UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
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 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 AND 
 
 MRS. DUNLOP
 
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 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 AND 
 
 MRS. DUNLOP 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE NOW PUBLISHED IN FULL 
 FOR THE FIRST TIME 
 
 WITH ELUCIDATIONS BY 
 
 WILLIAM WALLACE 
 
 EDITOR OF ROBERT CHAMBERS'S ' LIFE AND WORKS 
 OF ROBERT BURNS' 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 Volume I. 
 
 
 .1 5 
 
 ■i O 'J « i) 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 1898
 
 Copyright, 1898, 
 By R. B. Adam. 
 
 
 SEnibcrsitg ?Press: 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
 
 5 'V'b'^\ 
 
 0/ 
 
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 '^ 
 
 Preface 
 
 These volumes contain ninety-six letters that passed, 
 in the course of their ten years' friendship, between 
 Burns and Mrs. Dunlop. Currie, in his Works of 
 Robert Burns (1800), printed thirty-nine letters of 
 Burns to Mrs. Dunlop ; Cromek, in his Rcliqucs, 
 
 A printed three more ; and Scott-Douglas, in his Works 
 of Robert Burns (1877), added a fourth'from a MS. 
 
 \\ of Mr. Locker-Lampson's. The Lochryan MSS., now 
 in the possession of Mr. R. B. Adam, of Buffalo, 
 N. Y., contain thirty-eight more original holograph 
 letters and parts of letters from the poet to Mrs. 
 Dunlop, together with MSS. of several of the 
 Poems, and ninety-seven letters from Mrs. Dunlop 
 to Burns. The whole of these, old and new, have 
 ^ been reproduced here with the utmost possible cor- 
 J rectness ; the few lacunae ascertained and conjectured 
 
 ^ are indicated. Four of the letters printed by Currie 
 
 ^ have been collated with the original MSS. in the 
 collection of Mr. Adam, and the emendations and 
 additions thence derived are of particular interest, 
 both in themselves and as illustrations of Currie's 
 editorial method. 
 
 The Burns letters in the Lochryan (Adam) col- 
 lection are the surplus of the selection made for 
 
 1884.35
 
 vi Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 Currie's use by Mrs. Dunlop and Gilbert Burns 
 from the MSS. which the lady had in her posisession 
 at the poet's death. It is unnecessary here to do 
 more than refer to the story of the bargain she struck 
 with those who had charge of Burns 's affairs. Com- 
 parison of the number of letters she wrote to the 
 poet with the number he wrote to her further dis- 
 credits the popular tradition as to her jocular repur- 
 chase of every one of her own with one of the poet's. 
 And while the Lochryan MSS. proper throw no 
 light on this subject, one at least of the four MSS. 
 of Mr. Adam's referred to above confirms Gilbert's 
 statement that the selection was made by Mrs. 
 Dunlop and himself. These four are the originals 
 of the letters of 12th February 1788, ist January 
 1789, 4th March 1789, and 6th December 1792. 
 That of 4th March 1789 is docketed "May be 
 printed" in Mrs. Dunlop's hand. The fact that the 
 docket on that of 12th February 1788, referred to 
 in the text, is in a hand which is neither Mrs. 
 Dunlop's nor Gilbert's, suggests that they had an 
 assistant in the work of selection. 
 
 The Lochryan MSS., now published for the first 
 time, were in all probability never seen by Currie. 
 Manifestly none of them has ever been handled by 
 either editor or printer. They are all in a state of 
 beautiful preservation, and include at least as fine 
 specimens of the poet's handwriting as any that 
 have seen the light in the original or reproduction. 
 Besides the letters there are in the collection
 
 Prefac( 
 
 Vll 
 
 holograph MSS. of "Tarn o' Shanter," the first draft 
 of "Passion's Cry," "The Chevalier's Lament," 
 "Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn," "On Read- 
 ing in a Newspaper the Death of J. M'Leod, Esq., 
 brother to Miss T. M'Leod, a particular friend of 
 the Author's," "On Scaring some Water-fowl on 
 Loch Turit," "O Love will venture in where it 
 darena weel be seen," and two dubious originals, 
 "On a Tear," and "The Tears I shed must ever 
 fall." 
 
 Mrs. Dunlop kept the Lochryan MSS. at Dunlop 
 till her death, when she left the estate of Lochryan 
 and the MSS. to her grandson, General Sir John 
 Wallace, from whom the documents descended to his 
 son and heir, the next possessor of Lochryan, who 
 left them by will to his youngest brother, the 
 present Colonel F. J. Wallace, from whom they 
 were recently acquired by Mr. Adam. They have 
 thus been continuously in the hands of the Dunlop- 
 Wallace family during the past century. Colonel 
 Wallace states that to the best of his knowledge 
 they have been kept in a box in the safe-room at 
 Lochryan for the last fifty years. 
 
 The interweaving of this new material with the 
 old makes the Correspondence of Burns and Mrs. 
 Dunlop almost unique in its completeness. A care- 
 ful search after possible lacunae has discovered no 
 more than four places where it can be definitely 
 stated that a letter of Burns is missing, and of the 
 gross sum of Mrs. Dunlop' s it appears that Burns
 
 viii Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 had lost or destroyed only nine — a circumstance 
 which must have wiped out the memory of the many 
 proofs the lady had received that he did not always 
 read her communications with the most respectful 
 care, and at the same time must have deepened the 
 remorse she felt for her neglect of the poet during 
 the last eighteen months of his life. 
 
 Students of Burns will be interested, in the first 
 place, to know what light the Lochryan MSS. throw 
 on the cause of that unhappy episode in the poet's 
 life. The point is fully discussed in the text (vol. ii. 
 p. 289, etc.), but it may be said generally that a broad 
 view of the complete Correspondence, now possible 
 for the first time, strongly favours the theory that 
 Mrs. Dunlop's failure to answer Burns's letters of 
 1795 and 1796 was due to inadvertence rather than 
 to any offence he could, consciously or unconsciously, 
 have given her, and that if pique influenced her — ■ 
 that is to say, if her silence was caused by his failure 
 to answer promptly the last letter she sent him 
 from London in January of 1795 — his previous 
 negligence had afforded her at least a pretext for 
 the severe punishment she inflicted. A glance at 
 the table of dates iinfrd) will show which of the two 
 had the better reason, on the whole, to reproach 
 the other with neglect. 
 
 The new matter is otherwise remarkably rich in 
 fresh biographical details, in illustration not only 
 of the relations between the two friends, but also of 
 the poet's character, walk, and conversation, and in
 
 Preface 
 
 IX 
 
 material for study of the text of numerous poems. 
 It reveals the fact that it was at least within the 
 bounds of possibility that Burns might have been a 
 military officer, and alternatively a professor in the 
 University of Edinburgh, and that Adam Smith, 
 who has not hitherto been known to have taken 
 much interest in him, conceived at a very early date 
 the idea of making him a Salt Officer in the Cus- 
 toms service at a salary of ;;^30 a year. Burns cer- 
 tainly dallied with the notion of taking a stand of 
 colours, and uncommon pains were taken by Mrs. 
 Dunlop and Dr. Moore to procure for him the nomi- 
 nation to the Chair of Agriculture in Edinburgh, 
 which was founded in 1787. Much that is new 
 is brought out as to his connection with the Ex- 
 cise; for example, the fact that he aimed from 
 the first at a Port-Officership with its superior 
 emoluments, the probable date of his initiation 
 into his profession, Corbet's services to him, and 
 so forth. 
 
 There has hitherto been no evidence that Burns 
 was so deeply indebted to Mrs. Dunlop in a pecuniary 
 sense as his brother Gilbert alleged. In the new 
 letters there is proof that she sent him an occasional 
 gift of a j£$ note. The sum of these could not have 
 amounted to a great deal. It is of more interest to 
 note the poet's attitude to this kindly habit of his 
 not very wealthy friend. At first he was deeply 
 offended, and he was, of course, never exactly com- 
 fortable under the beneficence of his correspondent;
 
 X Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 but he reasoned himself into toleration in several 
 characteristic epistles. She treated him all along 
 as a social equal and an intellectual superior; that 
 circumstance alone sufficed to put any offensive 
 interpretation of her practice out of the question. 
 The new light upon the subject confirms — if confir- 
 mation were necessary — the view that her gifts of 
 money were presents in exactly the same kind as his 
 gifts of books and cognac to her, and in no sense 
 dictated by charity or the notion that he required at 
 any time pecuniary assistance. 
 
 Mrs. Dunlop, as will be seen, was a fearless critic 
 of Burns. Almost the first subject she exploited in 
 the correspondence was the " undecent " blots she 
 discovered and wished removed in the Kilmarnock 
 edition. He treated her remonstrances on that head 
 and her literary criticisms generally with scant 
 respect. There is very much in these pages illus- 
 trative of that well-known saying of his to Mrs. 
 Dunlop — " You are right in your guess that I am 
 not very amenable to counsel." His Fescennine 
 excursions he defended in a manner characteristically 
 human. "You may guess," he said, "that the con- 
 vivial hours of men have their mysteries of wit and 
 mirth, and I hold it a piece of contemptible base- 
 ness to detail the sallies of thoughtless merriment, 
 or the orgies of accidental intoxication to the ear of 
 cool sobriety or female delicacy." 
 
 Burns's "religion of the heart" is expounded 
 anew in several of the Lochryan letters with warm
 
 Preface xi 
 
 eloquence. What could be choicer in this line than 
 his consolatory epistle of 9th July 1790? 
 
 Thomson says finely — 
 
 Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
 And oifices of life — to life itself — 
 And all its transient joys sit loose. 
 
 And yet, like many other fine sayings, it has, I fear, more 
 of philosophy than human nature in it. Poor David's pa- 
 thetic cry of grief is much more the language of man : " O 
 Absalom ! My son ! My son!" A world to Come! is the 
 only genuine balm for an agonising heart, torn to pieces in 
 the wrench of parting for ever (to mortal view) with friends, 
 inmates of the bosom and dear to the soul ! 
 
 A letter assigned conjecturally to Miss Rachel 
 Dunlop as recipient contains an even more remark- 
 able and interesting protest against original sin. 
 
 The value of the Lochryan MSS. for textual and 
 critical purposes is very great ; it has been to some 
 extent used for these purposes, but a closer study of 
 the documents has revealed several not unimportant 
 errors in the deductions recently drawn. The dates 
 of quite a number of poems and letters have had 
 to be altered in the light of the Correspondence as 
 here completed. Note, in particular, the establish- 
 ment of the right date of the "New Year's Day 
 Address" to Mrs. Dunlop (1789 instead of 1790), 
 and the clearing up of the mystery of the date and 
 place of composition of the last of the Ellisland 
 letters, which has yet hitherto seemed to be also
 
 xii Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 one of the first of the Dumfries ones. There are 
 here earlier versions than any hitherto known of 
 various poems, new facts about the building up of 
 "The Poet's Progress," and a valuable contribution 
 to the controversy about "Passion's Cry." 
 
 There is a notable contribution to Burns apolo- 
 getics in the fact confirmed by Mrs. Dunlop's letters 
 of the time, that Mrs. Burns spent part of the 
 summer of 1790 — the year of the Anne Park episode 
 — in Ayrshire. 
 
 The new Burns letters in the text are exact copies 
 of the originals, spelling and punctuation being 
 adhered to with all but literal precision. Whole 
 letters and parts of letters not previously published 
 are distinguished by a line running down the left 
 side of the letterpress. The text of the four old 
 letters, of which the MSS. are in the Adam collec- 
 tion, has been made to agree with the originals, and 
 for the rest of the old letters the best available 
 revisions have been utilised. Mrs. Dunlop's letters 
 have not been reproduced with quite the same exacti- 
 tude. Her actual misspellings have been corrected, 
 but an attempt has been made to retain such so- 
 called misspellings as were current at the time, 
 such as "an wound," which affords a graphic illus- 
 tration of the current pronunciation. She did not 
 punctuate, and that defect has been supplied. 
 Addresses of letters are indicated by Ad. prefixed at 
 the margin; where the superscription is "To Mrs. 
 Dunlop" or "To Burns," no authentic address has
 
 Preface xiii 
 
 been found. Those marked "franked by Kerr" 
 were addressed by the secretary to the Post Office, 
 whose whole-hearted admiration of Burns procured 
 him so frequently the privilege of receiving his 
 letters without the heavy tax of fourpence for a 
 "single" and eightpence for a "double." The 
 numerous notes, as well as the connecting and 
 explanatory narrative, are printed in large type for 
 convenience of reference, and because they are in 
 the great majority of cases comments on the letters 
 which they elucidate. 
 
 Mrs. Dunlop's letters to Burns, now published for 
 the first time, are almost as essential as his own to 
 a right understanding of the period of his life — 
 the last decade — which they cover. She was a very 
 different woman from Mrs, Maclehose; her portrait 
 suggests capacity and strength of will rather than a 
 tendency to Werterism. But she was in her way 
 as much of a sentimentalist. There are almost in- 
 numerable and very pathetic indications in her Cor- 
 respondence — which is of all the more value that it 
 was never intended for publication — that she re- 
 garded the advent of a letter from him as an event 
 of supreme importance. She was in agony when, for 
 some unforeseen reason, he failed to answer her. 
 She studied and commented on every line that he 
 sent her. She was willing to write three letters to 
 his one; and yet she took the most modest view of 
 her own part in the Correspondence. " I deceive 
 myself most egregiously, " she says with a sigh and
 
 xiv Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 yet almost with a touch of old-fashioned coquetry, 
 " if you would not be melancholy for at least two 
 hours after my demise, whose Correspondence has 
 been to me a varied scene of hope and delight, and 
 an intercourse of that mixture between amusement 
 and esteem to which I believed I was wholly super- 
 annuated." Her letters to Burns must be read as 
 carefully as Clarinda's, for though there is absent 
 from them the fascination of a hopeless passion, her 
 almost motherly anxiety concerned itself equally 
 with his character and with his reputation, took stock 
 of every scrap of his verse, and of every action of 
 his life. Thus it is quite impossible to understand 
 Burns' s defiant declaration so variously criticised, 
 that he was a stranger alike to jealousy and to infi- 
 delity, until one has read the remarkable and merci- 
 lessly plain-spoken letter from Mrs. Dunlop which 
 called that assertion forth — ^the letter in which she 
 warns him against thinking lightly of his wife be- 
 cause she had " succumbed " to him before marriage. 
 It is equally impossible to understand the letter of 
 Burns, now published for the first time, in which 
 he almost grandiloquently but effectually disposes 
 in advance of the modern theory that he was " an in- 
 spired faun" and "a lewd peasant of genius," with- 
 out reading the letter in which Mrs. Dunlop, also 
 anticipating certain modern criticism, writes, "A 
 gentleman told me with a grave face the other day 
 that you certainly were a sad wretch, that your 
 works were immoral and infamous, that you lam-
 
 Preface 
 
 XV 
 
 pooned the clergy and laughed at the ridiculous parts 
 of religion, and he was told you were a scandalous 
 free-liver in every sense of the word." In addition, 
 Mrs. Dunlop's letters, in equal measure with the 
 new ones from him to her, throw a flood of light 
 upon various events in his life, upon his desperate 
 struggle with farming difficulties in Ellisland, upon 
 his start as an exciseman, upon the earnest desire of 
 his Ayrshire friends, who were evidently not of the 
 insincere or fair-weather order, to secure for him an 
 academic or other position worthy of him. 
 
 The relation between Burns and Mrs. Dunlop is 
 probably unique in literary history. She was not 
 to him what Madame de Warens was to Rousseau 
 or what " the divine Emily " was to Voltaire, or what 
 Charlotte von Stein was to Goethe. She did not 
 inspire him to literary exertion as Lady Hesketh 
 inspired Cowper, although she had some ambition 
 that way. Her own view of the relationship she 
 wished to establish is indeed given in one of the 
 earliest of her letters, " I have been told Voltaire 
 read all his manuscripts to an old woman and 
 printed nothing but what she approved. I wish 
 you would name me to her office." Although Burns 
 did not appoint her to the "office," she appointed 
 herself. In her letters she appears, as has already 
 been said, as his constant and sometimes even ruth- 
 less critic. Occasionally "broad" in speech with 
 the " breadth " of her century, she was fiercely con- 
 servative in all matters of morality, and even of
 
 xvi Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 "impropriety" in phraseology. Often her literary 
 criticism is sadly and even ludicrously inept, as in 
 what she says about "The Twa Dogs," and in her 
 suggestion that Burns should imitate the "chaste " 
 Thomson. There is reason to believe that Burns 
 resented, and was even deeply offended at, her 
 strictures upon "Tarn o' Shanter," which are indeed 
 provokingly wooden. But occasionally she seems to 
 anticipate the verdict of posterity. Thus when her 
 correspondent sent her a copy of that " infusion of 
 gall, wormwood, and aquafortis," his terrible "Ode 
 to the memory of Mrs. Oswald of Auchincruive," 
 she asked him good-naturedly, " Are you not a sad 
 wicked creature to send a poor old wife straight to 
 the Devil, because she gave you a ride in a cold 
 night?" Very many readers of the Ode during the 
 past hundred years must have wished for an oppor- 
 tunity of putting the same question. On another 
 point which has recently been raised afresh by the 
 representation of Burns as an enemy of "the Kirk" 
 her common-sense enabled her to take the right side. 
 When he was attacked in her presence as an assailant 
 of religion, she pointed out that his satires were 
 really directed at persons who were "too black for 
 his ink, low beneath his pen." But "I begged to 
 appeal to the lines left in Mr. Lawrie's manse as 
 proof positive that the clergy were not attacked in 
 a collective body." It must be allowed, however, 
 that Mrs. Dunlop is much more successful as a critic 
 of conduct than of poetry. The advices she gives
 
 Preface 
 
 xvii 
 
 Burns are those of a mother to a grown-up son 
 whose powers she takes pride in, but whose passions 
 she is afraid of. She encourages him in domesticity. 
 After she has an opportunity of seeing Jean she 
 is warm in praise of his choice. But she fears the 
 "temptations " of life in the excise. She gives as an 
 argument in favour of his candidature for the Pro- 
 fessorship of Agriculture in Edinburgh University 
 that a " grave member of the College would not be 
 so often the prey of jolly Bacchus as an exciseman." 
 Mrs. Dunlop was not a blue-stocking. Her spell- 
 ing, as has been seen, was not perfect, but in her 
 day, as Thackeray has said, " people as soon thought 
 of doing their own washing as their own spelling." 
 But she knew her Bible and her Burns, her Thomson 
 and her Shenstone, her Richardson and her Fielding. 
 She had at least a superficial acquaintance with the 
 more popular Continental literature of her time, and 
 on the whole was probably more cultured and had a 
 keener interest in literature than most Scottish and 
 English gentlewomen in the end of last century. 
 She wrote indifferent verses and sent them to Burns. 
 She did not place too much stress on these exercises ; 
 on the contrary, " I wonder at the ease (impudence 
 anybody else would call it) with which I scribble 
 all my nonsense to you as a child would scratch 
 mathematical schemes to Sir Isaac Newton. " I have 
 thought it therefore advisable, and indeed only fair 
 to her memory, to give general indications of her 
 "schemes," but not to print them in full. When
 
 xviii Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 one reads her letters indeed, one is surprised that 
 she had time or heart for literary concerns at all. 
 She appears in them as a woman of many cares and 
 sorrows, and in the beginning of the Correspondence, 
 at all events, of not a few mortifications. These she 
 pours with Richardsonian precision, and occasionally 
 with Richardsonian prolixity, into the sympathetic 
 ear of Burns. Sometimes she bursts unconsciously 
 into poetry much more genuine than her set efiorts, 
 as when, writing from Loudon Castle where her 
 son-in-law lies dead, and two daughters are prostiate, 
 she puts an Iliad of misery and anxiety in the nut- 
 shell of " 'T is for light sorrows women weep." On 
 the whole, it may be doubted if Burns ever met a kind- 
 lier or wiser woman than Mrs. Dunlop; the res.^ect 
 for her which found expression in the agony of his 
 last days was well founded. It may be that she 
 "deserted" him during these days, that instead of 
 telling him of reports she may have heard to his 
 detriment, as she had been in the habit of doing, 
 and giving him an opportunity of vindicating his 
 character, she believed them without examination. 
 On this point, as has been said, the Correspondence 
 throws little light. But there is some reason to 
 believe that when the "calm afternoon of life" for 
 which Mrs. Dunlop sighed, came to her, she cher- 
 ished a peculiar affection for the man of genius 
 whose greatness, in common with her generation, 
 she but imperfectly understood, who, "spirit fierce 
 and bold " though he was, gave her consolation in
 
 Preface 
 
 XIX 
 
 her hour of affliction and wounded pride, of whom — 
 such was her view of her own position as " honoured 
 patron" — • she wrote, " I declare, upon soul and con- 
 science, that I regard it as a singular honour and 
 happiness, nay, one of those upon which I have ever 
 valued myself most, that you think my health or me 
 worth being interested in, or preferring a warm re- 
 quest to be informed about." 
 
 I am greatly indebted to Miss Agnes E. A. Wal- 
 lace, Laggray, Row, for granting me permission to 
 reproduce the portrait, taken at the age of seventeen, 
 of her great-grandmother, Mrs, Dunlop, which is 
 her property. I have also to express my thanks to 
 the numerous gentlemen who have assisted me while 
 preparing this volume for publication — in particular 
 to J. A. A. Wallace, Esq., of Lochryan, and to 
 Colonel F. J. Wallace of Arrandale, Ayr, for freely 
 and fully supplying me with details of family history; 
 to Major Dalrymple Hay for giving particulars of the 
 history of Dunlop House and estate; and to Provost 
 Mackay, Mr. David Sneddon, Mr. Duncan M' Naught, 
 and Mr. George Dunlop of Kilmarnock, and Mr. 
 William Rattray, Dunlop, for innumerable services. 
 For invaluable and enthusiastic co-operation in 
 the work of arrangement, research, and revision, 
 I cannot be too grateful to my friend Mr. James 
 Davidson. 
 
 William Wallace. 
 
 Glasgow, January 1898.
 
 Introduction 
 
 MRS. DUNLOP AND HER FAMILY 
 
 In the baptismal register of Ayr there is the follow- 
 ing entry: "Frances Anna Wallace, lawful daughter 
 to Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, advocate, and 
 Dame Eleanora Agnew, his lady, was born April 
 1 6th, 1730, baptized Wednesday the 22nd of the 
 same month by Mr. John Hunter privately." 
 
 Mrs. Dunlop was very proud of her pedigree and 
 of her connection by blood with the Liberator of 
 Scotland ; and she was encouraged in her pride by 
 Burns. But she was not, strictly speaking, a " de- 
 scendant" of the patriot, though she could claim 
 direct descent from the founder of the Wallace 
 family, Richard the Welshman, who accompanied 
 the Norman Walter Fitzalan, founder of the House 
 of Stuart, from Oswestry on the Welsh Border into 
 Scotland, at the time when David I. was bent on 
 anglicising his country, and invited Southrons, both 
 barons and priests, to aid him in the work. Adam 
 Wallace of Riccarton (Richardton, the home of 
 Richard) was in the middle of the twelfth century 
 regarded as the head of his house.^ He had two 
 
 ^ Dr. J. O. Mitchell, the distinguished Glasgow antiquary, has 
 given it as his view — on which I express no opinion — that the 
 present head of the Wallace family is Mr. H. R. Wallace of Clon- 
 caird, Ayrshire, as being " undoubted representative by unbroken 
 
 xxi
 
 xxii Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 sons, of whom the younger, Malcolm, became the 
 father of Sir William Wallace of Elderslie. The 
 elder, Sir Richard, was ancestor of Mrs. Dunlop. 
 He married Lady Helen Bruce, daughter of the Earl 
 of Carrick, so that Mrs. Dunlop could claim kinship 
 with both of Scotland's heroes. John of Richardton, 
 grandson of Sir Richard and Lady Helen, married 
 Dame Margaret, only daughter and heiress of Sir 
 James Lindsay of Craigie. It was arranged on the 
 occasion of this marriage that the family should for 
 all time bear the title of Craigie. The Wallaces of 
 Craigie intermarried with the best families in Scot- 
 land — Douglases, Maxwells, Kennedys, Rutherfords, 
 Johnstones, Campbells, and Cunninghams. The baron- 
 etcy came in with Sir Hew, last but three of the 
 Wallaces of Craigie. He was succeeded by his 
 cousin Sir Thomas, an eminent lawyer, who attained 
 to the position of Lord-Justice Clerk. Two sons of 
 the latter, William and Thomas, were successively 
 holders of the estate and title. Sir Thomas married 
 Eleanor, only daughter and heiress of Colonel Andrew 
 Agnew of Lochryan, Wigtownshire. They had two 
 children, Thomas who predeceased his father, dying 
 in 1756, at the age of twenty-seven — he was a 
 Guardsman, and his sister told Burns that he was 
 buried in Westminster Abbey — and Frances Anna 
 
 male descent of the John Wallace who was owner of Elderslie in 
 1390." Of the Lochryan family he says that they, "springing from 
 an elder brother of the John Wallace of Elderslie of 1390, un- 
 doubtedly represent the Riccartons of whom the Elderslies were 
 cadets, but they are not Wallaces, but Dunlops of Dunlop, and if 
 they had had an unquestioned male descent from Richard the 
 Welshman, it is not clear how the representation of the stem would 
 have given them the representation of the branch."
 
 Introduction xxiii 
 
 who became Mrs. Dunlop. She was thus twenty- 
 first in descent from Richard the Welshman. 
 
 Frances Anna Wallace married in 1748 John Dun- 
 lop of Dunlop^ (17th of that ilk), the representative 
 of an Ayrshire family, almost as old as her own. 
 " Gulielmus de Dunlop " appears in a notarial copy of 
 an inquest in the charter chest of the burgh of Irvine 
 in 1260. A Neil Fitz-Robert dc Dunlap signed the 
 Ragman Roll in 1296. We hear of a John de Dun- 
 lop in 1407 who was probably father of Alexander 
 Dunlop of Hunthall, " whose son was John Dunlop 
 of that ilk, who begot Robert Dunlop of Hartland, 
 whose daughter married Hugh Maxwell of Auldhouse 
 soon after 1500." In the seventeenth century most 
 of the Dunlops were warm supporters of the Presby- 
 terian cause ; most of the Wallaces, on the other 
 hand, were partisans of the House of Stuart. In 
 1684 John Dunlop succeeded in getting part of his 
 lands converted into the free barony of Dunlop.^ 
 
 1 According to an exceptionally well accredited family tradition 
 they made a runaway match from Dunskey House, the property of the 
 Hunter-Blair family near Portpatrick, where they happened to meet. 
 
 2 The lands of Dunlop, in the district of Cuninghame, Ayrshire, 
 were held continuously by the family of that name from 1260 to 1S43, 
 when they were sold by the Trustees of the late Sir John Dunlop, 
 Baronet, to Thomas Dunlop Douglas, a wealthy Glasgow merchant, 
 and a descendant of the Garnkirk branch of the Dunlops of Dunlop. 
 The castle or mansion-house of Dunlop, occupied by Mrs. Frances 
 Anna Dunlop, the correspondent of Robert Burns, was entirely re- 
 moved by Sir John Dunlop when, in 1835, he began the erection, on 
 the same site, of the present magnificent mansion of the Tudor order 
 of architecture. The old residence included a square tower of un- 
 known antiquity, \nth additions built at various periods, one of the 
 more modern portions bearing the date 1599. It was partially for- 
 tified in the spirit of ancient times, but was nevertheless possessed 
 of great accommodation and contained several elegant apartments. A
 
 xxiv Introduction 
 
 Francis, the father of Mrs. Dunlop's husband, was one 
 of the Scottish gentlemen summoned in 1707 to wit- 
 ness the " depositation " of the Scottish regaha in Edin- 
 burgh Castle. He seems to have, in 1748, resigned 
 his estate to his son John, who was born in 1707. 
 
 Mrs. Dunlop appears to have lived happily with 
 her elderly husband. In 1761 she fell heiress on her 
 mother's death to the estate of Lochryan, and six- 
 teen years later, on the death of her father, who had 
 married, efi secondes noces, Antonia Dunlop, a sister of 
 his son-in-law, Craigie also would have become her 
 property, if it had not previously been transferred to 
 her eldest son, Thomas. But in 1784 her son was 
 compelled to sell Craigie,^ the ancestral but deeply 
 
 sketch of it, made in 1S30, by Mrs. Dunlop's granddaughter, Frances 
 Dunlop, afterwards the wife of Alexander E. Monteith, Esq., Sheriff 
 of Fifeshire, has been preserved, and, by the courtesy of J. A. Gemmill, 
 Esq., Ottawa, Canada, appears in this work, at page 38, vol. i. Dun- 
 lop House was pleasantly situated in the centre of gently undulating 
 "policies," on the bank of a little rivulet called Clerkland Burn, a 
 mile from the village of Dunlop, and about three miles from Stewarton, 
 which was the post town in Mrs. Dunlop's days, and where Burns paid 
 occasional visits to his unfortunate " Uncle Robert." Mr. Douglas 
 completed the mansion begun by Sir John Dunlop who died in 1869, 
 leaving the estate in life rent to his wife's nephew, Thomas Dunlop 
 Cuningham Graham, with remainder in fee to his grand-niece, Ellen 
 Douglas, eldest daughter of Robert Hathorn Johnston-Stewart of 
 Physgill and Glasserton, Wigtonshire. In 1873 she mamed James 
 Francis, eldest son of Admiral Right Hon. Sir John Dalrymple Hay, 
 Baronet, K.C.B. ; and since the death of Cuningham Graham in 1884, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple Hay have resided at Dunlop House. 
 1 Burns, in his " Vision," has a stanza on the Wallaces : — 
 
 His country's saviour, mark him well ! 
 Bold Riccartoun's heroic swell. 
 And he who fighting glorious fell 
 
 In high command ; 
 And he whom ruthless fates expel 
 
 His native land.
 
 Introduction xxv 
 
 encumbered estate of the Wallaces, to Mr. William 
 Campbell, in the hands of whose descendants it still 
 remains.^ Her husband died on 5th June 1785, 
 This loss was followed by " a long and severe illness, 
 which reduced her mind to the most distressing state 
 of depression." It was at this time that she read 
 •' The Cotter's Saturday Night," and resolved on 
 making the acquaintance of its author. Thus at the 
 time the Correspondence opens Mrs. Dunlop was 
 suffering an accumulation of distresses. She re- 
 Burns himself explains that the references in the first four lines are 
 to Sir William Wallace, his cousin Adam Wallace of Richardton or 
 Riccarton, and Sir John Wallace of Craigie, whose gallantry con- 
 tributed most materially to the defeat of the English at the Battle of 
 Sark in 1448. He gives no explanation of the last two lines. In a 
 paper on " The Wallaces of Elderslie," read by Dr. J. O. Mitchell 
 before the Glasgow Archseological Society on 17th March 1884, they 
 are thus referred to : " The reference undoubtedly is to Sir Thomas 
 Dunlop Wallace. When Burns wrote the lines, the judicial sale of 
 Craigie was recent, and the unfortunate heir of the Wallaces, stripped 
 by ' ruthless fates ' of the last of the old acres, had abandoned ' his na- 
 tive land' and retired to England." This view is no doubt quite cor- 
 rect. It is extremely probable, to say the least, that Sir Thomas Dunlop 
 Wallace spent some time in England before settling in Edinburgh. 
 
 1 " The old ruinous Castle of Craigie," as Mrs. Dunlop pathetically 
 terms it in the Correspondence, which was the home of the Craigie 
 Wallaces from 1370 to 1588, stands on a gentle eminence and within 
 grounds of two acres in extent, about four miles from Kilmarnock. 
 The ruins consist of two gables, ramparts and vaults ; a stone in one 
 of the walls bears the armorial escutcheon of the families of Wallace 
 and Lindsay. The original castle must have been a strong fortress, 
 as there are abundant evidences that, besides being protected by the 
 usual tower and moat, it was guarded by morasses and ditches at 
 every quarter whence attack could come. Newton Castle, situated 
 in Wallacetown, a suburb of Ayr, and separated from it by the river, 
 was the home of the Wallaces after the destruction of Craigie Castle 
 by fire. But it was rendered uninhabitable by a storm in 1701. Sir 
 Thomas Wallace, Mrs. Dunlop's father, built a mansion in the neigh- 
 bourhood, to which he gave the name of Craigie House. This was 
 sold with the estates in 1783.
 
 xxvi Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 tained Lochryan, but lived at Dunlop House with 
 her fourth son, Andrew, "the Major" of the Letters, 
 who extended his hospitahty also to most of his 
 unmarried sisters. She spent a good deal of time 
 during the years with which we have to deal in East 
 Lothian with her son John "the Captain," first at 
 his house in Haddington, and afterwards at his farm 
 of Morham Mains. Then when her daughter Susan 
 got married to Mr. Henri, the French refugee, and 
 leased Loudon Castle in Ayrshire, she was an occa- 
 sional guest there, and was once nurse to a whole 
 sick household. She moved in "the best set" in 
 the county of Ayr, and had connections, shared ap- 
 parently by her son Andrew, with some of the most 
 prosperous merchants in Glasgow. She had at least 
 one bond with Edinburgh in her step-mother Lady 
 Wallace, who had a house there, and appears to have 
 kept Susan Dunlop as a companion before Henri 
 appeared on the scene. Her letters, however, afford 
 few glimpses of the personages or social activities of 
 the time. Though she had not passed her sixtieth 
 year, she had voluntarily gone into semi-retirement for 
 reasons already noted, to which has in all likelihood to 
 be added her estrangement from her eldest son. She 
 was absorbed in her family, in books, and in Burns. 
 
 Mrs. Dunlop survived Burns nineteen years, dying on 
 24th May 181 5. According to one of her biographers 
 her testament-dative was given up to the Commissary 
 of Glasgow by her daughter, Mrs. Robert Glasgow of 
 Mount-Greenan, and registered loth August 18 16, her 
 movable estate being sworn under ;^8oo.
 
 Introduction xxvii 
 
 As most of Mrs. Dunlop's children are mentioned 
 in her Correspondence with Burns, it is necessary to 
 give some account of them here. 
 
 John and Frances Dunlop had seven sons and six 
 daughters. Francis, the eldest of the family, born 
 7th August 1749, died in infancy. Thomas, the 
 second son, born i8th September 1750, assumed the 
 name of Wallace and the baronetcy of Craigie. By a 
 family arrangement made in 1774, he became propri- 
 etor of Craigie, but, as has been said, it had to be sold 
 nine years later. Sir Thomas lived in Edinburgh for 
 the most part, and had the reputation of being a buck. 
 Along with the Duke of Hamilton he founded in 1777 
 the Hunters' Club, which was the nucleus of the more 
 celebrated Caledonian Hunt, established in the follow- 
 ing year. In September 1772 he married Eglintoune, 
 youngest daughter of Sir William Maxwell, Bart., of 
 Monreith, and sister of the more famous Jean, Duchess 
 of Gordon. (It was she who, according to an Edin- 
 burgh legend, used to be sent from Lady Maxwell's 
 town-house to fetch water for tea from the Fountain 
 Well, and when the future Duchess of Gordon was 
 caught riding a sow in the High Street, it was the 
 future Lady Wallace that was found aiding her in 
 her escapade by thumping the animal with a stick.) 
 It appears from the Correspondence that she and her 
 mother-in-law did not pull well together, that indeed 
 they came to a violent breach. Lady Wallace cut 
 a rather notorious figure in Scottish society in the 
 end of the eighteenth century. As Sir William 
 Fraser puts it, she indulged a literary taste, and was
 
 xxviii Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 noted for her smart and humorous sallies. Another 
 writer says she had " more wit than delicacy," which 
 was a common enough twist in those days, and 
 " was a favourite in the literary circles adorned by 
 Hume, Adam Smith, and John Home." She wrote 
 two dramas. The Ton, or the Follies of Fashion, and 
 The Whim, a comedy in three acts. The former was 
 acted in April 1788 at the Theatre Royal, Covent 
 Garden, but did not meet with approval, and an 
 attempt to reintroduce it failed. The latter was dis- 
 allowed by the Lord Chancellor on account of certain 
 political allusions; it was printed at Margate in 1795. 
 The sole surviving son of Sir Thomas and Lady 
 Wallace ^ was John Alexander Agnew Wallace. He 
 figures as " Sandy Wallace " in the Correspondence, 
 and was a favourite of Mrs. t)unlop's, though she had 
 no dealings with his parents. Born in 1775, he en- 
 tered the army in 1787, and is said to have taken 
 part in three general engagements before he was 
 fifteen years of age. We meet him in the Corre- 
 spondence as aide-de-camp to his maternal uncle, 
 Lieutenant-Colonel Maxwell, who had a command 
 under Cornwallis in the campaigns against Tippoo 
 Sultaun of Mysore. He afterwards served under Sir 
 Ralph Abercromby in Egypt, and commanded the 
 88th Regiment, the Connaught Rangers, in the Penin- 
 sular War. He was made a K.C.B., and rose to the 
 rank of General in 185 1. He married in 1829 Janet, 
 daughter of Mr. William Rodger, a magistrate of 
 
 1 Sir Thomas Dunlop Wallace who, after the death of his first wife, 
 married a second time in France, died in 1837.
 
 Introduction xxix 
 
 Glasgow. By her he liad a family of five sons and 
 one daughter. He succeeded to Lochryan on the 
 death of Mrs. Dunlop. He himself died in 1857. 
 John Alexander Agnew Wallace, Esq., the present 
 proprietor of Lochryan, is his grandson. 
 
 Alexander, the third of Mrs. Dunlop's sons, died 
 young. Andrew, the fourth, "the Major" of the 
 Correspondence, succeeded to the estate of Dunlop 
 in accordance with a disposition executed by his 
 father. He entered the army and served in the 
 American War. At the time of the Correspondence 
 he was living, presumably on half-pay, at Dunlop 
 House and looking after his estate. He raised and 
 commanded the Ayrshire Fencible Cavalry, received 
 the rank of brigadier-general, and died unmarried in 
 1804. He was succeeded in Dunlop by his brother 
 James (the fifth son), who also adopted the military 
 profession and saw service in the American War. 
 Sir John Moore, as the Correspondence shows, was 
 a fellow-ofhcer with him in the 82nd Regiment, which 
 was raised by the Duke of Hamilton. In 1787 he 
 himself raised men for a company of the 77th Regi- 
 ment which Sir Robert Abercromby took out to 
 India in the following year. Like his nephew, he 
 appears in the Correspondence as taking part in the 
 Mysore Wars. He afterwards commanded a brigade 
 under Wellington in the Peninsula, and became major- 
 general in 18 10. He retired from the army in 1812 
 and represented the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright from 
 18 1 3 to 18 16. His eldest son John was also a soldier 
 and a politician. He served in the Grenadier Guards,
 
 XXX Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 and for a time represented the county of Ayr in 
 Parliament. In 1835 he entirely rebuilt Dunlop 
 House. Five years later, he was created a baronet. 
 Dying the following year, he was succeeded by his 
 son Sir James Dunlop, who was also a soldier like his 
 father and grandfather, and took part in the Crimean 
 War. He died unmarried in 1858, and the Dunlop 
 baronetcy became extinct. 
 
