No. II.

TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH,

SCHOOL-MASTER,

STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON.

DEAR SIR:

Lochlea, 15th January, 1783.

As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter without putting you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kindness and friendship.

for what country folks call "a sensible crack," when once it is sanctified by a hoary head, would procure me so much esteem that even then I would learn to be happy. However, I am under no apprehensions about that; for though indolent, yet so far as an extremely delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy; and in many things, especially in tavern matters, I am a strict economist; not, indeed, for the sake in my composition is a kind of pride of stoof the money; but one of the principal parts mach; and I scorn to fear the face of any man living: idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a dunabove every thing, I abhor as hell the possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endears economy to me. In the I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish to matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse.— know what has been the result of all the pains My favorite authors are of the sentimental of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher: kind, such as Shenstone, particularly his and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with "Elegies;" Thomson; "Man of Feeling"-a such a recital as you would be pleased with ;-but that is what I am afraid will not be the book I prize next to the Bible; "Man of the World" Sterne, especially his "Sentimental case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits; and, in this respect, I hope, my these are the glorious models after which I en"Ossian," &c. ;Journey;" Macpherson's conduct will not disgrace the education I have deavour to form my conduct, and 'tis incongotten; but as a man of the world, I am most miserably deficient. One would have thought gruous, 'tis absurd to suppose that the man that, bred as I have been, under a father who whose mind glows with sentiments lighted up at their sacred flame-the man whose heart dishas figured pretty well as un homme des af- tends with benevolence to all the human racefaires, I might have been what the world calls he who can soar above this little scene of a pushing, active fellow; but to tell you the things" can he descend to mind the paltry truth, Sir, there is hardly any thing more my I seem to be one sent into the world, concerns about which the terræ-filial race fret, O how the to see and observe; and I very easily compound and fume, and vex themselves! with the knave who tricks me of my money, glorious triumph swells my heart! I forget if there be any thing original about him, which that I am a poor, insignificant devil, unnoticed shews me human nature in a different light markets, when I happen to be in them, reading and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and from any thing I have seen before. In short, the joy of my heart is to "study men, their a page or two of mankind, and "catching the manners, and their ways;" and for this darling of business jostle me on every side, as an idle manners living as they rise," whilst the men subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other consi-incumbrance in their way.-But I dare say I deration. I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set the bustling, busy sons of care agog; and if I have to answer for the present hour, I am very easy with regard to any thing further. Even the last, worst shift of the unfortunate and the wretched does not much terrify me: I know that even then my talent

reverse.

[The last shift alluded to here must be the condition of an itinerant beggar.-CURRIE.]

+["As exhibiting the progress of the Poet's studies, as well as the names of his favourite authors, this letter, addressed to his old teacher at Lochlea, Mr. Murdoch, is very interesting, and affords us an insight into the origin of part of that sentimentalism and exaggeration of feeling which are occasionally perceptible, both in his prose and poetical works. After this confession, it is no marvel to us that the muse of Coila, when she presented herself to the imaginings of her only and choicest son, when sitting lanely by the ingle cheek,' had a hair-brained sentimental trace strongly marked in her face.' Burns, at this period, however, had a full consciousness of his own innate powers, and the pride of genius breaks out in almost every line. The glorious triumph does indeed swell the heart, and in his confidential letter to his early preceptor, he makes no attempts to conceal it."-MOTHERWELL.

have by this time tired your patience; so I shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs. Murdoch-not my compliments, for that is a kindest wishes for her welfare; and accept of mere common-place story; but my warmest, the same for yourself, from, dear Sir, yours,

R. B.†

John Murdoch, as has already been intimated, kept the school of Lochlea, and instructed for a time the sons of William Burness. He was much of an enthusiast in his calling, and took delight in teaching such quick boys as the Poet and his brother; he was a frequent guest at the good man's fire-side, and spent the hours of evening in profitable conversation, on poetry, history, and religion. He removed to London, and maintained himself by his learning; nor was it without some surprise, it is said, that he first heard of his pupil's fame in poetry." Gilbert," observes this discerning teacher, "always appeared to me to possess a more lively imagination, and to be more of a wit, than Robert. tempted to teach them a little church music; here they were left far behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice untuneable; his countenance was generally grave, and expressive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said,Mirth, with thee I mean to live:' and certainly, if

I at

No. III.

