eminent for their political than for their poetical abilities. When the duchess was informed that you were the author, she wished you had written the verses in Scotch. Any letter directed to me here will come to hand safely, and if sent under the duke's cover, it will likewise come free-that is, as long as the duke is in this country. I am, sir, yours sincerely. Burns's reply was as follows:- TO MR JAMES HOY, GORDON CASTLE. EDINBURGH, 6th November 1787. DEAR SIR-I would have wrote you immediately on receipt of your kind letter; but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem whispered to me that I ought to send you something by way of return. When a poet owes anything, particularly when he is indebted for good offices, the payment that usually recurs to him— the only coin indeed in which he is probably conversant-is rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed, and begs me to enclose his most grateful thanks: my return I intended should have been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world have not seen, or, perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot see. These I shall send you before I leave Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, which, on the whole, is no bad way of spending one's precious hours and still more precious breath; at anyrate, they will be, though a small, yet a very sincere mark of my respectful esteem for a gentleman whose farther acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar obligation. The duke's song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms me. There is I know not what of wild happiness of thought and expression peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style, of which his Grace, old venerable Skinner, the author of Tullochgorum, &c. and the late Ross, at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the only modern instances that I recollect, since Ramsay, with his contemporaries, and poor Bob Fergusson, went to the world of deathless existence and truly immortal song. The mob of mankind, that many-headed beast, would laugh at so serious a speech about an old song; but as Job says, 'Oh that mine adversary had written a book!' Those who think that composing a Scotch song is a trifling business, let them try. I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper attention to the Christian admonition-Hide not your candle under a bushel,' but 'let your light shine before men.' I could name half-a-dozen dukes that I guess are a devilish deal worse employed; nay, I question if there are half-a-dozen better: perhaps there are not half that scanty number whom Heaven has favoured with the tuneful, happy, and I will say glorious gift. I am, dear sir, your obliged humble servant, R. B. Several years had elapsed since Burns had had any correspon LETTER FROM PRECEPTOR MURDOCH. 163 dence with his worthy preceptor Murdoch, now pursuing his profession in London. The poems of the Ayrshire Ploughman had been subject of fame for months both in Edinburgh and London, ere the worthy man was quite sure that that phenomenon was no other than the clouterly boy who had learned so much French with him in a fortnight, about a dozen years before. He now addressed Burns: LONDON, 28th October 1787. MY DEAR SIR-As my friend, Mr Brown, is going from this place to your neighbourhood, I embrace the opportunity of telling you that I am yet alive, tolerably well, and always in expectation of being better. By the much-valued letters before me, I see that it was my duty to have given you this intelligence about three years and nine months ago; and have nothing to allege as an excuse, but that we poor, busy, bustling bodies in London are so much taken up with the various pursuits in which we are here engaged, that we seldom think of any person, creature, place, or thing, that is absent. But this is not altogether the case with me; for I often think of you, and Hornie, and Russell, and an unfathomed depth, and lowan brunstane, all in the same minute, although you and they are (as I suppose) at a considerable distance! I flatter myself, however, with the pleasing thought, that you and I shall meet some time or other, either in Scotland or England. If ever you come hither, you will have the satisfaction of seeing your poems relished by the Caledonians in London full as much as they can be by those of Edinburgh. We frequently repeat some of your verses in our Caledonian Society; and you may believe that I am not a little vain, that I have had some share in cultivating such a genius. I was not absolutely certain that you were the author till a few days ago, when I made a visit to Mrs Hill, Dr M'Comb's eldest daughter, who lives in town, and who told me that she was informed of it by a letter from her sister in Edinburgh, with whom you had been in company when in that capital. Pray let me know if you have any intention of visiting this huge, It would afford matter for a large poem. overgrown metropolis. Here you would have an opportunity of indulging your vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to a greater degree than in any city upon the face of the globe; for the inhabitants of London, as you know, are a collection of all nations, kindreds, and tongues, who make it, as it were, the centre of their commerce. . Present my respectful compliments to Mrs Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the rest of her amiable children. May the Father of the Universe bless you all with those principles and dispositions that the best of parents took such uncommon pains to instil into your minds from your earliest infancy! May you live as he did! If you do, you can never be unhappy. I feel myself grown serious all at once, and affected in a manner I cannot describe. I shall only add, that it is one of the greatest pleasures I promise myself before I die, that of seeing the family of a man whose memory I revere more than that of any person that ever I was acquainted with. I am, my dear friend, yours sincerely, JOHN MURDOCH. Having received an answer from Miss Charlotte Hamilton and Miss Chalmers to some one of his