 John, the sixth son of Mrs. Dunlop, also entered 
 the army, but retired early on half-pay. He married 
 his cousin, Frances Magdalene Dunlop, by whom he 
 had a family of seven sons and four daughters. At 
 the opening of the Correspondence he had acquired 
 from the Dalrymple family the farm of Morham 
 Mains (now Morham Muir) in East Lothian, and 
 having bought up the lease of the sitting tenant, was 
 building a new house on the farm with a view to cul- 
 tivating it himself. Mrs. Dunlop visited " the Cap- 
 tain " first at Haddington, where he lived while this 
 house was building, and afterwards at Morham, 
 whither she was summoned by her daughter-in-law 
 at her many confinements. Gilbert Burns at a sub- 
 sequent period acted as the " manager " of Captain 
 Dunlop's farm for a few years. It may be noted in 
 contradiction to one of the numerous loose state- 
 ments that have been made regarding this connection 
 between John Dunlop and Gilbert Burns (such as that 
 it was on account of the sale of Morham that Gilbert 
 removed to Grant's Braes and undertook the manage- 
 ment of the Blantyre Estate), that in the roll of free- 
 holders of the county of Haddington for the year
 
 Introduction xxxi 
 
 1804, there appears the name of "John Dunlop of 
 Morham for the lands of Morham Mains and two 
 fields called Ploughfields." 
 
 Of Anthony, the seventh son, Burns, in a letter to 
 Mrs. Dunlop dated loth April 1790, writes that he 
 was possessed of "a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, 
 an elegance of soul which are of no use, only abso- 
 lutely disqualifying for the truly important business 
 of making a man's way into life." In all accounts of 
 the Dunlop family, Anthony figures as an officer in 
 the Navy. The references to him in the Correspond- 
 ence indicate that the earlier portion of his life, at all 
 events, was spent in the merchant service, and it is 
 improbable that he ever entered the Navy. In 1803 
 he married Ann Cunningham, daughter of the Col- 
 lector of Customs in Irvine. After a time he settled 
 in the Isle of Man as a tenant farmer, and ultimately 
 bought a small estate, to which, in honour of his 
 family, he gave the name of Ellerslie. Late in life, 
 however, he found himself hopelessly in debt and 
 embarrassed by litigation. On the morning of 29th 
 June 1828, he committed suicide in an Edinburgh 
 hotel.i 
 
 1 The sad story of Anthony Dunlop was fully told for the first 
 time by the Rev. Richard Simpson, Dunscore, Dumfriesshire, in an 
 article on " Ellerslie in Man " which he contributed to the Glasgow 
 Herald of October i6, 1897. Mr. Simpson's narrative is based on 
 unpublished notes written by Mr. James Grierson of Dalgoner, a 
 Dumfriesshire antiquary and intimate friend of Anthony Dunlop. 
 One of his notes runs thus: "Anthony Dunlop went to sea in his 
 thirteenth year, 1787, and saw various service in the East Indies and 
 had not been very fortunate." This confirms the impression created 
 by the Correspondence.
 
 xxxii Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 Of Mrs. Dunlop's six daughters, Agnes Eleanor, 
 the eldest, married Joseph Elias Perochon, a French 
 royalist whom the Revolution drove to London. 
 There he flourished for a time as a merchant, but, 
 his eyesight failing, he retired from business and 
 settled at Castlebank, Dumfries. Mrs. Perochon 
 showed great kindness to Burns's widow. Out ^of 
 gratitude Jean gave her for sepulture the spot in St. 
 Michael's Churchyard where Burns was first buried. 
 There Mrs. Perochon, who died on loth October 
 1825, lies buried. Susan, the second daughter, mar- 
 ried in 1789 James Henri of Bernaldean, also a refu- 
 gee, and a landed proprietor in France. He rented 
 Loudoun Castle and resided there till his death on 
 22nd June 1790. Mrs. Henri gave birth to a child 
 on 15th November of the same year. This " sweet 
 flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love " succeeded to his 
 father's estate in France. The third daughter Mar- 
 garet died in infancy. Frances, the fourth daughter, 
 married in 1777 a Wigtownshire proprietor, Robert 
 Vans Agnew of Sheuchan and Barnbarroch. The 
 present owner of these estates and representative of 
 this branch of Mrs. Dunlop's descendants is Captain 
 John Vans Agnew, of the Indian Staff Corps. Rachel, 
 the fifth, married Robert Glasgow of Mount-Greenan, 
 and, through an only daughter, is represented at the 
 present day by the Robertson-Glasgows of Mount- 
 Greenan. Keith, the youngest, Burns's " blooming 
 Keith," died unmarried in 1858.
 
 Chronology of Letters 
 
 Volume One 
 
 B. — letters from Burns to Mrs. Dunlop. D. — letters from Mrs. Dimlop 
 to Burns. * letters entirely new. f letters partly new. — date unascer- 
 tained. letters missing. 
 
 B. 
 
 1786. 
 
 Nov. i5t. 
 
 1787. 
 Jan. 15. 
 March 22f . 
 
 April 15. 
 „ 30- 
 
 D. 
 
 Dec. 30. 
 
 Jan. 9. 
 
 Feb. 26. 
 
 March 29. 
 April 14. 
 
 „ 29. 
 
 May 21. 
 July 30 or 31*. July 30. 
 
 Sep. 9. 
 
 Nov. 15. 
 Nov. 17 (?). 
 
 Dec. 25. 
 
 1788. 
 Jan. 21. 
 
 Jan. — . 
 
 B. 
 
 1788. 
 
 
 Jan. — *. 
 
 
 Feb. i2t. 
 
 
 
 Feb. 30. 
 
 March 7. 
 
 
 
 March 14 
 
 „ 26*. 
 
 
 
 )? • 
 
 „ 31*- 
 
 
 
 April 16. 
 
 April 28. 
 
 
 May 4. 
 
 
 " 27, 29t. 
 June 13(14). 
 
 July 10. 
 Aug. 2. 
 
 „ 16. 
 
 „ 21*. 
 
 May—. 
 June 4. 
 
 „ 16, 17. 
 „ 24. 
 
 July 22. 
 Aug. 9. 
 
 xxxni
 
 xxxiv Burns-Dunlop Correspondence 
 
 B. 
 
 D. 
 
 B. 
 
 D. 
 
 1788. 
 
 
 1789. 
 
 Feb. 23*. 
 March 4. 
 
 
 
 Sep. 12. 
 
 
 Sep. 27. 
 
 Oct. I. 
 
 
 March 18. 
 
 
 „ 9- 
 21. 
 
 25* 
 
 
 
 
 April I. 
 
 Oct. 23, 26*. 
 „ 29*. 
 
 Nov. 5. 
 „ 13- 
 
 April 3*. 
 „ 21*. 
 
 April 23, May 3. 
 
 Nov. 13. 
 
 May 4. 
 
 
 
 » 24. 
 Dec. 3. 
 
 June 2it. 
 
 May 20. 
 Tune 27. 
 
 Dec. 17. 
 
 
 
 J ' 
 
 
 „ 24. 
 
 July 7, 8*. 
 
 June 27, July 13 
 
 1789. 
 
 
 „ 17*- 
 
 
 Jan. I. 
 
 Jan. I. 
 
 
 Aug. I. 
 
 * 
 
 
 Aug. 19*. 
 
 
 
 „ 22. 
 
 
 „ 20, 24. 
 
 Feb. 5*. 
 
 „ 24. 
 
 Sep. 6. 
 
 Sep. 6. 
 
 
 Feb. 10, 17. 
 
 
 „ 20.
 
 Correspondence 
 
 BETWEEN 
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 " Of all the friendships," says Gilbert Burns, " which 
 Robert acquired in Ayrshire and elsewhere, none 
 seemed more agreeable to him than that of Mrs. 
 Dunlop of Dunlop, nor any which has been more 
 uniformly and constantly exerted in behalf of him 
 and his family, of which, were it proper, I could give 
 many instances. Robert was on the point of setting 
 out for Edinburgh before Mrs. Dunlop had heard of 
 him. About the time of my brother's publishing in 
 Kilmarnock, she had been afflicted with a long and 
 severe illness, which had reduced her mind to the 
 most distressing state of depression. In this situa- 
 tion, a copy of the printed Poems was laid on her 
 table by a friend, and happening to open on ' The 
 Cotter's Saturday Night,' she read it over with the 
 greatest pleasure and surprise ; the poet's description 
 of the simple cottagers operating on her mind hke 
 the charm of a powerful exorcist, expelling the de- 
 mon ennui, and restoring her to her wonted inward 
 harmony and satisfaction. Mrs. Dunlop sent off a 
 person express to Mossgiel, distant fifteen or sixteen 
 
 VOL. I. — I
 
 Correspondence between 
 
 miles, with a very obliging letter to my brother, de- 
 siring him to send her half a dozen copies of his 
 Poems, if he had them to spare, and begging he 
 would do her the pleasure of calling at Dunlop 
 House as soon as convenient. This was the begin- 
 ning of a correspondence which ended only with the 
 poet's life. (Nearly) the last use he made of his pen 
 was writing a short letter to this lady a few days 
 before his death." 
 
 The following letter, of which the last paragraph is 
 now printed for the first time from the poet's manu- 
 script, is unquestionably the earliest of Burns to Mrs. 
 Dunlop, written in reply to the " express" mentioned 
 by Gilbert. The exact date, the 15th of November, 
 is also now fixed for the first time, and throws back 
 for a day or two the precise period of the poet's 
 resolution to go to Edinburgh. (See Chambers, 1896 
 edition, vol. i. p. 444.) 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop at Dunlop House. 
 (With a parcel.) 
 
 Madam, — I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday 
 when I was so much honored with your order for my copies, 
 and incomparably more so by the handsome compliments 
 you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am fully per- 
 suaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
 alive to the titillations of applause as the Sons of Parnassus ; 
 nor is it easy to conceive how the heart of the poor Bard 
 dances with rapture when those, whose character in life 
 gives them a right to be polite judges, honor him with their 
 approbation.
 
 ^^aat ' /^/(^ uri\^ -^^ ii^y^ ocoaA — . 
 
 
 THE FIRST LEITER BL'RXS WROTE TO MRS. UCXLOP.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 3 
 
 Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, Madam, 
 you could not have touched my darling heart-chord more 
 sweetly, than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your 
 illustrious ancestor, the Saviour of his Country — 
 
 Great patriot hero ! ill-requited Chief ! 
 
 The first books I met with in my early years, which I 
 perused with pleasure, were the Lives of Hannibal, and Sir 
 William Wallace. For several of my earlier years, I had 
 few other authors; and many a solitary hour have I stole 
 out, after the laborious vocations of the day, to shed a tear 
 over their glorious, but unfortunate story. In those boyish 
 days, I remember in particular, being much struck with that 
 part of Wallace's history where these Hues occur — 
 
 Syne to the Leglen wood ^ when it was late 
 To make a silent and a safe retreat. 
 
 I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day of the week in 
 my power, and walked half a dozen miles to pay my 
 respects to the " Leglen wood " with as much devout en- 
 thusiasm as ever Pilgrim did to Loretto ; and as I explored 
 every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic 
 Countryman to have sheltered, I recollect (for even then 
 I was a Rhymer) that my heart glowed with a wish to be 
 able to make a song on him equal to his merits. 
 
 I have only been able to find you five copies : they are 
 all I can command. I am thinking to go to Edinburgh in 
 a week or two at farthest, to throw off a second Impression 
 of my book ; but on my return, I shall certainly do myself 
 the honor to wait on you, and thank you in person for the 
 oblidging notice you have been pleased to take of. Madam, 
 your much indebted and very humble servt. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 MossGiEL, 15M Nov. 1786.
 
 Correspondence between 
 
 (i) Leglen Wood is on the banks of the Ayr, near 
 Auchencruive. It was from Mount Ohphant that 
 Burns as a boy had walked to Leglen Wood. 
 
 Burns did not visit Dunlop at this time. He set 
 out for Edinburgh on the 27th of November. On the 
 14th December Creech advertised the new edition, 
 and Burns straightway sent copies of the subscription- 
 sheet to his friends. 
 
 Here occurs the first break in the correspondence. 
 Mrs. Dunlop must have replied to Burns's letter 
 of the 15th; his answer, received by her on the 
 30th, must have been written on the 22nd or 23rd 
 December, having been, as she says, a week on the 
 road. Neither of those letters, so far as is known, 
 is extant. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, care of Mr. Creech, 
 Bookseller, Cross, Edr. 
 
 Dunlop, jitk Dec. 1786. 
 
 Sir, — I have only this moment yours, and at the same 
 moment the inclosed from Dr. Moore, ^ now of London, to 
 whom I had sent a copy of your Poems as the most accept- 
 able present I could make to that person whose taste I 
 valued most and from whose friendship I have reaped most 
 instruction as well as infinite pleasure. His literary knowl- 
 edge, his fame as an author, his activity in befriending that 
 merit of which his own mind is formed to feel the full force — 
 all led me to believe I could not do so kind a thing to Mr. 
 Burns as by introducing him to Mr. Moore, whose keen 
 passions must at once admire the poet, esteem the moral- 
 ist, and wish to be usefuU to the author.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 5 
 
 I am perfectly sensible 't is not fair to shew a private 
 letter from a friend, nor ought I perhaps to have done it 
 now had I been able with any propriety otherwise to con- 
 vey the ideas it contains, and with which I really wished 
 you acquainted. The lady he mentions, Miss Williams, 
 has a very general acquaintance, and has been, I believe, 
 obliged to Mr. Moore's introduction for part of the patron- 
 age she has met among the first people in Britain; even 
 her praise will add ornament to merit far superiour to 
 her own. 
 
 In the sequestered situation where I am placed, whatever 
 my inclination, I am far distant from the power of being 
 usefuU to any one, so that I fear the half sheet you do me 
 the honour to send me is but so much lost; however I 
 shall try. 
 
 Meanwhile I would be glad to know whether you write 
 the Dr., or call, as he desires, upon his son, Major John 
 Moore,2 now at the Palace of Hamilton ; also that you 
 would favour me with a copy of the song you celebrate so 
 much in your book, where I would fain object to one word 
 which I am glad to discover is not your own. I can wish 
 you to catch no one thing from Thomson, unless it were 
 the resolution with which he plucked up every one of those 
 luxuriant weeds that will be rising in too rich a soil, and 
 from which I would be glad to see you wholly exempt. But 
 the word I allude to is vnhappy? When applied to Wal- 
 lace it seems to me unsuited to the patriot Hero or the 
 patriot Bard, and I flatter myself you feel it so. You will 
 tell me " unhappy " only means " unsuccessful," but I con- 
 fess myself hurt by the least dubiety of expression in one 
 whose own ideas are clear and determinate, and whose 
 language is so singularly nervous and beautiful. Besides,
 
 Correspondence between 
 
 at a time when every inducement seems too weak to sup- 
 port public virtue, it might not be amiss to impress an idea 
 upon our countrymen of the immediate advantage resulting 
 from it — 
 
 Sure He who deigns to guide, inspire and guard 
 The patriot Hero and the patriot Bard 
 Makes heartfelt happiness their first reward. 
 
 Coila tells you this of the second, and I dare venture to 
 believe it of the first. If it is an error, 't is one I should 
 wish all my sons to cherish, as I 'm afraid Heaven is a dis- 
 tant prospect for short-sighted mortals, who need a nearer 
 goal to animate them in an unfashionable race, and a poem 
 may light as many to it as a preaching. 
 
 Charm'd with the beauties of a matchless line, 
 I deem the spirit equally divine 
 That leads to virtue by celestial lays, 
 Or by immortal valour merits praise. 
 
 Though much I fear 
 
 Where Indian gold and English manners reign, 
 Wallace might fight and Burns may write in vain. 
 
 I address this to the care of Mr. Creech, to whom I shall 
 return the names and number of copies wanted by me or 
 my friends, so you need not attend to any former letter any 
 of my family has wrote about them. You had better send 
 Mr. Moore the proposal by the direction he gives, which 
 will save postage, his son being a member of Parliament. 
 I got the books you sent me and the letter, for which re- 
 ceive my thanks, and my money shall be payable on sight. 
 But pray tell me, did you write nothing in the Leglen Wood 
 that I may be favoured with a sight of when you come west ? 
 Or when will that be ? If you drop me a line, direct it for
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 7 
 
 "Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, by Stewarton." Yours was a 
 week on the way from being sent to Ayr. I hope that will 
 create no risque of my being too late of returning my re- 
 port to Mr. Creech. I should much regret disappointing 
 those friends who have trusted to my securing them so 
 great a pleasure. I am truly sorry I did not see you be- 
 fore you went to town, where I dread will be lost the Rural 
 Bard produced in Ayrshire. You say no body is so sensible 
 to praise as the Sons of Parnassus. If so, I fear you have 
 got too strong a doze of it even for the most callous con- 
 stitution, and all mankind are unco [pretty] weak and 
 little to be trusted when all around are conspiring to spoil 
 them and blow up their vanity — a passion which, while it 
 debases the man, can never exalt the Poet, in whom the 
 world are still more interested. You see you were not 
 mistaken in thinking I really wished to serve the Rustic 
 Bard, and to preserve him an honour to my countr)\ — I 
 am. Sir, your most humble ser\'t. Fran, Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Dr. John Moore, whose connection with Burns 
 is well known. He was of the family of Mure of 
 Rowallan; studied at Glasgow and Paris, served as 
 a surgeon in the army, and practised in Glasgow. 
 From 1772 to 1778 he travelled on the Continent 
 with Douglas, eighth Duke of Hamilton, and was now 
 settled in London cultivating letters. He wrote 
 ZeliicOy a novel ; A View of Society and Manners in 
 France ; Edward, a novel, etc. 
 
 (2) Dr. Moore's more famous son (his eldest), 
 afterwards Sir John, the hero of Corunna. He 
 travelled on the Continent with his father and the 
 young Duke of Hamilton, entered the army in 1776,
 
 8 Correspondence between 
 
 and when his friend the Duke raised the 82nd Regi- 
 ment in 1778, he was made a captain-Heutenant in it. 
 At this date he was on half-pay and a member of 
 Parhament, having been returned in 1784 through 
 the Hamilton interest for the Linlithgow, Selkirk, 
 Lanark, and Peebles group of burghs. When Mrs. 
 Dunlop wrote he was apparently on a visit to the 
 Duke at Hamilton. 
 
 (3) The second line of " The Cotter's Saturday 
 Night " read in the first edition — 
 
 That stream'd thro' great, unhappy Wallace heart. 
 
 Burns defended the " improper epithet ; " see infra 
 his letter of the 15th January, and it was only in the 
 1793 edition that he altered the text to "Wallace's 
 
 undaunted heart." 
 
 Postmark Jan. 1 5. 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, care of Mr. Creech, 
 
 Cross, Edr. 
 
 Dunlop, gthjan. 1787. 
 
 Sir, — I inclose your printing proposals. I am sorry a 
 misfortune in my own family has prevented my attending to 
 your interest as I think so much poetick merit deserves. 
 I have always found the book only needed to be seen to 
 be admired and subscribed for, but a sister's * death pre- 
 vented my shewing it but to a very few of my friends. I 
 know a gentleman in the East Indies, commanding the 
 artillery at Patna. Could you find a way while you are in 
 town to get a copy sent out to him, I know he has taste to 
 relish its beauties, and at my desire would be active to dis- 
 play them in the Eastern world in case you should print a 
 future edition. Perhaps you too know him; 'tis Captain 
 Woodburn, born at Adamton Mill, by Ayr.
 
 ^;>^ -^ ''^;'- '^c/-^ ^;,^ Q;^^, . \//^/r^, 
 
 iNiRS. DUN LOP TO liURNS, 9'''' JAXT I 78 7.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 9 
 
 I hope you have wrote Mr. Moore. I again send you his 
 letter to let you know how much he is in earnest your 
 admirer, and I never knew any man so keen to serve those 
 he takes a fancy to, and very few have so much in their 
 power. But what will perhaps tempt you more than self- 
 respecting views, he is one of the cleverest men in Britain, 
 and owes more to nature than to his acquaintance with 
 half the courts in Europe ; so that few would reject his 
 proffered correspondence. Meantime be so good as keep 
 these letters of his till I see you, and don't mention them, 
 as it would be disobliging both Lord Eglinton ^ and him, 
 and thereby hurting yourself as well as me for shewing 
 them. But it shall not be my fault if you don't know what 
 is said of you — I mean of your writings. I heard some 
 lines repeated last day ; I scrawled them over, believing 
 them addressed to you, and put them as a wrapper round 
 the inclosed subscription, which I send you for Mr. Creech. 
 But be so good as pull off the cover before you deliver it. 
 I daresay you would be shocked at an expression of the 
 Doctor's, where he says he had taught many to admire 
 your Poems, but he only means having, as a Scotsman, 
 taught the English to read them, which I wish for the sake 
 of your fame had been rendered less necessary by an 
 enlarged glossary ; that part is really defective. I find you 
 are too busy to answer my questions, but no matter ; I am 
 glad of it, as I hope you are better employed every day 
 doing honour to our country. Do you reprint the word I 
 dislike? It will make me very happy that you forget it 
 while next edition is in the press. — Adieu ! 
 
 Fran. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Sister-in-law's. Mrs. Dunlop had no sister.
 
 lo Correspondence between 
 
 (2) Dr. Moore introduced the Kilmarnock edition 
 to the notice of Archibald, eleventh Earl of Eglinton 
 (1726-96). Probably this second letter of Dr. 
 Moore's which Mrs. Dunlop forwarded to Burns was 
 a copy of the doctor's letter to the Earl. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Edinburgh, \t^th January 1787. 
 
 Madam, — Yours of the 9th current, which I am this 
 moment honor'd with, is a deep reproach to me for un- 
 grateful neglect. I will tell you the real truth, for I am 
 miserably awkward at a fib. I wished to have written to 
 Dr. Moore ^ before I wrote to you ; but though every day 
 since I received yours of Dec. 30th, the idea, the wish to 
 write to him, has constantly pressed on my thoughts, yet I 
 could not for my soul set about it. I know his fame and 
 character, and I am one of "the sons of little men." To 
 write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's 
 order, would be disgracing the little character I have ; and 
 to write the author of The View of Society and Manners 
 a letter of sentiment — I declare every artery runs cold at 
 the thought. I shall try, however, to write to him to- 
 morrow or next day. His kind interposition in my behalf 
 I have already experienced, as a gentleman waited on me 
 the other day, on the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten 
 guineas by way of subscription for two copies of my next 
 edition. 
 
 The word you object to in the mention I have made of 
 my glorious countryman and your immortal ancestor, is 
 indeed borrowed from Thomson ; but it does not strike me 
 as an improper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment on 
 your finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion of
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 1 1 
 
 some of the literati here, who honor me with their critical 
 strictures, and they all allow it to be proper. The song you 
 ask I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of it. I have 
 not composed any thing on the great Wallace, except what 
 you have seen in print, and the inclosed, which I will print 
 in this edition. You will see I have mentioned some others 
 of the name. When I composed my " Vision " long ago, I 
 had attempted a description of Kyle,^ of which the addi- 
 tional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. My heart 
 glows with a wish to be able to do justice to the merits of 
 the " Saviour of his Country," which sooner or later I shall 
 at least attempt. 
 
 You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my pros- 
 perity as a poet : alas ! Madam, I know myself and the 
 world too well. I do not mean any airs of affected 
 modesty ; I am willing to believe that my abilities deserve 
 some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age and 
 nation, when poetry is and has been the study of men of 
 the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite 
 learning, polite books, and polite company — to be dragged 
 forth to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with 
 all my imperfections of awkward rusticity, and crude, un- 
 polished ideas on my head — I assure you, Madam, I do not 
 dissemble when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. 
 The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any 
 of those advantages which are reckoned necessary for that 
 character, at least at this time of day, has raised a partial 
 tide of public notice which has borne me to a height where 
 I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate 
 to support me ; and too surely do I see that time when the 
 same tide will leave me, and recede perhaps as far below 
 the mark of truth. I do not say this in the ridiculous
 
 12 Correspondence between 
 
 affectation of self-abasement and modesty. 1 have studied 
 myself, and know what ground I occupy ; and, however a 
 friend or the world may differ from me in that particular, I 
 stand for my own opinion, in silent resolve, with all the 
 tenaciousness of property. I mention this to you, once for 
 all, to disburthen my mind, and I do not wish to hear or 
 say more about it. But 
 
 When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes, 
 
 you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame 
 was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriat- 
 ing cup in my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve to 
 the time, when the blow of Cahimny should dash it to the 
 ground, with all the eagerness of vengeful triumph. . . . 
 
 Your patronising me and interesting yourself in my fame 
 and character as a poet, I rejoice in ; it exalts me in my 
 own idea ; and whether you can or cannot aid me in my 
 subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription-bill any 
 charms to the heart of a bard, compared with the pat- 
 ronage of the descendant of the immortal Wallace? 
 
 R. B. 
 
 (i) He did write on the 17th, 
 
 (2) The district of Ayrshire which embraces Ayr, 
 Mossgiel, Lochlea, etc. 
 
 The enclosure mentioned in the preceding letter 
 was the followincf stanzas from the "Vision": — 
 
 'fc> 
 
 By stately tow'r, or palace fair, 
 
 Or ruins pendent in the air, 
 
 Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 
 
 I could discern ; 
 Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 
 
 With features stern.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop i 3 
 
 My heart did glowing transport feel, 
 
 To see a race heroic ^ wheel, 
 
 And brandish round the deep-dyed steel, 
 
 In sturdy blows ; 
 While, back-recoiling, seeni'd to reel 
 
 Their suthron foes. 
 
 His Countr}''s Saviour,- mark him well ! 
 Bold Richardton's ^ heroic swell ; 
 The chief, on Sark * who glorious fell 
 
 In high command ; 
 And he whom ruthless fates expel 
 
 His native land. 
 
 There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade 
 Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid,^ 
 I mark'd a martial race, pourtray'd 
 
 In colours strong : 
 Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd, 
 
 They strode along.^ 
 
 Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,'^ 
 Near many a hermit-fancied cove 
 (Fit haunts for friendship or for love. 
 
 In musing mood), 
 An aged Judge, I saw him rove. 
 
 Dispensing good. 
 
 With deep-struck, reverential awe. 
 The learned Sire and Son I saw : ^ 
 To Nature's God, and Nature's law 
 
 They gave their lore; 
 This, all its source and end to draw. 
 
 That, to adore. 
 
 Brydon's brave ward ^ I well could spy, 
 Beneath Old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
 Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 
 
 To hand him on. 
 Where many a patriot-name on high 
 
 And hero shone.
 
 14 Correspondence between 
 
 (i) The Wallaces. — ^. 
 
 (2) William Wallace. — i9. 
 
 (3) Adam Wallace of Richardton (Riccarton), cousin to the im- 
 mortal preserver of Scottish independence. — B. This Wallace, and 
 not the great Sir William, was Mrs. Dunlop's ancestor, 
 
 (4) Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command, under 
 Douglas, Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, 
 fought in 1448. The glorious victory was principally owing to the 
 judicious conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, 
 who died of his wounds after the action. — B. 
 
 (5) Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is 
 said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family 
 seat of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial place is 
 still shown. — B. The mound, marked by a few trees, was opened 
 on 29th May 1837, and two sepulchral urns were found. 
 
 (6) The Montgomeries of Coilsfield. The younger sons of the 
 family were in the army. — B. 
 
 {7) Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice-Clerk. — B. Sir 
 Thomas Miller of Glenlee, who became Lord President of the Court 
 of Session in 1788, and died in the following year. 
 
 (8) Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor and present Professor 
 Stewart. — i9. Dr. Matthew Stewart (1717-85) was Professor of 
 Mathematics in the University of Edinburgh. His son Dugald 
 (1753-1828) succeeded his father in the Chair of Mathematics in 
 1775, and exchanged it ten years later for that of Moral Philosophy. 
 
 (9) Colonel FuUarton. — B. Colonel William Fullarton of Fullar- 
 ton in Ayrshire; born 1754; educated at Edinburgh; travelled 
 under the care of Patrick Brydone (1741-1818), author of A Tour in 
 Sicily and Malta. Fullarton entered the army, raised Fullarton's 
 Light Horse, sat in Parliament for Ayrshire from 1796 to 1803, and 
 was subsequently Governor of Trinidad. He wrote an Account of 
 Agriculture in Ayrshire and a Viczv of English Interests in India. 
 
 Mrs. Dunlop here enters the hsts as a critic of 
 Burns's writings. Encouraged doubtless by the 
 notice he had taken of her objection to the appH- 
 cation of the epithet " unhappy " to her " ancestor," 
 she ventured to attack him on the ground of the
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 15 
 
 impropriety of his language. She did so at first 
 with sufficient dehcacy, hinting her objections with 
 a reserve by no means inconsistent with the freedom 
 of speech she used with him later as to his domestic 
 relations. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, Mr. Creech's, Bookseller, 
 opposite the Cross, Edinburgh. 
 
 Dunlop, /V<5. 26///, 1787. 
 
 Sir, — I sit down at Lady Wallace's ^ desire to write you 
 for four copies more and two for another lady, which, added 
 to the list I sent you before for Mr. Creech, makes in whole 
 forty-five of this, and five you sent me of the first im- 
 pression of your Poems — in all fifty. I beg you may 
 take the trouble of securing them for me, and sending 
 them as soon as printed by Gabriel Watson, carrier from 
 Edr. to Glasgow, directed for me at Dunlop, where I still 
 hope you will let me have the pleasure of seeing you ; but 
 should anything prevent that, I beg you may write me how 
 and where to send your money. Indeed I am now afraid 
 my friend Mr. Moore will rob us of you altogether by per- 
 suading you to go to London. You see I have always 
 some fear on your account ; indeed you have made me 
 heartily ashamed of the last I exprest. Can you forgive 
 any one, who, after reading your works, could entertain a 
 suspicion so injurious to the author? Yet — I don't know 
 how — I believe we are so used to consider poetry as 
 fiction that I confess reading the most compleat volume 
 ever fell in my hand in verse did not impress my mind 
 with that esteem for the author which was the instantaneous 
 effect of my reading your letter in prose. The sentiments 
 were delicate, noble and well-exprest, and were particularly
 
 1 6 Correspondence between 
 
 addrest to myself. Then you so genteelly compliment me 
 with the name of your Patroness that you half persuade 
 me you were in earnest, and tempt me to avail myself of 
 the right the word confers to tell you the truth with regard 
 to your book — at least what I think so. 
 
 You ought to take off a few patches which consummate 
 beauty has no use for, which in a polite and enlightened 
 age are seldom wore, and which a delicate, manly mind 
 cannot regret the want of. Forgive my saying that every 
 undecency is below you, and sinks the voice of your fame 
 by putting to silence your female admirers. You will one 
 day think so yourself, and curse every allusion which for- 
 bids a modest, lovely girl receiving as the most acceptable 
 present a young lover could make her Burns's poems. 
 Would not your heart feel delight in believing the bright 
 fire of your genius a more favourable light for discovering 
 the mutual kindling eye than the moon's wan, unwarming 
 beam ? But this is a pleasure you proclude yourself by a 
 few ill-chosen lines. A lady dare not acknowledge acquaint- 
 ance with any beauty which the world must know she has 
 met in bad company, and unless you pare off these fringes, 
 when once novelty and fashion cease to sanctify your 
 name, no woman under fifty will pronounce it, and by 
 that time you will not care whether she does or not ; but 
 I hope you have already made this sacrifice to the young 
 Graces. 
 
 When I read the Epitaph of the best Bard ever adorned 
 my country, I do it without regret, since his confession 
 graces his tombstone, and I, having full faith in his resurrec- 
 tion, trust he shall rise again freed from those 
 
 thoughtless follies laid him low 
 And stain'd his name.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop \y 
 
 Nor would I have this purely owing to prudent, cautious 
 self-controul, but to the refinement of his latter state. Once 
 more forgive me. Your glory became mine from the mo- 
 ment you declared yourself the historian of my race. 
 Henceforward I shall blush for every impropriety you utter, 
 and drop a tear on every blot that can stain your paper. 
 Formerly I would only have turned the leaf and lost the 
 remembrance of the only fault amid innumerable pleasures 
 and instructions, more delightfully blended by you from the 
 87th to the iSist page than ever I met them anywhere 
 else. There are incomparable touches through the whole, 
 but in that compass they are uniformly sublime, tenderly 
 affecting or chearfuUy amusing beyond expression, and un- 
 interrupted by anything malice itself could cavil at. Even 
 the striking beauties in the rest of the book have hardly 
 power to draw one out of that enchanting circle, at least till 
 it is perfectly imprinted on the memory. Indeed should I 
 take a ramble to the Holy Fair, visit J. L., take leave of the 
 Masons, read the inimitable Epitaph of the Bard,^ and stop 
 a moment wherever genuine beauty demanded notice, there 
 would be no getting home again in the compass of a letter, 
 nor should I leave room for a question which, though I 
 have no right to ask, I am much interested in. Have your 
 friends been able to point out any future plan for you ; or, 
 as Pope said, shall Homer provide for his children ; or, if 
 so, in what line would you wish it? I suspect a military 
 one, though without any other reason but the red berries 
 you add to the beautiful garland of the tenth Muse,^ who, 
 like the tenth wave of her seas, overtops all the rest that 
 went before her. You have already told us " Cash your 
 pouches wad na bide in." This makes it doubly needful 
 for you to form a wish, and communicate it to some one 
 
 VOL. I. — 2
 
 1 8 Correspondence between 
 
 that could assist its completion, as there is no time they 
 would find it so easie as when the world are in the eager 
 eve of expectation. Just before the longed-for publication, 
 or at the moment it is first seen and in every mouth, would 
 be the time some active friend might drop some useful hint 
 to forward any favourite scheme which you thought could 
 make you happy. Perhaps Mr. Moore might be that lucky 
 friend. He is in the scene of fortune, and no one would 
 have more pleasure in setting a scaffold to build yours, or 
 more address in knowing where or how to place it. Should 
 an opportunity ofier, at least, his good sense, knowledge of 
 the world, and enthusiastick fondness for genius, will make 
 him a good adviser. He is much pleased with your corre- 
 spondence, and will, as well as I, like you the better for 
 thinking of propping up an old tree which once o'ershad- 
 owed the plain just when the earth shaken from its roots 
 makes others fly its fall, but as it has frequently threatened 
 this before, I don't yet doubt with your help it may still 
 flourish a thousand years longer. At any rate your good 
 inclination does you honour, and gives me pleasure to sup- 
 pose what such a genius may make of such a subject, as 
 I am proud to say my forefathers have provided for the 
 bards and historians of Scotland. I meant to return my 
 thanks, which, as you like it better, shall rhyme,^ and prob- 
 ably not be worth the groat they will cost you in postage ; 
 but no matter. Only, I beg you may receive and treat it 
 as the private letter of a friend by keeping it to yourself. 
 I ought to have told you that numbers at London are learn- 
 ing Scots to read your book, but they don't Hke your 
 Address to the King, and say it will hurt the sale of the 
 rest. Of this I am no judge. I can only say there is no 
 piece in the whole I would vote to leave out, tho' severals
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 1 9 
 
 where I would draw my pen over lines, or spill the ink-glass 
 over a verse, from the esteem which, though I have never had 
 the pleasure of his acquaintance, I nevertheless entertain for 
 the author, and the interested wish that the pen which cele- 
 brates my chief should be unspotted as well as superexcellent. 
 Adieu. Forgive the length of this, and believe me. Sir, your 
 obliged humble sert. Fran. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) The Dowager Lady Wallace of Craigie, Mrs. 
 Dunlop's stepmother. 
 
 (2) " The Holy Fair," " Epistles to J. Lapraik," 
 " The Farewell," and " A Bard's Epitaph." 
 
 (3) " Coila " of " The Vision." 
 
 Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
 Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows. 
 
 " And wear thou i/iis " — she solemn said, 
 And bound the holly round my head ; 
 The polish'd leaves and berries red 
 
 Did rustling play. 
 
 (4) Verses enclosed on separate sheet beginning — 
 
 To RoBT. Burns. 
 To you, kind Bard, my warmest thanks I send. 
 My country's poet and her saviour's friend. 
 
 At/. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, Stewarton. 
 
 Edinburgh, March 22nd, 1787. 
 Madam, — I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, 
 very little while ago, / had scarce a friend hut the stiibborti 
 pride of my own bosom ; now I am distinguished, pat- 
 ronised, befriended by you. Your friendly advices, I will 
 not give them the cold name of criticisms, I receive with 
 (^ reverence. I have made some small alterations in what I 
 before had printed. I have the advice of some very judi- 
 cious friends among the literati here, but with them I some- 
 times find it necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for 
 myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom I owe more
 
 20 Correspondence between 
 
 than to any man, does me the honor of giving me his 
 strictures ; his hints, with respect to impropriety or indeli- 
 cacy, I follow implicitly. 
 
 You kindly interest yourself in my future views and 
 prospects ; there I can give you no light. It is all 
 
 Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun 
 Was roll'd together, or had try'd his beams 
 Athwart the gloom profound. 
 
 The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my highest 
 pride ; to continue to deserve it is my most exalted ambi- 
 tion. Scottish scenes and Scottish story are the themes I 
 could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it 
 in my power, unplagued with the routine of business, for 
 which heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely 
 pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her 
 battles ; to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers ; 
 and to muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once 
 the honored abodes of her heroes. 
 
 But tliese are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied long 
 enough with life ; 't is time to be in earnest. I have a fond, 
 an aged mother to care for ; and some other bosom-ties 
 perhaps equally tender. Where the individual only suffers 
 by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, indolence 
 or folly, he may be excusable ; nay, shining abilities, and 
 some of the nobler virtues may half sanctify a heedless 
 character ; but where God and nature have entrusted the 
 welfare of others to his care ; where the trust is sacred, and 
 the ties are dear ; that man must be far gone in selfishness, 
 or strangely lost to reflection, whom these connexions will 
 not rouse to exertion. 
 
 I guess that I shall clear between two and three hundred 
 pounds by my authorship ; with that sum I intend, so far
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 21 
 
 as I may be said to have any intention, to return to my old 
 acquaintance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a lease by 
 which I can live, to commence farmer. I do not intend to 
 give up poetry : being bred to labour, secures me indepen- 
 dence, and the muses are my chief, sometimes have been 
 my only, enjoyment. If my practice second my resolution, 
 I shall have principally at heart the serious business of life ; 
 but while following my plough, or building up my shocks, I 
 shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of 
 my character, which gave me the notice of my country, and 
 the patronage of a Wallace. 
 
 Thus, honored madam, I have given you the bard, his 
 situation, and his views, native as they are in his own 
 bosom. rqb^^ Burns. 
 
 F.S.^ — I have to-day corrected the last proof sheet of 
 my poems, and have now only the glossary and subscribers' 
 names to print. Printing this last is much against my will, 
 but some of my friends whom I do not chuse to thwart will 
 have it so. I have both a second and third Edition going 
 on, as the second was begun with too small a number of 
 copies. The whole I have printed is three thousand. 
 Would the profits of that afford it, with rapture I would 
 take your hint of a military life, as the most congenial to 
 my feelings and situation of any other, but, " what is want- 
 ing cannot be numbered." R. B. 
 
 (i) This postscript is a "find" of twofold value. 
 It reveals the fact that Burns seriously thought of a 
 military career, as Mrs. Dunlop suggested in the pre- 
 vious letter, and might have tried for a commission 
 if the profits of the Edinburgh edition had been
 
 22 Correspondence between 
 
 larger. Secondly, this P.S. confirms the theory that 
 the existence of two separate impressions of the 
 Edinburgh edition, known respectively as the " Stink- 
 ing " and the " Skinking " (from the spelling of a 
 word in " To a Haggis "), is owing to the fact that 
 the demand much exceeded the supply first printed, 
 and that the types had to be "set up" again; whence 
 arose the variations of the " Stinking " impression, 
 some of them Burns's own corrections, some the 
 printer's vagaries. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, 
 
 care of Mr. Creech, Bookseller, 
 
 opposite the Cross, Edinburgh. Dunlop, 2(jth March 1787. 
 