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,

WRITER, MONTROSE.*

DEAR SIR:

Lochlea, 21st June, 1783.

got even at that price. We have indeed been pretty well supplied with quantities of white peas from England and elsewhere, but that resource is likely to fail us, and what will become of us then, particularly the very poorest sort. Heaven only knows. This country, till of late, was flourishing incredibly in the manufacture of silk, lawn, and carpet-weaving; and we are still carrying on a good deal in that way, but much reduced from what it was. We had also a fine trade in the shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a starving condition on account of it. Farming is also at a very low ebb with us. Our lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and barren; our landholders, full of ideas of farming, ga thered from the English and the Lothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, make no allow bro-ance for the odds of the quality of land, and consequently stretch us much beyond what in the event we will be found able to pay. We are also much at a loss for want of proper me thods in our improvements of farming. Neces sity compels us to leave our old schemes, and few of us have opportunities of being well in

My father received your favour of the 10th current, and as he has been for some months very poorly in health, and is in his own opinion (and, indeed, in almost every body's else) in a dying condition, he has only, with great difficulty, written a few farewell lines to each of his brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, I now hold the pen for him to thank you for your kind letter, and to assure you, Sir, that it shall not be my fault if my father's correspondence in the north die with him. My ther writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer you for the news of our family.

I shall only trouble you with a few particulars relative to the wretched state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high; oatmeal, 17d. and 18d. per peck, and not to be

any person, who knew the two boys, had been asked which of them was most likely to court the muses, he would surely never have guessed that Robert had a propensity of that kind."

Mr. John Murdoch died April 20, 1824, aged seventy-seven. He had published a Radical Vocabulary of the French language, 12mo. 1783; Pronunciation and Orthography of the French language, 8vo. 1788; Dictionary of Distinctions, 8vo. 1811; and other works. He was a highly amiable and worthy man. In his latter days, illness had reduced him to the brink of destitution, and an appeal was made to the friends and admirers of his illustrious pupil, in his behalf. Some money was thus raised, and applied to the relief of his necessities. It is stated, in the obituary notice of Mr. Murdoch, published in the London papers, that he had taught English in London to several distinguished foreigners; among the rest, to the celebrated Talleyrand, during his residence as an emigrant in England.]

The following is Mr. Murdoch's reply to the letter of Burns:

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 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 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. McComb'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 th huge, overgrown metropolis. It would afford matter for a large poem. Here you would have an opportunity of indunging your views in the study of mankind, perhaps to a greater inhabitants of London, as you know, are a collection of degree than in any city upon the face of the globe; for the nations, kindreds, and tongues, who make it, as it were, the centre of their commerce.

Present my respectful compliments to Mrs. Burness, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the rest of her amiable children. May the Father of the Universe bless you all with those praciples 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 be fore I die, that of seeing the family of a man whose memory I revere more than that of any person that ever I was ac quainted with. I am, my dear Friend,

Yours sincerely,

JOHN MURDOCE.

ther), when he was very young, lost his parent, and having * [This gentleman (the son of an elder brother of my fa discovered in his repositories some of my father's letters, he requested that the correspondence might be renewed. My father continued till the last year of his life to correspond with his nephew, and it was afterwards kept up by my brother. Extracts from some of my brother's letters to his cousin are introduced in this edition for the purpose of exhibiting the Poet before he had attracted the noticed the public, and in his domestic family relations afterwards. -GILBERT BURNS.

He was grandfather of Lieutenant Burnes, author of Tra vels in Bokhara, published a few years' since.

James Burness, son of the Poet's uncle, lives at Montrose, and has seen fame come to his house in a two-fold way; it through his eminent cousin Robert, and, dearer still, through his own grandson, Lieutenant Burnes, with whose talents and intrepidity the world is well acquainted. He is now, as 187 be surmised, descending into the vale of years: his faculties are still unimpaired, and his love of his own ancient name nothing lessened. He adheres-and we honour him for itto the spelling of his ancestors; and is not at all pleased st the change made in the name; and even sighs, it is said, because his grandsons have adopted, in part, the Poet's modification.-CUNNINGHAM.]

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world as the pure genuine principles of virtue and piety. This I hope will account for the uncommon style of all my letters to you. By uncommon, I mean their being written in such a hasty manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afraid lest you should take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistress as he would converse with his mi

formed in new ones. In short, my dear Sir, since the unfortunate beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate conclusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even in higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noblemen, and the major part of our knights and squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a Douglas, Heron, and Co.'s bank, which no doubt you heard of, has un-nister. I don't know how it is, my dear, for done numbers of them; and imitating English and French, and other foreign luxuries and fopperies, has ruined as many more. There is a great trade of smuggling carried on along our coasts, which, however destructive to the interests of the kingdom at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, but too often at the expense of our morals. However, it enables individuals to make, at least for a time, a splendid appearance; but Fortune, as is usual with her when she is uncommonly lavish of her favours, is generally even with them at the last; and happy were it for numbers of them if she would leave them no worse than when she found them.

