_Dumfries, 21st June, 1794._
MY DEAR SIR,
My long-projected journey through your country is at last fixed: and on Wednesday next, if you have nothing of more importance to do, take a saunter down to Gatehouse about two or three o"clock, I shall be happy to take a draught of M"Kune"s best with you. Collector Syme will be at Glens about that time, and will meet us about dish-of-tea hour.
Syme goes also to Kerroughtree, and let me remind you of your kind promise to accompany me there; I will need all the friends I can muster, for I am indeed ill at ease whenever I approach your honourables and right honourables.
Yours sincerely,
R. B.
CCXCVI.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Castle Douglas is a thriving Galloway village: it was in other days called "The Carlinwark," but accepted its present proud name from an opulent family of mercantile Dougla.s.ses, well known in Scotland, England, and America.]
_Castle Douglas, 25th June, 1794._
Here, in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy as I may.--Solitary confinement, you know, is Howard"s favourite idea of reclaiming sinners; so let me consider by what fatality it happens that I have so long been so exceeding sinful as to neglect the correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have been in poor health will not be excuse enough, though it is true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout; but I trust they are mistaken.
I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I pa.s.sed along the road. The subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design it as an irregular ode for General Washington"s birth-day. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland thus:--
Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Thee, famed for martial deed, and sacred song, To thee I turn with swimming eyes; Where is that soul of freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead!
Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies!
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds in silence sweep, Disturb not ye the hero"s sleep.
with additions of
That arm which nerved with thundering fate, Braved usurpation"s boldest daring!
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.
You will probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two.
R. B.
CCXCVII.
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON.
[The anxiety of Burns about the accuracy of his poetry, while in the press, was great: he found full employment for months in correcting a new edition of his poems.]
_Dumfries, 1794._
MY DEAR FRIEND,
You should have heard from me long ago; but over and above some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times, I have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so that _I have almost hung my harp on the willow-trees._
I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems, and this, with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment.
I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty-one songs for your fifth volume; if we cannot finish it in any other way, what would you think of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the mean time, at your leisure, give a copy of the Museum to my worthy friend, Sir. Peter Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as he did the Laird of Glenriddel"s, that I may insert every anecdote I can learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on the songs. A copy of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at some after period, by way of making the Museum a book famous to the end of time, and you renowned for ever.
I have got an Highland dirk, for which I have great veneration; as it once was the dirk of _Lord Balmerino._ It fell into bad hands, who stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of sending it to your care, to get it mounted anew.
Thank you for the copies of my Volunteer Ballad.--Our friend Clarke has done _indeed_ well! "tis chaste and beautiful. I have not met with anything that has pleased me so much. You know I am no connoisseur: but that I am an amateur--will be allowed me.
R. B.
CCXCVIII.
TO MR. THOMSON.
[The blank in this letter could be filled up without writing treason: but nothing has been omitted of an original nature.]
_July, 1794._
Is there no news yet of Pleyel? Or is your work to be at a dead stop, until 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. * * * *
I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much-valued and much-honoured friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintray. I wrote on the blank side of the t.i.tle-page the following address to the young lady:
Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, &c.[257]
R. B.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 257: Song CCXXIX.]