 Sir, — I have read over yours with as much study and 
 attention as if the plan had been for myself instead of you, 
 and every time I look it over I more and more approve the 
 ideas it contains. Yet I fear like the women you have only 
 exprest your judgment in the letter and your inclination in 
 the postscript, and see plainly that the Muse's garland did 
 not deceive me. Indeed in your particular situation a mili- 
 tary line wears several attractions, not wholly to be slighted, 
 but which would be much too dearly purchased by laying 
 out your all for an ensigncy which, when you had it, could 
 not make you happy, placed in a rank you could difficultly 
 support, unable to assist a mother or a friend with your 
 purse, or comfort them with your presence, harassed and 
 tost about, torn from those you loved, and condemned to a 
 slavish dependence, a subaltern obedience to the capricious 
 orders of petulant, ignorant boys, who, though your inferi- 
 ours in everything valuable, would despise talents they had 
 not knowledge to discover or taste to relish, and pretend to 
 overlook you were your hair worse drest or your hat worse
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 23 
 
 cocked than their own. Indeed, should any of the nobles 
 of the land present you with a pair of colours, the case 
 would be very different, but I hope and trust you will never 
 think of buying into the army, unless you can command at 
 least ^250 more than the ;^4oo which is the regulated 
 price. I am sure I am right in this, and, if I saw you, 
 could convince you by a thousand reasons. At any rate 
 the pomp of war is more for poetry than practice, and 
 although warriors may be heros, peace soldiers are mostly 
 powdered monkies. So you see, if it will not do, I comfort 
 you like the tod with the sour plums.^ 
 
 Now as to what you mention of the farm, I do think it 
 the most manly, spirited, independent scheme you can 
 form. Rural scenes, domestick duties, our native manners 
 and our early friends are the rational charm of life, and 
 amid these the Muses and Graces must delight to dwell, 
 but may not even this rob Ayrshire of her native Bard? I 
 am sorry to say so, but I have been told farms are to be 
 found more improvable in Orkney or the North Highlands 
 than in the Low Country, and rented cheaper. Of this 
 you could be informed by Mr. Balfour, the writer, at whose 
 house you were, and who, as well as his father-in-law, 
 admire you much, and would be happy to give you every 
 information you could desire. Yet if (as I hope) no inter- 
 est can bribe you from your native plains, where we would 
 sometimes have a chance of seeing you, there is possibly as 
 good to be found on the estates of Loudoun, Miss Scot's, 
 Commodore Stewart, and many more who would certainly 
 give you at least a preference on equal terms to what others 
 might offer, and I hope you will not fix elsewhere without 
 coming west and looking at these. Besides, if we must 
 lose you, there might be other plans talked over, either for
 
 24 Correspondence between 
 
 home or abroad. Indeed, first when your Book reached 
 Edr., Mr. Smith/ Commissioner of the Customs, suggested 
 a thing which he thought might be procured, and which he 
 said was just what he would have wished for himself had 
 he been in narrow circumstances — being a Salt Officer. 
 Their income is from ;^30 to ^£40, their duty easie, inde- 
 pendent, and free from that odium or oppression attached 
 to the Excise. He has through life been a friend to un- 
 friended merit, has great fame in the world as an author, 
 both his Theory of Moral Sentiment 2iXi^ Wealth of Nations 
 being much applauded. He was one of those first heM 
 forth your name forcibly to the public at Edr. when very 
 few had seen your Book, and my son told me was the per- 
 son he heard take the most interest in your future pros- 
 pects, wishing to procure you leizure to write, which he 
 said was all you wanted to insure your figure and fortune. 
 He lately complained that he had asked it, but could not 
 get a sight of you. Here I think you have been wrong, as 
 well as in printing names, to accumulate expense and hurt 
 yourself, without serving any body. Indeed I should think 
 the accumulation monstrous. I hoped the cost would not 
 have exceeded two shillings a volume. 
 
 I have a favour to beg of you that you will deliver the 
 inclosed out of your own hand with my compts. to Mr. 
 Smith, and at same time thank him for the good will he 
 exprest towards you. Excuse my giving you this trouble. 
 I would not had I not believed him one of the best, and 
 found him one of the most agreeable men in the world, so 
 much that thirty years has not effaced the remembrance of 
 the two first days I past with him before I knew who he 
 was, and before travel, high company, and high affluence, 
 had given that fion [Fr. = finishing touch] to his character
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 25 
 
 it must now possess. Besides I am interested in the busi- 
 ness I wrote about. Should this Salt plan, mentioned 
 before the world's opinion could be known, still have 
 wherewithal to please you, you may introduce it, and beg 
 Mr. Smith would be so good as instruct you in the proper 
 forms of application, and where they should be made, and 
 let me know, that I may see if I could be of any use, 
 though never so little. But you must not throw away on 
 me the flattering title of Patroness, fit to decorate a duch- 
 ess, for tho' nobody can wish genius better, my wings have 
 been sore dipt, and are too weak and short to shelter 
 this now unprotected brood Nature has committed to my 
 charge. I am far too little conversant in the world to 
 matron the Muses with due splendor and propriety such as 
 their luster and yours would demand to introduce you 
 favourably to the public — I mean for your interest ; your 
 fame wants no help, nor I any bribe to my vanity to inspire 
 the highest admiration of the poems and the highest esteem 
 for their author. Nor shall I leave anything untried I can 
 think of to help your plans forward, if you let me know 
 them, well knowing 
 
 That though the wished-for end 's denied. 
 Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 
 They bring their own reward. 
 
 Lord Glencairn's conduct to you would raise my opinion 
 of him had it not been, like my stature, many years ago 
 come to its pitch. Yet I wish he may not bear too tender 
 a hand in pruning your bays. By the by, I perhaps mis- 
 take where you met Mr. Balfour, but he is married to a 
 sister's daughter of Dr. Moore's, and I am sure you have 
 seen him either at home, or I think with Mr. Draper. I 
 thank you for the care of my book, but have not yet got it.
 
 26 Correspondence between 
 
 Adieu. I daresay you are tired of my pen, but I can hon- 
 estly say nothing has afforded me so much pleasure for five 
 years last past as yours, and that I am on that account, 
 Sir, your much obliged and obedient humble servt. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) The Fox (^Scot. tod) and the Grapes. 
 
 (2) It is an entire revelation that Adam Smith, the 
 author of The Wealth of Nations, took so much in- 
 terest in Burns as even to suggest that he might 
 become a salt officer in the service of the Customs at 
 a commencing salary of ^^"35 a year. In the winter 
 1786-87 he was dangerously ill, and immediately on 
 recovery went to London to consult John Hunter. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, at Mr. Creech's, Bookseller, 
 
 opposite the Cross, Edinburgh. 
 
 \^h April 1787. 
 
 Dr. Sir, — I received lately the book and head ^ you 
 were so good as send, and which I accept with pride and 
 pleasure as an evidence of attention from one on whose 
 remembrance I set the highest value. Every time I look at 
 it will more excite my wish to deserve the esteem of the 
 giver, an acquisition from which, had we lived nearly in 
 the same age of the world, I might have reaped much sat- 
 isfaction and advantage, but to which the circumstance of 
 being a stranger is perhaps at present my strongest claim, 
 except you admit that of truly relishing the expression of 
 your pen, and pouring forth my unavailing wishes for 
 every good that can crown the head or heart by which it 
 is directed. 
 
 I read your advertisement with anxious impatience to 
 see what you have and what you have not printed, but
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 27 
 
 before that can be satisfied, must trouble you with a great 
 deal of business to transact for me. You will say a Bard 
 is unfit for business, and ought not to be teased with it, 
 but I rather believe a genius like yours will have pleasure 
 in doing for a friend what they would perhaps neglect for 
 themselves, and I hope you allow me a place in your 
 hst, at least till you discover some reason to exclude me. 
 What I am now to beg is that you will receive from Mr. 
 Creech and pay for 45 volumes I wrote you formerly about, 
 and dispose of them as follows : — 
 
 Send to London, addrest to Dr. Moore, Clifford Street, 
 BurUngton Gardens, to the care of P. Cadell, Bookseller in 
 the Strand, 5 copies, one of them marked for Miss Williams, 
 
 To Glasgow, by Gabriel Watson, carrier for that place, 
 who is to be heard of in the Grass Market, and leaves 
 town twice a week, 1 2 copies (addrest to John Campbell,^ 
 Esqr. of Clathick, Glasgow) . 
 
 6 for Mr. George Macintosh,^ Merchant, Glasgow. 
 
 Please write on these two last parcels " to be payed to 
 Robt. Duncan, carrier from Dunlop, who will call for the 
 money." 
 
 Send also by the same Gabriel Watson, directed for me 
 at Dunlop, to the care of Robt. Duncan, carrier for Dun- 
 lop, 2 1 copies. (These are for Mrs. Steuart, Mrs. Cunning- 
 hame, Lady Wallace and my own family, as marked in the 
 list I sent you.) 
 
 And send by a porter i copy addrest for Miss Fanny 
 Dunlop,* Mrs. Balfour's Boarding School, Carrubber's Close, 
 Edr. 
 
 I inclose you ;^i5 for this purpose, and in acknowledg- 
 ment of your sending me the last numbers of your first 
 edition. I wish I could add a cypher to it, and I should
 
 28 Correspondence between 
 
 still be in your debt. Withdraw the subscription-paper 
 from Mr. Creech, and send it with the books, and should 
 the two gentlemen in Glasgow have got theirs already, 
 keep the price of them till you and I meet. This much 
 for business. Drop me a line by post, saying whether you 
 will execute it as soon as this reaches you, and whether 
 you got my last, which I am sure you would think a great 
 inconsistency. However, your mention of your mother 
 really altered my ideas considerably of that line in which 
 I formerly believed you might have been happy, and made 
 me sorry I had mentioned it. Have you seen Mr. Smith, 
 or how do you like him? Perhaps the world has spoilt 
 him. I never saw him since he went abroad with the 
 Duke of Buccleugh a great many years ago, when I think 
 he would have pleased any body. Adieu. I am ashamed 
 to write you so stupid a letter, but what is to be looked for 
 from one who has speel'd [climbed] five and forty a 
 dozen years ago, and knows " the tears all and fears all of 
 dire-declining age " ? Once more farewell. 
 
 Fran. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Probably an impression of the Beugo engrav- 
 ing prefixed to the Edinburgh edition. 
 
 (2) A leading Glasgow citizen, merchant, banker, 
 Dean of Guild, original member of the Chamber of 
 Commerce, 
 
 (3) A prominent merchant and tanner; concerned 
 with the better-known David Dale in bringing to 
 Scotland Papillon, the Frenchman who introduced 
 Turkey-red dyeing. 
 
 (4) Probably Frances Magdalene, Mrs, Dunlop's 
 niece, who married John Dunlop, her son.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 29 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Edinburgh, \^th April 1787. 
 
 Madam, — There is an affectation of gratitude which I 
 
 disUke. The periods of Johnson and the pauses of Sterne 
 
 may hide a selfish heart. For my part, madam, I trust I 
 
 have too much pride for servility, and too little prudence 
 
 for selfishness. I have this moment broken open your 
 
 letter, but 
 
 Rude am I in speech, 
 And therefore little shall I grace my cause 
 In speaking for myself; ^ 
 
 so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and 
 hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand on my heart, and 
 say, I hope I shall ever have the truest, the warmest, sense 
 of your goodness. 
 
 I come abroad in print, for certain, on Wednesday. 
 Your orders I shall punctually attend to ; only, by the 
 way, I must tell you that I was paid before for Dr. Moore's 
 and Miss Williams's copies, through the medium of Com- 
 missioner Cochrane in this place, but that we can settle 
 when I have the honor of waiting on you. 
 
 Dr. Smith was just gone to London the morning before I 
 received your letter to him. R. B, 
 
 (i) Shakespeare's Othello, act i. scene 3. 
 
 The new edition came out on the 21st, and Mrs. 
 Dunlop's copies were apparently despatched to her 
 post-haste. But, alas ! the " few patches " which, in 
 her letter of 26th February, she had, with sufficient 
 delicacy, suggested that he should " take off," were 
 allowed to remain, and the Patroness was highly 
 offended.
 
 30 Correspondence between 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, Mr. Creech's, Bookseller, 
 opposite the Cross, Edinburgh. 
 
 DuNLOP, 2C)ih April 1787. 
 To say your hardship 's in the wrong 
 
 My skill may weel be doubted, 
 But facts are chiels that winna ding, 
 An' downa be disputed. 
 
 I see you have a will of your own as well as any woman, 
 and perhaps, like us, not always a great deal can be said 
 for its being a goodwill, and I from self-conceit perhaps am 
 apt to believe you had better taken a letter of mine as all 
 your own on the present occasion. I indeed cannot help 
 flattering myself that, had you reposed the same implicit 
 trust in me, I should have made better use of it than your 
 noble friend has done. At least I 'm sure I would have 
 made more, and to convince you that you would have 
 acted more free from error by strict conformity to female 
 rule, I shall only mention one instance as the only one 
 still in your power to rectify, and therefore the only one 
 worth pointing out to your knowledge, where, by following 
 literally the path I pointed, you would have been right 
 instead of wrong. The four copies I desired you to send 
 here were subscribed for by my father's widow, who is now 
 in my house, and still expects them. The lady ^ to whom 
 you gave four is no subscriber, was once my son's wife, 
 but has done my family the honour to renounce all con- 
 nection with us by a legal and public deed, so that I 
 (at least) can no longer consider her as Lady Wallace, or 
 consent to her pocketing her predecessor's right to these 
 volumes for which I sent my friend's money and begged 
 your care. 
 
 I have got your letter and parcel not ten minutes, but 
 already run over all the new and the old too, to see what
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 31 
 
 you had and still more what you had not printed, and 
 though I admire some things and like others, yet 
 
 While with truth and pleasure I commend, 
 I blame with all the candour of a friend 
 
 truly interested in your fame. Yet I will not trouble you 
 with a single remark. You have rebuked my " friendly 
 advice," and to cold criticizm I am wholly inadequate. 
 You have, I suppose, read Dr. Moore's Travels. You will 
 find there that the French commend their Kmg for those 
 virtues they wish him to possess. I don't know how this 
 may do with monarchs, but I believe it does not answer 
 infallibly with every poet. I had fixed a certain hope (of 
 I will not tell you what) on your reappearance in the world, 
 but hope is with me a compass seldom true. Yet I found 
 something that put it in my head to read my Bible, and it 
 just opened at the parable of the man who, when he had 
 washed and purified his house, took unto him seven spirits 
 worse than himself, and, behold ! the second state of that 
 man was worse than the first. I do not know why I repeat 
 this, for I am quite out of humour at the moment, and had 
 rather scold than string texts, durst I assume that liberty, 
 or vent my spleen on one who has so elegantly contributed 
 to my pleasure at a time when my soul was not enough 
 alive to have relished aught but the most exquisite en- 
 tertainment. I in your Bill of Fare found a finely varied 
 feast. To-day my stomach is strong enough to be de- 
 lighted with a Haggis, but does not like all the entre-mets 
 with which it is accompanied. Forgive my saying so ; 't is 
 no affront to Edina, Roslin Castle, the introductive verses 
 to the Bridges or their conclusion, the Winter Night, etc. 
 etc. ; but I grudge the honour of your name to half-felt or 
 local merit, and wish all such consigned to your poor
 
 32 Correspondence between 
 
 shadow Campbell,^ shoemaker in Kilmarnock, should he 
 not get on in the Church. Adieu ! Accept my best wishes 
 for your prosperity in whatever line whim, judgment, or 
 fortune may throw you, being with sincerity, worth all the 
 courtly phrase of fashionable politeness, Sir, your admirer 
 and obliged humble servt. Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Burns was at this time so little advanced in 
 intimacy with the Dunlop family that he confused 
 the Lady Wallace for whom Mrs. Dunlop had ordered 
 four copies of the new edition, and who was the 
 widow of the late baronet of Craigie, with the dash- 
 ing young Lady Wallace whom he met in Edinburgh, 
 the wife of Mrs. Dunlop's second son, Thomas, the 
 self-styled baronet. There was no love lost between 
 Mrs. Dunlop and her " fast " daughter-in-law, and 
 the mistake the poet made in sending to the latter 
 the copies ordered for the dowager no doubt aggra- 
 vated the offence he had committed in disregarding 
 his patroness's advice in respect of bowdlerising. 
 
 (2) Born at Kilmarnock, circa 1761. Published 
 in 1787, through Wilson (of the Burns Kilmarnock 
 edition), Poems on Several Occasions, and became 
 pastor of a Burgher congregation at Stockbridge, 
 near Dunbar. 
 
 EXTRACT. 
 
 Edinburgh, 2fith April 1787. 
 
 . . . Your criticisms, madam, I understand very well, and 
 could have wished to have pleased you better. You are 
 right in your guess that I am not very amenable to counsel. 
 Poets, much my superiors, have so flattered those who pos-
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 33 
 
 sessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and power, that 
 I am determined to flatter no created being, either in prose 
 or verse. 
 
 I set as little by . . . (kings?), lords, clergy, critics, etc., 
 as all these respective gentry do by my bardship. I know 
 what I may expect from the world by and by : illiberal 
 abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect. 
 
 I am happy, madam, that some of my own favorite pieces 
 are distinguished by your particular approbation. For my 
 " Dream," which has unfortunately incurred your loyal dis- 
 pleasure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the honor of 
 appearing at Dunlop, in its defence, in person. 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, 
 
 Mr. Creech's, Bookseller, opposite 
 the Cross, Edinburgh. 
 
 Mr. Creech and his address crossed out, and "care of Mr. Ainslie " 
 written'in ; then that crossed out, and " to be left at the Post-Office, 
 Dumfries," written in. At the top of the letter is added : " Returned 
 from Dunse." 
 
 Dunlop, 2.\st May 1787. 
 
 Sir, — I have this moment yours with the books. I in- 
 deed received it with singular pleasure, and sincerely thank 
 you, not so much even for saying you mean to see me, as 
 for letting me see that people of the best hearts and first 
 abilities can write as peevishly as myself, and perhaps as 
 little know wherefore they do so. For certainly, whatever 
 cause I had to be out of humour when I wrote you last, you 
 have none to be chagrined at a world that have hitherto 
 done you ample justice. Even should you meet abuse, the 
 more the better. Nothing does authors so much good, as 
 everybody agrees with Pope that 
 
 Envy will merit like its shade pursue, 
 And like the shadow prove the substance true. 
 VOL. L — 3
 
 34 Correspondence between 
 
 Nor is it in the power of spleen to destroy the fame attend- 
 ant on works which must please while sensibility or taste 
 inhabit the earth, and our language is understood in any 
 corner of the world. So long as an author you must be 
 valued, esteemed and carest by the men, I fancy you were 
 conscious your vanity could not bear praise from the ladies, 
 and therefore determined to shut their mouths entirely, in 
 which you may perhaps succeed too well. 
 
 You may think my writing just now superfluous, but I am 
 sensible I must appear from my last rather capricious, and 
 a real desire not to forfeit esteem I set much value upon 
 leads me to explain in some measure the " moving why " I 
 was displeased, for indeed it was not my loyalty nor your 
 Address to the King was at bottom. 'T was a sort of in- 
 dignity to my sex which I had warmly wished you to omit. 
 You say you will flatter no created being. I am sure you 
 have not flattered me, though it was greatly in your power. 
 On the contrary you severely mortified me, nor did I ever 
 in my life feel more degraded in my own eye than by the 
 utter contempt you have shown for those hints which it cost 
 me a great deal to give, and which I now heartily wish I 
 had let alone. Friendly advice when wholly overlooked 
 makes one feel themselves mean, officious, and in the pres- 
 ent case indelicate ; and I fretted at you because I was 
 discontented with myself. Then I had another reason. I 
 pleased my Scotch pride with thinking I could hold up 
 your volume to an English, nay to the most polite French- 
 man, and defied his nation to teach their best instructed, 
 most polished nobleman to equal a Scots peasant in genius, 
 sentiment, purity of expression. Think what an exquisite 
 pleasure you might have afforded me at the small expense 
 of half a dozen blots, or rather half that number, cast over
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 35 
 
 what your o\vii good sense must acknowledge to be impro- 
 prieties, only excusable in a Kilmarnock edition of the 
 dawnings of authors debarred the converse of the world 
 and content with wit in her very worst attire, before her 
 face was washed, because the author had never seen her 
 drest. But how shall I excuse to myself (for I sincerely 
 wish to do it) a repetition of the old and an addition of 
 new indecencies to which you set your face and my name, 
 and which you print after so long a residence in the polite 
 world, and, what is worse, after writing letters that bespeak 
 an enlarged mind susceptible of the most delicate ideas 
 and brightened with superiour acquirements, which in your 
 situation reflect a tenfold luster on their owner ? 'T was 
 this interested me so much in your interest and your fame 
 as to speak out where a woman ought perhaps to have been 
 silent. I never criticized two words in your work from any 
 other motive, and I fear your obstinacy will hurt yourself 
 still more than it does me, tho' I assure you that is more 
 than you can believe, for it has annihilated a scheme I was 
 very fond of trying for your advantage, and in which I flat- 
 tered myself I should have been able to engage a number of 
 ladies so respectable that I durst not now ofi'end them with 
 the mention of your name. I have tormented myself, con- 
 vinced as I am that yours are not errors of ignorance, 
 guessing why you were so tenacious of them. Was it a 
 perversion of taste or a corruption of heart made you stick 
 so fast to what was so unjustifiable? You answer all my 
 doubts in one word ; it is that you have chosen an un- 
 common model for your sentiments. I confess it is with 
 all its faults a noble one, and I believe few can help forgiv- 
 ing Satan that pride which prevents his either retracting or 
 confessing his guilt in consideration of that bitter remorse
 
 36 Correspondence between 
 
 which wrings his great spirit with all the agonies of useless 
 contrition — a feeling I shall not grudge you a little of for 
 suspecting me of so pitiful a thought as to wish your sacri- 
 ficing one honest sentiment of your soul to lord or lady, 
 man, woman, or child, or even giving up a Dream to party 
 spirit. However, I am glad you have imagined I blamed 
 the " Dream," since you resolve to appear in its defence. 
 Now you see I have been buffeting you all this while to ex- 
 cuse myself for my bad humour. You will say 't is an odd 
 apology to repeat a fault and make it worse, but I do this 
 in imitation of you. I shall likewise in perfect sincerity of 
 heart adopt a courtly phrase I dislike from you, being 
 wholly in earnest when I say I have the honor to be, Sir, 
 your much indebted, humble servt. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 Why did you leave out the beautiful motto prefixt to 
 your first volume? I would have put it under your head 
 had I been allowed the honour of a vote. I have been 
 told Voltaire read all his manuscripts to an old woman, 
 and printed nothing but what she approved. I wish you 
 would name me to her office. I am quite qualified after 
 being thirty-eight years a wife and the mother of two-and- 
 twenty. And I will claim no wages but the liberty of burn- 
 ing what I don't like, or at least hiding it for six months, 
 when, if at the end of that time, you were still extravagantly 
 attached to it, I would be tempted to believe there was un- 
 common merit, though I had never discovered it, in any- 
 thing able to fix the unconstant mind of man so long, 
 besides that my own would perhaps be changed much 
 sooner. By the by, don't you think Ayrshire has great 
 merit, and that they print with superiour taste and propriety
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 37 
 
 at Kilmarnock? For instance, unless it was meant to illus- 
 trate a fact more suited to the metropolis, is not there more 
 dignity in exalting the Supreme Power in capitals than in 
 degrading the words to mean italicks, not to mention my 
 Davie or x^y Jean and a thousand other instances? Even 
 the great Ben Lomond sinks to a molehill when taken to 
 town and put into the press. I trust, however, the great 
 soul of the Bard, like that of the hero you are studying, 
 shall always retain the faculty of expanding itself to its 
 original elevation on getting clear out of Pandemonium, 
 even supposing it has been a little deprest by the crowd and 
 confinement of the city. Now, allow me to ask, is " Legis- 
 lation placed beneath the monarch's feet,"* a sentiment, 
 or a literal description of the situation of the Throne in the 
 Parliament House during the reign of the Stuarts? because, 
 if the first, I am glad you did not write it till you went to 
 Edr. ; if the last, it seems to me beautifully taken the ad- 
 vantage of to strengthen a contrast every heart not steeled 
 by prejudice, I think, must feel, and which you have hit off 
 very pathetically. Farewell. I forgot to tell you that you 
 had inspired a shoemaker [Campbell] at Kilmarnock, if not 
 with the capability, at least with the idea of becoming 
 poet. This to vanity, but it will be welcome intelligence 
 to benevolence that you had put the public in so good 
 humour that they gave a poor creature fourty pound to 
 put him to school, for, I think, blacking paper. I would 
 have given more for blacking shoes, had he made me a 
 pair of good ones, than I would for his poem, though 
 there is much goodness in it, as there may also be here- 
 after in his sermons. If they are decreed to save souls, 
 you will have part in the merit, but it will go no length in 
 settling my accompt. Adieu. I won't rob you of another 
 
 1.8542.5
 
 38 Correspondence between 
 
 groat while you stay in town, so forgive this long scrawl 
 if ever you read this length, which I half doubt. Is your 
 whole impression disposed of? A gentleman asked me last 
 day if I thought he could get a few copies. I told him I 
 did not know, but I should ask and tell him. 
 
 While they abuse me I will force them to esteem me 
 with all my faults. J, J. Rousseau, I think, says this. 
 
 (i) Where once, beneath a monarch's feet, 
 Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs. 
 
 Address to Edinburgh. 
 
 In May Burns toured in the south, as the numer- 
 ous addresses on the foregoing letter show. He 
 reached Mauchline on his " dclatant return " on 9th 
 June, and thereafter saw Mrs. Dunlop for the first 
 time and became intimate with her circle. 
 
 In a previous letter Mrs. Dunlop wrote: "I meant 
 to return my thanks, which, as you like it better, shall 
 rhyme, and probably not be worth the groat they will 
 cost you in postage ; but no matter." Rhyme she did 
 accordingly. And now, having met the poet face to 
 face, she must needs relate in rhyme the incidents and 
 impressions of that long-expected, wished-for visit. 
 Her lines are very interesting as a rough picture, 
 with a touch of caricature, and a tinge of satire, of 
 the poet's appearance and manner. Disturbed by a 
 rumor that the poet had been " seized with a fever," 
 she added a short letter in prose and sent it off in 
 haste by one of her servants ; a proceeding which 
 called forth the characteristic letter in reply, now 
 first published.
 
 a. 
 O 
 iJ 
 
 z. 
 a 
 a 
 
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 z 
 
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 X < 
 
 z:
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 39 
 
 TO ROBT. BURNS. 
 
 This world 's a farce, and all things show it ; 
 
 I thought so once, but now I know it. 
 
 Gay. 
 
 Five months of expectation past, 
 
 The long-wish'd hour arrived at last. 
 
 A face popt in just at the door. 
 
 The welcome head had come before. 
 
 Genius and humour sparkle in the eyes, 
 
 Frank independence native ease supplys. 
 
 Good sense and manly spirit mark the air. 
 
 And mirth and obstinacy too were there. 
 
 A peering glance sarcastic wit confest. 
 
 The milk of human kindness fill'd the breast. 
 
 While pride and parts the features thus controul, 
 
 Good-nature lurk'd an inmate of the soul. 
 
 So the green nut's sweet, milky juice comprest 
 
 In a hard shell and acid husk is drest. 
 
 Surpris'd my heart went pitter patter, 
 
 I could not think what was the matter. 
 
 Can this be Burns ? It is, I 'm sure ; 
 
 None else could look so like John Moore. 
 
 Besides, ilk circumstance declare 
 
 The author of The Holy Fair. 
 
 A thousand questions straight I plan, 
 
 Some of the Muse, some of the Man, 
 
 All friendly chat, not table talk. 
 
 But destin'd for an evening walk. 
 
 Could I like you with ease rehearse 
 
 Each passing thought in polished verse ; 
 
 Or, where the couplet would not close. 
 
 Borrow your soul-commanding prose, 
 
 I 'd paint the horrors of that day. 
 
 When you were cross, and would not stay ; 
 
 My words with so much art I 'd pack, 
 
 As soon should win the poet back. 
 
 But my crow-quill wants strength to tell
 
 40 Correspondence between 
 
 What joy was murder'd when you bade farewell. 
 
 'T was then in haste each ask'd by turns 
 
 What every other thought of Burns. 
 
 Some sigh with disappointed air 
 
 To see the Bard so fat and fair ; 
 
 Think sentiment should make sad havock 
 
 Both on the flesh and in the stomach. 
 
 Not Cassius' meagre plight of yore 
 
 E'er vext great Caesar half so sore ; 
 
 Whilst others miss'd the waked loof, 
 
 And found in that an ample proof 
 
 That, uninspired by Coila's look, 
 
 He 's college-bred, and rhyming by the book, 
 
 Without his plough turns up his mice, 
 
 Nor goes to church to look for lice. 
 
 Or if some critic seek a fuller, 
 
 His chamber'd daisey 's lost her colour. 
 
 Some mark, misled by fashion's call. 
 
 You 'd share with few the rights of all ; 
 
 Would stretch out farms beyond their bounds. 
 
 And plant sub-tyrants in our bounds. 
 
 Some wish the man would mend his Greek, 
 
 And only like Longinus speak. 
 
 It was not so that Heathen wrot, 
 
 When he old Genesis would quote. 
 
 Nor would he e'er made Jesus shine 
 
 With Bishop Geddes in a line, 
 
 Since tane with Edinbrugh's whinstane hearts. 
 
 He grows soon sick of country parts. 
 
 Now goes the cook to warn for dinner 
 " Faith, lads " (quoth she), " as I 'm a sinner. 
 Yon chiel gade in wi' spurs and boots 
 Is daft Rob Burns that prents and shoots, 
 Does nought but cast about quire clashes. 
 And rant and rin and chase the lasses." 
 Sine Wrights and masons ane and a* 
 Wi' hurry lap down frae the wa'. 
 " Losh, keep 's, is 't him ? What like 's his horse ? 
 I 'm sure his book 's no worth a curse.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 41 
 
 Trow ye there 's siller in his purse ? 
 
 Siller ! A poet never had a groat. 
 
 But faith ! We 'II look his muckle coat. 
 
 Gosh guide 's ! See, witch and fairy tales he reads ; 
 
 I doubt he's papist too, and counts his beads." 
 
 " Hout ! sic a lee," says Nelly, " ne'er was seen ; 
 
 Dear man, can ye no read the Faery Queen ? " 
 
 By this the horse was standing ready, 
 
 The Bard bade farewell to the Lady. 
 
 They looked by the stable end, 
 
 To keek and glow'r and no be ken'd. 
 
 Then out the mistress cast an ee 
 
 To look what fairlies she could see. 
 
 In Ayr she 'd served to mend her breeding, 
 
 Doctors and Dukes und Bailie Lemon; 
 
 In polished Barr the mistress born, 
 Displays gentility in scorn. 
 " Giff that be Burns, he may hae lear. 
 But faith ! I 'm sure he has nae main 
 He 's brought his havins frae the plough. 
 Ne'er touch'd his hat, nor made a bow; 
 Lap on his horse, and pu'd his coat thegither, 
 Clash'd to the Major, 's gin he 'd been his brother. 
 He may write books, but by his gate, 
 Has little sense and vera great conceit." 
 Thus jibes and jeers ran helter-skelter. 
 And neither man nor horse find shelter. 
 But peevish spleen before to-morrow 
 Gave place to sober, serious sorrow 
 That he who knew to please us all 
 Should find his pleasure here so small. 
 Yes, Burns ! to you those envied powers belong, 
 That rouse the Passions with resistless song; 
 That lead the laugh in Pleasure's roar ; 
 Deep Sorrow's darkest dells explore; 
 Share Summer's sweetness with the busy bee, 
 Or cling like hoar-frost to the leafless tree. 
 Come, gentle Bard ! in me that plant survey. 
 Whose roots are wither'd and whose leaves decay.
 
 42 Correspondence between 
 
 Opprest with grief, and lost to hope, 
 
 I seek that hill's once pleasing top, 
 
 Where youth and joy took many a round, 
 
 Where every spot prov'd pleasure ground. 
 
 Distant and sad the scene appears, 
 
 Now view'd thro' heart-corroding tears. 
 
 Tho' stretch'd around those hills and plain, 
 
 Where Love and Nature fixt my reign; 
 
 No hill now owns paternal sway, 
 
 No more those fields my love obey. 
 
 True, they as bright a verdure boast. 
 
 But, Oh ! to me their charms are lost ! 
 
 With friends and fortune, all takes wing 
 
 And Time's sharp scythe has cropt my Spring ; 
 
 His frown has froze my curd'ling blood 
 
 And fixt my spirits in Death's stagnant flood. 
 
 Nature's vast landscape floats before my mind. 
 
 Nor leaves one pleasing, cheering trace behind. 
 
 To Burns. 
 
 2,0th July 1787. 
 
 Dear Sir, — As I sat amusing myself scribbling the 
 above, I was told you wexQ seized with a fever. Tho' I 
 hope this is not true, I could not forbear sending the bearer 
 to ask for you, to assure you of my best wishes for your 
 health and happiness. At same time, if my scrawl can 
 amuse you in sickness or in health, if it can afford you a 
 moment's pleasure to see how much your writings give 
 me, it is at your service. But remember, at yours alone, 
 for I know the world would not forgive me attempting to 
 tack two lines together, nor even accept my want of success 
 as any apology. 
 
 My daughter, who was taken ill the morning I saw you, 
 has been in an alarming situation ever since. Yet that did 
 not make me forget that you had half promised to come
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 43 
 
 back again. I hope you will not forget it yourself; at any 
 rate shall be glad to hear you were so well as to put it in 
 your power. Lady Wallace, my son, and Major Moore 
 join me in compts. to you. — Believe me, with great esteem. 
 Sir, your most humble seivt. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 \J"ly2oor2,i 1787.] 
 
 I am sure, madam, you have most effectually surprized 
 me this morning. Send your servt. twenty miles to enquire 
 for me ! ! ! By all the towering flights of Pride ; 't was 
 doing me an honor so far beyond my wildest expectation 
 that for half a second the shadow of a Doubt eclipsed my 
 belief, whether you might perhaps mean to burlesque me. 
 I have indeed been ailing, but your verses have given my 
 spirits a fillip for one day. Without any poetic licence, I 
 assure you upon the honor of plain, unfettered, truth-de- 
 livering Prose, they are excellent. I have a long letter ^ to 
 Dr. Moore just ready to put into the Post Office. It is on 
 a subject you have done me the honor to interest your- 
 self in, so if you dare face twenty pages of an epistle, a 
 reading of it is at your service. I don't doubt but you 
 will laugh at me ; I know you will ; and I insist on your 
 taking that amusement at my expence, solely by yourself. 
 I am not bound to contribute at so dear a rate to the 
 diversion of the rest of the family. I have no copy of 
 Dr. Moore's letter, I mean the one I send him, so this 
 you read must go to post. If you can contrive no better 
 way, I shall call for it myself to-morrow ; as I am going 
 for Edinburgh by way of Paisley and Glasgow, to-morrow 
 morning.
 
 44 Correspondence between 
 
 My most respectful compliments to Lady Wallace, Miss 
 Logan,2 who I heard at Ayr t' other day is at Dunlop, The 
 Major and all your good family. — I have the honor to be, 
 with the highest respect and most sincere gratitude, Madam, 
 your much oblidged very humble servt., 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 (i) This was the famous "Autobiography," of 
 which Mrs. Dunlop preserved a copy, now in Mr. 
 Adam's possession. 
 
 (2) The " sentimental sister Susie " of the poet's 
 friend. Major Logan, of Ayr. 
 
 On the 7th August Burns arrived in Edinburgh. 
 On the 25th he set out on his northern tour, and on 
 the 1 6th September he returned to Edinburgh. The 
 following letter from Mrs. Dunlop would be awaiting 
 his arrival : — 
 
 Ad. To Mr. Robt. Burns, Mossgill, 
 
 near Mauchline. 
 
 Dunlop, ^th Sept. 1787. 
 
 Dr. Sir, — I read your manuscript [Autobiography] with 
 more pleasure than Richardson or Fielding could have 
 afforded me. I had drawn to myself a character of the 
 author, and was interested to find a confirmation of my own 
 system, or materials to form a new one. I changed my 
 mind at "every line, and jumpt about in my opinion, like 
 the Vision of Babouc in the review of Persepolis.^ You said 
 I would laugh at you, but you know me not. I am more 
 akin to the crying than the laughing philosopher. I was 
 truly interested as well as much amused, and my feelings, 
 tho' strongly marked, were of the tragic comic kind, but
 
 ■'-'C^ j^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 45 
 
 never for one moment indifferent enough to become a 
 
 farce. Your Emilius is still more engaging than Rousseau's, 
 
 and you lead him on through even a more extraordinary 
 
 path. 
 
 Your alchymy is sure of wond'rous kind, 
 That thus could form the manners and the mind ; 
 Draw polish'd learning from a smuggling club, 
 And black contagion from bright virtue's rub. 
 
 And a sore rub it was you got from your incomparable-'-,, ^y ^'^'"xl, 
 West Indian [Richard Brown] — an irrecoverable one too. *=?<. 
 You say " Here he hurt me," but seem little aware how Tt^ ^'^ 
 much. Indeed he rubbed off the finest polish conferred on 
 the human soul by the hand of the great Creator, and which 
 once tarnished no art can ever again burnish. He extended 
 your ideas, taught you to quit gold for tinsel, to explode 
 those native sensations of the honest peasant which once 
 imparted to your own breast and conveyed to another bliss, 
 which all the pride of wealth, fame, or knowledge can never 
 equal or compensate. He made you from that moment a 
 less happy being, and a less estimable man, reduced you to 
 a level with those gentry you were born to soar above, by 
 changing your sweetest pleasures and most rational pursuit 
 into a trivial amusement, debasing serious attachment into 
 affected foppery and modish gallantry unworthy of any 
 steady return. Shall a man dare to lament if his mistress 
 imbibe his own sentiments, and feel it as unimportant to 
 meet or part as he does? Here indeed the cottage leaves 
 the palace far behind, and while you were straining every 
 nerve in chase of improvement, you unfortunately run full cry 
 on the back scent, and lost the man in quest of the gentle- 
 man. But I need say no more. If virtue is her own re- 
 ward, by this you know vice is likeways sometimes her own
 
 46 Correspondence between 
 
 punishment. Don't you hear the confidences of rustic 
 innocence with inexpressible envy and bitter regret? At 
 what price would you not repurchase the first feelings of 
 your heart, that delicate fine ether of the soul which, once 
 evaporated, can never be regained, and which you have 
 been at pains endeavouring to dissipate, tho' I have a 
 strong notion it is by nature so strongly blended with your 
 vital spirits that you will never be able to get quite clear of 
 it. But I am afraid there is another blessing of your early 
 days will not stick so fast — that idiot piety you appear to 
 despise because it is the piety of a child. Remember, my 
 dear sir, where we are told that of such is the Kingdom of 
 Heaven. There is a sweet enthusiasm which seems re- 
 served for women and children as the tenderest pledge of 
 heavenly love. I am sure I most sincerely pity the man 
 who has too much sense for it ; I will not positively say it 
 can secure us everlasting joys above, but certes it is calcu- 
 lated to soothe sorrow and gild the wings of hope while we 
 are here below. It is twin sister to a warm heart and a 
 keen temper, the inseparable companion of a lively imagi- 
 nation, and therefore I hope still inherent in your breast, 
 whence if it should ever be drove away, your verses will 
 never again rise to that sublimity to which they have hitherto 
 attained. Nothing else could have inspired a man to write 
 " A Winter Dirge " at seventeen, if it is possible to believe 
 any one ever could compose it at that age, which I own I 
 have hardly faith for, spite of every allowance I can make for 
 the misfortunes of a beloved and dying parent ripening the 
 mind of a dutiful and affectionate son, for that son's being 
 a prodigy himself, etc. etc. etc. If it is a truism {sic) do 
 confirm it, and if you wish me to write you any more tell 
 me the names of the Capt. of the West Indiaman and of
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 47 
 
 the man whom the money of the Begums ^ could not cor- 
 rupt, but by this I daresay you have compared my letters 
 so often as to be tired of the task, and to think of me as 
 our Mrs. ( ?) said of you, that I have little sense and very 
 great conceit to put a comparison so disadvantageous for 
 myself in your power after I knew it would be made. But 
 I am like the sensitive plant or a cobweb on the wall, wliich 
 something flies across and hurts every moment, and since 
 you have encouraged me to scribble rhyme or reason just 
 as they come uppermost, I have found a great relief from 
 doing it, and both my health and spirits are gainers, not- 
 withstanding circumstances went against their changing to 
 that hand, for since I saw you I have had a daughter almost 
 drown'd, a grandchild [a little Vans Agnew] dead in France, 
 and have got home my two married children^ and for all 
 this have been so well as to wonder at myself were not all 
 my capacity for wondering taken up elsewhere wondering 
 at you. 
 
