No. CCXXIII. TO CAPTAIN: SIR, Dumfries, 5th December, 1793. HEATED as I was with wine yesternight, I was perhaps rather seemingly impertinent in my anxious wish to be honoured with your acquaintance. You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heart-felt respect. "He is the father of the Scottish county reform, and is a man who does honour to the business at the same time that the business does honour to him," said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by me who was talking of your coming to this country with your corps. "Then," I said, “I have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, and say to him, 'Sir, I honour you as a man to whom the interests of humanity are dear, and as a patriot to whom the rights of your country are sacred.'' In times like these, Sir, when our commoners are barely able by the glimmer of their own twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and when lords are what gentlemen would be ashamed to be, to whom shall a sinking country call for help? To the independent country gentleman? To him who has too deep a stake in his country not to be in earnest for her welfare; and who in the honest pride of man can view with equal contempt the insolence of office and the allurements of corruption. I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had lately composed, and which I think has some merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall in with you at the theatre, I shall be glad to have your opinion of it. Accept of it, Sir, as a very humble but most sincere tribute of respect from a man who, dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet holds dearer an independent mind. I have the honour to be, R. B. [I have copied this excellent letter from my friend Robert Chambers's interesting collection of Scottish songs. He obtained it from Mr. Stewart, of Dalguise, and employed it, as has already been done in this edition, to illustrate that glorious war ode, "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled." ED.] No. CCXXIV. TO MRS. RIDDEL, Who was about to bespeak a Play one evening at the Dumfries Theatre. "Address to some I AM thinking to send my periodical publication, but it has not got your sanction, so pray look over it. As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, my dear Madam, to give us, "The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret!" to which please add, "The Spoilt Child"—you will highly oblige me by so doing. Ah, what an enviable creature you are. There now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, you are going to a party of choice spirits "To play the shapes Of frolic fancy, and incessant form Where lively wit excites to gay surprise; Or folly-painting humour, grave himself, Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve." But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, do also remember to weep with them that weep, and pity your melancholy friend. R. B. [This lady, to whom the bard has so happily and justly applied the above quotation, paid the debt of nature a few months ago. The graces of her person were only equalled by the singular endowments of her mind, and her poetical talents rendered her an interesting friend to Burns, in a part of the world where he was in a great measure excluded from the sweet intercourse of literary society. GILBert Burns, 1820.] No. CCXXV. TO A LADY, IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER'S BENEFIT. MADAM, Dumfries, 1794. You were so very good as to promise me to honour my friend with your presence on his benefit night. That night is fixed for Friday first: the play a most interesting one! "The Way to Keep Him." I have the pleasure to know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is generally acknowledged. He has genius and worth which would do honour to patronage: he is a poor and modest man; claims which from their very silence have the more forcible power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity that from the indolence of those who have the good things of this life in their gift, too often does brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble want! Of all the qualities we assign to the author and director of Nature, by far the most enviable is-to be able "To wipe away all tears from all eyes." O what insignificant, sordid wretches are they, however chance may have loaded them with wealth, who go to their graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the consciousness of having made one poor honest heart happy! But I crave your pardon, Madam ; beg, not to preach. I came to R. B. |