My mother sends you a small present of a cheese; 'tis but a very little one, as our last year's stock is sold off; but if you could fix on any correspondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would send you a proper one in the season. Mrs. Black promises to take the cheese under her care so far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling carrier.

I shall conclude this long letter with assuring you that I shall be very happy to hear from you, or any of our friends in your country, when opportunity serves.

My father sends you, probably for the last time in this world, his warmest wishes for your welfare and happiness; and my mother and the rest of the family desire to inclose their kind compliments to you, Mrs. Burness, and the rest of your family, along with those of, Dear Sir,

Your affectionate Cousin,

No. IV.

TO MISS ELIZA B***.*

R. B.

Lochlea, 1783.

I VERILY believe, my dear Eliza, that the pure genuine feelings of love are as rare in the

* [This, and the three succeeding letters, were included in the first edition of the posthumous works of the Poet, but, for reasons which may be easily imagined, they were omitted in the following editions by Currie, nor were they restored by Gilbert Burns when his brother's works fell under his care. The name of the lady to whom they were addressed has not transpired: she was the heroine of several songs-of "Montgomery's Peggy," of "Bonnie Peggy Alison," and of that still finer lyric commencing,

'Now westlin' winds and slaughtʼring guns.'

She was educated, the Bard himself tells us, more than what was then common among young women of her station;

though, except your company, there is nothing on earth gives me so much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often thought that if a well-grounded affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis something extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my Eliza warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of generosity kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and envy which are but too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature in the arms of universal benevolence, and equally participate in the pleasures of the happy, and sympathize with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the Divine Disposer of events with an eye of gratitude for the blessing which I hope he intends to bestow on me in bestowing you. I sincerely wish that he may bless my endeavours to make your life as comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts of my natural temper, and bettering the unkindly circumstances of my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy of a man, and I will add worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth-worm may profess love to a woman's person, whilst in reality his affection is centered in her pocket; and the slavish drudge may go a-wooing as he goes to the horse-market to choose one who is stout and firm, and, as we may say of an old horse, one who will be a good drudge and draw kindly. I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of humour with myself, if I thought I were capable of having so poor a notion of the sex which was designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor devils! I don't envy them their happiness who have such notions. For my part I propose quite other pleasures with my dear partner.

R. B.

she was also distinguished for good sense as well as good looks. In the note on "Montgomery's Peggy," the Poet's account of his wooing and its indifferent success is given :— he desired to show his talents in letter-writing as well as display his conversational eloquence in twilight walks and stolen interviews. Currie gives these epistles to the twentieth year of Burns, and Lockhart inclines to the same period: but they seem to have been written during the year 1783: they are worthy of him in his best days: they are full of good sense and good feeling; and no doubt, "my dear Eliza" marvelled to find the impassioned lover of "The cannie hour at e'en" so reasonable and sedate on paper.

Ibid.

I Do not remember, in the course of your acquaintance and mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, amongst people in our station in life; I do not mean the persons who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really placed on the person.

Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover myself, yet, as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who are much better skilled in the affair of courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to lucky chance, more than to good management, that there are not more unhappy marriages than usually are.

exalted degree. If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, and it should please Providence to spare us to the latest period of life, I can look forward and see that even then, though bent down with wrinkled age; even then, when all other worldly circumstances will be indif ferent to me, I will regard my Eliza with the tenderest affection, and for this plain reason. because she is still possessed of these noble quelities, improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my affection for her.

"O! happy state when souls each other draw, When love is liberty, and nature law." I know were I to speak in such a style to inany a girl, who thinks herself possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridicu lous; but the language of the heart is, my dear Eliza, the only courtship I shall ever use

to you.

No. VI.

TO THE SAME.