 I have a strong desire to see the lines you wrote on Miss 
 Alexander.^ How shall I tempt you to show me them? 
 Will it prevail that I send you a sight of some I wrote one 
 day as I happened to walk by the road-side where some 
 palm-boughs were growing which I had pulled a twig from 
 and meant to send by a friend I am very fond of to a very 
 young and very beautiful sister of hers, from whom I had 
 that moment got a verse-letter? You will justly say 
 "What a poor exchange are your scrawls for my lines!" 
 but consider, you show yours to all the world ; I show 
 mine only to you, and keep no copy of what is never 
 meant to be wrote twice, nor would I presume to ask those 
 lines but that you told me they were not to be printed, 
 tho' they had merit. Now, I own I admire the lady's
 
 48 Correspondence between 
 
 self-denial more than yours, which is not wholly void of 
 ill-nature, whereas hers is probably only cold prudence dic- 
 tated by some wise relation, and not perfectly congenial 
 with her own feelings, which I daresay would have been 
 gratified by your gaining applause from the world on so 
 favourite a theme as herself. Yet I mean not to detract 
 from the lady's modest merit — I never saw her. Only, 
 as she , is handsome, is a woman, and has two nabob 
 brothers, I think it probable she has some vanity, and Vol- 
 taire, tho' very persuasive, cannot convince me that the 
 probable never happens. 
 
 You express yourself uneasie in having lived hitherto 
 without an aim. You have certainly now a noble one be- 
 fore you to secure easie independence and immortal fame,[ 
 both which I flatter myself stand clearly within your stretch,] 
 if past success, sanguine hope, and dissipated company 
 don't make you indolent, alter your original character, or 1 
 strengthen that li^ochondriac _tint which has, you say, \ 
 already tinged your constitution, and which, where it once 
 enters, requires every exertion both of body and mind to 
 throw it off, especially with one accustomed to an active 
 life in their early years. I would be happy to know you 
 were engaged in some more extensive work than any you 
 have yet attempted, because I think it would be more in- 
 teresting to yourself and more pleasing to the world, would 
 give a more permanent stability to your fame, and show 
 that your genius was not a transient flash of bright light- 
 ning, but the steady radiance of the meridian sun in his 
 most unclouded splendor. After striking out so singular a 
 path as you have already done, I am persuaded there is/ 
 nothing to which with earnest application you may not be! 
 equal. Detached pieces, however remarkable, leave on the
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 49 
 
 mind only a passing impression like " the memory of the ' 
 stranger that tarrieth but one night," whereas an epic work, 
 as being considered the utmost height of human excellency, 
 is never to be forgotten by the latest ages, but will add 
 luster to Ayrshire, and glorify her Bard to the end of time 
 itself if he succeed. If he fail, he falls where numbers 
 have fallen before him ; the attempt brings no disgrace, 
 but yields great pleasure and amusement, and may even, 
 should it not fill all the writer's ideas, be productive of 
 very considerable profit to the author, to the bookseller, 
 and to the readers, I am sure I have reason to say so, 
 nor can I ever repay the debt I owe you since your writ- 
 ings soothed my mind and fixed my attention when noth- 
 ing else could. If ever I feel happy again, I shall certainly 
 thank you, for I do think your "Ruin" and "Despond- 
 ency" first opened the way for returning peace to my 
 mind, while my subsequent reading what dropt from your 
 pen added to the pleasure of seeing you, and the permis- 
 sion of glancing over the Doctor's letter has awakened the 
 strongest ambition to be honour'd with your friendship. 
 I flatter myself nobody ever held a higher place in his, 
 and I can trace a great similitude in character as well as 
 face, allowing for thirty years' start in the world before you. 
 The doctor and I are within six months of each other, and 
 were friends half a dozen years before you saw the light — 
 I do not mean of the Muses, but of Apollo himself. It 
 was even some years before that period he brought me 
 his bride that I might join their hands before the priest. 
 When they lost their children 'twas me shared and dryed 
 their mutual tears. I esteem her above all the women I 
 ever knew, and like her almost as much as I do her 
 husband. While they were in Scotland we lived in the 
 VOL. r. — 4
 
 50 Correspondence between 
 
 happiest intercourse. It sweetens the very hope of heaven 
 to think we shall there renew it. Don't you recognize her 
 and I in one of his letters from Geneva * among the rocks 
 of the Meillerie ? And you will meet me again where he 
 mentions a present one lady had sent another of a picture 
 of the Virgin Mary. You bid me read his letter by myself 
 lest you should be laugh'd at. You men never think of 
 anything but yourselves. Do you think I should have been 
 wholly insensible to the laugh against myself for reading it 
 at all ? I assure you I run no risque of showing it. 
 
 What an unmerciful letter I have wrote ! I have a good 
 
 ;mind to work a purse or a case to put it in as an atone- 
 ment for the trespass on your time, and to show you the 
 ladies are not so curst with want of work as you think them. 
 
 ;On the contrary, you may remember some lines I once sent 
 you wrote on yourself. The author of these was actually 
 spinning a pair of stockings during their composition, as I 
 can bear witness. Now, I am going to ask a favour. 
 Never come here again if you resolve to come in when the 
 table is cover'd and be tired of us all by dinner is done, for 
 I would as soon ask you to come and visit me in my 
 seat at church, or to make one of these court calls now in 
 fashion, that just convince one people have no pleasure 
 in seeing them. — Farewell. — Your obliged and obedient 
 humble servt. Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Voltaire's Le Monde comme le va : Vision de 
 Bahoiic. 
 
 (2) A misreading of the phrase in the Autobiog- 
 raphy: "One, whose heart I am sure not even the 
 ' Munny Begum's' scenes have tainted;" said by 
 Gilbert to have been the eldest son of Dr. Malcolm,
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 51 
 
 of Ayr, a boy friend of the poet's who served as an 
 officer in India. 
 
 (3) Wilhelmina Alexander, heroine . of the song 
 "The Lass o' Ballochmyle." She ignored Burns's 
 request for permission to include the song in the 
 Edinburgh edition, and he bitterly resented the slight. 
 
 (4) Moore's View of Society and Manners in 
 France, etc. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, to the care of William Kerr, Esq., 
 General Surveyor of the Post-Office, Edinburgh. 
 
 Dunlop, i^^th Nov. 1787. 
 Dr. Sir, — Hearing you are at Edr.^ I send (to the care 
 of a worthy young man, Mr. Kerr, one of the principal men 
 about the Post-Office, and son to a great friend of mine, 
 whose character was not less original than your own) a 
 packet I got from Dr. Moore yesterday for you. I take 
 this method for two reasons : that I may know if it come 
 to hand, and that it may be post free being bulky; 
 otherways I should not have wrote you at present. How- 
 ever, since the pen is in my hand, I cannot omit telling 
 you our friend the Dr. has been the means of getting one 
 of my sons [James] appointed to a Company in one of the 
 new Regts. for India. I wish I had your genius that I 
 might thank him as I ought. By the by, I am told you 
 think no friend you have would take two hours' trouble to 
 make your fortune. Is this sentiment the offspring of 
 modest diffidence, small penetration, or ingratitude ? For 
 sure I am it is fraught with terrible injustice. Adieu. — 
 Your most obediently, Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Burns visited Harvieston and the two Ochtor^:,, 
 tyres in October, and returned to Edinburgh on the
 
 52 Correspondence between 
 
 20th, taking up his abode at 2 (now 30) St. James's 
 Square, with his friend Cruikshank, a High School 
 master {d. 1795). 
 
 Dr. Moore to Robert Burns. 
 
 Clifford St., %th Nov. 1787. 
 
 Dear Sir, — At the time your very interesting letter 
 came to my hands I was involved in a business that gave 
 me a great deal of trouble. This, with the rumour of war 
 which then prevailed, and the efforts I was obliged to make 
 to get my son the Lieut, in the Navy [see postea, vol. ii. 
 p. 127], placed in a proper situation, prevented my answer- 
 ing you immediately. I now assure you that the account 
 you give of yourself and the admirable manner in which 
 
 You run it through even from your boyish days 
 To the very moment that you kindly tell it, 
 
 afforded me much pleasure. 
 
 Your moving accident in the harvest field 
 
 With her whose voice thrill'd like th' ^olian Harp, 
 
 Your hairbreadth 'scapes in th" itnmment deadly breach. 
 
 The process raised by holy cannibals 
 
 Who such devour as follow Nature's law, 
 
 Your wild and headstrong rage for matrimony, 
 
 Your redemption thence, whereof by parcels 
 
 I had something heard, but not distinctively — 
 
 all were highly interesting to me, and augment the advan- 
 tageous opinion I had formed of you on seeing your first 
 publication. 
 
 In your letter you hint at your scarcity of English. I 
 ^am far from thinking that this is the case. On the con- 
 trary I am convinced you already possess that language in 
 an uncommon degree, and with a little attention you will 
 become entirely master of it. In several of your poems
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 53 
 
 there is a striking richness and variety of expression — for 
 which reason I hope you will use it in most of your future 
 productions. If there actually existed a language called 
 the Scotch language, which had a grammar, and which was 
 used by the best writers of Scotland, I should perhaps pre- 
 fer it to the English. But unfortunately there is no such 
 thing. The Scotch is as provincial a dialect of the English 
 as the Somersetshire or Yorkshire. And therefore no 
 serious work can be written in it to advantage, altho' it 
 must be owned in works of humour and naivete it some- 
 times gives additional force and beauty. Some of your 
 humorous poems have gained by it, and it gives a fresh 
 charm to the beautiful simplicity of some of your songs. 
 
 I hope you will plan out some work of importance 
 and suitable to your genius, which you will polish at. 
 leisure and in the returns of fancy, and do not waste yourf 
 fire on incidental subjects or the effusions of gratitude 011/ 
 receiving small marks of attention from the great or small 
 vulgar. 
 
 I heard you was at one great castle ^ in the W. Highlands. 
 Whatever the place might, I can hardly suspect the in- 
 habitants would inspire you with much to admire. Their 
 minds are prosaic and grovelling; the Muses have no 
 charm in the eyes of either ; tho' one is a person of much 
 mildness of character and integrity. 
 
 I will be much obliged to you when you have leis- 
 ure to fulfil your promise of sending me the ideas you 
 picked up in your pilgrimage thro'' the Highlands and your 
 early rhimes. 
 
 I think you should employ your leisure in collecting and 
 polishing a sufficient number to form another volume, but 
 the principal part should be new, and for this I would have
 
 54 Correspondence between 
 
 you to reflect very attentively to choose right subjects j for 
 much depends on this. You have greatly distinguished 
 yourself from common rhymers by drawing your imagery 
 ^directly from Nature, and avoiding hackneyed phrases and 
 lorrowed allusions. This you will always have pride and 
 good sense to continue. With the reputation you have 
 justly acquired I make no doubt of your being able to get 
 a considerable sum for a second volume, whether you 
 publish by subscription, or sell the copy at once to a 
 bookseller. I shall be most ready to afford you my best 
 assistance and advice on that or any other occasion in 
 which I may have it in my power to be of use to you. 
 But you must consider now that you have a reputation to 
 lose, and therefore you will certainly not be rash in offer- 
 ing any new work to the public till it has lain a considerable 
 time by you, and been often subjected to consideration. 
 If you think of any particular subject, I wish you would let 
 me know. I '11 freely give you my opinion, which you will 
 afterwards follow or not as you please ; in neither case will 
 you in the smallest degree disoblige me. 
 
 Perhaps you may come to London with your new work. 
 If you do, I will be happy to see you, and all my family are 
 in the same way of thinking. Adieu, my dear Burns. — 
 Believe me, with much regard, your friend and servt. 
 
 J. Moore. 
 
 Direct under cover to Major J. Moore, M.P., 
 
 Clifford St., Burlington Gardens, London. 
 
 At Miss Williams's ^ desire I send you a copy of some 
 lines I wrote to her lately when she was at Southampton. 
 She said she wished to send you her picture drawn by me. 
 The truth, however, is they are all exaggeration, for she is 
 remarkably pretty ; but on her being a little out of humour
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop S5 
 
 at ray laughing at her nose, and chin, and stooping, which 
 she expressed in a letter, I wrote, in answer, the enclosed. 
 
 I confess I have said — but pray do not pout — 
 
 That your chin is too fond of yr aquiline snout, 
 
 Like the world dispos'd from inferiours to fly, 
 
 It always looks up to the features on high. 
 
 That I said of your back, and I still must say so, 
 
 It resembles the back of an Indian canoe : 
 
 What was strait as an arrow, you 've bent like a bow. 
 
 I must own too I hinted your waddling walk 
 
 Was much like a parrot's — and sometimes yr talk. 
 
 Yet these observations as plainly you '11 view, 
 
 Tho' they glance at your person, don't touch upon yon ; 
 
 For jyo?t never can think — you 're too much refined — 
 
 That your body is you — you 's entirely your mind. 
 
 And when yr sweet genius so gracefully flows. 
 
 In melodious verse or poetical prose, 
 
 Who thinks of your chin or the turn of yr toes ? 
 
 For you, my dear Helen, have proved by your works 
 
 That women have souls, in the teeth of the Turks. 
 
 Your person and face in the hands of those 
 
 Who think upon nought but the care of their bodies 
 
 It is true would be ranked for beauty and air 
 
 In a pretty high class of the graceful and fair, 
 
 And would doubtless attract from the thoughtless and gay 
 
 A more pointed regard to yr fabrick of clay. 
 
 But all those you will treat with scorn eternal 
 
 Who sigh for the shell and taste not the kernel. 
 
 (i) This may be an allusion to the poet's myste- 
 rious Highland tour of June 1787, but more probably 
 the castle referred to is Gordon Castle — Dr. Moore 
 may not have been strong in Scotch geography — 
 and the " inhabitants " the Duke and Duchess of 
 Gordon. 
 
 (2) Helen Maria Williams, poetess and novelist; 
 born in London 1762, settled in Paris in 1790, and
 
 56 Correspondence between 
 
 imprisoned as a partisan of the Gironde ; in her later 
 poHtical writings condemned the Revolution. Her 
 works include Julia, a novel ; a translation of Paul 
 and Virginia; several books on France; and poems, 
 including Edwin and Elfrida and The Slave Trade. 
 
 To Mrs. DuNLOP. 
 
 Madam, — I will bear the reproaches of my conscience 
 respecting this letter no longer. I was indebted to you 
 some time ago for a kind, long letter (your letters the 
 longer the better), and again the other day I heard from 
 you, enclosing a very friendly letter from Dr. Moore. I 
 thought with myself, in the height of my gratitude and 
 pride, of my remark that I would sit down some hour of 
 inspiration and write you a letter at least worth twa groats ; 
 consequently you would have been a great gainer, as you 
 are so benevolent as to bestow your epistolary correspond- 
 ence on me (I am sure) without the least idea of being 
 paid in ki?id. 
 
 When you talk of correspondence and friendship to me, 
 Madam, you do me too much honor ; but, as I shall soon 
 be at my wonted leisure and rural occupation, if any remark 
 on what I have read or seen, or any new rhyme I may 
 twist, that is worth while — if such a letter. Madam, can 
 give a person of your rank, information, and abilities any 
 entertainment, you shall have it with all my heart and 
 soul. 
 
 It requires no common exercise of good sense and 
 philosophy in persons of elevated rank to keep a friendship 
 properly alive with one much their inferior. Externals, 
 things totally extraneous of the man, steal upon the hearts 
 and judgments of almost, if not altogether, all mankind;
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop ^J 
 
 nor do I know more than one instance of a man who fully 
 and truly regards " all the world as a stage, and all the men 
 and women merely players," and who (the dancing-school 
 bow excepted) only values these players — the dramatis 
 persotKBy who build cities, and who rear hedges ; who govern 
 provinces, or superintend flocks — merely as they act their 
 parts. For the honor of Ayrshire, this man is Professor 
 Dugald Stewart of Catrine. To him I might perhaps add 
 another instance, a popish bishop, Geddes ; ^ but I have 
 outraged that gloomy, fiery Presbyterianism enough already, 
 though I don't spit in her lugubrious face by telling her 
 that the first (/. e. the best) Cleric character I ever saw 
 was a Roman Catholic. 
 
 I ever could ill endure those surly cubs of " chaos and 
 old night " — those ghostly beasts of prey who foul the 
 hallowed ground of Religion with their nocturnal provvlings ; 
 but if the prosecution which I hear the Erebean fanatics 
 are projecting against my learned and truly worthy friend, 
 Dr. M'Gill,^ goes on, I shall keep no measure with the 
 savages, but fly at them with the faucons of Ridicule, or 
 run them down with the bloodhounds of Satire, as lawful K^_ 
 game, wherever I start them^ ■"""■ — ' ■ — ' 
 
 I expect to leave Edinr. in eight or ten days, and shall 
 certainly do myself the honor of calling at Dunlop House 
 as I return to Ayrshire. — I have the honor to be, Madam, 
 your obliged humble servant, Robt. Burns. 
 
 Edinr., i^h Nov? 1787. 
 
 (i) A native of Banfifshire; from 1779 to 1797 
 coadjutor to the vicar-apostolic of the lowland dis- 
 trict of Scotland. An Edinburgh friend of Burns's, 
 he procured subscriptions for the second edition from
 
 58 Correspondence between 
 
 the Scots College at Valladolid and other Roman 
 Catholic seminaries. 
 
 (2) Rev. Dr. M'Gill, of Ayr, the Dr. Mac of " The 
 Kirk's Alarm;" prosecuted for heresy (1789-90) 
 on account of his Practical Essay on the Death of 
 
 Jesus Christ. 
 
 (3) Obviously misdated, as it refers to Mrs. Dun- 
 lop's letters of 4th September and 15 th November 
 and Dr. Moore's of 8th November. It must have 
 been written on a very early day after the 15th No- 
 vember, as Mrs. Dunlop, in hers of 25th December, 
 refers to it as dating six weeks back. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, at Mr. Cruickshank's, 
 
 St. James's Square. 
 
 Dunlop, 2t^th Deer. 1787. 
 
 Dear Sir, — You say 'tis an exertion of philosophy to 
 keep alive an intercourse with our inferiours. I dare say 
 you must frequently have found it so ; for my part I have 
 never had an opportunity of putting it to the trial, as I 
 never remember to have wrote three letters following to 
 any one person, where business did not oblige me to it, 
 in the whole course of my Ufe ; excepting where the con- 
 sciousness of a decided superiourity against me was the 
 very motive which guided my pen, and made me assidu- 
 ously cultivate a correspondence where I felt myself a 
 gainer. The notice of those who possess soHd judgment, 
 shining talents, or superlative goodness of heart, has always 
 been the first ambition and the truest pleasure of my life, 
 although, the late Lord Eglinton ^ excepted, I never met 
 these in an eminent degree in the very first rank of my 
 acquaintance. Neither is that train of information which
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 59 
 
 makes a man's ideas at once pleasing and instructive, pecu- 
 liar to high life. On the contrary I have now seen letters 
 from different Ayrshire peasants, which by being addrest to 
 me, flattered my self-love more than it could have been by 
 the receipt of as many from any peer I have now the hon- 
 our of knowing. The most estimable, and I may add the 
 most useful of my friends, have set out in life very hardly ; 
 but yet I have had the happiness to see the world confess, 
 and fortune reward their merit. Two particularly, who at 
 the beginning of our acquaintance could not command five 
 pounds between them, I have seen masters of ;^i 2,000 or 
 ;^i 5,000 apiece, without any assistance but their own 
 talent, and it gives me inconceivable pleasure to reflect that 
 I was able twenty years ago to discern those talents through 
 the mist in which they were then involved. One of these 
 gentlemen was then a poet. I sent him your book t' other 
 day, and wrot on a blank leaf the following lines, from which 
 you may trace the date of our acquaintance : — 
 
 To you, who in your idle boyish days 
 
 Sported with Echo round Parnassus base, 
 
 Bound classic evergreens around her brows, 
 
 Or plaited myrtles where now laurel grows ; 
 
 From Europe's coasts to India's shores I send 
 
 Those songs^that charm your country and your friend; 
 
 From Coila's plains, your lov'd, your natal scene, 
 
 With Bums I greet my Davie and his Jean. 
 
 You see I don't keep my rhymes till they be worth while ; 
 so don't be a miser of yours. I receive with grateful joy 
 your promise of writing, since you give it with your heart. 
 I was afraid you might have been of the opinion of some 
 people that private letters exhaust an author's genius. 
 Now, when yours flows so high as to wash the sands of
 
 6o Correspondence between 
 
 Pactolus, by reaching the public, don't waste it on me ; 
 but should ever your spirits flag too much for the crowd, 
 yet feel relaxation in breathing the effusions of the moment 
 where every scrap of yours will be valued, indulge me with 
 those gleanings which shall be the solace of my solitary 
 hours, my secret heart's exulting boast; but no fund of 
 vanity for you, no increase of fame, for no eye will see 
 them but my own. If you chuse to sacrifice now and then 
 your time to me on these terms, I will be truly grateful, and 
 you will enjoy your dearest mead " a friend's esteem and 
 praise," though perhaps you could not on the face of the 
 earth pick up a more useless friend in every respect than I 
 must always be, now that I have lost those dear and re- 
 spectable connections that formerly used to adopt, dignify, 
 and patronise every partiality of mine. I wish you had 
 known my father, that you might have honoured Ayrshire 
 still more, and not thought Professor Stewart the only 
 Phcenix of the age. I am sure he at least deserved to 
 rival him in the instance of just discernment you men- 
 tion, for which I will ever love and revere his memory. 
 Your character of the Bishop delights me. I am proud 
 of my son Andrew for being so fond of him since I read 
 your last, for I convince myself yours is honest unbiased 
 approbation ; and that makes me keen to gain it for 
 myself. 
 
 I hope the clergy will not meddle with Mr. M'Gill, that 
 you may not meddle with them. This is not the age of 
 priestcraft that calls for opposition. Those that deserve 
 it are too mean game for genius to hurt, and the satire too 
 local for sale ; it would be a subject would bring you less 
 profit, and me less pleasure, than many a one Nature I am 
 sure will point to you, or you are not the man I take you
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 6i 
 
 for, and I would be very sorry to think I was mistaken 
 where I beUeve so much esteem justly due. 
 
 I am afraid Edr. has monopoHsed your whole time, or 
 you calculate like Daniel by weeks of years when you are 
 to leave it ; 't is already six weeks of our vulgar arithmetic 
 since you said you would be west in ten days, and no news 
 of you yet. You say you like rhyme and long letters. 
 This ought, I 'm sure, to please, if you know yourself and 
 tell truth when you say so. The season reminds me of 
 expressing those good wishes which I can honestly say are 
 not confined to the holidays, but attend you all the year 
 round. May the fire of fancy warm every winter of your 
 life as it has done the past, and fate realise as many of 
 imagination's dreams as are necessary to make you happy, 
 and allow me to add an interested wish for myself, that you 
 may always find pleasure in letting me know what you are 
 doing and how the world goes with you. But never men- 
 tion rank or fortune. Don't think of these unless it is to 
 remember your own advantages in both. In family, as in 
 everything else, who would not rather be the Alpha as the 
 Omega? In fortune are not those most happy to whom 
 her smile is least necessary and her frown least dreadful? 
 At any rate I assure you I neither enjoy nor possess her 
 superfluities, and were you enabled to draw a comparison 
 fairly with regard to the staging of that scene, you would 
 not find your own lot in life, when laid in the scale with 
 many the world set much weight on, kick the beam as you 
 perhaps imagine it does. At all events to us who, hke 
 Pharamondlsjriend Eginl^art,f are to go through the world 
 without expectations from one another, those accidents 
 signify nothing, and therefore ought not to deprive either 
 party of what portion of goodwill the other thinks they
 
 62 Correspondence between 
 
 merit, nor seclude that freedom of the pen which enUvens 
 our pleasures and above all soothes our misfortunes. 
 
 When to the wrongs of fate half reconciled 
 Misfortune's lightened eye can wander wild, 
 And disappointment in a letter's bounds 
 Find balna to soothe her bitter rankling wounds. 
 
 You see where I am. The poet's beautiful expression 
 makes me sicken of my own tepid stuff; so I shall bid 
 you adieu, lest it have the same effect upon you, if you 
 have had patience to get this length, in which case 
 accept the thanks of your humble servt. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Alexander, tenth Earl, shot dead by Mungo 
 Campbell, exciseman, in 1769. 
 
 (2) Probably La Calprenede's novel, Faramond 
 (1661). 
 
 After at least one postponement Burns had ar- 
 ranged to leave Edinburgh at the beginning of 
 December, when an accident, caused by a drunken 
 coachman, laid him up for several weeks. The Cla- 
 rinda episode intervened, and it was only on the 23rd 
 of February that he reached Mossgiel. The first of 
 the two following letters was written in a fit of de- 
 pression due to physical pain, a return of his old 
 nervous ailment, and the uncertainty of his pros- 
 pects, for in January he was still pressing Creech for 
 a settlement of accounts. The tone of the second 
 was doubtless influenced by the high pitch of emo- 
 tional exaltation to which the poet had been wrought 
 up by his intercourse with Mrs. Maclehose.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 63 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop, 
 
 Edinburgh, 2\st January 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 \\'ished 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, God 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 sol- 
 diers, to have as much fortitude or cunning as to dissemble 
 or conceal my cowardice. 
 
 As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I sup- 
 pose, about the middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh, 
 and soon after I shall pay my grateful duty at Dunlop 
 House. R. B. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns. 
 
 [January, 1788.] 
 
 I had yours only this day. I am truly vext to see your 
 train of ideas at present. I would read my old grand- 
 mother's moulded household-book forty times over, and 
 get every recipe by heart, could it furnish one salve for an 
 wounded spirit as effectual as I met myself in your first 
 publication ; but I fear you have drove away the only 
 friend could supply that cordial ; that childish idiot, the 
 companion of your early days, nor will you ever be as happy 
 again unless you are able to recall that discarded friend, 
 unknown in the polite circle, and cherish her Hke a beloved
 
 64 Correspondence between 
 
 wife, never to be divorced from your bosom. But this, I 
 fear, is impossible ; 't is here we have the advantage of you. 
 A weak mind, if it takes a wrong bias, it meets another 
 more strong than itself, whose arguments can bend it back 
 to its original rectitude, and make it ashamed of its error. 
 A masculine spirit, once warped by passion or folly, sticks 
 to the wrong with a noble obstinacy, seldom exercised for 
 the right, of which he has often learned to be ashamed. 
 I fear I must not mention piety to you, now that you are 
 quarrelled and abuse her with bad names. I am afraid this 
 salt of the soul, when it has lost its savour, cannot again be 
 salted, and I am sure, if it is cast out and trodden under 
 foot, nothing in this world can supply its place. Besides 
 her other qualities the poor idiot is the very best sick- nurse 
 on earth. How she would have cheared your last six horrid 
 weeks, had you not so inhumanly banished her with re- 
 proaches from your presence. I really pity you shut up 
 alone with cruelty and remorse, putting arms in the hand 
 of the dark assassin, not only to murder poor poverty, but 
 wickedly to stifle her weak cry. I don't know how to com- 
 fort you under the pressure of such terrible guilt but by 
 recommending you to the Jesuits, not for extreme unction, 
 as I trust yours is no death-bed repentance. Let me send 
 you my only purse, and the only guinea it ever contained, 
 that you may go to your favourite bishop and buy absolu- 
 tion, drink the dredgey 1 of the miserable victim, or say mass 
 against her resurrection. I hope this will set me too a step 
 on my way to heaven, should I once in ray life have con- 
 tributed to make two souls happy, but I hope after all you 
 will take care what coachman brings you home. Above all 
 don't let the devil drive, as it is alledged you sometimes 
 do. We are told you are in prison ^ for writing not only
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 65 
 
 Jacobite but blackguard verses against the King. Perhaps 
 it had been as well so. Pain is a hard jailer, and a prison 
 might have saved you a crutch. But forgive me, dear 
 Burns, and don't think I mean to insult by laughing at your 
 low spirits. Nothing is farther from my thoughts. I would 
 only divert a melancholy which, by breathing itself in a 
 pun, persuades me it may be trifled with and palliated 
 without being so irritated as to become incurable. Yet 
 the whims that strike the sick are so unaccountable that I 
 confess I stand in awe of yours. Don't be angry at my 
 sending you this trifle. Remember, you began it yourself 
 by sending me your own head. It is a maxim in higher 
 life that a present should always be of something quite use- 
 less. I did not like to seem ungrateful, and I could think 
 of nothing apparently more useless to you than a purse. I 
 therefore made one, and having heard somebody remark it 
 was unlucky to get an empty one, wrap it up with the single 
 note it happened at the moment to contain. Should this 
 offend you, cast it from you by the first opportunity, and 
 cast with it every propensity to misunderstand the goodwill 
 of your friends for the future. 
 
 When you write elegy I would wish it on my chief or 
 your friend — in short on some great, some rare subject 
 such as occurs more seldom than the great Jubilee. 'T is 
 hardly credible two ^ in one year should employ without 
 degrading the first pen of a country. Both were good men, 
 men of worth, dear to their friends, nor unnoted by their 
 country ; yet 't is piteous, 't is wondrous piteous if both 
 were worthy your song, and both are gone almost together. 
 
 I don't admire the word " bleaky."* To me diminutives 
 have only beauty when they are used as endearments ; in 
 all other cases they betray a poverty of language, which is 
 
 VOL. I. — 5
 
 66 Correspondence between 
 
 obliged to borrow a syllable. Now, this is convicting inno- 
 cence itself when such an accusation is established against 
 you, who have words at will — more expressive ones too 
 than anybody else. I hope you will come this way that 
 you may defend this word properly in person, if you have 
 aught to say for it. If not, give it up with a good grace. 
 Yet, spite of the cold weather, I would not give a sixpence 
 to see you if you only come to fetch fire as you did before. 
 But I beg, if anything prevent you, that you will let me 
 hear how you are, as I shall really be interested in your 
 health and happiness, and impatient to learn the return of 
 both. May all your woes henceforth be feigned ones, and 
 vanish as fast as they can black your paper, for that itself 
 is sometimes a cure, and I am sure I should think the more 
 of myself as long as I lived if you could find it so in writing 
 me. I shall send this to my friend Mr. Kerr, since he has 
 found you out, which is more than I should have been able 
 to do without his help. Adieu. I will be sorry if you are 
 limped off before this reach you. 
 
 Admit those dear companions of your youth — 
 Warm unwarpt Piety and simple Truth ; 
 Those humble handmaids plac'd around your bed 
 Bar out Remorse, and bind the aching head. 
 
 (i) Dredgey, from dirge, liquor drunk {inore Sco- 
 tico) at funerals. 
 
 (2) Burns tradition has no trace of this extraor- 
 dinary rumour. 
 
 (3) The elegies on Sir David Hunter Blair and 
 Lord President Dundas were products of this year. 
 
 (4) The word occurs in the first line of the poem 
 " On the Death of Lord President Dundas."
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 67 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 The much-respected Patroness of my early Muse cer- 
 tainly deserved a better return from me than to let her 
 excellent, her kind letter remain so long unanswered. Your 
 elegant epistle, Madam, and your very handsome present, 
 as handsomely delivered, struck me so much, that I im- 
 mediately made a private vow to give you a few verses on 
 the subject ; or at least, write you such a Post-sheet as 
 would be a pennyworth at sixpence. I have failed in both. 
 Some important business respecting my future days, and the 
 miserable dunning and plaguing of Creech, has busied me 
 till I am good for nothing. Your criticisms and observations 
 on the President's Elegy are just. I am sick of writing 
 where my bosom is not strongly interested. Tell me what 
 you think of the following? There the bosom was perhaps 
 a little interested. 
 
 Clarinda, Mistress of my soul.i 
 
 The measur'd time is run ! 
 The wretch beneath the dreary Pole 
 
 So marks his latest sun. 
 
 To what dark cave of frozen night 
 
 Shall poor Sylvander hie ? 
 Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 
 
 The sun of all his joy ! 
 
 We part — but by these precious drops 
 
 That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
 No other light shall guide my steps 
 
 Till thy bright beams arise. 
 
 She, the fair Sun of all her Sex, 
 
 Has blest my glorious day : 
 And shall a glimmering Planet fix 
 
 My worship to its ray ?
 
 68 Correspondence between 
 
 Mr. Schetky, the celebrated Musician, has done these 
 Unes the honor of setting them to music. The following is 
 2ijeu d' esprit of t' other day, on a despairing Lover carrying 
 me to see his Dulcinea. 
 
 Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, ^ 
 
 And press my soul with care ; 
 But ah, how bootless to admire. 
 
 When fated to despair ! 
 
 Yet, in thy presence, lovely Fair, 
 
 To hope may be forgiven ; 
 For sure 't were impious to despair, 
 
 So much in sight of Heaven ! 
 
 (i) These verses were written to Mrs. Maclehose 
 just before Burns left Edinburgh, They were pub- 
 lished by both Johnson and Thomson. 
 
 (2) The despairing lover was Alexander Cunning- 
 ham. The lady married another man, and Burns 
 sent the verses to the London Star, in which they 
 were published on i8th April 1789. Schetky was 
 a German (born at Darmstadt, 1740), settled as a 
 teacher of music in Edinburgh. 
 
 Mrs. DuNLOP of Dunlop, 
 
 Dunlop-house, Stewarton. 
 
 Edinburgh, \2th February 1788. 
 [Mutilated half-sheet.] 
 
 I don't know whether I have not, sometime or other, 
 sent you my Epigram on Elphinstone's translation of, and 
 commentaries on Martial, the famous Latin Poet : — 
 
 To Mr. E. 
 
 O thou, whom Poesy abhors ; 
 Whom Prose has turned out of doors 1 
 Heardst thou yon groan ? proceed no further I " 
 'T was laurell'd Martial calling Murther !
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 69 
 
 I leave Edinburgh on Saturday morning. If my horse 
 meet me at Glasgow, I will probably do myself the honor 
 of calling at Dunlop-house. 
 
 1*^ Some things, my revered Patroness, in your late letters 
 hurt me : not that you say them, but that you mistake me. 
 Religion, my honored Madam, has not only been all my 
 Hfe my chief dependance, but my dearest enjoyment. I 
 have indeed been the luckless victim of wayward Follies ; 
 but, alas ! I have ever been " more fool than knave." A 
 Mathematician without Religion is a probable character; 
 an irreligious Poet, is a Monster. 
 
 I have been lately at Lady Wallace's, and was delighted 
 to find Miss Dunlop [probably Susan] a daughter of the 
 Mother ; I shall call there again ere I leave town. — I have 
 the honor to be, Madam, your oblidged, humble servt. 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 This letter is docketed in the MS. " good — fit for 
 publication," but only the second paragraph, with 
 the words " my revered Patroness " omitted, was 
 published by Currie and subsequent biographers and 
 editors. James Elphinston (i 721-1809), a native 
 of Edinburgh, kept a boarding-school at Kensington, 
 and was a friend of Samuel Johnson. His TJie Epi- 
 grams of M. Val. Martial, in twelve books, with a 
 Comment, by James Elphinston, was a quarto pub- 
 lished in London in 1782. Burns wrote this quatrain 
 — so he told Mrs. Maclehose in a letter of 14th Janu- 
 ary of this year — in a copy of the book which he 
 glanced at in a merchant's (Creech's) shop in Edin- 
 burgh. This volume is now the property of Mr.
 
 70 Correspondence between 
 
 Robert Munro, Ibrox, Glasgow. For Lady Wallace's 
 house, SQQ posted, p. 155. 
 
 Burns left Edinburgh on the i8th of February for 
 Glasgow, where he stayed overnight, and met his 
 friend Richard Brown. On the following day he 
 proceeded to Paisley, and thence to Dunlop House, 
 where he spent two days. A day or two after, prob- 
 ably on the 25th, he went to Ellisland to spy out the 
 land, and returned to Mossgiel on the 2nd or 3rd of 
 March. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Rob't Burns. 
 
 Dunlop, Tptk Febry. 1788. 
 
 Trusting to your aversion for the foppish follies fashion 
 fetched from France, I flattered myself we should have had 
 the pleasure of seeing you at breakfast, and that you would 
 also have despised a French leave. I had a vision ready 
 for your morning entertainment, but when William told you 
 had been gone two hours, it wholly escaped me in the sur- 
 prise and disappointment, except four lines, which I shall 
 send you as a specimen that you may not break your heart 
 for the loss of the rest of it. Methought I saw 
 
 From smuggling cells the friend of honour rise 
 Borne on her shield in triumph through th' Excise, 
 High raised above on fame and glory's wings 
 And in low fellowship of gold with kings. 
 
 I cannot send for your books without returning thanks 
 for the loan. I was once going to have sent you a little 
 novel of the late Duke of Orleans [the Regent] , not for its 
 merit, for I have not language to read it myself, but that 
 you might have amused yourself investigating the ladders
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 71 
 
 by which great men mount into the public favour, which 
 would often, I daresay, be found much too short for lesser 
 men even to reach their own approbation. The name of 
 it is Accajie and Zerphile. Let me know if you have never 
 seen it, or the Ikon Basilike of King Charles. I can lend 
 you both, but would rather give as send them. Besides, 
 when you find a convenient time to get this length, you 
 will see Coila,^ who is much grown in grace and stature 
 since she appeared last to you here, and has been the close 
 occupation of the lady ever since. Now, since I have men- 
 tioned French, I will send you an attempt of mine in that 
 tongue sent one day to one of my boys who wanted a pair 
 of globes from me along with them : — 
 
 Une mere pour plaire a ses enfants 
 Rumage la terra pour la viande; 
 Bon bon j'ecrach entre les dents 
 De les petit hereux gourmands. 
 Un spectacles pour le folatre, 
 Pour les brave un mock combatre, 
 Pour la mienne je suis la commandeuse 
 D'un entretien plus doux ; 
 Pouvez-vous vous defendre 
 De I'orquil quand je rendre 
 Dans vos main cette grand transfere 
 De tout les cieux et toute la terre. 
 