late epistles, he replied as follows: TO MISS CHALMERS. EDINBURGH, Nov. 21, 1787. I have one vexatious fault to the kindly welcome, well-filled sheet which I owe to your and Charlotte's goodness-it contains too much sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is impossible that even you two, whom I declare to my God I will give credit for any degree of excellence the sex are capable of attaining-it is impossible you can go on to correspond at that rate; so, like those who, Shenstone says, retire because they have made a good speech, I shall, after a few letters, hear no more of you. I insist that you shall write whatever comes first: what you see, what you read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, nonsense: or to fill up a corner, c'en put down a laugh at full length. Now, none of your polite hints about flattery; I leave that to your lovers, if you have or shall have any; though, thank Heaven, I have found at last two girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with one another, without that commonly necessary appendage to female bliss -A LOVER. Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting-places for my soul in her wanderings through the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. God knows, I am ill-fitted for the struggle; I glory in being a poet, and I want to be thought a wise man-I would fondly be generous, and I wish to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am a lost subject. 'Some folk ha'e a hantle o' fauts, but I'm but a ne'er-doweel.' Afternoon. To close the melancholy reflections at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a piece of devotion, commonly known in Carrick by the title of the Wabster's Grace:' 'Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we, Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we! Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he! --Up and to your looms, lads!' R. B. He was now in the full career of friendship for Margaret Chalmers and Charlotte Hamilton. The latter, as we have seen, was a lovely woman. Of the personal attractions of Miss Chalmers, it could at the utmost be said, as Burns did say, that they were above the medium. She was, however, a woman of spirit, talent, and boundless love of things literary. Burns delighted in SONGS ON MARGARET CHALMERS. 165 the society of the two young ladies, and wrote to Miss Chalmers in particular many letters affecting the tone of friendship, but ever liable to verge towards that of gallantry. At the present time he was pleased to celebrate Miss Chalmers's attractions in two songs which he designed to publish in Johnson's second volume. BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS. TUNE-Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny. Where, braving angry winter's storms, Far in their shade my Peggy's charms Astonished, doubly marks its beam, Blest be the wild, sequestered shade, The tyrant death, with grim control, May seize my fleeting breath; But tearing Peggy from my soul MY PEGGY'S FACE. TUNE-My Peggy's Face. My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, The lily's hue, the rose's dye, TO MISS CHALMERS. MY DEAR MADAM-I just now have read yours. The poetic compliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. They are neither of them so particular as to point you out to the world at large; and the circle of your acquaintances will allow all I have said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, almost solely, on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you? I will: so look to it. Personal attractions, madam, you have much above par-wit, understanding, and worth, you possess in the first class. This is a cursed flat way of telling you these truths, but let me hear no more of your sheepish timidity. I know the world a little. I know what they will say of my poems-by second-sight, I suppose-for I am seldom out in my conjectures; and you may believe me, my dear madam, I would not run any risk of hurting you by any ill-judged compliment. I wish to shew to the world the odds between a poet's friends and those of simple prosemen. More for your information-both the pieces go in. One of them-Where braving angry winter's storms, is already setthe tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny; the other is to be set to an old Highland air in Daniel Dow's collection of ancient Scots music; the name is Ha a Chaillich air mo Dheith. My treacherous memory has forgot every circumstance about Les Incas; only I think you mentioned them as being in Creech's possession. I shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of Somebody will come too late as I shall for certain leave town in a week for Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries; but there my hopes are slender. I leave my direction in town; so anything, wherever I am, will reach me. I saw yours to -; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary, like a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you in the Christmas days. Mr has given him the invitation, and he is determined to accept of it. Oh selfishness! he owns, in his sober moments, that from his own volatility of inclination, the circumstances in which he is situated, and his knowledge of his father's disposition, the whole affair is chimerical-yet he will gratify an idle penchant at the enormous, cruel expense, of perhaps ruining the peace of the very woman for whom he professes the generous passion of love! He is a gentleman in his mind and manners-tant pis! He is a volatile schoolboy-the heir of a man's fortune who well knows the value of two times two! Perdition seize them and their fortunes before they should make the amiable, the lovely the derided object of their purse-proud contempt! I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs -'s recovery, because I really thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting her: As I came in by Glemap, I met with an aged woman; She bade me cheer up my heart, For the best o' my days was comin'.'1 1 This is an old popular rhyme. Glenap is in the south of Ayrshire. |