MARY MORISON. Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, And by thy e'en, sae bonnie blue, And break it shall I never, O! 217 In Gilbert Burns's memoranda of heroines, communicated to Mr George Thomson, there occurs a somewhat obscure note opposite the song of Mary Morison:-'Mary Morison was the heroine of some old light verses, beginning, "I'll kiss thee yet, yet.” Burns is not supposed to have had any particular person in view.' Mrs Begg considers this song as an old one which her brother had only repaired. Mr William Douglas, whose expiscation of the mysterious story of Highland Mary entitles him to be heard with respect on any subject connected with Burns, is strongly of opinion that both Mary Morison and Bonnie Peggy Alison refer to Ellison Begbie, the poet's early sweetheart, whose rejection of him just before his going to Irvine caused him so much discomfiture during that period of his life. Mr Douglas points out that Ellison Begbie was a name unmanageable in verse, and which indeed no poet could have adopted. He thinks that Burns, by an inversion and slight change of the actual name, produced the euphonious one, Peggy Alison, and may have also meant Mary Morison as a substitute for the same loved but harsh appellative. Certainly there is an appearance of earnestness in the above song which speaks strongly for its being the expression of some such passion as that which the poet bore for Ellison Begbie; and the note of Gilbert Burns, so far as any meaning can be attached to it, seems to denote some connection between the two songs in his mind.1 The volume also contains the song, Talk not of love, it gives me pain, 'by a lady,' with the improvements effected by Burns, and set to the tune of Banks of Spey. At the bottom is the signature M. With the same signature appeared a canzonet, To a Blackbird. 1 'It appears that this song was a great favourite of Mr Stephen Clarke; for at the bottom of the manuscript music-sheet where this tune is inserted with its base, there is a note in his handwriting, in which he says "I am charmed with this song almost as much as the lover is with Bonnie Peggy Alison.-S. C."'-Stenhouse's Illustrations of Johnson's Museum. Go on, sweet bird, and soothe my care, For thee is laughing nature gay, This was an improvement by Burns upon a few verses which Clarinda had composed her first-in consequence of hearing a blackbird singing, while she was walking with one of her children at the head of Bruntsfield Links. The ideas, she used to say, came into her mind like an inspiration: 'Go on, sweet bird, and soothe my care, Let Love and Song thy hours employ; Go on, sweet bird, and soothe my care, The volume, which was published on the 14th of February,1 contained a preface, of which one or two sentences betray the hand of Burns. 'Wherever the old words could be recovered, they have been preserved, both as generally suiting better the genius of the tunes, and to preserve the productions of those earlier sons of the Scottish Muses, some of whose names deserved a better fate than has befallen them-"Buried 'midst the wreck of things that were." . . . Ignorance and Prejudice may perhaps 1 Burns says so himself in a letter to Mr Skinner of that date. The volume is advertised on the 20th of February as 'published this day,' and the preface is somewhat awkwardly dated March 1st.' sneer at the simplicity of the poetry and music of some of these pieces; but their having been for ages the favourite of Nature's Judges the Common People--was to the editor a sufficient test of their merit.' In her next letter, Clarinda gave an ample disclosure of her religious views. She is for the religion of the bosom, but believes that redemption is through Christ's atonement alone. TO CLARINDA. Saturday Morning. There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords of love and friendship give such delight, as in the pensive hours of what our favourite Thomson calls 'philosophic melancholy. The sportive insects, who bask in the sunshine of prosperity, or the worms, that luxuriant crawl amid their ample wealth of earth; they need no Clarinda-they would despise Sylvander, if they dared. The family of Misfortune, a numerous group of brothers and sisters! they need a resting-place to their souls. Unnoticed, often condemned by the world-in some degree, perhaps, condemned by themselvesthey feel the full enjoyment of ardent love, delicate, tender endearments, mutual esteem, and mutual reliance. In this light I have often admired religion. In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compassionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear. "Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night.' I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely says, 'the dark postern of time long elapsed;' and you will easily guess 'twas a rueful prospect. What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! My life reminded me of a ruined temple: what strength, what proportion in some parts !-what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others! I kneeled down before the Father of Mercies, and said, 'Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son!' I rose, eased and strengthened. I despise the superstition of a fanatic, but I love the religion of a man. 