 You will not think I stand in great fear of your critizism 
 when I venture to show you such trifles, but I am just do- 
 ing as I would be done by. Another communication too 
 I would beg, which is to know if this country is to be de- 
 prived of her native Bard, or where you expect will be your 
 destination. I hear there is a book come out against you, 
 but I have not seen it. Perhaps you may say with Solo- 
 mon {sic), " Oh that mine adversary had wrote a book ! "
 
 72 Correspondence between 
 
 I wrot a very pretty farewell in the fear you were about to 
 leave us, but I will not let you see it in revenge for a sar- 
 casm you threw at me last day. Indeed I don't like sharp 
 wit, and would as soon try the edge of my penknife on the 
 throat of my friend as my metal against anybody that wished 
 me well. This is not your way of thinking, however, or I 
 had certainly been safe, spite of the refined skill you say I 
 possess in Indian tortures, for you must be sensible I did 
 not mean to exercise that art against you, so needed not 
 have avenged yourself five or six hours after so bitterly as 
 you did. Adieu. — Believe nie still, with very great esteem, 
 your obliged, humble servt. Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Mrs. Dunlop's daughter Rachel was painting 
 a sketch of Coila. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 MossGlEL, ^th March 1788.1 
 
 Madam, — The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Feb- 
 ruary affected me most, so I shall begin my answer where 
 you ended your letter. That I am often a sinner with the 
 little wit I have, I do confess ; but I have taxed my recol- 
 lection to no purpose to find out when it was employed 
 against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal 
 worse than I do the devil; at least as Milton describes 
 him ; and though I may be rascally enough to be some- 
 times guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in others. You, 
 my honored friend, who cannot appear in any light but you 
 are sure of being respectable — you can afford to pass by 
 an occasion to display your wit, because you may depend 
 for fame on your sense ; or if you chuse to be silent, you 
 know you can rely on the gratitude of many and the esteem
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 'ji^ 
 
 of all j but God help us who are wits or witlings by profes- 
 sion, if we stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported ! 
 
 I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila. 
 I may say to the fair painter who does me so much honor, 
 as Dr. Beattie says to Ross the poet of his muse Scota, from 
 which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila ('tis a poem 
 of Seattle's in the Scots dialect,'^ which perhaps you have 
 never seen) : 
 
 Ye shak your head, but, o' my fegs, shake, by my faith 
 
 Ye 've set auld Scota on her legs : 
 
 Lang had she lien wi' buffs and flegs, endured, blows, kicks 
 
 Bombaz'd and dizzie, stupefied 
 
 Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 
 
 Waes me, poor hizzie ! 
 
 (i) Burns wrote other three letters on this date — 
 one to Mrs. Maclehose, one to Robert Muir, and the 
 third to Richard Brown. 
 
 (2) "To Mr. Alexander Ross, at Lochlee, author 
 of ' The Fortunate Shepherdess and other Poems in 
 the Broad Scotch Dialect.' " 
 
 On the 14th, the date of Mrs. Dunlop's next letter, 
 Burns was again in Edinburgh. On the 13th, as he 
 wrote to Miss Chalmers, he " compleated a bargain 
 with Mr. Miller of Dalswinton for the farm of 
 Ellisland." 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 Mr. Crouch's,! Master of the Gramer School, Edinburgh. 
 
 \i^h March 1788. 
 
 Dr. Sir, — The Saturday after you left this I sent for 
 and got the books. I have been so busy sewing for my 
 little (expected) grandchild that I have hardly been able
 
 74 Correspondence between 
 
 to steal a moment to spend with the Fairies. However 
 dehghtful Spenser's imagination, he is often so very outray 
 and extravagant it becomes disgusting, and often in the 
 finest descriptions some ridiculous circumstance spoils the 
 whole. As, for instance, how do you like the well and 
 the tree in the battle of St. George and the Dragon? One 
 might have overlooked the one, but it is impossible to keep 
 your temper with both. At least I 'm sure I wished poor 
 George had been let sleep both nights quietly abed like 
 other people, since he could be no better disposed of. 
 But I have given you my thoughts on this subject apart, 
 instead of the Vision you ask, which, like your own, " fled 
 like a passing thought," but not " in light away ; " on the 
 contrary into impenetrable darkness, from whence it can no 
 more be retrieved. You embarrass me by your kind present 
 of Gray to Keith.^ It has always been a rule of mine, 
 transmitted me by my father, not to allow any of my girls 
 to accept any present while under my direction. Yet 
 Nature in the formation of a poet seems to understand an 
 exception to general rules, and if you insist on it, I think in 
 this particular instance I must follow her example, but it 
 would be more agreeable to me would you consent to her 
 only keeping the leaf she likes best, and returning the rest, 
 which you cannot value the less for having been a while in 
 the possession of a young lady to whom your favourable 
 introduction has so much recommended the author that 
 I daresay in a few days she will be able to repeat the whole 
 work, and I am sure will never forget to whom she was 
 indebted for it. Coila will be finished in two days longer, 
 and I flatter myself you will have pleasure in beholding 
 her charms, but Rachel says it is impossible she should 
 please you, even should she be able to succeed with others,
 
 Robert Burns/and Mrs. Dunlop y ^ 
 
 for she must look so mv(ch worse than when you saw her 
 last by the i ngle l ow/ [chimney flame] that you will be 
 quite shocked at the change. Nor has she a hope that 
 either her colours or fancy can reach the delicate rouge of 
 poetic painting by the masterly hand that arrayed her for 
 visiting at the auld clay biggin. However, spite of this 
 despair, she has done her very best not to disgrace her 
 subject, and I beg you may come and pass judgment as 
 you come out. Indeed, 'twas to entreat this favour I 
 trouble you with a letter, as I am all impatience to hear the 
 sequel of your business before either you or I leave the 
 country. I believed before I read your last that your good 
 sense had conquered my prejudices, and, as Jenny says in 
 The Gentle Shepherd,^ forced me to quit the field, but 
 although I had wished a piece bit off the tongue that I 
 feared had left a thorn in my neighbour's heart, the moment 
 I seized the idea you threw out of remaining uncertainty I 
 felt an animating joy at it that proved how much I still 
 unwittingly retained my former opinion. Indeed, if you 
 will believe me, it was five minutes before I ever once 
 recollected that the farm was not in Ayrshire. This, in- 
 deed, when it occurred, was a cruel danger, a sad postscript 
 to the flattering line which so pleasingly reminds me of a 
 promise I never could have the audacity to make of con- 
 tinuing to write you. Take my honest word ; I consider 
 your correspondence as an acquisition for which mine can 
 make no return, as a commerce in which I alone am the 
 gainer; the sight of your hand gives me inexpressible 
 pleasure, and will even do so should it be armed with the 
 Gunter's scale.* For all I said there are minds capable of 
 sanctifying any profession. Nay, who ever read Tom Jones 
 but felt that there are even reasons that vindicate a man's
 
 76 Correspondence between 
 
 embracing that of a highwayman, and where he seems to 
 ennoble it. Yet how should I be enchanted with this 
 charming farm were it but in our own country ! But in 
 all events I fear we lose you. 
 
 Farewell the friend endowed with heavenly song, 
 
 Whose gentle manners grace the rural throng, 
 
 The patriot Bard whose independent ease 
 
 And native dignity must always please ; 
 
 Bold chalk'd by Nature when she sketch'd her plan. 
 
 Strong mark'd to shine distinguish'd in the van. 
 
 I think it was Charles the Fifth who, about to hang a 
 bishop, previously knelt for his blessing, then wrot the Pope 
 that he revered the monk and only executed the man. 
 
 Should you prolong your stay in town, or not come this 
 way, I beg a single line whenever the lot is cast in your 
 business. Besides, I will be a little concerned to know if 
 my wanderer reach you safe, for, as you will remark, I am 
 "n?> Jacobite ; I would not like to give room to the narrow- 
 minded to believe I was one. I likeways wish to ask you a 
 question about your sister. Your hurry, I believe, made 
 you forget about John Woodburn,^ and I am afraid my son 
 may be sailed before I can get his letters. I should be 
 sorry to miss a possible chance of serving so worthy a man 
 as you speak him to be, or not to make myself happy in 
 telling and his brother in hearing his worth so well vouched 
 for. Adieu. Yet you see I am resolved not to bid you 
 farewell ; indeed I should lose too much by it. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) It has not been known hitherto where Burns 
 stayed during this short visit to Edinburgh. Nothing 
 is known of Crouch.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 'j'j 
 
 (2) Mrs. Dunlop's youngest daughter. 
 
 (3) Allan Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd. 
 
 (4) A mensuration chain, 66 feet long, with lOO 
 
 links. 
 
 (5) Mrs. Dunlop's youngest and favourite son, 
 Anthony, was about to sail for the East, and it had 
 apparently been arranged that he should take out 
 letters to Captain Woodburn (see ante, p. 8) from 
 a brother whom Burns knew and of whom he thought 
 highly. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, 
 Dunlop House, Stewarton. 
 
 Ayr, 26ik March 1788. 
 
 " Speak, sister, is the deed done ?" 
 " Long ago, long ago, long ago ; 
 Above twelve glasses since have run." 
 
 I have at last, my honored Friend, entered in the list of 
 Country farmers. I returned from Edinburgh on Saturday 
 last, with my tack [lease] in my pocket ; and since that 
 time, I assure you, cares and business have occupied my 
 every moment. I have talked fondly of magnanimous 
 resolution and persevering firmness, but every Declaimer 
 talks of them : I wish to prove my claim to them by 
 exertion. I have given up all literary correspondence, all 
 conversation, all reading (prose-reading) that is of the 
 evapourating, dissipating kind. My favorite quotation now, 
 for I always have one, is from Young — 
 
 On Reason build Resolve ; 
 That column of true majesty in Man. 
 
 I know you will be pleased with this ; but were you as weak 
 as most of the family of the' Muses, you would be more
 
 yS Correspondence between 
 
 pleased with what I am going to tell you. I was one day, 
 last time I was in Edinburgh, with Mr. M'Kenzie, the glori- 
 ous Man of Feeling ; and among other things, I read him 
 such of your pieces as I thought proper, such of them as 
 were quite general (they were the two I got from you when 
 I last had the honor of being your guest) and he passed 
 the highest encomiums on them. He warmly begged leave 
 to read them to Mrs. M'Kenzie, whose judgement he very 
 deservedly highly values, and she admired them so much 
 that she anxiously wished a copy ; but this I positively de- 
 clined. If I had the pieces about me, I would mention to 
 you the most admired lines. 
 
 My letters, for some time to come, will be miserable 
 scraps, and will not be worth half a glance except to such 
 as you who honor me so much in interesting yourself in all 
 that concerns me. 
 
 My most respectful compliments to all your family ; the 
 kind Tutoress of my friend Coila, deserves my particular 
 acknowledgements. The happiest night by much, of all I 
 spent last in Edinburgh was one at Lady Wallace's. — I 
 have the honor to be, Madam, your ever grateful humble 
 servt. RoBT. Burns. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, at Mossgill, 
 near Mauchlin. 
 
 DuNLOP \end of March 178S]. 
 
 Dr. Sir, — I had heard of your transaction about the 
 farm before I was favoured with your letter. Indeed, I was 
 afraid you had been going to give me up, among your liter- 
 ary correspondents, which would have vext me very much, 
 as I can honestly assure you it exalts me in my own esteem 
 to believe you find anything in my letters worth your while 
 to purchase at the expense of writing me again, while yours
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 70 
 
 are to me an interesting and delightful amusement which I 
 would in vain attempt to equal elsewhere. 
 
 I congratulate you on the step you have taken. I am 
 sure it renders you truely estimable and respectable, and I 
 trust, with the steady perseverance so manly a character 
 seems to insure, will make you independent and happy in 
 the possession of an easie competence, and as much leizure 
 amid rural scenes as, with what you have now seen of the 
 world, will enable you to write as you could never have 
 hoped to do in the former line purposed for your pursuit, 
 nor in the City of Edr. itself, in any situation into which 
 you might have been thrust by your friends, I hope you 
 will not neglect the farm so far as to make you poor, and I 
 trust your cultivation of the IMuses shall one day make you 
 rich, for, if ever you are so, I daresay, like the silk-worm, 
 you must spin it out of yourself rather than gather it up 
 from Mr. Miller's ground, which, however, may form a suc- 
 cedaneum in the meantime, and foster up patience till 
 something else is got ready. I observ^e it is only prose 
 reading you determine to renounce ; allow me therefore to 
 recommend a few poetic friends as an evening solace in 
 your retirement. Sorry I am it must be so distant a one 
 as almost precludes all hope of seeing you hereafter : yet 
 let me beg a parting visit at least, before you leave Ayr- 
 shire for Hfe, an event I look forward to with extreme re- 
 gret. If you can come here any time before Sunday come 
 eight day, and pass a day or two conveniently for yourself, 
 you will see Coila, I hope, such as you would wish her, and 
 you will see me, to whom your visit will be a most accept- 
 able compliment. But should this not be in your power, 
 I shall dine at Mount by Kilmarnock with the old Major ^ 
 on Sunday after next to bid him adieu before I set out for
 
 8o Correspondence between 
 
 the east country, and I will take the liberty to invite you to 
 make one of the party which chance may assemble there at 
 that time. I shall in driving through Kilmarnock leave at 
 Wilson's 2 for you Pope's Homer, Dryden's Virgil, and 
 Hoole's Tasso, which I beg leave to present as agreeable 
 remembrances of myself, that you may sometimes when far 
 away at sight of them think of writing me. The last is my 
 greatest favourite, but I have not been able to procure a 
 clean copy of it, nor in pocket volumes as I would have 
 wished, so that it might have gone with you to the field, 
 or wherever you went. Indeed you are very much mis- 
 taken if you believe I am pleased at your rehearsal to Mr. 
 and Mrs. Mackenzie. Their applause was a thing in course, 
 and only compliment to you at any rate. As Mr. Wilkie 
 says to the Duke of Argyll, your own approbation is just 
 enough for me in the rhyming way, and I never desire to 
 aspire at any other. As for censure, " What you applauded 
 Envy durst not blame," so that I am not even flattered by 
 this praise, and your reading anything I write to other peo- 
 ple may prevent my prattling with the careless pleasure I 
 have formerly done to your indulgent eye, for which I write 
 the following lines, meaning them for the first leaf of Tasso's 
 "Jerusalem " — 
 
 In Bourbon's Isle a far-famed garden lies, 
 
 Cloth'd with each growth the varied world supplys ; 
 
 Pleased I select the moss rose of the West; 
 Proud see your hand Old Scota's breast adorn 
 With this fair flourish of her native thorn. 
 
 It will really disappoint me grievously if you don't come 
 here, or at least to the Major's. Both I should like best,
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 8 1 
 
 but will prefer either to neither. Besides that you will, I 
 am sure, like to see Coila, at which the lady is still close at 
 work. Remember you promised me your address to the 
 wild ducks.3 Might I beg you would let me look at the 
 tragedy you told me you had once schemed. I will be a 
 very hard critic on anything on that subject, but I don't 
 think you need be afraid to show me the verses on Miss 
 Alexander. I really wish much to see them. How your 
 compliments are sometimes lost, and how I envied one of 
 them ! If ever my picture is painted on earth, it shall be 
 in the character of Old Scotia calling Fame to hand on my 
 poor little Sandie Wallace * to the top of the old ruinous 
 Castle of Craigie, but I am glad my paper is done since I 
 have got there ; 't is a miserable key for me to write on. 
 Adieu. I send compts. from all ; " Cela va sans dire," and 
 I always forget to write them. — Believe me, with great 
 affection, your obliged and obedient humble sert. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Perhaps Major Alexander Dunlop, her 
 brother-in-law, who commanded the Enniskillens 
 at Carthagena. 
 
 (2) Wilson was the printer of the Kilmarnock 
 edition. 
 
 (3) " On Scaring some Water-Fowl In Loch 
 Turit." A holograph MS. in the Lochryan collec- 
 tion. 
 
 (4) John Alexander Agnew Wallace, her grand- 
 son, second son and successor of Sir Thomas. The 
 old lady cherished a dream of the restoration of her 
 paternal estate to the family. 
 
 VOL. I. — 6
 
 82 Correspondence between 
 
 Ad. Mrs. DUNLOP of Dunlop, 
 Dunlop House, Stewarton. 
 
 Mauchline, :^\st March 1788. 
 
 I am truly sorry to tell you, Madam, that I fear it will 
 not be in my power to meet you at the Mount on Sunday. 
 To come to Dunlop is impracticable ; but I would earnestly 
 wish, and will try to meet you at the old Major's. 
 
 If you go on, Madam, in the same style of compliment- 
 ing me on the pleasure my correspondence gives you, you 
 will bar my pen altogether. 
 
 Now that I am often " craz'd with care," my letters will be 
 
 Like a twice-told tale, 
 
 Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man. . . . 
 
 I claim the kind promise of your correspondence as a 
 priviledge, as an honor ; and am never better pleased than 
 when I see a letter from you, wrote out till there is hardly 
 blank paper enough to close it. 
 
 The Poems I promised you, I must confess debt and 
 crave days. Till Whitsunday I shall be immersed in busi- 
 ness, partly my own, and partly on account of some near 
 and dear friends, that I will not have a spare moment. 
 
 I will not speak a word about your present of the books. 
 Your kindness has already exhausted my every various 
 expression of gratitude ; and for this last instance, I am 
 determined to be silent till I tax my invention for something 
 new to say on the subject. 
 
 I much fear I will not be able to meet you on Sunday, 
 but I '11 try. — I have the honor to be, most gratefully, 
 Madam, your oblidged, humble servt. Robt. Burns. 
 
 Burns had now^ settled in Ayrshire to learn the du- 
 ties of an exciseman, the order for which was issued
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 83 
 
 by the Board of Excise to an officer at Tarbolton on 
 31st March. His intention was to finish his pupilage 
 before entering on his farm on 25th May. 
 
 Mrs. Dunlop about this time proceeded to Had- 
 dington to stay with her son (Captain John) and his 
 wife, who resided there till their home at Morham 
 Mains was ready for occupation. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 
 Mosegill, near Mauchline. 
 
 Haddington, tbth Apl. 1788. 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinr., Twenty-first April 1788.] 
 
 Dr. Sir, — I was sorry your business prevented your 
 coming to pass two or three days at our house, where all 
 the family are so truly sensible to your merit, and happy in 
 your company, but most sensibly mortified at your not wish- 
 ing to make a stretch to dine at the Mount, on a day when 
 business could not intervene, and when I had let you know 
 I was to be of the party, and you could have no doubt how 
 much your being another would to me have increased the 
 pleasure of the visit. Nay, when I had told you it was a 
 farewell one, and that I was leaving our side of the country 
 for a time that left me no prospect of finding you in Ayr- 
 shire at my return, I 'm sure it would have been a very 
 great inconvenience indeed that would have made me 
 decline the pleasure of passing perhaps the last day fortune 
 would ever throw in my power with a friend, who I knew 
 sincerely wished it, and who omitted no occasion of telling 
 me so : but I don't know if that is the right way of going to 
 work with you men, who are generally most negligent in 
 your attentions where you already know they are very much 
 valued. But I need say no more. I am now at fourscore 
 miles distance, probably never to be nearer you again, and
 
 84 Correspondence between 
 
 I will indulge myself in believing you have repented what 
 you can no longer help. It 's the only time I ever wished 
 an uneasie idea to come across you, but for once I would 
 be gratified by knowing, as you say yourself, that conscience 
 had blackguarded you and spit in your face for not behav- 
 ing more kindly to me than you did in this instance. 
 However, as my goodwill is founded on my admiration and 
 esteem of your sentiments and writings, although gratitude 
 must have greatly increast it, neglect cannot diminish, much 
 less erase it ; nor shall the wound given my pride prevent 
 my professing myself as warmly your friend as ever, tho' 
 you have checkt that vanity which might have been flat- 
 tered by believing you in some degree mine. I met the 
 other day coming here from Edr. a young man who seemed 
 so fond of you that I was sorry to part from him ; he told 
 me some of your correspondents, and dwelt on every cir- 
 cumstance in which you were interested with apparent 
 delight that shortened the road much to me ; I don't know, 
 but I suspect, his name was Ainslie.^ I daresay, however, 
 you know him, and I should suppose he knows you too, 
 better than you will allow me to do, if you always are as 
 ready to let slip the times that might improve our acquaint- 
 ance, or let you know I was not worthy of the honour of 
 yours — a secret I am half afraid you have already discov- 
 ered, or you would not have preferred Mr. Auld to me, that 
 Sunday when I wished you to desert church, and charitably 
 come where you would have been able to contribute both 
 to the happiness and improvement of your neighbours. 
 Besides, you did not know what trouble I took for your 
 entertainment. Coila sat on my lap all the journey hooped 
 in glass, and a very tender charge she was, I assure you, 
 and one I grudge taking when I found it was to no purpose.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 85 
 
 I fretted at her company all the way home again, and on 
 Tuesday set off for this place, where in all probability I 
 may be kept till after midsummer. Meanwhile I would not 
 have disturbed your hurry of business with this intrusion, 
 had I not been afraid, if you left Ayrshire before my return, 
 I should never have it in my power to write you again, as 
 not knowing your future address, or whether your whole 
 family removed along with you, and prevented my even 
 sending a line to your brother's care after you were gone. 
 It 's a strange reason, but a very natural one, I believe, for 
 a man. You say your pen will be stopt by my expressing 
 the pleasure I have in your correspondence. This will 
 indeed be very cross, but cannot prevent my pleasing my- 
 self by frequently writing you, even should I never send my 
 scrawls your length. You told me you liked rhyme. I felt 
 that when you wrot I liked it too, and so I fell a-chiming 
 words ; just like an ugly woman who sees a new cap look 
 well on a beauty, and forgets but what it should become 
 her too, nor can even a sight of herself in the glass remove 
 her error, but she exhibits a view of her cap and her folly 
 to others, as I have done of my water-gruel lays to you, till 
 I doubt you are sick of both them and I. Yet as I am 
 living in a farmer's house, that very circumstance recalls 
 you to my mind, and adds fervour to my wishes that it may 
 ever prove a scene of inspiration and happiness, unrepining 
 ease and independence to you, as well as to those with 
 whom I inhabit at present. Should it turn out the seat of 
 disappointment and regret to either you or them, I 'm sure 
 neither the one nor the other guess how much it would 
 break in upon my tranquillity to know the melancholy truth, 
 though I should still like that confidence which allowed me 
 to participate even the bitter cup allotted for my friends.
 
 86 Correspondence between 
 
 But let me not anticipate what I hope is not in fate ; but 
 rather fill my paper, since you like it blackened all over, 
 with rhymes suggested by reading some poetry very full of 
 pompous machinery, and supposing you had presented it to 
 some of your fair friends to whom you seem inclinable to 
 introduce the poetic merit of others as well as your own. 
 
 With flaming fancy and in florid stile 
 When wit addrest the beauties of our Isle 
 And art was taxt with elegance to tell 
 What virtue most all others could excell : 
 
 I shall also transcribe a letter T wrot the other day to a 
 friend of mine who, I believe partly to provoke me, said 
 there had been no poet in the British dominions since Pope, 
 nor would ever be another ; that poesy was at a poor pitch, 
 the Muse of England a milkmaid, Ireland a cook, and 
 Scotland a plowman, and concluded by running down the 
 productions of the two pens he thought I took most interest 
 in, yours and Moore's Travels. I was not pleased, and it 
 was thus I told it : — 
 
 To you Dr. K ... y I point these lays 
 
 Howe'er Dan Pope has huckster'd all your praise, 
 
 Sure though your friend should write a sacred book, 
 
 You 'd rank it with the milkmaid or the cook ; 
 
 For with the plowman I dare not compare 
 
 Th' unrivalled glory of the Shire of Air. 
 
 If you find leisure or inclination to write me, address for 
 me at Haddington, and if you wish me to write, send me 
 your address in future. 
 
 You see I have, according to custom, scrawled over my 
 paper. You will hardly believe I am a negligent corre- 
 spondent to all the world, and my very best friends find
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 87 
 
 great fault with me on this score. I suspect you would be 
 glad I gave them more and you less of my ink, but I wish 
 you would take revenge in kind, and study what you say as 
 little as I do. If you write with as good will, it can cost 
 you nothing. I hope you got the books safe, and find 
 pleasure in reading them. I shall be glad to have your 
 comments on them and me too, if you please, if you will 
 just say only what you think, instead of thinking what you 
 shall say. I expect this will cost you nothing but the trou- 
 ble of reading, which to a man of business no doubt will be 
 very dear postage, perhaps more than you will ever pay. 
 Should you never get down this length, you cannot guess 
 how sincerely I am, dr. sir, your much obliged friend and 
 humble servt. Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 I have your Faery Queen here. I don't know how I 
 shall contrive to get her returned ; you must instruct me. 
 I never read her with pleasure before. I think you have 
 taught me to understand Spenser, and I thank you for that 
 and all the superiour poetic pleasures for which I am your 
 debtor. Adieu. 
 
 (i) In all probability Robert Ainslie, the lawyer's 
 apprentice, with whom Burns had become intimate 
 in Edinburgh in the spring of 1787. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Mauchline, 2%th April 1788. 
 
 Madam, — Your powers of reprehension must be great 
 indeed, as I assure you they made my heart ache with 
 penitential pangs, even though I was really not guilty. As 
 I commence farmer at Whitsunday, you will easily guess 
 I must be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the
 
 88 Correspondence between 
 
 offer of the Excise business without soHcitation; and as 
 it costs me only six weeks' attendance for instruction, to 
 entitle me to commission, which commission lies by me, 
 and at any future period, on my simple petition, can be 
 resumed ; I thought five and thirty pounds a year was no 
 bad dernier ressort for a poor poet, if fortune in her jade 
 tricks should kick him down from the little eminence to 
 which she has lately helped him up. 
 
 For this reason, I am at present attending these instruc- 
 tions, to have them completed before Whitsunday. Still, 
 madam, I prepared with the sincerest pleasure to meet you 
 at the Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday night 
 to set out on Sunday; but for some nights preceding I 
 had slept in an apartment where the force of the winds 
 and the rains was only mitigated by being sifted through 
 numberless apertures in the windows, walls, etc. In con- 
 sequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of Tuesday 
 unable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable effects of 
 a bad cold. 
 
 You see, madam, the truth of the French maxim, Le vrai 
 rC est pas toujoitrs le vrai-semblable ; your last was so full 
 of expostulation, and was something so like the language of 
 an offended friend, that I began to tremble for a corre- 
 spondence, which I had with grateful pleasure set down as 
 one of the greatest enjoyments of my future life. . . . 
 
 Your books have delighted me : Virgil, Dryden, and 
 Tasso were all equally strangers to me ; but of this more at 
 large in my next. R. B. 
 
 The above letter is of the same date as that in 
 which Burns made the first mention (to James 
 Smith) of his acknowledgment of Jean Armour as
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 89 
 
 his wife. It is possible that the marriage had at 
 least as much to do with his failure to meet Mrs. 
 Dunlop at the Mount as the cold which laid him up 
 at Mossgiel (note the allusion to " near and dear 
 friends" in his letter of 31st March). From motives 
 which are explained below (p. 95), he breathed no 
 word of the momentous step he had taken in any 
 of his letters of the subsequent month to Mrs. 
 Dunlop. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Mauchline, ^th May 1788. 
 
 Madam, — Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do 
 not know whether the critics will agree with me, but the 
 Georgics are to me by far the best of Virgil. It is indeed 
 a species of writing entirely new to me, and has filled my 
 head with a thousand fancies of emulation ; but alas ! 
 when I read the Georgics, and then survey my own powers, 
 't is like the idea of a Shetland pony drawn up by the side 
 of a thorough-bred hunter to start for the plate. I own I 
 am disappointed in the ALneid. Faultless correctness may 
 please, and does highly please, the lettered critic ; but to 
 that aweful character I have not the most distant preten- 
 sions. I do not know whether I do not hazard my pre- 
 tensions to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I think 
 Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If 
 I had the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many passages 
 where Virgil has evidently copied, but by no means im- 
 proved, Homer. Nor can I think there is any thing of 
 this owing to the translators ; for, from every thing I have 
 seen of Dryden, I think him in genius and fluency of lan- 
 guage. Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso enough
 
 90 Correspondence between 
 
 to form an opinion : in some future letter you shall have 
 my ideas of him ; though I am conscious my criticisms 
 must be very inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have 
 ever felt and lamented my want of learning most. R. B. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns. 
 
 Haddington, May 1788. 
 
 Dr. Sir, — I believe you have sent me your cold in 
 
 your letter, for I have had it pretty severely for some days 
 
 past. I indeed in some degree deserved this at your hand 
 
 from the unsymi^athizing manner in which I received the 
 
 intelligence of your illness, for I will honestly confess I 
 
 have very seldom been so much pleased to hear of any 
 
 body's good health as I was to read your sickness under 
 
 your hand, especially as I looked on your writing as a 
 
 proof of your recovery. Your giving me two letters for 
 
 one is to me perfect conviction that you have some little 
 
 pleasure in mine. I shall therefore henceforth dispense 
 
 with apologies, and gratify my own vanity by implicitly 
 
 believing, when you don't see me or let me hear from you, 
 
 that it is a mutual disappointment to both. I am sure it 
 
 will always be at least so to one. 
 
 Yes, Burns, when others court the painter's aid, 
 
 Or bid the torch reflect the profile shade, 
 
 The light is shifted and the object plac'd 
 
 To shape the image to the wearer's taste ; 
 
 My pen oft draws a picture of the mind, 
 
 Th' unstudy'd present to your trust consign'd, 
 
 I believe the critics of all ages have agreed with you as 
 to the Georgics of Virgil. I don't know if I guess right, 
 but I should suspect the translators would have suited 
 better had Pope and Dryden exchanged authors. Dryden 
 has infinite force and fire, but something indelicate and,
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 91 
 
 I imagine, unfitted for the measured strain of the ^neia 
 and the polite Augustan Court, Yet, unless you feel what 
 I mean, which is possibly all a chimera, I don't know how 
 to express it myself, but I think Mr. M'Kenzie could de- 
 scribe it better. Meantime you will not be pleased with 
 Tasso neither if you dislike the imitation of Homer, which 
 none of the Epic poets have ever yet, I believe, ventured 
 to shun, but on the contrary all dragged servilely in his 
 wake — at least all them I have ever seen or heard any 
 account of. I have been told the Italian Ariosto has 
 struck out a path for himself, but I cannot read him in 
 the original, and I don't know if he is translated into 
 English. 
 
 Tell me your opinion of the following lines,^ I mean 
 your idea of the capacity of their writer to please the 
 publick in some novel or miscellaneous productions. He 
 is fallen from affluence to penury with a very large family, 
 for whom he is wholly unsuited to make any effort in any 
 other line. I once gave him my advice to write. He 
 expatiated on the difficulties, and ran down the attempts 
 of several of my favourites to illustrate his theory. I 
 wrot him a few lines which I sent you in my last letter, 
 and to which this is his reply, of which I cannot be sup- 
 posed a judge after the flummery with which it sets out, 
 especially as I believe his great partiality to me makes 
 whatever he says half earnest, and unaccountable whim 
 guides all his partialities. But I have not left room for 
 the lines, so must inclose them, begging you may return 
 them to me here. I admire your criticizims, and the more 
 that you call them unlettered, though I can hardly be- 
 lieve them so ; but I must still more approve the very 
 great prudence and good sense you have shown in regard to
 
 92 Correspondence between 
 
 your commission, these not being generally the predomi- 
 nate features that characterize the favourites of the Muses, 
 or the forte of those whose warm affections and keen 
 passions give energy to poetic expression. It therefore 
 gives me double pleasure to commend where I could have 
 entertained most dubiety of your superiority. Adieu. 
 My inclosed poet has a wife and about a dozen poor 
 children. F. D. 
 
 (i) The lines have not been preserved, nor is the 
 author's name known. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. DuNLOP of Dunlop, 
 
 at Mr. Dunlop's, Haddington. 
 
 Mauchline, 2']th May 1788. 
 
 Madam, — I have been torturing my Philosophy to no 
 purpose, to account for that kind Partiality of yours, which, 
 unlike every other of my Patronesses and Patrons in upper 
 life, has followed me in my return to my native shade of 
 life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret in the 
 fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance that, " Here 
 I had no continuing city ; " and, but for the material con- 
 solation of a few solid guineas, could almost lament the 
 time that a momentary acquaintance with wealth and 
 splendor put me so much out of conceit with the sworn 
 companions of my road through Life — Insignificance and 
 Poverty. 
 
 It is so common with Poets, when their Patrons try their 
 hand at a Rhyme, to cry up the Honble. or Rt. Honble. 
 performance as Matchless, Divine, etc., that I am afraid 
 to open my mouth respecting your poetic extempores that 
 you occasionally favo'r me with : I will only say, you can- 
 not oblidge me more than sending them me. For my own
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 93 
 
 part, I have extensive rhyming Projects in my head, but, 
 present cannot for my soul tag a stanza. 
 
 There are few circumstances relating to the unequal dis- 
 tribution of the good things of this life that give me more 
 vexation (I mean in what I see around me) than the Im- 
 portance that the great bestow on their trifles and small 
 matters in family affairs, compared with the same, the very 
 same things on the contracted scale of a cottage. Last 
 afternoon, I had the honor to spend an hour or two at a 
 good woman's fireside, where the homely planks that com- 
 posed the floor were decorated with a splendid carpet, 
 and the gay table sparkled with silver and china. 'Tis 
 now about term day, and there has been a revolution 
 among those creatures who, tho' in appearance. Partakers, 
 and equally noble Partakers of the same Nature with 
 Madame ; yet are from time to time, their nerves, their 
 sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, experience, genius, 
 time, nay a good part of their very thoughts, sold for 
 months and years, anxious Drudges, sweating, weary slaves, 
 not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but the 
 caprices of the important few. We talk'd of the insignifi- 
 cant Creatures ; nay, notwithstanding their general stupid- 
 ity and Rascality, did some of the poor devils the honor to 
 commend them. But, light be turf upon his breast who 
 taught — "Reverence Thyself! " We looked down on the 
 unpolished wretches, their impertinent wives and clouterly 
 brats, as the lordly Bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, 
 whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness of 
 his ramble, or tosses in air in the wantonness of his pride. 
 
 I return you the Poem with my thanks for the perusal. 
 Alas, Madam ! the very ingenious author deserves a better
 
 94 Correspondence between 
 
 friend than the Press. I feel most truly for him } but no 
 writing in this our day will take, except very transcendant 
 excellence indeed, or Novelty. 
 
 I have often had it in my head to write to you in my 
 miscellaneous way, a paragraph or sheet now and then as 
 the spirit moves me ; but with all my loyalty for his most 
 sacred and most sapient Majesty, George III., by the grace 
 of God, Rex, I hate and abhor his exorbitant Postages. 
 
 My old direction — at Mauchline, will find me. — I 
 have the honor to be most gratefully, Madam, your humble 
 servt. RoBT. Burns. 
 
 Do let me know when my brother Farmer's [Captain 
 Dunlop's] family increases. R. B. 
 
 Ad. Mr. DuNLOP of Dunlop, 
 Dunlop House. 
 
 [30tk May 1788.] 
 
 Sir, — I mentioned to your Mother in a letter I wrote 
 her yesterday, which is the third or fourth I have wrote her 
 to Haddington, that ray Philosophy was gravelled to ac- 
 count for that Partiality from the house of Dunlop of which 
 I have the honor to be so much the Object. Do you 
 know that except from your Mother and the good family, 
 my existence or non-existence is now of as little importance 
 to that Great World I lately left, as the satellites of the 
 Georgium Sidus is to a parcel of your Ditchers. I foresaw 
 this from the beginning. Ambition could not form a 
 higher wish than to be wedded to Novelty ; but I retired 
 to my shades with a little comfortable pride and a few 
 comfortable pounds ; and even there I enjoy the peculiar 
 happiness of Mrs. Dunlop's friendship and correspondence, 
 a happiness I shall ever gratefully prize next to the dearest
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 95 
 
 ties that wind about ray heart, so, in my Ploughman Com- 
 pUment, I bid the World Gude Speed ! 
 
 Your Mother never hinted at the report of my late change 
 in life, and I did not know how to tell her. I am afraid 
 that perhaps she will not entirely enter into the motives of 
 my conduct, so I have kept aloof from the affair altogether. 
 I saw, Sir, that I had a once, and still much-lov'd fellow- 
 creature's happiness or misery among my hands ; and I 
 could not dally with such a matter. Pride and seeming 
 justice like true murderous King's Advocates talked much 
 of injuries and wrongs ; but Generosity, Humanity, and 
 Forgiveness were such irresistible Counsel for the poor 
 Pannel, that a Jury of old Attachments and new Endear- 
 ments brought in a verdict — not guilty ! 
 
 I shall be at Glasgow in the middle of next week, and if 
 
 I find you at home,^ I shall certainly take the opportunity 
 
 of assuring you in propria persona how much I have the 
 
 honor to be. Sir, your ever grateful hum. ser\'t. 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 Mauchline, Saturday morn. 
 
 (i) At Dunlop, which lies between Mauchline and 
 Glasgow. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, Mosgill, 
 near Mauchline. 
 
 Haddington, i^h June 1788. 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinr., Fifth June 1788.] 
 
 I don't remember whether it is Solomon or Lord Ches- 
 terfield that says " Go to the ant and learn wisdom." 
 Instead of torturing your philosophy for the solution of an 
 easy question, let me refer you to the Mouse or the Moun- 
 tain Daisey, to the Cotter or the Farmer's Auld Mare, to 
 things animate and things inanimate.
 
 96 Correspondence between 
 
 O Nature all thy shews and forms 
 
 To feeling, pensive hearts have charms ; 
 
 Whether the Summer kindly warms, 
 
 VVi' life and light, 
 Or Winter howls in gusty storms, 
 
 The long dark night ! 
 