R. B.

Lochlea, 1783,

When I look over what I have written, I am It is natural for a young fellow to like the sensible it is vastly different from the ordinary acquaintance of the females, and customary for style of courtship, but I shall make no apology him to keep them company when occasion-I know your good nature will excuse what serves some one of them is more agreeable to your good sense may see amiss. him than the rest; there is something, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her company. This I take to be what is called love with the greater part of us; and I must own, my dear Eliza, it is a hard game such a one as you have to play when you meet with such a lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and yet though you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. I am aware that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the passion I have professed for you is perhaps one of those transient flashes I have been describing; but I hope, my dear Eliza, you will do me the justice to believe me, when I assure you that the love I have for you is founded on the sacred principles of virtue and honour, and by consequence so long as you continue possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love like this alone which can render the marriage state happy. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please, and a warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, may make them feel something like what they describe, but sure I am the nobler faculties of the mind with kindred feelings of the heart can only be the foundation of friendship, and it has always been my opinion that the married life was only friendship in a more

"Burns, in these letters, moralizes occasionally very hap. pily on love and marriage. They are, in fact, the only sensible love-letters we have ever seen," -MOTHERWELL.

I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly unlucky circumstance in love, that though in every other situation in life telling the truth is not only the safest, but actually by far the easiest, war of proceeding, a lover is never under greater d ficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than when his passion is sincere, and his intertions are honourable. I do not think that it is s difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love and fondness, which are not felt. and to make vows of constancy and fidelity. which are never intended to be performed, if be be villain enough to practise such detestabie conduct: but to a man whose heart glows with the principles of integrity and truth, and whe sincerely loves a woman of amiable person, common refinement of sentiment and purity of manners—to such a one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from my own fee ings at this present moment, courtship is a te indeed. There is such a number of foreboding fears, and distrustful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit down to write to you, that what to speak of what to write I am altogether at a loss. There is one rule which I have hitherto prac

"It is probable," says Chambers, "that my dear Eliza was the heroine of the Poet's song, 'From thee, Elira, 1

must go.'"-See page 353.]

you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain truth. There is something so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood that I am surprised they can be acted by any one in so noble, so generous a passion, as virtuous love. No, my dear Eliza, I shall never endeavour to gain your favour by such detestable practices. If you will be so good and so generous as to admit me for your partner, your companion, your bosom friend through life, there is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me greater transport; but I shall never think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and, I will add, of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of you, and it is this; that you would soon either put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous consent.

It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when convenient. I shall only add further that, if a behaviour regulated (though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote your happiness; if these are qualities you would wish in a friend, in a husband, I hope you shall ever find them in your real friend and sincere lover,

No. VII.

TO THE SAME.

R. B.

Lochlea, 1783.

I OUGHT, in good manners, to have acknowledged the receipt of your letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked at the contents of it that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write you on the subject. I will not attempt to describe what I felt on receiving your letter. I read it over and over, again and again, and though it was in the politest language of refusal, still it was peremptory; you were sorry you could not make me a return, but you wish me," what, without you I never can obtain, "you wish me all kind of happiness." It would be weak and unmanly to say that without you I never can be happy; but sure I am that sharing life with you would have given it a relish, that, wanting you, I can

66

never taste.

Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior good sense, do not so much strike me; these, possibly, may be met with in a few instances in others; but that amiable goodness, that tender feminine softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming offspring of a warm feeling heart-these never again expect to meet with, in such a degree, in this world. All these charming qualities, heightened by an education much beyond anything I have ever met in any woman

I ever dared to approach, have made an impression on my heart that I do not think the world flattered myself with a wish, I dare not say it can ever efface. My imagination has fondly day call ever reached a hope, that possibly I might one lightful images, and my fancy fondly brooded you mine. I had formed the most deover them; but now I am wretched for the loss of what I really had no right to expect. I must now think no more of you as a mistress; still I presume to ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be allowed to wait on you, and, as I expect to remove in a few days a little farther off, and you, I suppose, will soon leave this place, I wish to see or hear from you soon; and if an expression should perhaps escape me, rather too warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear Miss (pardon me the dear expression for once)

No. VIII.

TO MR. JAMES BURNESS,

MONTROSE.

DEAR COUSIN :

R. B.

Lochlea, 17th Feb. 1784.

I WOULD have returned you my thanks for your kind favour of the 13th of December sooner, had it not been that I waited to give you an account of that melancholy event, which, for some time past, we have from day to day expected.

On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Though, to be sure, we have had long warning of the impending stroke; still the feelings of nature claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments and parental lessons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors, without feeling what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would partly condemn.

I hope my father's friends in your country will not let their connexion in this place die with him. For my part I shall ever with pleasure-with pride, acknowledge my connexion with those who were allied by the ties of blood and friendship to a man whose memory I shall ever honour and revere.

I expect, therefore, my dear Sir, you will not neglect any opportunity of letting me hear from you, which will very much oblige,

My dear Cousin, yours sincerely,

No. IX.

TO JAMES BURNESS,

MONTROSE.

R. B.