Burns could any lady have expected, along with an apology for deserting her only twenty months ago, a pleasant-faced canzonet of compliment declaring the world to be lightless without love. SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. [About end of January 1790.]1 I have, indeed, been ill, madam, this whole winter. An incessant headache, depression of spirits, and all the truly miserable consequences of a deranged nervous system, have made dreadful havoc of my health and peace. Add to all this, a line of life, into which I have lately entered, obliges me to ride upon an average at least two hundred miles every week. However, thank Heaven, I am now greatly better in my health. * * * * I cannot, will not, enter into extenuatory circumstances; else I could shew you how my precipitate, headlong, unthinking conduct, leagued with a conjuncture of unlucky events to thrust me out of a possibility of keeping the path of rectitude; to curse me by an irreconcilable war between my duty and my nearest wishes, and to damn me with a choice only of different species of error and misconduct. I dare not trust myself further with this subject. The following 'In the authorised edition of the correspondence, this letter is conjecturally dated spring of 1791. The hypochondria complained of, and the allusion to the recent entrance upon the Excise business, bring it for certain a year further back. song is one of my latest productions, and I send it you as I would do anything else, because it pleases myself: MY LOVELY NANCY. TUNE-The Quaker's Wife. Thine am I, my faithful fair, To thy bosom lay my heart, Take away those rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure; Turn away thine eyes of love, What is life when wanting love? Night without a morning: Love's the cloudless summer sun, There is in existence' a small fragment of a letter which Burns appears to have addressed to Mrs M'Lehose, immediately after receiving a reply to the preceding. Mere snatch as it is, it contains one characteristic burst of sentiment: 'I could not answer your last letter but one. When you in so many words tell a man that you look on his letters with a smile of contempt, in what language, madam, can he answer you? Though I were conscious that I had acted wrong-and I am conscious that I have acted wrongyet would I not be bullied into repentance; but your last letter Madam, determined as you. . . . On the same sheet, the poet has transcribed, To Mary in Heaven. ... Towards the conclusion of the theatrical season at Dumfries, Coila came once more to the aid of Mr Manager Sutherland; but it cannot be said that her effusion was such as to hold forth a very favourable prognostic of dramatic effort. 1 In possession of Mr B. Nightingale, Wandsworth Road, London. It has been endorsed, 'Received Feb. 5, 1790.' |