 Yet trust me, of all her shews the most pleasantly interest- 
 ing is the mind that marks the rest, and whose language, 
 like a fine cut seal, imprints them on the soul with the 
 most beautiful, clear, soft and lasting impressions. 'Tis 
 here, as in a glass, we expect to meet the fairest reflection 
 of all God's works, nay even to read our own thoughts to 
 double advantage, when we happen to meet them better 
 arrayed than ever they could have left home, and in the 
 best company good sense, taste, or information can place 
 around them. Is not such a correspondence a rational 
 delight, and does not one owe some partiality, as well as 
 some gratitude, to whoever is willing to indulge them with 
 so peculiar a pleasure, especially if it is done with the 
 unconstrained freedom which nothing but friendship and 
 esteem can ever prompt? Now, I hope I have fully ex- 
 plained and accounted for the tax I have wished to sub- 
 ject you to, and in which I am sometimes vain enough to 
 almost believe you might yourself have some satisfaction 
 as well as me, since you have had the patience to read and 
 the good nature to say you were pleased with receiving the 
 scratches I have hitherto exposed to your eye, wholly to 
 indulge myself, and try to draw you to retaliation. Just at 
 the moment when I begun to hope I had succeeded, a cir- 
 cumstance staggers my faith. I am told in a letter that 
 you have been a month married. I am unwilling to be- 
 lieve so important an era of your life has past, and you 
 have considered me as so very little concerned in what
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 97 
 
 concerned you most as never to give me the most distant 
 hint of your wishing such a change or of its accomplish- 
 ment, while I have had the favour of hearing two three 
 times of you during that interim. Allow me, however, 
 married or unmarried, to wish you joy, which I assure you 
 I do most sincerely in every situation in which yourself or 
 Providence can put you. Don't, I beg you, check the in- 
 clination, should it ever seize you, of writing a miscella 
 neous page to me, spite of all the kings of Europe. It is 
 true George Rex has provoked me so far, had it been 
 female to curse any man or thing, I could have sometimes 
 anathematized the postages, which have made me drop 
 several correspondences in my time, and had I not some- 
 times been able, or at least believed I had been able, to 
 get a sheet conveyed now and then gratis to you, I should 
 frequently have been ashamed to make you pay for so many. 
 But since I came here, I persuaded myself you had not ; do 
 tell me if I am mistaken. For my paying, don't mind that. 
 It is true ray children have and are intituled to my income ; 
 their happiness is all my end and aim in life, and their ad- 
 vantage my honour and my duty. To this I sacrifice what 
 many would account the necessaries of life. The letters 
 of a very few friends are my sole personal pleasure and 
 expense. I don't grudge it myself, and no one else ought 
 to grudge it for me. I require neither fine gown nor splen- 
 did carpet, nor could know to value them like your acquaint- 
 ance, from whom I covet nothing except your visit, which 
 I shrewdly suspect I would have held in juster estimation 
 than she was capable of, though I could not equal her gen- 
 erosity in giving so largely to the poor in the distribution 
 of stupidity or rascality, where I have a far meaner opinion 
 of their claims than she and you discerned for. But every 
 
 VOL. I. — 7
 
 98 Correspondence between 
 
 one has their own hobby-horse in this world. The honest 
 woman, looking with self-complacence at the carpet, 
 drawing up her head, blest herself in being unlike those 
 poor publicans, and canters on as proud as a peacock. 
 "Hiegh-up," says you, helping her on, but, turning to me, 
 tips the wink with a sneer, half mirth, half malice. But 
 suppress, if you please, the later half; it is below a man to 
 be angry at a child for being happy with his drum, and 
 proud how loud he can beat and deaf you with its noise. 
 Poor infant ! his faculties are satisfied ; so shall yours in 
 the wide round of time be thankful their circle is more 
 extensive, and you shall find imployment walking it over 
 when the parchment of his drum-head is fairly beat out. 
 Then will you be dozing with old Homer till fame beat 
 the reveille and set you at work again — I would fain know 
 upon what plan, if you dare trust me, but don't if you are 
 reluctant. I would not incroach upon your confidence, 
 tho' nobody would enjoy it more were it a voluntary gift. 
 You say you cannot tag a stanza. I am sympathetically 
 out of tune too, which I daresay you are glad of, and no 
 one else will be sensible of the misfortune. I hope your 
 voice will soon recover. I should truly regret your being 
 deprived of so great a pleasure, and from which I expect 
 to see yourself and the world draw so much profit. Be- 
 sides, should I continue my original dumb fit, which I 
 think highly probable, your notes will amuse me much 
 more agreeably than my own, and I would not willingly 
 be deprived of so charming a succedaneum. This hard 
 word puts me in mind to ask you the meaning of one I 
 met in Lady Mary Wortley Montague's Letters (a book 
 well worth your reading, as she is esteemed the first female 
 scribe in Britain, perhaps in the world). The word was
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop on 
 
 a sheep newly raddled. I have no dictionar}', nor nobody 
 near me wiser than myself. I will be proud to have you 
 for an instructor, if you will do me that favour. I fear 
 you have not liked Tasso. Tell me why, yet do not in- 
 struct me there, for there is a joy in approving from the 
 heart I would not like to be informed out of by my own 
 or a better judgment. Yet, although I would be sorry you 
 did not like my favourite, I have no objection to hearing 
 every fault you will deign to point out in him, for, if I may 
 judge by myself, to critisize a poet is a sign of finding him 
 well worth notice, and I do not insist that my dead favour- 
 ites should be held quite perfect, though I may sometimes 
 receive but awkwardly ill-natured animadversions on the 
 living. I believe there is a letter for you from my /\nthony 
 l}dng at Lady Wallace's, unless she sent it to Wilson by the 
 Kilmarnock carrier. Poor fellow ! He is not sailed yet 
 from Europe, nor my grandson arrived. I will write you 
 when he does, if I can know that this costs you nothing, 
 but at this distance the charge far outgoes the profit. Yet 
 admire my economy, both in the size of my sheet, and the 
 smallness of my type. Pray, copy me here, where alone I 
 pretend to excell. Your hand, though characteristically 
 original, like its owner, is extravagantly large, and a per- 
 fect luxury which I have thrown in the Atlantic Ocean ever 
 since I had so many sons on the farther side of it, when I 
 first adopted a crow quill, since reserved for my friends, 
 and therefore, whenever I have one, always sacred to you 
 from, dear sir, your obliged and obedient humble sert. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 John and his wife offer compts. with me. When you get 
 to Edr., if you should not recover what, as a Free Mason, 
 
 A
 
 lOO Correspondence between 
 
 you must this day suffer for your loyalty to your Grand 
 Master so much as to be able to do it sooner ; for I really 
 long for your answer, should it be only yes or no to a ques- 
 tion which I believe, though I have not asked, but which 
 you must surely guess. Adieu. 
 
 Burns went to reside at Ellisland on 13th June. 
 As the farm buildings had to be reconstructed, he 
 left his wife and child at Maiichline, and while build- 
 ing operations were going on, lived himself in a hut 
 about half a mile below the farm, under the shadow 
 of the tower of the Isle. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. DuNLOP, at Mr. Dunlop's, 
 
 Haddington. 
 
 Ellisland, x^^th (i^h)/une 1788. 
 
 Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
 
 My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
 
 Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. — Goldsmith. 
 
 This is the second day, my honored friend, that I have 
 been on my farm. A solitary inmate of an old, smoky 
 Spcnce [apartment] ; far from every object I love, or by 
 whom I am beloved ; nor any acquaintance older than 
 yesterday, except Jemiy Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; 
 while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult my awk- 
 ward ignorance and bashful inexperience. There is a 
 ! foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the hour of care, 
 I consequently the dreary objects seem larger than the life. 
 ' Extreme sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy 
 side by a series of misfortunes and disappointments, at that 
 period of my existence when the soul is laying in her cargo 
 of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I beheve, the principal 
 cause of this unhappy frame of mind.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop loi 
 
 The valiant, in himself what can he suffer ? 
 Or what need he regard his single woes ? etc. 
 
 Your surmise, madam, is just : I am, indeed, a hus- 
 band. . . . 
 
 I found a once much-loved and still much-loved female 
 literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the naked ele- 
 ments, but as I enabled her to purchase a shelter, and 
 there is no sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or 
 misery. . . . 
 I The most placid good-nature and sweetness of disposi- 
 / tion ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers 
 to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, set 
 off to the best advantage by a more than common hand- 
 some figure ; these, I think, in a woman, may make a good 
 wife, though she should never read a page but " The Scrip- 
 tures of the Old and New Testament," nor have danced in 
 a brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding. 
 
 To Burns. 
 
 Haddington, i6tk June 1788. 
 
 Sm, — 'T is indulging myself in an agreeable manner to 
 sit down and write what comes uppermost, and direct the 
 sheet to one whose every line I receive with delight, were 
 it only to proceed from the single remembrance of its being 
 the produce of that pen which has formerly obliged the 
 world, and more especially myself, more than I can express. 
 Nothing can henceforward fall from an author whose native 
 ideas have once very forcibly struck our imagination, that 
 will be read with indifference independent of its real merit. 
 Cease then to say your portion in life must be poverty and 
 insignificance. As to the first, I shall not presume to fore- 
 tell, although I think the supposition very improbable.
 
 I02 Correspondence between 
 
 ■For the other, I aver it is utterly impossible, if Britain is 
 not overrun by something worse than Goths and Vandals. 
 I think you above affectation of any kind, so that I am afraid 
 some temporary depression of spirits has suggested this 
 injustice to yourself and others that could lead you for a 
 single moment to conceive the possibility of your being 
 overlooked by any one whose esteem you could value or 
 wish to cultivate. I wish I could help to eradicate such 
 an error from your mind for ever, and teach you to respect 
 yourself Tcioxe than to give harbour to so degrading a sus- 
 picion. I am sure female fancy itself could never invent 
 a more improbable poetic fiction than you have done in 
 broaching such an out-of-the-world notion. Belisarius 
 blind and begging is a joke to it ; Rousseau, indeed, poor 
 man ! became an idiot ; so did Swift ; yet no future event 
 could rob either of their former fame. This was the treas- 
 ure of the soul. Besides, as Alexander the Great said, the 
 only thing in this world we can never lose is what we have 
 given away to our friends. Now, the ideas a poet has put 
 on paper are ever his ; they are given generously to his 
 friends and foes ; the world must enjoy them ; if they once 
 had merit they can never lose it ; if his genius rises, it 
 confers a brighter luster on the past; if it falls, the twie- 
 light of his day is forgotten, but cannot obscure his meri- 
 dian glory. The man who has once added honour to his 
 name will feel himself borne up by that name ever after; 
 yet our name cannot convey our nature ; I wish to God it 
 did, since I was once a Wallace. But, alas ! no. Vou have 
 a namesake here — a wright [carpenter] ; he has made 
 money, gained respect, and is a great man in his way. 
 He told last day he had payed ten guineas for a cow; 
 'twas observed much might be drawn here by selling
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 103 
 
 milk. "Yes," replies this philanthropist; "I sold it for 
 some days, but I was not able to endure the sight of so 
 many miserable wretches as came to buy, and now I order 
 it to be given to the hogs." This much for the living. 
 My contemplations have been among the dead. The 
 Church is a fine ruin, and the tombs are diversified. 
 One stone is thus inscribed : — 
 
 Here lies, I want room to say what, 
 
 Think what a woman should be : she was that. 
 
 The Minister wrote below with a bit of chalk — 
 
 A woman should be wife and mother, 
 She was neither one nor t' other. 
 
 Another epitaph is thus : — 
 
 O Death, how absolute thy sway. 
 When thou commandest we must obey; 
 'T is vain in mighty strength to trust. 
 For strong thou crumbiest into dust. 
 
 Is not this an Irishism ? I would transcribe some more of 
 them were it not that I have some hope I may one day 
 read them or point them to your perusal on the spot. I 
 too had the chalk in my hand, and wrot spontaneously on 
 a pillar of a falling arch by which I stood, forgetting but 
 what I was at home, scribbling to you : — 
 
 O Time ! O Death ! destructive pair. Nor life nor stone thou know- 
 est to spare. 
 
 Church, men, and monuments, that here consume, cry Vain is Van- 
 ity ; thy very tomb . . . 
 
 \^th, 12 at Night. 
 
 I wrote the above yesterday ; the handwriting is a true 
 emblem of the writer's mind. I have slept since, but, 
 what is perhaps worse, have waked again ; therefore will
 
 I04 Correspondence between 
 
 endeavour to forget the churchyard and all its powers over 
 me so far as to write legibly. I have walked up a very high 
 hill above the town ; it is a glorious landscape. I wished 
 for your pen to describe it and the inconceivable wildness 
 of the spot just by the summit, which commands so vast 
 a variety of objects rather than a great extent of space. 
 Coming down the hill, I took a letter of yours out of my 
 pocket ; it enclosed a fragment of a poem you once sent 
 me. You called it a sin-offering [see App., vol. ii. p. 306] ; 
 perhaps it should have been also a burnt-offering ; yet I 
 should have regretted it had, for I confess I thought it an 
 incense of a sweet-smelling savour. But, auricular confes- 
 sion being no part of our creed, perhaps it is a sin to say so. 
 If it is, I know you will readily pronounce my pardon in the 
 words of the Church ; if not, I shall write them more hum- 
 bly as a prayer "Your sins be forgiven you," and this may 
 answer for both ; or, should all the world thrust themselves 
 in, I would only say Amen the more heartily. Yet, indeed 
 I have committed a very heavy trespass on this very paper, 
 for which conscience just now stares me in the face. This 
 was in the mention I have made of Mr. Burns, the wright. 
 While I am sitting writing I hear the company talking of 
 him. They are telling that since he got money his father's 
 affairs have gone to ruin, and his prosperity never knew the 
 happiness his son's unwearied attentions have heaped upon 
 his decline ; besides which, he has been a father to his 
 brothers and sisters. Let me retract and cry out, "O 
 Burns, live for ever ! " And every time I think upon thy 
 honoured name, let it be for a bridle upon my malevolent 
 tongue, and a rebuke to my rash heart. Let me hence- 
 forward learn not to judge lest I be judged, and it will not 
 be the first moral lesson thy name hath taught me, and
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 105 
 
 which I shall practise with the more pleasure for thy sake. 
 Adieu. It is midnight ; the candle dies out before me. I 
 know not where you are or how or when you may see this. 
 Besides, I believe you don't read my scrawls, or forget the 
 one end before you get at the other, for you have never 
 told me the meaning of raddle, whether you were married 
 or a batchelor, or whether you paid for my letters or got 
 them gratis ; whether you were coming to Edr. now at all 
 or when ; and if you would come here and see me, as I be- 
 lieve my stay will be much longer than I had thought for — 
 perhaps still two or three months. Now, I won't send you 
 another scrape of a pen, good, bad, or indifferent, till you 
 give a categorical reply to every one of these queries in 
 order. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 The letter which follows is of particular interest 
 in so far as it furnishes the motif {ox Burns's famous 
 declaration — "To jealousy or infidelity I am an 
 equal stranger," which, as will be seen, was written 
 in answer to some very sagacious and very plainly 
 expressed forebodings of Mrs. Dunlop's. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 
 Mauchline. 
 
 2i,thjime 1788. 
 
 [Franked by Kerr: Glasgow, Fifth July 1788.] 
 Dr. Burns, — I have yours telling me of your marriage 
 — the only circumstance I had been told before, and 
 almost the only one you mention of an occurrence where I 
 sincerely wish to be acquainted with every particular that 
 can influence your future happiness or figure in the world. 
 Your picture of the character and disposition ought to
 
 io6 Correspondence between 
 
 make a rational man happy, if fairly drawn, and properly 
 accompany'd, but much depends on the man as well as on 
 the poor female, from whom you men generally require all, 
 and to whom a great many of you give nothing. I sit 
 down, as the phrase is, to give you joy. Were fate in 
 my disposal. Heaven knows the words would not be ill 
 chosen, but as matters stand, I must correct the expression, 
 and confine myself to the sincerest wishes that the phantom 
 may never elude your grasp, but smile upon every moment 
 of your life and realize what " youthful poets fancy in their 
 dreams." Meanwhile, I wish you had told me a thousand 
 things to direct my dreams with regard to the scene your 
 last opens for my friend, and which must to one of your 
 exquisite sensibility prove unbounded bliss or misery. I 
 wish to take no information from the world. They are gen- 
 erally prejudiced, and more with regard to you than others ; 
 but I would fain ask you if you can forgive me questions 
 that are prompted by goodwill, but may, I fear, seem en- 
 croaching and impertinent. Literary merit is superfluous, 
 often hurtful, and hardly ever useful to our sex. In your 
 wife there is one quality I must wish added to those you 
 enumerate, which is activity and capacity in the domestic 
 life. In that line to which a large lease ties you, without 
 these I fear you should never take possession of that, but 
 trust entirely to that commission which I had hitherto 
 regarded as only a forlorn hope, having built a fine fairy 
 fabrick on the serenity and dignity of that rural scene from 
 whence I expect to see your lucubrations issue to light and 
 bring home a plenteous crop of money and applause to your 
 humble independent dwelling. Indeed, if Mrs. Bums pos- 
 sess that household mettle which a great many very valuable 
 women in other respects are deficient in, I still think this
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 107 
 
 your plan, and will still hope to see it crowned with success, 
 tho' I am sensible your marriage will lose you a number of 
 your former adherents. Whether your wife was or is only now 
 become the mother of your children — [is] a point in which 
 I anxiously wish myself to be satisfied. I feel all the indeli- 
 cacy of my doing so ; yet cannot help putting the question. 
 I believe all your motives of action are noble and generous, 
 but would be glad to exchange surmise for certainty, and to 
 be able to assure others of what I make no doubt of myself. 
 Tell me, therefore, I beg you, what prevented your mar- 
 riage long ago, and on what side the demurs came that are 
 now removed ; for I hope the mutual interest of both and 
 the advantage of the little ones. O Burns ! since I have 
 so far overleapt decorum as touch upon this subject, let 
 me go one step further, and tell you where I tremble 
 for your peace. You say there is a heavy atmosphere 
 about your soul that shews painful objects larger than the 
 life. You have tryed your influence and found it too 
 powerful with a young innocent girl, who sacrificed every- 
 thing valuable to convince you of her affection. Set a 
 guard over your heart, lest the jaundiced eye of jealousie 
 should one day view this proof through that magnifying 
 medium, and blast that confidence in your wife which she 
 so implicitly reposed in you, and which is the only bond of 
 conjugal tranquillity. Take my word for it, time and pos- 
 session does not more loosen the fondness of most men 
 than it rivets that of most women, especially if they are 
 living a retired, industrious life, and employed in the care 
 of children with whom they share a husband's tender at- 
 tachment and assiduous attentions. To please him is the 
 aim of every wife and reward of every anxiety and toil. 
 Besides, you ought to do justice to yourself, and be convinced
 
 io8 Correspondence between 
 
 there is little chance of your losing by comparison in any 
 rank, and none of being equalled in your own. Yet, if 
 report has not done you great injury, you have indulged 
 in a freedom of life that poisons a man's mind for a hus- 
 band, by leading him to measure his ideas of every woman 
 by the standard of the very worst among whom he has 
 connected himself. Should this be your case, the extreme 
 sensibility of your nature, the very qualities that suit one 
 most to receive or confer happiness, would irritate the 
 slightest dubiety, an ambiguous look or word, into a fer- 
 ment that nothing would ever be able to allay ; and you 
 would become as superiour in wretchedness as you have 
 already shewed yourself in poetic merit, and I believe are in 
 real worth and goodness of heart. If you have hitherto 
 wandered in the devious paths of pleasure, 't is now time to 
 strike into the straight road, for no truth is more uncon- 
 trovertible, than that matrimonial infidelity in even the most 
 wealthy man hurts his family's interest, but in narrow cir- 
 cumstances leads to unavoidable ruin. You lie open to 
 more temptation this way than most other men, by a more 
 extensive familiarity with more distant ranks in life, and 
 this will be encreast by many circumstances should you 
 quit the farm for the Excise, which I somehow fear you 
 will do. That is a life of more idleness, more dissipation 
 and riot, less innocence or principle, and one's time is in 
 general spent in worse, meaner, and more degrading as 
 well as more corrupting company. But forgive me ; this is 
 Sunday night, and I have been preaching, and I dread you 
 will think on a very strange-chosen text. Yet it is just what 
 I think, and so you shall have it for better for worse, like 
 a wife, and may God bless you with both ! I had wrot the 
 other sheet last week, but knew not what to do with it till
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 109 
 
 I heard from you. What terrible change do I feel [in] this 
 correspondence within this few days. 'Tis become like 
 writing to the East Indies. Letters may lie so long before 
 you can see or answer them. Could I have foreseen that 
 in a few months you would be married and banished Ayr- 
 shire, I had never wrot you at all. You will ask me who would 
 have been the loser by that. I own I would : yet you may 
 remember I once told you I had given over writing to 
 Capt. Woodburn [see page 8] because I believed he was 
 quite happy, I most sincerely wish I may soon have the 
 same reason to drop you too, though I doubt it will never 
 be in my power without extreme reluctance to hold my 
 tongue or pen where I have learnt to please myself so oft 
 with both. I am quite happy you liked Coila so well, and 
 greatly flattered that the faults you found were those I had 
 pointed to before, but the lady was not so willing to trust 
 my skill as yours. For me she made no alteration, but 
 looked on yours as the voice of inspiration and obey'd it 
 accordingly, not believing herself intitled like Joseph or 
 Daniel to know a vision better than he that saw it, though 
 setting her own skill against mine who could only guess at it. 
 I had a great wish to have sent you a fiddle as a marriage 
 present suited to promote harmony in your household, and 
 bring you in tune after this stupid harangue, but I want ear 
 to chuse and knowledge how to get anything to this remote 
 abode of yours, even a letter, and I have no pleasure in 
 writing when I cannot guess when to look for an answer. 
 I have this moment a letter from Anthony ; he is at Brussels, 
 where he says he hears " you have got on shackles. Don't 
 I think you must be like all our great geniuses a little 
 crackt? Spite of which he sincerely wishes you happy." 
 Now, I am up with you for your idea of any of my family
 
 1 1 o Correspondence between 
 
 deserving to be lampooned, especially as you will not know 
 whether to believe an article from the Brussels Gazette 
 or not. Farewell ! I am sorry you can only count me so 
 far off a friend, spite of which I ever am, Dr. Sir, your 
 obliged and obedient, humble sert., and I beg leave to 
 assure you your nearest relation or warmest friend cannot 
 esteem you more or wish you happier than does 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 The Capt. and his wife offer compts. 
 
 Kerr did not despatch the preceding letter (from 
 Glasgow) till 5th July. On the 5th Burns passed 
 through the ordeal of confirmation of his irregular 
 marriage. He seems to have thereafter made another 
 flying visit to his farm in Nithsdale, and to have re- 
 turned to Mauchline before the lOth, when he wrote 
 to Mrs. Dunlop in reply to hers of the 24th June. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Mauchline, \oth July'^ 1788. 
 
 My much honored Friend, — Yours of the 24th June is 
 before me. I found it, as well as another valued friend — 
 my wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both 
 with the sincerest pleasure. 
 
 When I write you, madam, I do not sit down to answer 
 every paragraph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like 
 the faithful Commons of Great Britain in Parliament assem- 
 bled, answering a speech from the best of kings ! I express 
 myself in the fulness of my heart, and may perhaps be 
 guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not 
 from your very odd reason that I do not read your letters. 
 All your epistles for several months have cost me nothing
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 1 1 1 
 
 except a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment 
 of veneration. 
 
 Mrs. Burns, madam, is the identical woman. . . . When 
 she first found herself " as women wish to be who love their 
 lords," as I loved her nearly to distraction, we took steps 
 for a private marriage. Her parents got the hint; and 
 not only forbade me her company and their house, but on 
 my rumoured West Indian voyage, got a warrant to put me 
 in jail 'till I should find security in my about-to-be paternal 
 relation. You know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my 
 edatant return to Mauchline, I was made very welcome to 
 visit my girl. The usual consequences began to betray 
 her ; and as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edin- 
 burgh, she was turned, literally turned, out of doors, and 
 I wrote to a friend to shelter her 'till my return, when our 
 marriage was declared. Her happiness or misery were in 
 my hands, and who could trifle with such a deposit ? 
 
 To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger: My 
 preservative from the first is the most thorough conscious- 
 ness of her sentiments of honor, and her attachment to me ; 
 my antidote against the last is my long and deep-rooted 
 affection for her. I can easily/awiry a more agreeable com- 
 panion for my journey of life, but, upon my honor, I have 
 never seen the individual instance. In housewife matters, 
 of aptness to learn and activity to execute, she is eminently 
 mistress; and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is 
 regularly and constantly apprentice to my mother and 
 sisters in their dairy and other rural business. The Muses 
 must not be offended when I tell them, the concerns of my 
 wife and family will, in my mind, always take the pas ; but 
 I assure them their ladyships will ever come next in place. 
 Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female
 
 1 1 2 Correspondence between 
 
 partner, for life, who could have entered into my favourite 
 studies, relished my favourite authors, etc., without probably 
 entailing on me, at the same time, expensive living, fantastic 
 caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all the other blessed 
 boarding-school acquirements, which (^pardonnez moi, Ma- 
 dame) are sometimes to be found among females of the 
 upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of 
 the would-be-gentry. You are right, that a bachelor state 
 would have insured me more friends ; but, from a cause you 
 will easily guess, conscious peace in the enjoyment of my 
 own mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching 
 my God, would seldom have been of the number. 
 
 I like your way in your churchyard lucubrations. 
 Thoughts that are the spontaneous result of accidental 
 situations, either respecting health, place, or company, have 
 often a strength, and always an originality, that would in 
 vain be looked for in fancied circumstances and studied 
 paragraphs. For me, I have often thought of keeping a 
 letter, in progression, by me, to send you when the sheet 
 was written out. Now I talk of sheets, I must tell you my 
 reason for writing to you on paper of this kind [folio], is 
 my pruriency of writing to you at large. A page of post is 
 on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot 
 abide it ; and double letters, at least in my miscellaneous 
 reverie manner, are a monstrous tax in a close corre- 
 spondence. R. B. 
 
 (i) This letter has hitherto been dated August, 
 and it was obviously so superscribed by the poet, 
 but it is clearly that to which Mrs. Dunlop refers in 
 hers of 22nd July, with the jocular postscript, " How 
 fast time flies when a man is married ! "
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 1 1 3 
 
 To Burns. 
 
 Haddington, 22nd July [1788]. 
 
 [Yours was Agt. ; how fast time 
 flies when a man is married ! ] 
 
 Dr. Sir, — I had yours yesterday, and would be truly 
 pleased with and vain of myself could anything from my 
 hand make another as happy as I felt myself at sight of 
 the large sheet and the flattering idea which you suggest 
 that you have another advancing on its way to succeed it, 
 and will now and then favour me with a progressive re- 
 membrance of the miscellaneous kind, which from you 
 will always be something new — the name of the very last 
 book I have read, and some parts of which I would have 
 liked very much to have had you read with me, as I was 
 much more than commonly pleased with them alone, spite 
 of rather too marked an endeavour to appear eccentrick. 
 You don't tell me what stay you make in Ayrshire. I 
 dare not wish it long, now that I fear your interest ought 
 to fix you elsewhere, for you know the old adage that " A 
 rolling stone gathers no fog " [moss], and your nest seems / 
 as it would require to be fast fogged if the birds continue j 
 to hatch thus quick in braces.^ Children are said to be | 
 blessings. May my friends always find them so ! When ' 
 they are not so they are surely the bitterest vexation our 
 hearts can know. Alas ! I have felt the poisonous sting, 
 and I think this must have been the hurt that Gavin 
 Douglas says "Ten years in Lemnos Isle made Philoctetes 
 skirle." It could not have been worth while to do it so 
 long for any other wound, but of this I trust you shall never 
 be a judge. God forbid you should ! I am persuaded 
 you deserve to be happy, and I hope Providence shall 
 think so too. Yet sorry I am to think the scene of it 
 
 VOL. I. — 8
 
 114 Correspondence between 
 
 must be so far from where I have the least chance to wit- 
 ness it. However, I must have some shift fallen upon at 
 least to be present with you upon paper at EUisland. You 
 would have valued my letter far more had it reached you 
 in that distant, solitary abode than when it dropt in amid 
 the circle of your friends at Mossgiel, where you were per- 
 fectly well without it, and I even suppose every faculty 
 of your soul so wholly employed by domestic joy and 
 conscious rectitude that I wonder you even thought of 
 answering me at all. Believe I feel the favour and am 
 grateful, but, oh Burns ! do you remember what Hume ^ 
 makes Lady Randolph say : — " Wretch that I am, at 
 every happy mother I repine." Yes, the tenderness of 
 your mention of the return to an absent wife makes my 
 eyes flow and my heart wring. It recalls too forcibly 
 scenes never, ah ! never to return to me. I weep over the 
 joy of my friend, but they are not tears of envy. Yet this 
 is the weakest part of my whole soul. 'T is here I have 
 really felt sorrow unalloyed by hope, and, as you say, not a 
 wish to gild the gloom unless like you I change my state, 
 which I trust shall never happen in this world, as it cer- 
 tainly would be for the worse to my family and fame, and 
 so could never be to the better for my happiness, spite of 
 my maxim which you laughed so much at, that a woman 
 is always a helpless waif and unprotected single, and like 
 unsticked [unstaked] pease bladed [fouled] with every 
 blast — of very little comfort to herself, or consequence to 
 others. Heaven knows how different I felt the world while 
 I met it my father's daughter or ray husband's wife. Yet 
 I ought not to complain. The world owes me nought. 
 I never liked it at its best, but dearly well I have liked a 
 few friends in it, and most kindly they have repaid my
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 1 1 5 
 
 affection with double interest. Would to God this may be 
 my liferent annuity as far as yet remains of it, and the 
 rest restored in reversion hereafter. My children support 
 me nobly, and 't is thus I hope to be surrounded above, 
 where even a prodigal can add joy to the Father's feast, 
 nor could less than heavenly joy compensate the anxious 
 vigils of a Father's broken heart. Our Father which art 
 in heaven, Thy will be done ! Of thirteen thou hast given 
 me, three Thou hast already appointed their parent's har- / 
 bingers above. If Thy wisdom sees fit to demand a tithe I 
 of those that remain, shall I dare murmur at the destination ' 
 of that Power who has blest me in so many, and shall I not i 
 gratefully acknowledge that my Andrew himself has been 
 to me better than seven sons? My girls, too, have been 
 to me all I could wish, only that they have not yet been 
 well married, which I must still say I think the true end of 
 a woman's creation. I suppose you are not to be in Edin- 
 burgh now, since you don't say so. I am sorry for it, as 
 I must be tied still here, or at Morhame, the name of my 
 son's farm, according to the indolence or expedition of 
 your namesake, who is the undertaker for his house, and 
 ought to have had it ready three months ago. But the 
 delay in the business I came on makes me more uneasie. 
 I wish to God it were well over ! Yet half your wealth 
 there will content me, but even for that I must still wait a 
 great while, at least all next month. I am sure your wife 
 should not be jealous of the Muses. These good old 
 maiden aunts have already showed their kindness to her 
 offspring, and I hope have yet much in store for them, if 
 Creech or some other such young fellow don't insidiously 
 purloin their presents. They have, too, for once appeared 
 in the good-natured light of marriage-making, a very
 
 1 1 6 Correspondence between 
 
 singular one for elderly single ladies, but indeed in their 
 connection with you all has been extraordinary. Nor do 
 I know how sufficiently to thank them for having in- 
 troduced to my acquaintance the most original character 
 I shall perhaps ever have an opportunity of admiring. 
 Allow me to say you seem to build resolve on something 
 superiour still to reason, and support the majesty of man on 
 columns of nobler elevation than the fairest Corinthian 
 order. You have already built yourself like Absolom a 
 pillar, tho' not for the same reason he did, and I cannot 
 help transcribing the inscription Lady Dundonald applyed 
 to Commissioner Rhodes, in case you never heard it : — 
 
 The mausoleum and the bust-room fall and crumble into dust; 
 My faithful memory shall be a living monument for thee. 
 
 I had a letter the other day from my poor Anthony. 
 He says he is afraid when you speak of him you only 
 mean an oblique compliment through him to me, for he 
 wrot you three months ago, but you never had time to 
 write him. These are his words and way of marking them. 
 Poor fellow ! He has met a very great disappointment 
 just now, in which I heartily share with him. Indeed, I 
 did not think I could have been so much interested in any 
 thing whatever. I have been reading Montrose's Memoirs 
 to put it out of my head. I wish I had something of yours. 
 No writer ever yet stole so sweetly on my attention as some 
 of your pieces have already done, and surely the influence 
 ought to increase in the same ratio with my esteem and 
 sincere good wishes for their writer. I 'm sure I am glad 
 to think you are happy; yet I believe that very idea 
 bursts a strong connection fancy had formed while I be- 
 lieved you wretched, disappointed, and your mind a void
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 1 1 7 
 
 like my own. Misery expects from misery sympathy and 
 indulgence in her capricious, wayward moods, which she 
 knows prosperity and ease forever disclaim. Thus, tho' 
 I never w'as more pleased with you than I am at this 
 moment, I feel a restraint hitherto unknown in expressing 
 myself, and I am afraid you will be worse pleased with this 
 letter than any I ever wrot you. Yet should it be so, I 
 can no way help it, for this is, as well as the rest, the real 
 image of myself at the instant of drawing it, and if any- 
 thing in the picture is still favoured with your partiality, 
 you will have pleasure in now and then drawing a melan- 
 choly note from the inclosed fiddle in remembrance of me. 
 But, as it is only in a questionable shape just now, and may 
 be transmogrified as much as you please, only honour it 
 with your friendly acceptance, and tune it up to whatever 
 is most in character of your friend or in unison with your- 
 self, always considering that, as the gift of a friend is the 
 reverse of every sacrifice to vanity, it ought to be conse- 
 crated either to use or pleasure allennerly [only]. Mean- 
 while, forgive my taking this liberty of offering a trifle in 
 the only way I have it in my power. 'T is a Scots super- 
 stition to believe a bargain always turns out much the 
 better for being followed with a luckpenny. I 'm sure 
 nobody wishes more sincerely that Mrs. Bums and you may 
 never be worse pleased with yours than at present. I 
 therefore could not forgive myself had I omitted that part 
 which, by the custom of all times and nations, friends are 
 authorised to take in order not to hurt the future fortune 
 of their newly shackled neighbours, friends, or acquaint- 
 ances in all ranks and degrees of life, and which is re- 
 garded as a pledge of future goodwill to the contracted 
 pair. So, your displeasure being less tremendous than my
 
 1 1 8 Correspondence between 
 
 own, I have ventured, even at the risk of it, to send you 
 a ^5 card from the Thistle Bank. I am wrong, as Lord 
 Bankton ^ said when his fourth wife mist one napkin of a 
 dozen fine ones in a parcel. " My dr., when my last wife 
 was buried, I forgot to draw it out in putting her corpse 
 into the coffin. I shall behave better next time." Fare- 
 well. The only extraordinary thing I have met since I 
 wrot you last was having much obliged a man who had 
 never spoke to me for an hour. At last he broke out in 
 an eager exclamation : " O madam, if you but saw the 
 dead men's bones on Gladsmure ! " They are just five 
 inches below the ground, and their teeth is like the very 
 driven snow." Forasmuch as you are a poet, I do not 
 think you can form any idea of the pleasure I felt in this 
 address, or the reasons from whence it sprung, nor have I 
 paper to tell you. Only, the poor fellow was young, 
 handsome, dying of a consumption, and losing a leg in 
 a white swelling. This was a stage-coach adventure. I 
 never saw him before or since. Write me soon, and oblige, 
 Dr. Sir, your sincere friend and humble sert. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) On 3rd March 1788 Jean Armour gave birth 
 to twin daughters, who survived only a short time. 
 
 (2) John Home's (pronounced Hume) tragedy, 
 Douglas. 
 
 (3) William M'Douall, a Lord of Session, author 
 of an Institute of the Law of Scotland. 
 
 (4) The battle of Prestonpans, when Prince Charles 
 Edward defeated General Sir John Cope in 1745, is 
 called alternatively Gladsmuir, having been fought in 
 the East Lothian parish of that name.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 1 1 9 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Mauchline, 2nd Augtist 1788. 
 
 Honored Madam, — Your kind letter welcomed me 
 yesternight to Ayrshire. I am, indeed, seriously angry 
 with you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but vexed and 
 hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very heartily at the 
 noble lord's apology for the missed napkin. 
 
 I would write you from Nithsdale, and give you my 
 direction there, but I have scarce an opportunity of calling 
 at a post-office once in a fortnight. I am six miles from 
 Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have 
 little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Besides, I am 
 now very busy on my farm, building a dwelling-house ; as 
 at present I am almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, 
 for I have scarce "where to lay my head." 
 
 There are some passages in your last that brought tears 
 to my eyes. " The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a 
 stranger intermeddleth not therewith." The repository of 
 these " sorrows of the heart " is a kind of sanctum sanc- 
 torum ; and 't is only a chosen friend, and that too at par- 
 ticular, sacred times, who dares enter into them. 
 
 Heav'n oft tears the bosom-chords 
 That nature finest strung. 
 
 You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. 
 Instead of entering on this subject further, I shall transcribe 
 you a few lines I wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentle- 
 man in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are almost the 
 only favors the muses have conferred on me in that country. 
 
 Thou whom Chance may hither lead,^ 
 Be thou clad in russet weed, 
 Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
 Grave these maxims on thy soul.
 
 120 Correspondence between 
 
 Life is but a Day at most ; 
 Sprung from Night — in Darkness lost : 
 Hope not Sunshine every hour, 
 Fear not clouds will ever lour. 
 Happiness is but a name, 
 Make Content and Ease thy aim. 
 Ambition is a meteor-gleam ; 
 Fame a restless, idle dream ; 
 Pleasures, insects on the wing 
 Round Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring; 
 Those that sip the dew alone. 
 Make the Butterflies thy own ; 
 Those that would the bloom devour, 
 Crush the Locusts, save the Flower. 
 For the Future be prepar'd. 
 Guard, wherever thou can'st guard; 
 But thy Utmost duly done, 
 Welcome what thou can'st not shun. 
 Follies past, give thou to air ; 
 Make their Consequence thy care. 
 Keep the name of Man in mind. 
 And dishonour not thy kind. 
 Reverence, with lowly heart, 
 Him whose wondrous Work thou art ; 
 Keep His Goodness still in view, 
 Thy trust, and thy example too. 
 Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
 Quod the Beads-mane of Nithe-side. 
 
 Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were 
 the production of yesterday, as I jogged through the wild 
 hills of New Cumnock. I intend inserting them, or some- 
 thing like them, in an epistle I am going to write to the 
 gentleman on whose friendship my excise hopes depend, 
 Mr. Graham of Fintry ; one of the worthiest and most ac- 
 complished gentlemen, not only of this country, but I will 
 dare to say it, of this age. The following are just the first 
 crude thoughts, " unhouselVl, unanointed, unaneal'd."
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 121 
 
 Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; 2 
 
 Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 
 
 The worfd were blest, did bliss on them depend ; 
 
 Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend I " 
 
 The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
 
 Unlike sage, proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 
 
 Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
 
 Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
 
 Who feel by reason, and who give by rule ; 
 
 Instinct 's a brute and sentiment a fool ! 
 
 Who make poor " will do " wait upon " I should ; " 
 
 We own they 're prudent, but who owns they 're good ? 
 
 Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; 
 God's image rudely etched on base alloy ! 
 But come 
 
 Here the Muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell 
 me of Anthony's writing me. I never received it. Poor 
 fellow ! You vex me much by telling me that he is un- 
 fortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. 
 I have just room for an old Roman farewell ! R. B. 
 
 (i) This is the first version of the verses " Written 
 in Friar's Carse Hermitage," that which was inscribed 
 on a window-pane in the Hermitage, and entered in 
 the Edinburgh Commonplace Book. 
 
 (2) These lines were incorporated in the "First 
 Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq." 
 
 [To Miss Rachel Dunlop.] 
 
 Mauchline, 2d August "^ 1788. 
 
 Madam, — I was in Nithsdale when your kind present 
 and kinder letter came to Mauchline, so did not see it till 
 yesternight that I came here.
 
 122 Correspondence between 
 
 I am in perpetual warfare with that doctrine of our rev- 
 erend priesthood, that " we are born into this world bond- 
 slaves of iniquity and heirs of perdition, wholly inclined to 
 that which is evil, and wholly disinclined to that which is 
 good, untill by a kind of spiritual filtration or rectifying 
 process called effectual Calling," etc., the whole business is 
 reversed, and our connections above and below completely 
 change place. I believe in my conscience that the case is 
 just quite contrary. We come into this world with a heart 
 and disposition to do good for it, untill by dashing a large 
 mixture of base alloy called prudence alias selfishness, the 
 too precious metal of the soul is brought down to the black- 
 guard sterling of ordinary currency. This, I take it, is the 
 reason why we of the Barbarian sex, who are so much called 
 out to act on that profligate stage the World, come so far 
 short of your gentler kind who bear on much richer mate- 
 rials an equally more elegant impression and image of 
 infinite purity, goodness, and truth. As I am a married 
 man, neither my knowledge of facts or impartial testimony 
 can be doubted ; and while I can produce your kind cor- 
 respondence with the poet, or in general while I can name 
 Mrs. Dunlop with all her daughters I can be at no loss for 
 coroborative evidence. 
 