'The future,' said I to myself,' is still before me: there let me "On reason build resolveThat column of true majesty in man! I have difficulties many to encounter,' said I; but they are not absolutely insuperable: and where is firmness of mind shewn but in exertion? Mere declamation is bombast rant. Besides, wherever I am, or in whatever situation I may be, ""Tis nought to me, Since God is ever present, ever felt, And where he vital breathes, there must be joy."' Saturday Night, Half after Ten. What luxury of bliss I was enjoying this time yesternight! My ever dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul: but you have refined, you have exalted it; you have given it a stronger sense of virtue, and a stronger relish for piety. Clarinda, first of your sex! if ever I am the veriest wretch on earth to forget you-if ever your lovely image is effaced from my soul, May I be lost, no eye to weep my end, And find no earth that's base enough to bury me!' What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the every-day children of the world! 'Tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of the fields and forests; but, where sentiment and fancy unite their sweets, where taste and delicacy refine, where wit adds the flavour, and good sense gives strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is the hour of tender endearment ! * * TO CLARINDA. I am a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. Clarinda, if ever you forget Sylvander, may you be happy, but he will be miserable. Oh what a fool I am in love! what an extravagant prodigal of affection! Why are your sex called the tender sex, when I never have met with one who can repay me in passion? They are either not so rich in love as I am, or they are niggards where I am lavish. O Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my ways! Thou see'st me here, the hapless wreck of tides and tempests in my own bosom : do Thou direct to thyself that ardent love, for which I have so often sought a return in vain from my fellow-creatures! If Thy goodness has yet such a gift in store for me as an equal return of affection from her who, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than life, do Thou bless and hallow our band of love and friendship; watch over us, in all our outgoings and incomings for good; and may the tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as the thread of man's immortal life! I am just going to take your blackbird, the sweetest, I am sure, that ever sung, and prune its wings a little. SYLVANDER. TO CLARINDA. Tuesday Morning. I cannot go out to-day, my dearest love, without sending you half a line by way of a sin-offering; but, believe me, 'twas the sin of ignorance. Could you think that I intended to hurt you by anything I said yesternight? Nature has been too kind to you for your happiness, your delicacy, your sensibility. Oh why should such glorious qualifications be the fruitful source of wo! You have 'murdered sleep' to me last night. I went to bed impressed with an idea that you were unhappy; and every start I closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such scenes of romantic misery, that I would almost be persuaded you are not well this morning. If I unwitting have offended, Impute it not,' But while we live But one short hour, perhaps, between us two Let there be peace." If Mary is not gone by the time this reaches you, give her my best compliments. She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of the noblest love. I send you a poem to read till I call on you this night, which will be about nine. I wish I could procure some potent spell, some fairy charm, that would protect from injury, or restore to rest, that bosom chord, 'tremblingly alive all o'er,' on which hangs your peace of mind. I thought, vainly I fear thought, that the devotion of lovelove strong as even you can feel, love guarded, invulnerably guarded by all the purity of virtue, and all the pride of honour-I thought such a love might make you happy. Shall I be mistaken? I can no more, for hurry. An interview had taken place in the presence of Miss Peacock, who, after the departure of the poet, spoke of him with rapturous admiration. Clarinda tells Sylvander that she delighted to hear him so spoken of—but she knows how much violent admiration is akin to love. TO CLARINDA. Friday Morning, 7 o'clock. Your fears for Mary are truly laughable. I suppose, my love, you and I shewed her a scene which, perhaps, made her wish that she had a swain, and one who could love like me; and 'tis a thousand pities that so good a heart as hers should want an aim, an object. I am miserably stupid this morning. Yesterday I dined with a baronet, and sat pretty late over the bottle. And who hath wo-who hath sorrow? they that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine. Forgive me, likewise, a quotation from my favourite author. Solomon's knowledge of the world is very great. He may be looked on as the 'Spectator' or 'Adventurer' of his day: and it is, indeed, surprising what a sameness has ever been in human nature. The broken, but strongly characterising hints, that the royal author gives us of the manners of the court of Jerusalem and country of Israel are, in their great outlines, the same pictures that London and England, Versailles and France, exhibit some three thousand years later. The loves in the 'Song of Songs' are all in the spirit of Lady M. W. Montagu, or Madame Ninon de l'Enclos; though, for my part, I dis |