The Complete Works of Robert Burns Part 201

Why urge the only one request You know I will deny!

Your thought if love must harbour there, Conceal it in that thought; Nor cause me from my bosom tear The very friend I sought.]

XCVI.

TO GAVIN HAMILTON.

[The Hamiltons of the West continue to love the memory of Burns: the old arm-chair in which the bard sat, when he visited Nanse Tinnocks, was lately presented to the mason Lodge of Mauchline, by Dr. Hamilton, the "wee curly Johnie" of the Dedication.]

[_Edinburgh, Dec._ 1787.]

MY DEAR SIR,

It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I congratulate you on the return of days of ease and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours of misery in which I saw you suffering existence when last in Ayrshire; I seldom pray for any body, "I'm baith dead-sweer and wretched ill o't;" but most fervently do I beseech the Power that directs the world, that you may live long and be happy, but live no longer than you are happy. It is needless for me to advise you to have a reverend care of your health. I know you will make it a point never at one time to drink more than a pint of wine (I mean an English pint), and that you will never be witness to more than one bowl of punch at a time, and that cold drams you will never more taste; and, above all things, I am convinced, that after drinking perhaps boiling punch, you will never mount your horse and gallop home in a chill late hour. Above all things, as I understand you are in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges of gospel powers, Father Auld, be earnest with him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that you may see the vanity of vanities in trusting to, or even practising the casual moral works of charity, humanity, generosity, and forgiveness of things, which you practised so flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in them, neglecting, or perhaps profanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of faith without works, the only anchor of salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving would, in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at present, and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly press on you to be diligent in chanting over the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy.

Yours in the L--d,

R. B.

XCVII.

TO MISS CHALMERS.

[The blank which takes the place of the name of the "Gentleman in mind and manners," of this letter, cannot now be filled up, nor is it much matter: the acquaintance of such a man as the poet describes few or none would desire.]

_Edinburgh, Dec._ 1787.

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 cla.s.s.

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 show to the world, the odds between a poet's friends and those of simple pros.e.m.e.n. More for your information, both the pieces go in.

One of them, "Where braving angry winter's storms," is already set--the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for _Abercarny_; 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 circ.u.mstance 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. O selfishness! he owns, in his sober moments, that from his own volatility of inclination, the circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sion of love! He is a gentleman in his mind and manners--_tant pis_! He is a volatile school-boy--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 Glenap, I met with an aged woman: She bad me cheer up my heart, For the best o' my days was comin'."

This day will decide my affairs with Creech. Things are, like myself, not what they ought to be; yet better than what they appear to be.

"Heaven's sovereign saves all beings but himself-- That hideous sight--a naked human heart."

Farewell! remember me to Charlotte.

R. B.

XCVIII.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[The poet alludes in this letter, as in some before, to a hurt which he got in one of his excursions in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh.]

_Edinburgh, January 21, 1788._

After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning to walk across the room.

They have been six horrible weeks; anguish and low spirits made me unfit to read, write, or think.

I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer resigns a commission: for I would not take in any poor, ignorant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private; and, G.o.d knows, a miserable soldier enough; now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet: a little more conspicuously wretched.

I am ashamed of all this; for though I do want bravery for the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fort.i.tude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice.

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh: and soon after I shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-House.

R. B.

XCIX.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[The levity with which Burns sometimes spoke of things sacred, had been obliquely touched upon by his good and anxious friend Mrs.

Dunlop: he pleads guilty of folly, but not of irreligion.]

_Edinburgh, February 12, 1788._