 Mrs. B. begs me to return to you her most gratefull 
 thanks for your elegant little work the Cap. She says she 
 will be hard pushed indeed for family linens if she do not 
 make your cap grace the head of her hindmost child, tho' 
 she should have a score. I rejoice in Coila's progress to 
 perfection, tho' you have awaked my curiosity much to pay 
 her my grateful respects again ; but when that curiosity will be 
 gratified heaven knows. — I have the honor to be, madam, 
 your obt, hbl. servant, (Signed) Robt. Burns.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Duniop 123 
 
 (i) This letter exists in the Lochryan MSS. in the 
 form of what purports to be a copy of an original 
 Burns letter, with at the end the initials J. A. M. or 
 W., and the docket in another hand, "A letter of 
 Robt. Burns the Poet to Mrs. Duniop." If it is cor- 
 rectly dated, it cannot have been addressed to Mrs. 
 Duniop, seeing that the authenticity of the letter to 
 her of the same date (see p. 1 19) is not disputed ; 
 and the reference to Coila, if not also the allusion to 
 the transition stage between Ayrshire and Ellisland, 
 fix it down to the year 1788. We have ventured 
 to assign the letter — which is obviously genuine 
 Burns — to Rachel Duniop, who, living with her 
 brother at Duniop, was likely to have heard of 
 the poet's marriage from the Major at least as soon 
 as her mother, and might well have sent a congrat- 
 ulatory letter w^ith a cap for Mrs. Burns, at the 
 same time reporting progress on her interminable 
 picture of Coila. The allusion in the text to " Mrs. 
 Duniop with all her daughters," combined with the 
 preservation of the copy at Lochryan, makes it 
 certain that the letter was addressed to one of the 
 family. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robt. Burns, at Mossgill, 
 near Mauchline. 
 
 MoRHAME Mains,! q^^ ^gf^ j^gS. 
 
 Dr. Sir, — You will not grudge to pay for one letter from 
 me rather than believe me forgetful of your goodness to me, 
 which must appear were I not to put you to that expense, 
 and catch the few days of your abode in Ayrshire to tell
 
 I 24 Correspondence between 
 
 you that owing to the absence of Mr. Kerr it will not be in 
 my power to write again for some weeks ; so much I stand 
 in awe of Mr. Pitt. Never an advice came better timed 
 than yours to "welcome what we cannot shun," and I 
 endeavour to follow it to my utmost, as I do all your moral 
 lessons in sickness and in health, still praying for the pros- 
 perity of my teacher. But since I wrote you last I have 
 been sadly tost about ; first a fever, which left me lame of 
 one foot ; and now I am but just able to limp about in the 
 jaundice, in which situation I last night left Haddington to 
 come here, where amid sickness, hurry, and confusion, the 
 sight of green fields around me, your letter in my pocket, 
 and the kindness of my young friends is a great comfort. 
 Nor does your Muse ever spread her wing in vain for me. 
 Still, I will hope some chance unseen by us may once more 
 fix her eyrie near me, for I own I cannot unmoved resign 
 our beadsman to Nithside. I am surprised and sorry you 
 have not got Anthony's letter, which I am sure came safe 
 to Edr., and I beUeve was accompany'd with a book. I am 
 sure there was something along with it, but I fear my 
 daughter Susie has been careless to whom they were sent. 
 I wrote her that if they went to Wilson at Kilmarnock you 
 would get them. It will be charity to write me, be it rhyme 
 or reason, as the saying is, while I am thus confined. You 
 see I can hardly hold the pen, but don't mention my illness ; 
 't is a secret I shall keep from my family at home for their 
 happiness, as I am also assured there is no danger now. 
 Direct to me at Morhame Mains, near Haddington, and 
 should you finish your address to the man I at present envy 
 most [Mr. Graham], do send it me. I cannot now point 
 out all I admire in the things you sent me last. You are 
 angry at the quantum of my luckpenny. Upon my soul so
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 125 
 
 am I too, though for perhaps different causes. Adieu, dear 
 sir, your sincerely obUged, obedient, humble sert. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) John Dunlop had now entered into possession 
 of his new farm-house at Morham. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, idth August 1788. 
 
 I am in a fine disposition, my honored friend, to send 
 you an elegaic epistle ; and want only genius to make it 
 quite Shenstonian. 
 
 Why droops my heart with fancied woes forlorn ? ^ 
 Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky ? 
 
 or, in the more homely poetry of the Psalms of David i?t 
 Metre, 
 
 Why art thou [then] cast down, my soul ? 
 
 What should discourage thee ? 
 
 My increasing cares in this, as yet, strange country — 
 gloomy conjectures in the dark vista of futurity — con- 
 sciousness of my own inability for the struggle of the world 
 — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and chil- 
 dren : — I could indulge these [reflections], nay, they 
 press for indulgence, 'till my humour would ferment into 
 the most acid vinegar of chagrin that would corrode the 
 very thread of life. 
 
 To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have sat down 
 to write to you ; as I declare upon my soul I always find that 
 the most sovereign balm under Heaven for my wounded 
 spirit.
 
 I 26 Correspondence between 
 
 I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's ^ to dinner, [for] the first 
 time since 1 had been his tenant. My reception was quite 
 to my mind ; from the lady of the house quite flattering. 
 I believe in my conscience that she respects me more on 
 account of my marrying a woman in circumstances some- 
 what similar to her own, when she commenced Mrs. Miller. 
 See what it is to be rich ! I was going to add, and to be 
 great, but to be rich is to be great. She sometimes hits on 
 a couplet or two, impromptu. She repeated one or two to 
 the admiration of all present. My suffrage, as a profes- 
 sional man, was expected : I for once went agonising over 
 the belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored 
 household gods. Independence of spirit and Integrity of 
 soul ! In the course of conversation, Johnson's Musical 
 Museum, a collection of Scots songs with the music, was 
 talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning 
 " Raving winds around her blowing." ^ The air was much 
 admired : the lady of the house asked me whose were the 
 words : " mine, madam — they are indeed my very best 
 verses " : sacfe Dieu ; she took not the smallest notice of 
 them ! The old Scottish proverb says well, " King's caff 
 is better than ither folk's corn." I was going to make a New 
 Testament quotation about " casting pearls," but that would 
 be too virulent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense 
 and taste ; a proof, if the subject needed, that these said 
 two qualities, so useful and ornamental to human nature, 
 are by no means inseparably of the family of Gules, Purpure, 
 Argent, Or, etc. 
 
 After all that has been said on the other side of the 
 question, man is by no means a happy creature. I do not 
 speak of the selected few, favored by partial Heaven, whose 
 souls are tuned to gladness amid riches and honours, and
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop i 27 
 
 prudence and wisdom. I speak of the neglected many, 
 whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days, whose thoughts, 
 whose independence, whose peace, nay, whose very gratifi- 
 cation and enjoyments are sacrificed and sold to these few ' 
 bloated minions of fortune. J 
 
 If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for 
 you a stanza of an old Scots ballad called The life and age 
 of jnan,'^ beginning thus — 
 
 'T was in the sixteenth hunder year 
 
 Of God and fifty-three, 
 Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear. 
 
 As writings testifie. 
 
 I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a 
 while in her girlish years ; the good old man, for such he 
 was, was long blind ere he died, during which time his 
 most voluptuous enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while 
 my mother would sing the simple old song of The life and 
 age of man. 
 
 It is this way of thinking, it is these melancholy truths, 1 
 that make religion so precious to the poor, miserable chil- 
 dren of men. If it is a mere phantom existing only in the 
 heated imagination of enthusiasm. 
 
 What truth on earth so precious as the lie ? 
 
 My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, 
 but the necessities of my heart always give the cold phi- ^ 
 losophisings the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned from \ 
 earth ; the soul affianced to her God ; the correspondence 
 fixed with Heaven; the pious supplication and devout 
 thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of even and 
 morn ; who thinks to meet with these in the court, the > 
 palace, in the glare of public hfe ? No : to find them in
 
 128 Correspondence between 
 
 their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must 
 search among the obscure recesses of disappointment, 
 affliction, poverty, and distress. 
 
 I am sure, dear madam, you are now 7nore than pleased 
 with the length of my letters. I return to Ayrshire, middle 
 of next week ; and it quickens my pace to think that 
 there will be a letter from you waiting me there. I must 
 be here again very soon for my harvest. I am really afraid 
 you will wish me to return to my post -sheet again. I have 
 the honor to be most sincerely and gratefully, Madam, your 
 humble servt., Robt. Burns. 
 
 (i) Free quotation of the commencement of Shen- 
 stone's Twentieth Elegy. 
 
 (2) At Dalswinton House. 
 
 (3) Burns's song with that title in the second 
 volume of the Museum. 
 
 (4) The Life and Age of Man was a popular 
 chap-book. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. DuNLOP of Dunlop, 
 at Moreham Mains, by Haddington. 
 
 Mauchline, 2\st Ajtgtist 1788. 
 I came to Ayrshire yesternight, my much-esteemed 
 friend, and found your very alarming letter waiting me. 
 My father used to say, that in his whole life, whatever he 
 was fondly set on, almost always failed him. I am afraid 
 it is all the heritage he has left me. Since my Ambition 
 dared to hope for your correspondence and friendship, 
 the enthusiasm of Attachment has grown on me, till the 
 enjoyment of your friendship is entwisted with my very 
 enjoyment of Life ; and your last letter has given me a
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop i 29 
 
 thousand terrors. I shall be here for ten days, and I con- 
 jure you to write me ever so short a scrap to inform me 
 if you are getting rid of that ugly Distemper. To quit this 
 disagreeable subject ; the following is the first Compliment 
 I have paid the Nith, and was the work of an hour as I 
 jogged up his banks yesterday morning. The idea is a 
 young gentleman perhaps going abroad. I do not affirm 
 it has merit : the fact is, an author is by no means a com- 
 petent judge of his own composition ; at least till the hey- 
 day of Novelty evaporate. 
 
 The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 
 
 Where royal cities stately stand ; 
 But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 
 
 Where Cummins^ ance had high command: 
 When shall I see that distant Land, 
 
 That winding Stream I love sae dear ! 
 Must cruel Fortune's adverse hand, 
 
 For ever, ever keep me here ! 
 
 Fair spread, O Nith, thy flowery dales. 
 
 Where rove the flocks amang the broom ; 
 And richly wave thy fruitful vales, 
 
 Surrounded by the hawthorns' bloom : 
 Tho' wandering now must be my doom, 
 
 Far from thy bony banks and braes ; 
 There may my latest hours consume, 
 
 With those my friends of early days ! 
 
 You would know an Ayrshire lad, Sandy Bell, who made 
 a Jamaica fortune, and died some time ago. A William 
 Miller,^ formerly a Mason, now a Merchant in this place, 
 married a sister-german of Bell's for the sake of a ;^500 
 her brother had left her. A sister of Miller's, who was then 
 Tenant of my heart for the time being, huffed my Bard- 
 ship in the pride of her new connection; and I, in the 
 
 VOL. I. — 9
 
 130 Correspondence between 
 
 heat of my resentment resolved to burlesque the whole 
 business, and began as follows : — 
 
 THE MAUCHLINE WEDDING^ 
 I 
 
 When Eighty-five was seven month auld, 
 
 And wearing thro' the aught, eighth 
 
 When rotting rains and Boreas bauld 
 
 Gied farmer-folks a faught ; gave, fight 
 
 Ae morning quondam Mason Will, 
 
 Now Merchant Master Miller, 
 Gaed down to meet wi' Nansie Bell went 
 
 And her Jamaica siller, money 
 
 To wed, that day. 
 
 The rising sun o'er Blacksideen * 
 
 Was just appearing fairly, 
 When Nell and Bess ^ get up to dress, 
 
 Seven lang half hours o'er early ! too 
 
 Now presses clink and drawers jink, 
 
 For linnens and for laces ; 
 But modest Muses only thitik 
 
 What ladies' underdress is, 
 
 On sic a day. such 
 
 3 
 
 But we '11 suppose the stays are lac'd, 
 
 And bony bosom steekit ; hid 
 
 Tho', thro' the lawn — but guess the rest — 
 An Angel scarce durst keekit : peeped 
 
 Then stockins fine, o' silken twine, 
 
 Wi' cany care are drawn up ; prudent 
 
 And garten'd tight whare mortal wight 
 
 As I never wrote it down, my recollection does not entirely 
 serve me.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 1 3 1 
 
 4 
 
 But now the gown, wi' rustling sound, 
 
 Its silken ^ pomp displays ; 
 Sure there 's nae sin in being vain 
 
 O' siccan bony claes ! such 
 
 Sae jimp the waist, the tail sae vast — 
 
 Trouth, they were bony Birdies ! 
 O Mither Eve, ye wad been grave 
 
 To see their ample hurdles haunches 
 
 Sae large that day 1 ! 1 
 
 5 
 Then Sandy ^ wi's red jacket bra' 
 
 Comes, whip — jee — woa! about, 
 And in he gets the bony twa — 
 
 Lord send them safely out ! 
 And auld John ^ Trot wi' sober phiz 
 
 As braid and bra 's a Bailie, fine 
 
 His shouthers and his Sunday's giz wig 
 
 Wi' powther and wi' ulzie oil 
 
 Weel smear'd that day. 
 
 Against my Muse had come thus far, Miss Bess and I 
 were once more in unison, so I thought no more of the 
 Piece. Tho' the folks are rather uppish, they are such as 
 I did not chuse to expose, so I think this is about the 
 second time I ever scrawled it. 
 
 I wish these trifles may find you in a disposition to relish it. 
 
 Adieu ! Heaven send you more exhilarating moments 
 than I fear you at present enjoy ! Robt. Burns. 
 
 (i) My landlord, Mr. Miller, is building a house by the banks of 
 the Nith, just on the ruins of the Cummin's Castle. — R. B. 
 
 This is the first draft of the song " The Banks of 
 Nith," which makes No. 295 of Johnson, vol. 3. 
 Numerous alterations were made in the text before 
 it was sent to Johnson.
 
 132 Correspondence between 
 
 (2) William Miller, a Mauchline friend of Burns. 
 
 (3) This squib was first published from this MS. 
 in the Centenary edition, 1896. 
 
 (4) A hill. — R. B. 
 
 (5) Miller's two sisters. — R. B. Both were " Mauchline Belles." 
 
 (6) The ladies' first silk gowns, got for the occasion. — R. B. 
 
 (7) Driver of the post-chaise. — R. B. 
 
 (8) M 's father. — R. B. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, Mossgill, 
 near Mauchline. 
 
 MoRHAM Mains. 
 {Postmarked 28 Aug. 1788.] 
 
 Dr. Burns, — I have had both your kind letters and you 
 insist in so very obliging a manner to hear from me that, 
 although I am ashamed to pick your pocket to fill King 
 George's private purse, I cannot omit writing. To disap- 
 point the expectations of a friend is always contrary to my 
 principle, and on this occasion quite contrary to my inclina- 
 tion. There is in your correspondence a certain yV ne sais 
 quoi that secures you against the most overpowering insolence 
 of your friends ; at least I find it so. In short, yours are 
 the letters of a poet, breathed from the heart of a Christian, 
 and transcribed by the hand of a man who writes strong 
 full text, and there is no mood in which I do not find them 
 delightful, even when they are querulous and inconsistent — 
 for instance when you come from Cummiifs Castle in the 
 sulks, and fall a-proving that sense and taste are not insep- 
 arable from family, because possest by a lady evidently of 
 the family of Or or at least Argent by inoculation. I am 
 glad for the sake of matrimony and my friend that when 
 you wrote that letter you were far from Ayrshire and your 
 wife ; for indeed you have been as crusty as an old batche- 
 lor. Your ink is all gall, nor was it you, but poor Mrs. M.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 133 
 
 that should have used the sacred quotation of the swine, for 
 they not only trod her pearls under foot but turned and rent 
 her. I wish I could see some confidential letter of yours 
 where you speak of me and my impromptus, of which no- 
 body ever heard or saw so many. But at least mine have 
 never been praised where yours were neglected ; so I shall 
 stand free of envy, and, like many a one in the world, sleep 
 safe in my insignificancy, and stand by you like a mole-hill 
 at the foot of Traprain.^ Indeed I began to fear your fire 
 was gone out, and you were going to light up a new one of 
 turpentine and the marine, and a very unodoriferous flame 
 and dangerous to its neighbours, as I once experienced in 
 attending a course of experiments in Natural Philosophy. 
 The operator told us on mixing the three coldest liquids in 
 the world there would arise a sudden flame, and we would 
 be convinced of the propriety of this being his last experi- 
 ment. Instantly a blaze of liquid fire pouring over the 
 table on every side, accompanyed by the most suffocating 
 exhalation, made every one run out of the room as fast as 
 possible. Next day I had the honour to be where Lord 
 Stair was long expected. At length he appeared, and 
 apologized for his absence that, having only one silk vest 
 and small cloths, he had been obliged to wait till my lady 
 had darned the holes burnt in them at yesterday's exhibi- 
 tion. Now, I should be more afraid still of the caustic of 
 your double-distilled vinegar should it come across me at 
 any time. However, you may allege I have not been shy 
 of provoking it at present, but I trust 't is already mollified 
 by the sweet smiles of innocence and the endearments of 
 love, amidst which you are now placed ; and besides, my 
 sickness claims compassion. Meanwhile, I beg you don't 
 change your paper, unless it be to get double foolscap,^ for
 
 I 34 Correspondence between 
 
 I should rejoice your sheet were as large as a winnow-cloth. 
 But to my health. 
 
 So pleased with your pen, 
 Of your friendship so vain, 
 Not toothache nor jaundice 
 Shall make me complain. 
 
 Yet I will not allow you to call it an ugly distemper. 
 Remember, Madam Pompadour says, " A woman's last sigh 
 is more for her looks than her life." Besides, yellow is the 
 royal colour in China, where it is the most envied distinction 
 to be allowed to wear it. 'T is the beauty of the topaz and 
 the glory of the Sienna marble, the most esteemed and 
 costly modern decoration; so that, should I die here, I 
 would make an inimitable fine statue for the farmyard at 
 Morhame Mains ; spite of which I endeavour to recover 
 the original tint at the expense of tarter emetic every other 
 day, and as yet without much success. My gown, instead 
 of buttoning as before, pins over a handbreadth, but I am 
 not very bad, since you see I can laugh both at my own 
 distress and that of my friends. And if you can allow your 
 poetical fancy to represent a sick lady living on white wine 
 and sour milk, and walking from six to ten or twelve miles 
 every day, as I really do, you will not find me an object of 
 great compassion. Indeed the malady does not prey upon 
 my mind ; so I esteem it a very great trifle. It was far 
 otherwise when the fever was coming on, and I wrot you in 
 the mournful mood, as I suppose by your reply ; for indeed 
 I recollect nothing of what I said then. It will put me half 
 in the vapours again when I consider your next must be far 
 from Ayrshire, in the nest of my foes. The Menteiths only 
 betrayed Wallace's life; the Cummins® murthered his fame, 
 and I hate their very remembrance. Nor can I endure
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 135 
 
 you should call yourself the Bard of the Nith. I even read 
 with regret the wish, though offered under another char- 
 acter, of ending one's days on those distant banks, did not 
 the next line show you thought upon Auld Hermit Ayr at 
 the moment fancy threw those numbers into rhyme. I 
 would have sent you some Lothian lines my butter-milk had 
 cast up, but the paper will not hold them, and they are not 
 worth paying still more for. I wish you may not have a 
 third couple befor our little one arrive. Farewell ! I 
 won't write you again till Willie Kerr comes home, and 
 Lord knows where he is, however, or when he will return. 
 I am vext to think I have not the least chance of being at 
 home till after you must be long gone. I think in all human 
 probability we shall never meet more. That is my fate, 
 I think, with all my friends, and nobody is worse of making 
 new ones. Yet hitherto every tenant of my heart, short or 
 long, seems to have sat on a liferent lease — I mean my 
 friends ; ladies don't tell about their loves. I hope you 
 have the promise of a good crop. I wish you be atten- 
 tive enough for a farmer. My son has never been one 
 night from his own house since he carried home his wife, 
 and he says he finds his affairs require all that and more, 
 were it possible for him to give it. May Providence guide 
 your paths, and crown them with health, wealth, and pros- 
 perity, is the wish of. Dr. Sir, your obliged friend and 
 humble sert. Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) A conspicuous conical hill in Prestonkirk par- 
 ish, East Lothian. 
 
 (2) Burns's last letter was written on foolscap — 
 all previous ones having been on post. 
 
 (3) Dalswinton, the property of Burns's landlord,
 
 136 Correspondence between 
 
 formerly belonged to the family of the Comyns, lords 
 of Badenoch (see antcuy p. 131). Wallace was be- 
 trayed to the English by Sir John Menteith. The 
 Comyn whom Bruce slew for alleged treachery is 
 charged with betraying Wallace and the cause of 
 independence at the battle of Falkirk (1298), by 
 deserting the patriot chief, along with other Norman- 
 Scotch nobles, at a critical moment. 
 
 A letter which Burns wrote to Mrs. Dunlop be- 
 tween that last printed and that which follows is 
 missing. In it he must have transcribed the full 
 text of the " First Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., 
 of Fintry," of which he had sent her the " first crude 
 thoughts" only in his letter of 2nd August. In her 
 next Mrs. Dunlop criticises the " Epistle " in detail. 
 This and the following letters were addressed by 
 Kerr of the Post-Office to care of Burns's friend John 
 M'Murdo, who soon after this date appears in the 
 poet's correspondence as Chamberlain to the Duke 
 of Queensberry at Drumlanrig, but must have been 
 resident at this period at Carse, in some capacity or 
 other. Scott Douglas says M'Murdo was introduced 
 to Burns by Captain Riddel of Friar's Carse. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, at Ellisland, 
 
 care of Mr. John M'Murdo, Carse, 
 
 Dunscore, by Dumfries. 
 
 MoRHAME Mains, \zth Sept. 1788. 
 
 Dr. Burns, — I never received a compliment my heart 
 more sweetly relished than when you tell me you found
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 137 
 
 writing me a relief to that corroding gloom which some- 
 times obscures the brightest minds, and makes those most 
 unhappy who deserve least to be so. As Rousseau says, 
 " Have I not known George Keith, and shall I complain 
 of fate ? " Shall I for a moment be enabled to reflect that 
 the man whose works have soothed the darkest moments of 
 my soul has told me that in writing to me his cast off one 
 cloud, and got nearer that serenity with which one naturally 
 wishes genius ever blest, and to which I would pray you 
 might never be a stranger, were it not that a variety of 
 sensations is, I doubt, necessary to preserve the genuine 
 character of both the man and the muse. I think Scrip- 
 ture says it is good for us to be afflicted. Experience tells 
 me it has oft been good for me, and I remember, before I 
 knew you, I suspected prosperity might hurt you, and, if 
 you remember, told you so in the first lines I ventured to 
 address to you. Since, I own, I have not believed a harsh 
 regimen so needful for your temperament, and were provi- 
 dence to entrust me with the administration of things, 
 should hardly confine you to it so oft as perhaps adverse 
 fortune may do, since I really esteem you so much as to 
 believe indulgence would not make a spoilt child of you, 
 and, whatever you may think, I assure you I think this is 
 the very pinnacle of greatness in man, and far o'er-match- 
 ing the boast of fortitude in misfortune. Yet I wish you 
 had a little more of a sanguine disposition, and did not 
 imagine every cloud portended a storm, or every thunder- 
 storm a bad harvest. Yet, did not these chimeras come 
 across you, they could not be dissipated by sitting down to 
 write me, and so I had lost one of the sweetest ideas of my 
 life, one that I could not purchase with any price, and for 
 which gold could give me no equivalent. I incline to
 
 138 Correspondence between 
 
 exclaim like Rousseau — has not my correspondence once 
 proved comfortable to Burns, and shall I ever again be 
 tempted to think I have lived in vain, or say, why was my 
 thread spun out to 58 years? As to my health, I must tell 
 you I have drank two pounds of hemp seed boiled in small 
 beer, and am greatly better ; so you see I am not so crabbed 
 as when I wrot last, and abused you so grossly that I expected 
 you were to lampoon me instead of giving me so good- 
 humour'd a reply, in which, however, I am not wholly sure 
 you have followed nature. I daresay you had a little re- 
 sentment, and thought at least a lady ought to have kept 
 within the bounds of good breeding ; and so I certainly would 
 had I not been convinced it was sometimes better for both 
 my friend and myself to be laught at than to be tret seriously 
 when we are seized with poetical-tragi-comic forebodings. 
 Now, before I criticise your poetr)^, I must tell you a secret, 
 but don't breathe it to the air as yet. I have had one of 
 my wishes granted since you heard from me last ; yet " the 
 Gods have in some measure curst Pamela with her pray- 
 ers." I have a daughter-' married, but married to a native 
 of a foreign land, possibly lost to me forever, and a match 
 which is just a cast of the die whether 't is a great one or 
 one that will not afford bread. The man I never saw. He 
 cannot speak my tongue, nor I his ; yet he is well spoke 
 of; they are fond of each other, and I trust in my God 
 shall be happy, when I shall be permitted to view them 
 from a superiour situation, after I have bid adieu to all 
 this mortal coil, and am placed where I hope it will make a 
 part of my bliss to behold or perhaps superintend that of 
 my children and my friends. Perhaps, Burns, I may some- 
 times be employed as your Coila or guardian angel. How 
 would you like to have the tables so turned upon you, and
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 139 
 
 be reduced to write under my poor inspiration? I fear 
 you would once more repeat " My pen I liere fling to the 
 door," but I leave myself no room to give you my senti- 
 ments on your verses, far less to send you mine, as I prom- 
 ised in my last, since this must be only a single, and even 
 then a sixpenny letter. But I hope Kerr will be returned 
 against I write you again, and then I shall scribble more at 
 my ease and less to your loss, as I may then do it gratis. 
 
 I hope and believe your lines must please the man to 
 whom they are addrest, and although in some degree a 
 parody of Pope, there is great variety of finely fancied 
 epithets thrown through the whole, and sufficient novelty 
 to attract a man of taste ; the lead and buoy are well hung 
 on, and though I would have wished you less hard on the 
 poor knights and squires, I admire much \h& flowing phos- 
 phorus and lumpish dough and unyielding mass, and most 
 of all the flashing Aurora Borealis. Then the materials, 
 creation, and character of the poet, are all in my opinion 
 well conducted ; honest Nature's compunction and twisting 
 the woodbine round the generous truly great is a strong, 
 nervous, elegantly-turned compliment, which must dart 
 through a sensible soul worthy of the noble praise it con- 
 veys. The first and last couplets of the next sentence I 
 think peculiarly beautiful, and the hardzvrung boon feel- 
 ingly expressive. As for your ideas of the goodness of 
 the poetic heart, I think my own were in unison when I 
 found in 
 
 That breast where genius flamed refin'd, 
 
 The lighthouse steer'd for by our storm-beat kind. 
 
 The contrast that follows is striking to every mind a little 
 deficient in the treasure of worldly wisdom, and finely 
 illustrated by Moore in his story of Mr. B. I daresay
 
 140 Correspondence between 
 
 too most of us, like him, have found our most valued 
 friends in this class. At least I am sure I should never 
 covet any of the rudely-etched medals on base metal, 
 those vile caricatures of the Supreme Being. As to the 
 next lines, my very soul would thrill with envy in reading 
 them, were they not addrest to the Graham, a name which 
 every Wallace to the end of the world ought to revere. 
 May Fintry feel and deserve the warm address Friend of 
 my Li/ey etc. etc. I could not wish him a warmer blessing 
 were he the great Sir John [Wallace] himself. To the end 
 all I can say of it is to repeat your own words of Anton's ^ 
 picture, " 'T is yourself, the very soul of the man " — that 
 soul which I could never have investigate with half the 
 delight I have done had it never more the horny fist and 
 piebald jacket which first attracted my curiosity, and still 
 convinces me of all the superiority it required to shine 
 through such an uncouth disguise. Apropos to disguise, 
 this jaundice has made my skin so yellow and thick and 
 uncouth that I always remind myself of Dryden's tale of 
 Guiseard in his leathern frock. But I must not dismiss 
 your verses without remarking that I am not pleased with 
 the word WHERE beginning the last line but one, and would 
 wish you to substitute in its place either With or There, as 
 with either of these the sentence would conclude which to 
 me at present seems imperfect, and leaves you in expecta- 
 tion of something yet to follow between and Finis. But 
 perhaps this is only some confusion of grammar in my 
 brain, instead of a fault in your arrangement of words, 
 where interesting ideas might in some degree jostle them 
 out of their place in your head and consequently in your 
 poem. My young landlady will still, I think, go about all 
 the harvest, which with us is not unfavourable ; so I shall
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 141 
 
 end with Cunningham the Stewarton robber's conclusion 
 to his father, when he acquainted him he was next day to 
 be hanged — " hoping these few lines will find you in the 
 same condition " — I mean as to the harvest not the hang- 
 ing. Now, pray tell me where you are to go at the end of 
 three weeks, as my letters are too precious ventures to be 
 set adrift at random, and if I knew a kinder farewell than 
 a Roman one, I would try to find room for it. What do 
 you think of a Scots " God bless you and your friends," 
 among which Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) This must have been Mrs. Dunlop's second 
 daughter, Susan, who married James Henri of Ber- 
 naldean. The marriage has hitherto been dated in 
 1789, but this letter fixes the date for certain in 1788. 
 
 (2) A pet name for Anthony Dunlop. 
 
 Burns has used the back of this letter for a jotting. 
 
 Fields I St 
 
 
 
 
 • SI 
 
 thraves 
 
 2 
 
 
 
 
 • 75 
 
 thraves 
 
 Mosshill 
 
 
 
 
 • 54 
 
 Do. 
 
 Stookhill 
 
 
 
 
 . no 
 
 Do. 
 
 Above bar 
 
 
 
 
 • 44 
 
 Do. 
 
 Corner 
 
 
 
 
 • 17 
 
 Do. 
 
 Croft 
 
 
 
 
 55 
 
 Do. 
 
 Houseback 
 
 
 
 
 79 
 
 Do. 
 
 Holmhead 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 60 
 
 Do. 
 
 5 
 
 )545( 
 
 109 
 
 
 
 
 
 5 
 
 
 45 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Mauchline, i~ith Sept. 1788. 
 
 I have received twins, Dear Madam, more than once 
 
 ' ' > 
 
 but scarcely ever with more pleasure than when I received
 
 142 Correspondence between 
 
 yours of the 12th inst. To make myself understood : I 
 had wrote to Mr. Graham, inclosing my Poem addressed 
 to him, and the same post which favoured me with yours, 
 brought me an answer from him. It was dated the very 
 day he received mine ; and I am quite at a loss to say 
 whether it was most polite or kind. 
 
 Your Criticisms, my honored Benefactress, are truly the 
 work of a friend. They are not the blasting depredations 
 of a canker-toothed, caterpillar critic; nor are they the 
 fair statement of cold impartiality, balancing with unfeeling 
 exactitude the pro and con of an Author's merits; they 
 are the judicious observations of animated Friendship, 
 selecting the beauties of the Piece. 
 
 I have just arrived from Nithsdale, and will be here a 
 fortnight. I was on horseback this morning (for between 
 my wife and my farm is just 46 miles) by three o'clock. 
 As I jogged along in the dark, I was taken with a Poetic- 
 fit as follows — 
 
 MRS. FERGUSSON OF CRAIGDARROCH'S LAMENTA- 
 TION FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON 1 
 
 An uncommonly pro7nistng youth of eighteen or nineteen 
 
 years of age 
 
 Fate gave the word, the arrow sped 
 
 And pierced my Darling's heart, 
 And with him all the joys are fled 
 
 Life can to me impart I 
 
 By cruel hands the Sapling drops, 
 
 In dust dishonored laid : 
 So fell the pride of all my hopes, 
 
 My age's future shade.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 143 
 
 The mother-linnet m the brake 
 
 Bewails her ravished young ; 
 So I, for my lost Darling's sake, 
 
 Lament the liveday long. 
 
 Death, oft I 've fear'd thy fatal blow. 
 
 Now, fond, I bare my breast ; 
 Oh, do thou kindly lay me low 
 
 With him I love, at rest ! 
 
 You will not send me your Poetic-rambles, but, you see, 
 I am no niggard of mine. I am sure your Impromptus 
 give me double pleasure : what falls from your Pen can 
 neither be unentertaining in itself, nor indifferent to me. 
 
 The one fault you found, is just ; but I cannot please 
 myself in an emendation. 
 
 What a life of soUtude is the life of a Parent 1 You in- 
 terested me much in your young Couple. I suppose it is 
 not any of the ladies I have seen. 
 
 I would not take my folio for this epistle, and now I re- 
 pent it. I am so jaded with my dirty long journey that 
 I was afraid to drawl into the essence of dulness with any 
 thing larger than a quarto, and so I must leave out another 
 rhyme of this morning's manufacture. 
 
 1 '11 pay the sapientipotent George most chearfuUy to 
 hear from you ere I leave Ayrshire. — I have the honor to 
 be, Dear Madam, your much obliged, and most respectful, 
 humble servant, Robt. Burns. 
 
 (i) James Fergusson, Esq., younger of Craigdar- 
 roch, son of the victor in the contest for the Maxwel- 
 ton Whistle ; the youth died on 19th November 1787. 
 This " Lamentation " was sent also to another patron- 
 ess of the poet, Mrs. General Alexander Stewart of
 
 144 Correspondence between 
 
 Afton, on the death of her only son, Alexander 
 Gordon Stewart, who died, aged sixteen, at a military 
 academy at Strasburg, on 5th December 1787. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, at EUisland, 
 care of Mr. John M' Murdo, Carse, 
 Dunscore, Dumfries. 
 
 MoRHAME Mains, \sl Oct. 1788. 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinr., Third October 1788.] 
 
 Dr. Sir, — The three weeks you mentioned being at 
 home ^ are past, and I fear I may miss the mark in writ- 
 ing you now, as you told me the same address would only 
 answer that time. Yet, as ill luck has oft thwarted me 
 before now, I will for once hope good chance may be- 
 friend me, and have kept you longer than you intended to 
 catch this flying sheet, which sets out on a random search 
 as soon as I heard Kerr was returned. If ever I keep a 
 register of time, I shall surely mark the month of August 
 with a white stone. Indeed it has been the most eventful 
 of my life ; but not for that do I note it at present, but 
 that on that memorable month are dated four of your letters 
 — a happiness in which I shall I hope hereafter rejoice to 
 see poor August have rivals. 'T was in that blessed month 
 you told me you found writing to me the best salve for an 
 wounded spirit. The poor Levite \_sic'\ who lay wounded 
 on the roadside was not more solaced by the wine and oil 
 of the Samaritan than my spirit was by reading that line 
 in your letter ; for I had the vanity to take it for a literal 
 fact. I have thought Sept. of a dreary length since you 
 have been silent. Yet I ought to please myself that your 
 spirit has during that space felt hale and hearty, since you 
 had not recourse to the cordial of whose efficacy I feel
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 145 
 
 more proud than the Queen ought to do of her throne. 
 Indeed, it must be confessed I have much more cause. 
 The sovereign ambition of my soul from my earliest re- 
 membrance has been to share and soothe the affliction of 
 those I esteemed and liked, but the very superlative delight 
 one can figure to themselves in my opinion must be in 
 fancying to ourselves that those we even admire voluntarily 
 fly to an intercourse with us, in the confidential trust that 
 it will prove consolatory. Now, this is the only hope that 
 never deceives us. No one ever sat down to write in this 
 faith but what found it could reaUy remove mountains of 
 woe. How oft in writing you disjointed scraps of prose 
 and verse have I felt, as it were, the very heart change 
 within me. 
 
 And as dark shades fly o'er th' uneven ground. 
 Black clouds grow lighter in their airy round. 
 
 But whilst I experienced this relief in being allowed to 
 address the first poet of my age or countr)', in pouring 
 forth the effusions of the moment before the gentlest sen- 
 sibility that ever displayed itself in the flowing harmony of 
 verse, never did I dare harbour an idea that the person to 
 whom I looked up aloft from the lowest base of the hill 
 would stoop from the summits of Parnassus, from the holy 
 heights of inspiration, to squander that ink upon me which 
 half the world were gaping for. Nor could I have hoped 
 that, when my eyes would no longer serve me to pick a 
 thorn from your finger without spectacles, you should be 
 able to discover anything in my character to draw a sting 
 from your mind, or help to sweeten the bitter cup of human 
 care. I 'm sure if ever in any moment or manner my be- 
 ing in this world has contributed to make you easier, I 
 
 VOL. I. — 10
 
 146 Correspondence between 
 
 cannot express how much your telUng me so has made me 
 happier. 
 
 Dear Burns, will you allow me to ask, is '* Each pleasure 
 riches give " ^ a proper English expression? Were it not 
 yours, I should not think it was perfectly correct, but would 
 rather have approv'd " Each pleasure wealth can give " as 
 more grammatic and melodious too. Since you asked my 
 opinion, I should be angry at myself if there were a comma 
 I disliked, or rather that I feared any one else could dis- 
 like, that I did not point out to your notice the moment it 
 struck my own. Perhaps you will be angry at me for 
 doing this ; 't is the weakness of great men to fret at 
 people who find trifling faults in them or their works. I 
 think you are above this with a friend, but I may be mis- 
 taken. If I am, I hope it is only in my grammar, not in 
 my friend. There I would have my judgment fixed and 
 unalterable as the laws of the Medes and Persians, for it 
 is there alone I am sure it could not change, but for the 
 worse. Meantime, I only criticise the line, not the senti- 
 ment. I must tell you a little incident in confirmation of 
 the parts the world allow you for relishing the sweets of 
 affluence. One day your works were the subject of dis- 
 course. I had not then seen so many proofs that the 
 author's taste soar'd above these pleasures gold can buy, 
 and, all curiosity, asked if any of the company knew or 
 had ever seen him. " Yes," says one gentleman, '' I was 
 once accidentally two days with him." "And," cries I, 
 " what kind of man is he in company? What did you 
 think of him?" "I don't know," says he, "what he 
 might have been once, but they have quite spoilt him now 
 at Edr. If ever he was good for anything, he is the 
 damnedest bundle of self-conceit and insolence I ever saw."
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 147 
 
 " Insolence," says I, surprised ; " for self-conceit I can 
 readily forgive that, for surely he has an infinite deal to 
 found it on ; but for God's sake tell me how did he show 
 it? What did he say or do? " " Why, he talked loud and 
 more than came to his share. In the morning could not 
 breakfast without confections; at dinner found nothing 
 good enough for him, nothing but what was detestable, 
 curst the cook, damn'd the waiters, and despised drinking 
 port." " He had been drunk with port the night before, 
 and ree or cropsick in the morning." " No," says he, 
 " 't was all airs ; he was quite vife, and ate a very hearty 
 dinner." You '11 allow this was a strong sketch. Had 
 Beugo hit it off no better, I don't think I should have 
 discovered the original by the picture, as I really had done 
 not long before. Indeed, I could not resist rejoining, and 
 I dare say in a manner expressive of the self-applause I 
 really felt at the moment, " He must have had great esteem 
 for the company I saw him in, for his behaviour was the 
 very reverse of all that, and seemed perfectly natural and 
 easie too." But I have forgot myself, and lost sight of 
 the rich pleasures we set out with. Now, I own I have, 
 I think, felt sometimes a zest in mediocrity which riches 
 would have excluded, and I dare say so have you. Even 
 at this moment, while I write, are you not conscious that, 
 if you possest a coronet and a nabob fortune, you would 
 be less sensible that my letters were real testimonies of 
 the internal treasures Providence has given you in lieu of 
 them? Or, were I able to serve you as I could wish, 
 might my happiness even in that not be counterbalanced 
 by a diminution of my present satisfaction in that disin- 
 terested goodwill which I am proud to believe you bear 
 
 me? Yet I must confess, if Mr. Graham make a proper 
 
 %
 
 148 Correspondence between 
 
 use of his advantages, I will envy him spite of all philo- 
 sophizing to the contrary. 
 
 I wrot the above two days ago. Since that I have been 
 very busy — shall I tell you how? Yes, I will, that you 
 may see there is no sanctum sanctorum in my mind (so 
 void it is now) at which a friend may not peep, even al- 
 though that very friend must remember how lately he 
 turned the dark lanthorn upon me when his whole soul was 
 on flame, and he hid every circumstance from me as if I 
 had been the worst enemy he had in the world. This 
 was a thunder-clap I can never forget, for at that instant 
 I was just pluming myself in the superiour share I had 
 gained of your esteem and confidence. But to my em- 
 ployment and motive for it — a secret which on trial I 
 almost find incommunicable. I have a gown which was a 
 present from my only brother. For this and forty other 
 reasons, which you can never guess, I have had it 
 this forty years, and wore it at least ten of that time ; 
 it was perfectly in tatters. Four days ago quand je re^oi- 
 voit un lettre de mon gendre inconnu, 't was now necessary 
 to have a new one. I sit down to write for it, but just 
 then got an account of the most clamant misery of a poor 
 woman whom fate had persecuted past redemption, and 
 whose last hope was snatched from her in a moment by 
 the unlooked-for expiring of the only son from whom she 
 looked for help, in her arms alone and in despair. These 
 are the moments when gold is valuable. I threw my letter 
 in the fire, gave ten shillings for a body to my old gown 
 instead of sending for the new one, saved the tailor's bill, 
 and sit down to sew it myself with a pleasure which even 
 superseded that of writing you, and which I would not 
 have felt could I have readily commanded ;j(^20 at the
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 149 
 
 time in ready money without borrowing — a thing I dare 
 never trust myself to do, for I am so miserable an econo- 
 mist I should never be able to make up my leeway again 
 if I did, and neither my pride nor principle admit of being 
 in debt. 
 
 Will you be so good as tell me whose marks the different 
 letters are in Johnson's Museum, which I have just got the 
 second volume of? ^ Besides a number of stars and one 
 differently shaped from all the rest, there are D., M., X., 
 Z., R, and B., all or any of whom I would be glad to have 
 named, if 't is not a secret you are unwilling to communi- 
 cate to myself ; for if you forbid me I would not mention 
 it to anybody else. 1 hope you are not again in Ayrshire, 
 and I at so great a distance still. My patience is wore out 
 on that and several other accounts, but I believe it is pre- 
 destinate you and I are never to meet more. Should it 
 even prove so, I flatter myself our minds will frequently 
 agree even at distance, and that we may both have pleasure 
 in comparing and communicating our ideas to each other 
 upon paper, if not in company. Meantime, I shall be 
 impatient to hear whether you have been at Mr. Graham's 
 or at Mossgiel. If the first, what were the consequences 
 of your visit ? Write me here still, for God knows when I 
 leave this. I would complain of my long confinement were 
 it rational to think of myself, when I consider what must be 
 the situation of the poor girl I am with, and see with what 
 inimitable good humour she submits to what she cannot 
 but anxiously feel. She is a most enormous bulk indeed, 
 and I am sure must be a very great burthen to herself, yet 
 she never breathes a complaint. God send her safely 
 through a state which has for some time given me very 
 uneasie apprehensions on her account ! Besides, I really
 
 150 Correspondence between 
 
 think losing his wife would be ruin to John at present. I 
 think their life is almost the only one I ever could have 
 coveted, and in my youngest days I believe I would have 
 found it replete with everything which would then have 
 been requisite to make me happy, could I have divested 
 myself of some part of the liking I have to books and the 
 predilection in favour of those who write, or at least like 
 to read them, which I dare say it is as good for them that 
 they enjoy in a more moderate degree, so as not to inter- 
 fere with the farm, as I fear it may sometimes do with 
 you. But it is no matter, since, as poor Mess John Hunter * 
 says in one of his poetic pannels in the church wall at Ayr, 
 speaking of charity — 
 
 Water whereon this seed is cast may yield 
 A crop more plenteous than the richest field. 
 
 I hope you may forgive my quotation, if it requires any 
 apology from the expectation of being able to realise the 
 prediction, as I have no doubt if you could labour equally 
 to the advantage of your family, there is no ground you 
 could improve with such ease and pleasure to yourself as 
 the precincts of Parnassus. I am sure there is none where 
 I would like so well to walk round your policy. 
 
 It is this moment come into my head that as the time 
 of the address is elapsed, you may never get this scrawl, 
 in which case it is already too long. Perhaps you may 
 think so, at any rate, if the weather be still bad, and the 
 corn wet in the field, or some such rural distress putting 
 you out of tune with yourself and of course with me, unless 
 you resemble me in one particular, which is that of being 
 most pleased with what you write when I am displeased and 
 unhappy with everything else, for really the use of the poet
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 1 5 1 
 
 is not most materially to divert his graver friends. That 
 his ludicrous pieces can do to great purpose, as I experi- 
 enced at the early dressing-room [" The Mauchline Wed- 
 ding "] I was lately introduced to, but the serious sublime 
 ones bring serenity and unclouded sunshine to anguish, 
 and even to peevish discontent — the most troublesome 
 state of female minds, and from which they have few re- 
 courses and their friends no shelter but what they often 
 find in contempt or indifference. Nay, more, a friendly 
 kind letter can convey this cordial more effectually than 
 all the poignancy of wit or melody of numbers put to- 
 gether for the public. In nothing is tneum and tuum 
 more distinguishable than in the difference one feels be- 
 tween reading the same thing and from the same person in 
 a book or in a letter. Believe me, I prefer one of yours 
 by post to the whole Alexandrian Library, even could I 
 get it in English. Adieu ! Health and happiness to you 
 and yours, and may you always wish and find me your 
 friend ! Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) This is a reference to the missing letter to 
 which Mrs. Dunlop's of the 12th September M^as an 
 answer. 
 
 (2) From the " First Epistle to Robert Graham, 
 Esq., of Fintray." Mrs. Dunlop's suggestion was 
 not adopted. 
 
 (3) This fixes the date of publication of the sec- 
 ond volume of Johnson's Museum. 
 
 (4) " D'rymple Mild's " predecessor in the first 
 charge of Ayr parish. He was the author of, among 
 other works, a religious drama, "The Wanderer and 
 Traveller."
 
 if2 Correspondence between 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 Mossgill, Kilmarnock. 
 
 MoRHAME Mains, 9/"/^ Octhr. 1788. 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinr., Tenth October 1788.] 
 
 Dr. Burns, — I have been very much out of luck. The 
 very day I heard Mr. Kerr was come home I sit down to 
 write you, and although the time was elapsed you had 
 pointed out for finding you at EUisland, I flattered myself 
 some lucky accident might have retarded your journey. 
 In short I wished to write, not that I had anything to say, 
 but that I hoped to tempt you to say something to me, and 
 as you had left me quite in the dark as to where you were 
 going, and I was very unwilling to think it would be again 
 to Ayrshire, just while I was so far from it, I thought I 
 would venture a sheet to Nithsdale. I did in the evening, 
 and, as cross luck would have it, the very next morning after 
 I dispatched my letter, which was not till two days after I 
 should have done it, came yours of the twenty-seventh 
 from Mauchline. Mine, I hope, will lay safe till you go 
 home again, but you need be no ways anxious about it, as 
 it is all a prosaic piece, and too frozen already to catch 
 cold in keeping. I am so much obliged by your writing 
 on your arrival, and sending me half the product of your 
 morning's work, that I dare not reproach your little scrim- 
 pet page, though the more I was pleased with having it, the 
 more I must wish you had held by the former size. Yet it 
 would have been quite inconscionable to wish your fatiguing 
 yourself, just lighted from a 46 miles' dark ride, and getting 
 into so large a circle, from whom it was almost unfair to 
 steal the precious moments of meeting to give me your 
 Lament, tho' indeed you would hardly have done justice to 
 the share I take in what tends to your happiness, had you
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 153 
 
 delayed telling me of the twin-letter, from which I dare say 
 you can hardly reap more pleasure than I do. Fortune 
 honoured and favour'd mine much by bringing it in good 
 company, and hereafter I shall be glad you never find cause 
 to separate the ideas of a friend who really may and does 
 materially serve, and one who can only wish sincerely to 
 see another do what is beyond her own reach to perform. 
 You say I send you none of my poetic rambles. The truth 
 is the instrument is jogged out of tune of late, as you say, 
 by parental solicitudes, but if you '11 not be pleased but with 
 a rhyme I must try two three lines like the wife in the 
 song — what soe'er they be, if they jingle, that's enough 
 
 for me. 
 
 Tane up between a priest and Jean, 
 You once forgot Parnassus Queen ; 
 From you to me the Muse then fled, 
 With you still running in her head. 
 
 Now I aver this is a very pretty compliment, if you can 
 find it out, and quite fit to come from the Aurora of the 
 poles, but I am too long at telling you what a grand subject 
 I was within a hair's-breadth of furnishing your mourning 
 Melpomene. Nay, all the tears of the Muses would have 
 been too few. My very soul shudders at the thought, even 
 now when the danger is past. You say you are interested 
 in the young couple (whose secret I therefore hope you 
 still have and will keep till you have it from some other 
 quarter) , but figure to yourself Lady Wallace's ^ house 
 burnt, which has been twice in the most imminent danger 
 within this six weeks, and suppose the Swiss coming post 
 to see the unextinguishable flame that has actually re- 
 duced to ashes the house next his bride's. Suppose you 
 found Mossgiel all in one conflagration on your arrival, and
 
 1^4 Correspondence between 
 
 the distant flame lighted your darksome way for some miles 
 before you could reach it. You may then pen something 
 that would have suited such a catastrophe. Yet I know 
 not. You would still [have] had friends and acquaint- 
 ances. How bitter must be misfortune to a stranger in a 
 strange land ! But this picture is too dreadful to dwell 
 upon ; it has made me sick two days already ; so I bid it 
 adieu, and will now send you some lines I wrot some time 
 ago on being told a Mr. Anderson had just bought Clerken- 
 ton in this neighbourhood, and was about to marry a sweet 
 pretty girl, a Miss Finlay, born at Donmanore near Edr., 
 and living in Haddington with a grandmother. She is a 
 distant relation of mine, and came to see me herself, and 
 some circumstances in which I believe Fame was mistaken, 
 as well as in that of its being her betrothed that had bought 
 Clerkenton, interested me and produced the inclosed. Here 
 I was called to see my son Andrew come to town on the 
 news of the fire, which has been more alarming than they 
 let me know — so very near my friends that L. W. was taken 
 out of a window, not daring open the door lest the mob had 
 rushed in and robbed the house, which on this account my 
 daughter would not leave as long as it was possible to stay 
 with safety. Yet the effort has been so much for her she 
 has been confined to bed ever since, and so ill her brother 
 and sister were called in from the country to see her — all 
 which they kept quiet from me, as I could not have left 
 John's wife, whose situation is still undetermined, and who 
 seems to place so much on having me with her that I could 
 not on any account tear myself away, unless she had been 
 rich enough to have some other friend among the numerous 
 relations living all around her who might have supply'd 
 my place. Be not therefore surprized my hand shakes ; so
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop i^^ 
 
 does my heart ; yet my health is now pretty good, and I 
 am much interested to hear what harvest and crop you 
 have had this season, and how you left and found your far 
 distant concerns. Remember I told you the Muse that 
 inspired my rhymes was the wish to please a poet and to 
 gain a friend, and that my aim was to pry into every cranny 
 and corner of that soul which prompted your delightfuU lays. 
 I have done everything in my power to attain that end ; if 
 you think me worth the trouble, shew me the house, instead 
 of turning the dark side of the lanthorn on my friendly curi- 
 osity. Farewell. Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) When James Boswell went to London the 
 dowager Lady Wallace became the occupier of his 
 flat in James's Court, where he in his turn had suc- 
 ceeded David Hume. 
 
 To Burns. 
 
 MORHAM Mains, Tuesday 21st Oct. 1788. 
 
 Dear Sir, — In consequence of the promise your friend- 
 ship excited, I am to mform you that this has been a great 
 week with me. It has brought me a son and a grandson. 
 On Wednesday last, Mr. Henry, the Swiss mountaineer, 
 arrived from London, where he had been in a fever, and 
 found his wife, thank God ! just got out of the same con- 
 dition, in which she had continued ever since the fire. I 
 have not yet seen either of them, being wholly taken up 
 about the young stranger and his mother, whom I now hope 
 soon to be able to leave well and nursing her little charge. 
 She was really ill, and I think the farmer's joy in the in- 
 crease of his family was hugely diminished by his concern 
 about and fears for his little wife. I would beg to hear from 
 you as soon as you receive this, that I may guess whether I
 
 156 Correspondence between 
 
 can have any chance of finding you in Ayrshire at my re- 
 turn, which I think ought not now to be a far distant pros- 
 pect. It is not mere words of course to say I will meet my 
 friends with redoubled pleasure if you are one of the num- 
 ber. On the contrary, I am not sure if even the power of 
 your own magic numbers can express the strength and sin- 
 cerity of that regard and admiration which attaches me to 
 my favourite author, and inspires the pleasure and pride I 
 feel in having your own sanction to assume the name of, 
 Dr. Burns, your friend and obliged humble sert. Believe 
 me, 't is one of the greatest satisfactions I can feel to think 
 you have a little partiaUty in favour of the truly grateful 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 Write me here till I give you another address. I have 
 not time for a word more. You who increase like the 
 patriarch Jacob will despise our poor single, long-looked-for 
 production. Lord bless you and your wife, your sons and 
 daughters, your man and your maid servant, your ox and 
 your ass, and all that is yours ! Amen. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, 
 
 Moreham Mains, Haddington. 
 
 Sanquhar, zyd Oct. 1788. 
 
 Dear Madam, — This is literally a letter en passant, for 
 I write you while my horse baits, on my wonted journey. 
 Your two kind epistles came in course ; but I shall much 
 long for a third one, to inform me how you have recovered 
 the horrid shock you must have felt in the dreadful catas- 
 trophe of Lady Wallace's house. My blood runs cold 
 when I think of it ! 
 
 Apropos, I breakfasted this morning at Laicht, near New 
 Cumnock, and Mrs. Logan ^ asked me if I had heard that
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 157 
 
 Miss S n D p was married to a Dane ? I replied, 
 
 the information was new to me. As it is written, " that 
 which is done in corners shall be proclaimed on the house- 
 tops." Your last. Madam, is unanswerable. The illustrious 
 name of Wallace and the accomplishments of Mrs. Dunlop 
 have accustomed you so much to the superlatives of Com- 
 mendation that I am afraid. 
 
 Ellisland, z(ith Oct. 
 
 My officious Landlady interrupted me. Madam, as I was 
 going on to tell you that my Modesty called out Murder ! 
 all the time I was reading your last. Very unlike the fate 
 of your other letters, I have never read it but once. 
 Though I never sit down to ansiuer a letter, as our Pas- 
 toral Bards make their contending swains answer one 
 another, or as a be-periwigged Edinr. Advocate answers 
 his be-gowned brother, yet I cannot help thanking you 
 particularly for the poetic compliment in your epistle the 
 last I received but one. Now I talk of Poetry, what 
 think you of the following character : ^ I mean the painting 
 of it : — 
 
 A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping Wight, 
 And still his precious Self his vast delight : 
 Who loves his ovpn smart Shadow in the streets 
 Better than e'er the fairest She he meets. 
 A 7nati of fashion too, he made his tour, 
 Learn'd, vive la bagatelle, et, vive I'amour; 
 So travell'd monkies their grimace improve, 
 Polish their grin, nay sigh for ladies' love. 
 Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
 Fineering oft outshines the solid wood : 
 His solid sense by inches you must tell, 
 But mete his subtle cunning by the ell ; 
 His meddling Vanity, a busy fiend, 
 Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
 
 1^8 Correspondence between 
 
 Another ^ — 
 
 . . . Crochallan came, 
 
 The old cock'd hat. the brown surtout the same : 
 
 His rising beard just bristling in his might, 
 
 ('T was five long nights and days to shaving-night) 
 
 His grisly, uncomb'd hair, wild-staring, thatch'd 
 
 A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd : 
 
 Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting rude, 
 
 His heart was warm, benevolent and good. 
 
 These are embryotic parts of what may, perhaps, one 
 day be a Poem. 
 
 In Johnson's Scots Musical Miiseum, you will find my 
 pieces, such as they are — for Heaven knows they are 
 many of them dull enough ! — signed with one or other 
 of the letters R., B., or X, The other marked pieces are 
 by poetic folks whom I dare say, except Dr. Blacklock, you 
 don't know. 
 
 I may see you at Moreham mains, if you do not leave it 
 for two or three months ; as a little business of the devil's 
 making will sometime soon, drive me to Haddington. Or 
 if you return to Dunlop to keep your Hallowe'en, I will 
 meet you there also; as I must be at Dunlop and Kil- 
 maurs' cow-fairs, which happen on Hallowe'en and Hal- 
 lowday — old style. I believe I shall move, bag and 
 baggage, to Nithsdale at Martinmas. I am getting the 
 loan of a neighbouring house, till my own be ready. 
 
 Before this can reach you, my direction will be again at 
 Mauchline. — I have the honour to be, with the highest 
 respect. Dear Madam, your oblidged and obedient humble 
 servt. RoBT. Burns. 
 
 (i) Mrs. Logan of Laicht, on the banks of the 
 Afton in the parish of New Cumnock. She brought 
 Laicht to her husband at marriage, and they resided
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 159 
 
 there, and not at Mr. Logan's patrimonial estate of 
 Knockshinnoch in the same parish. Mr. Logan was 
 the " Afton's Laird " of " The Kirk's Alarm." 
 
 (2) These are the first drafts of the lines on 
 Creech and Smellie respectively, which were after- 
 wards incorporated, with emendations, in " The Poet's 
 Progress." 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, 
 
 Moreham Mains, Haddington. 
 
 Mauchline, 2gt/i Oct. 1788. 
 
 I give you joy, Dear Madam, of your new grand-child. 
 I beg you will give my sincere compliments to my brother 
 farmer on the occasion. 
 
 I wrote you the other day from Nithsdale, but I write 
 you whenever I have leisure ; and lest I should grow tire- 
 some with my Egotisms and rhymes, just let the reading 
 of them wait till you too have leisure. I began a Work 
 lately, but what that work may be I am totally ignorant. 
 As Young says, " 'T is nonsense destin'd to be future 
 sense," I sent you a fragment of it by my last : take the 
 following rough sketch of the intended beginning, and let 
 me know your opinion of the lines : — 
 
 THE POET'S PROGRESS 1 
 
 AN EMBRYOTIC POEM IN THE WOMB OF FUTURITY 
 
 Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign, 
 
 Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
 
 The peopled fold thy kindly care have found, 
 
 The horned bull tremendous spurns the ground : 
 
 The lordly lion has enough, and more, 
 
 The forest trembles at his very roar. 
 
 Thou givest the ass his hide, the snail his shell. 
 
 The poisonous wasp victorious guards his cell.
 
 i6o Correspondence between 
 
 Thy minion Man, exulting in his powers, 
 
 In fields, courts, camps, by altars, bars devours. 
 
 Kings bear the civil. Priests the sacred blade; 
 
 Soldiers and hangmen murder by their trade : 
 
 Even silly Women have defensive arts, 
 
 Their eyes, their tongues, and nameless other parts. 
 
 But O thou cruel Stepmother and hard, 
 
 To that poor, fenceless, naked thing — a Bard! 
 
 A thing unteachable in worldly skill. 
 
 And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
 
 No heels to bear him from the opening dun; 
 
 No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun : 
 
 No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn. 
 
 And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn. 
 
 His dart satyric, his unheeded sting ; 
 
 And idle fancy's pinion all his wing : 
 
 The silly sheep that wanders, wild, astray, 
 
 Not more unfriended, and not more a prey. 
 
 Vampyre Booksellers drain him to the heart, 
 
 And butcher Critics cut him up by art. 
 
 Critics, appall'd I venture on the Name ; 
 Those bandits that infest the paths of Fame : 
 Bloody Dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
 He cuts to teach, they mangle to expose. 
 His heart by causeless, wanton Malice wrung ; 
 By Blockheads daring even to madness stung ; 
 Tom, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife. 
 The hapless Poet flounces on thro' life : 
 Till fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd, 
 Extinct each ray that once his bosom fir'd ; 
 Low-sunk in feeble, unprotected age, 
 Dead even resentments for his injur'd Page ; 
 He feels no more the ruthless Critic's rage ! 
 
 So, by some hedge, the generous Steed deceas'd, 
 To half-starv'd, snarling Curs a dainty feast; 
 By Toil and Famine wore to skin and bone, 
 Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop i6i 
 
 Thus far only have I proceeded, and perhaps I may never 
 again resume the subject. I must mention one caution to 
 you, Madam, with respect to these verses ; I have a remote 
 idea that I may one day use them as instruments of ven- 
 geance, and consequently I will hide them like a Conspira- 
 tor's dagger. I mean this lest you might inadvertantly 
 mention them, or acknowledge them as your old acquaint- 
 ances, should you meet with them anonymously in a 
 Newspaper. I need not add that I allude to a certain 
 Bookseller's connection and mine. 
 
 How do you like the following song, designed for an Air 
 composed by a friend of mine, and which he had christened 
 "The blue-eyed lassie " : ^ — 
 
 I gade a waefu' gate yestreen, went, road, last evening 
 
 A gate, I fear, I dearly rue ; 
 I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 
 
 Twa lovely een o' bony blue. 
 
 'T was not her golden ringlets bright ; 
 
 Her lips like roses wat wi' dew ; 
 Her heaving bosom, lily-white, 
 
 It was her een sae bony blue. 
 
 She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd, lured 
 
 She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
 And ay the stound, the deadly wound, shock 
 
 Cam frae her een sae bony blue. 
 
 But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 
 
 She '11 aiblins listen to my vow : maybe 
 
 Should she refuse — I '11 lay my dead death 
 
 To her twa een sae bony blue. 
 
 I must have one line at least to make this new page 
 appear with any grace, and now it is done, give me leave 
 to subscribe myself. Dear Madam, your oblidged friend and 
 grateful humble sert. Robt. Burns. 
 
 VOL. I. — II
 
 1 62 Correspondence between 
 
 (i) This is the introduction to " The Poet's Pro- 
 gress " as printed by Mr. Scott Douglas from a 
 holograph copy in the possession of his publisher, 
 which he presumed to be the identical copy sent to 
 Dugald Stewart on 20th January 1789. The two 
 fragments transcribed in Burns's letter of the 23rd 
 October from Sanquhar followed, and the lines be- 
 ginning " O dulness " sent to Mrs. Dunlop on New 
 Year's Day 1789 wound up the poem. Both intro- 
 duction and conclusion were incorporated in the 
 Third Epistle to Robert Graham of Fintry, and 
 Burns never published anything under the title of 
 " The Poet's Progress." It has to be noted that in 
 sending the MS. to Dugald Stewart on 20th Jan- 
 uary 1789, the poet wrote : " The fragment beginning 
 * A little, upright, pert, tart,' etc., I have not shown to 
 man living till I now send it to you," which we now 
 know to have been untrue, unless he purposely ex- 
 cluded woman from the connotation of " man." 
 
 (2) " The Blue-eyed Lassie " was published in 
 Johnson's third volume, set to a tune of Captain 
 Riddel's. Thomson, who published it in his third 
 volume, set it to the tune " The blathrie o't." The 
 subject of the song, Jean Jafifray, daughter of the 
 minister of Lochmaben, married a Mr. Renwick of 
 New York, and died in 1850. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 
 Mauchline. 
 
 t^th November '88. 
 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinr., Sixth Novemr. 1788.] 
 
 Dr. Sr., — I had yours on Monday, and it is now the fast 
 or feast of Thanksgiving,^ according to every one's ideas of
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 163 
 
 the import of those words and the consequences of the 
 great event this day is set apart to commemorate. While 
 nothing can be a stronger proof of the falhbiHty and con- 
 trariety of the human mind than to see the worthiest char- 
 acters in Britain divided in their opinions whether we ought 
 this day to appear before our Creator with songs of joy and 
 gladness or with the meek sigh and sackcloth of sorrowful 
 sinners groaning under punishment and repentance, I, as an 
 ignorant woman, quietly acquiesce in the ways of providence, 
 and implicitly believe what that does is best, whether re- 
 warding or correcting. Yet I could hardly ever whip a 
 child myself without crying, and far less see another do it. 
 Perhaps no age or realm has ever witnessed more severe 
 discipline than what has fallen to the share of the Stewart 
 race. I was brought up in Revolution principles ; reflection 
 ought to strengthen them, and I believe does, although all 
 my affections draw forever cross. You say your heart 
 makes you a Christian, and I doubt mine makes me at least 
 half a Jacobite. 
 
 You tell me your modesty cryed Murder ! when you read 
 my letter. I write, when 't is to you, so much from the 
 impulse, I had almost said the inspiration of the minute, 
 that I cannot for my life recall what I could say to create a 
 feeling of that kind. At least, however, I hope you did not 
 suffer a painful death, though your modesty must certainly 
 be more easily hurt than mine, which never yet was 
 wounded by the honest applause of friendship. The hyper- 
 bole and superlative are called indications of a weak mind ; 
 therefore 't is poor weak women are allowed to use them, 
 and generally when they are in earnest, I believe, make 
 ample use of this prerogative, and I suspect most men, 
 when they believe us sincere, allow self-love to give an
 
 164 Correspondence between 
 
 assenting smile to this amiable female weakness exerted in 
 their favours. Rochefoucault says — 
 
 Not to admire is all the art I know 
 
 To make men happy and to keep them so. 
 
 I say to admire is the very thing on earth to make me 
 happiest, and to indulge myself in expressing it with all the 
 enthusiasm I feel, and in all the superlatives that want of 
 expression calls into use, is a pleasure I would not forego 
 for any one I will ever be offered in exchange. So say I, 
 let heros and war-sloops exult in their strength, and leave 
 me at liberty to rejoice in this folly, if it is one, nor will I 
 take your word that I have made you uneasie by it, for I 
 trust you have not so contemptible an opinion of me as to 
 imagine I would set my hand to a syllable more than I 
 thought at the time ; and if I have thought too much, I 
 suppose that is an error in judgment you would not put one 
 on the rack to make them retract. On the contrary, I feel 
 this, like most other errors, is always the further in the 
 deeper. 
 
 I like several of the songs in the 2nd vol. of the Miiseu?n, 
 much particularly those beginning " Tho' cruel fate," 
 " Raving Winds," " Thickest Night." One beginning 
 " Cold blows the Wind," and markt Z., I took for yours, 
 and one with a T. for Thomson, author of "The Choice." 
 But I have a particular wish to know who uses the signature 
 of D. Will you be so good as tell me? I am promised a 
 sight of a tragedy wrot by a farmer here. If this promise is 
 kept, I shall tell you what I think of it. I dare not tell you 
 what I think of the characters you sent me last for fear poor 
 squeamish modesty should grow sick again, and you should 
 think me void of all compassion for the uiauvaise honte.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 165 
 
 By the bye, ever in contradiction with myself, I was uneasie 
 and vext at being so long without hearing from you, and 
 tantalized and out of humour when I got your letter. Fate 
 plays cross purposes with me of late. You and I, it seems, 
 must go like buckets in a well. You are to be at Dunlop 
 on Hallowday, while I am in East Lothian, and to go to 
 Nithsdale just before I shall return to Ayrshire, which I 
 now think must be in less than a month. And to crown 
 the jest, you are to come to Haddington a month or two 
 after I leave it. I could almost say as you do — "This is 
 business of the Devil's making," but these reprobate phrases 
 don't suit a lady. As to you, the world call you one 
 so loudly that I am sometimes almost ashamed to attempt 
 your defence. A gentleman told rae with a grave face 
 the other day that you certainly were a sad wretch, 
 that your works were immoral and infamous; you lam- 
 pooned the clergy, and laught at the ridiculous parts of 
 religion, and he was told were a scandalous free liver in 
 every sense of the word. I said I was certain he must be 
 misinformed, and asked if he knew you. He told me he 
 had been in your company and knew it was the case. " I 
 beg pardon," said I, " I could not have guessed you had 
 ever seen him, or read his book, by the character you give 
 of either." Another of the company asked me if I knew 
 you. I said I thought so, and would be exceedingly sorry 
 to be convinced 1 did not. What did I think of your 
 religion ? That it was too exalted and sublime to have any 
 ridiculous parts capable of being laughed at. What of that 
 illiberal mind that could fall foul of so respectable a body 
 of men as the clergy of Scotland? That the Scots Bard 
 was far above it, that no man more regarded the pastors of 
 his people when worthy of their calling, but that those he
 
 66 Correspondence between 
 
 exposed were wolves in sheep's clothing, the bane of the 
 community, and too black for his ink, low beneath his pen. 
 But I begged to appeal to the lines left in Mr, Laurie's 
 manse as proof positive the clergy were not attacked in a 
 collective body. The writers [lawyers] had in my time 
 pensioned three men to quit practice in their calling, as 
 their characters were too atrocious for the reputation of the 
 profession. It would be much for the interest of some of 
 those he celebrates that the same delicacy should take 
 place among divines. 'T was observed I was too warm. 
 I could not acknowledge that was possible in behalf of a 
 character I knew, esteemed and admired, and which I 
 thought one must renounce both taste and every amiable 
 disposition of the human soul not to wish well to, and view 
 with that prejudice which inclines to extenuate faults that 
 may exist, instead of listing with malice to smother every 
 talent and virtue, and forge blots that never could fall from 
 either the tongue or pen that composed the "Cotter's 
 Saturday Night." Farewell. — Your much obliged friend 
 and humble servt. Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 I have seen the Dane ; ^ he is the gentlest savage ever 
 was caught. He would make no figure in Goldsmith's 
 description drawing the tiger by the tongue from his den, 
 but you may perhaps meet him where I am sorry you can- 
 not also meet me at the same time. We are all getting 
 well again as fast as we can, but that is not in a great hurry. 
 Our secret is known, but not yet declared, and my charge 
 is ready to be honorably given off my hand here. Sure you 
 think I am banished the county, or have forgot every duty, 
 when you could suppose I might still be here three months. 
 — Once more adieu !
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 167 
 
 yh Navbr. 1788. 
 
 John and his wife offer compts. I believe I shall go to 
 Edr. next week. If you write me, direct to the care of 
 William Kerr, Esq., Post Office, Edr. 
 
 (i) This day — 5th November 1788 — was the 
 hundredth anniversary of the landing of William of 
 Orange. 
 
 (2) M. Henri, her son-in-law to be. Mrs. Logan 
 of Laicht had told Burns that he was a Dane. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop, care of William Kerr, Esq., 
 Post Office, Edinburgh. 
 
 Mauchline, \y:h Nov. 1788. 
 
 Madam, — I had the very great pleasure of dining at 
 Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter women because 
 they are weak ; if it is so, Poets must be weaker still ; for 
 Misses Rachel and Keith, and Miss Georgina M'Kay, with 
 their flattering attentions and artful compliments, abso- 
 lutely turned my head. I own they did not lard me over 
 as many a Poet does his patron or still more his Patroness, 
 nor did they sugar me up as a Cameronian Preacher does 
 Jesus Christ ; but they so intoxicated me with their sly 
 insinuations and delicate innuendoes of Compliment that 
 if it had not been for a lucky recollection how much addi- 
 tional weight and lustre your good opinion and friendship 
 must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked on my- 
 self as a person of no small consequence. I dare not 
 say one word how much I was charmed with the Major's 
 friendly welcome, elegant manner and acute remark, lest 
 I should be thought to balance my orientalisms of applause 
 over against the finest Quey in Ayrshire, which he made
 
 1 68 Correspondence between 
 
 me a present of to help and adorn my farm stock. As it 
 was on Hallowday, I am determined, annually as that day 
 returns, to decorate her horns with an Ode of gratitude to 
 the family of Dunlop. 
 
 The Songs in the second Vol. of the Museum marked D. 
 are Dr. Blacklock's ; but, as I am sorry to say they are far 
 short of his other works, I, who only know the cyphers of 
 them all, shall never let it be known. Those marked T. are 
 the works of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary body 
 of the name of Tytler ; ^ a mortal who, though he drudges 
 about Edinburgh as a common Printer, with leaky shoes, 
 a sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as George-by- 
 the-grace-of-God and Solomon-the-son-of-David, yet that 
 same unknown, drunken Mortal is author and compiler of 
 three-fourths of Elliot's pompous E^icydopedia Britannica. 
 Those marked Z. I have given to the world as old verses 
 to their respective tunes ; but in fact, of a good many of 
 them, little more than the Chorus is ancient ; tho' there 
 is no reason for telling everybody this piece of intelligence. 
 Next letter I write you, I shall send one or two sets of 
 verses I intend for Johnson's third Volume. 
 
 What you mention of the thanksgiving day is inspiration 
 from above. Is it not remarkable, odiously remarkable, 
 that tho' manners are more civilized, and the rights of man- 
 kind better understood by an Augustan Century's improve- 
 ment, yet in this very reign of heavenly Hanoverianism, and 
 almost in this very year, an empire beyond the Atlantic has 
 its REVOLUTION too, and for the very same maladministra- 
 tion and legislative misdemeanours in the illustrious and 
 sapientipotent Family of Hanover as was complained of 
 in the "tyrannical and bloody house of Stuart." 
 
 So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop I shall take
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 169 
 
 the first conveniency to dedicate a day or, perhaps, two to 
 you and Friendship, under the guarantee of the Major's hos- 
 pitaHty. There will soon be threescore and ten miles of 
 permanent distance between us ; and now that your friend- 
 ship and friendly correspondence is entwisted with the heart- 
 strings of my enjoyment of life, I must indulge myself in a 
 festive day of " The feast of reason and the flow of soul." 
 — I have the honor to be, Madam, your grateful humble 
 servant, Robt. Burns. 
 
 (i) James Tytler, a son of the manse, born 1747. 
 He began life as a chemist, but ill luck, added to an 
 inclination to literary work, obliged him to give up. 
 He was practically editor of the second edition of the 
 Encyclopcedia Britaniiica (1777-84). His extraor- 
 dinary versatility is shown by the number of his 
 works, many of which he printed himself, having 
 constructed a press from old material. His works 
 include a History of Edbibm'gh and a System of 
 Geography ; besides which he translated Virgil's 
 Eclogues, wrote poetry, commented on the origin 
 and antiquity of the Scottish nation, and was a volu- 
 minous contributor to the current periodical litera- 
 ture. He also experimented with a fire balloon with 
 partial success, but want of means obliged him to 
 discontinue. From this he was nicknamed " Balloon " 
 Tytler. His political views brought him into trouble 
 as one of the Friends of the People ; he fled to Ire- 
 land, and in 1793 was outlawed by the High Court 
 of Justiciary. He died in 1804, at Salem, Mass. 
 Andrew Bell was chief proprietor and publisher of
 
 170 Correspondence between 
 
 the Encyclopcedia Britaiinica. C. Elliot was an Edin- 
 burgh publisher who had a share in the work. 
 
 Ad. Miss DuNLOPji Dunlop House. 
 
 Monday Morn. 
 
 Madam, — Tho' I am not always what Glenalvon calls 
 " The shallow fool of coward Conscience," yet I have 
 a something in my bosom, a kind of feeling of Propriety 
 or Impropriety where I am the veriest coward on earth. 
 My horrid sin of this kind against you has compleatly 
 gagged me, that I can't write to, or approach you, were it 
 to redeem me from perdition. If I can pluck up so much 
 courage, I '11 call at Dunlop-house on Wedensday or Thurs- 
 day, perhaps at Wedensday's breakfast hour. — I have the 
 honor to be, Madam, your most penitent humble servt. 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 (i) This note, undated, is placed here conjecturally. 
 The lady to whom it is addressed was doubtless 
 Agnes Dunlop, who afterwards became Mrs. Perochon 
 (see Introduction), and who was buried in the poet's 
 grave. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 Mossgill, Mauchline. 
 
 MoRHAM Mains, i-^tk Novbr. 1788. 
 [Franked by Kerr : Edinr., Fifteenth Novr. 1788.] 
 
 Dr. Sir, — I am to acknowledge the favour of two let- 
 ters * from you since my last. You don't know how much 
 I plume myself upon having credit with you to enable me 
 to incur such a debt. Yet, while I own the claim like 
 other bankrupts, I shall probably pay a very slight compo- 
 sition, but I will not, however, wish for horns to stick my
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 171 
 
 creditor or claws to dig my way out of your sight. On the 
 contrary, I am half tempted to arraign Providence that will 
 not allow me to rush into your honoured presence, were it 
 not that sovereign Power has at present made me sensible 
 things happen sometimes for the best, even when most 
 athwart our wishes; for at this moment I must confess 
 (what the week before I should have deem'd impossible) 
 that I would rather see your letter than yourself. I have 
 for some days past had a return of my former deafness, 
 brought on, too, I think, as it was before, by uneasiness of 
 mind. Mrs. Dunlop was one day taken ill, and I feared a 
 fever for her. My spirits were sunk, too, by rather uneasie 
 apprehensions about my other young people, whose situa- 
 tion is yet hid in night, and who, I much fear, are not so 
 well suited as I could wish to buffet fortune in the dark ; 
 nor do I wish the world should see my fears on that head 
 before they are removed or confirmed. 'Tis for most 
 lovers, especially of the modern cast, a more tremendous 
 venture to dare the gulph of matrimony than to jump dowm 
 the promontory of Leucatelli, for more people can swim 
 the ocean than can rise above the tide of vanity, whose 
 abyss is unfathomable. I trust, however, you have no 
 painful feeling of this truth, which has frequently cut me 
 to the quick. But to call another cause ; you ask my 
 opinion of your works. Know, other poets do the same, 
 and you may prepare to behold me bloated with full-blown 
 self-conceit. I told you I expected a sight of a tragedy 
 wrot by a farmer here. I could only obtain it on con- 
 dition of passing my august verdict on its merits. This, 
 believe me, was almost too strong a doze for all my curi- 
 osity to gulp down, for indeed I did not expect my opin- 
 ion would be such as could consistently with truth and
 
 172 Correspondence between 
 
 delicacy be told. Yet I had an irresistible desire to see 
 the work, that I might tell you what I thought of it, for 
 really I think at heart this was my motive. I promised, 
 and I honestly performed. " Darthula," ^ Mr. Mylne of 
 Lochhill's tragedy, gave me so much pleasure, that I asked 
 leave to recommend you to a reading of it should you be 
 at Haddington, and should truly be proud of myself should 
 your ideas and mine meet on its faults and beauties ; for I 
 ventured to speak my mind of both in a letter to the gen- 
 tleman who procured it for me, who told me he would send 
 it to the author, whom I have never seen, but who, I dare 
 say, is a worthy, good-hearted man, possest of a genius to 
 please others and make himself happy. He does not want 
 imagination or elevation of sentiment ; his diction is plain, 
 simple, and unaffected, without being low; his moral good 
 and naturally deduced from his story ; he introduces the 
 chorus, which I dislike, but manages it so beautifully as to 
 conquer my prejudices on that head, and I seriously advise 
 you to go four miles out of your road in coming to Had- 
 dington to see what I am convinced you will think a suffi- 
 cient reward for your trouble. Yet I will candidly own, it 
 in my mind wants something I think it would have had, 
 had it been penned by my friend. Besides, the original 
 opulence of the author did not preclude those accidental 
 advantages which decorate and call forth mediocrity often 
 on terms that all the native energy of the human soul must 
 be on the stretch to rise equal to from a less exalted ground, 
 and to which I have perhaps never seen more than one 
 man able to spring up at once unassisted from the pit of 
 helpless depression. This farmer rents ^1500 a year, and 
 has married his daughter to an agreeable man with ^\ 2,000. 
 These circumstances have made his acquaintance less
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 173 
 
 attractive to me, as they don't require such undoubted 
 powers of character as must be displayed by the man who 
 attains equal or superiour perfection without them. I 
 would gladly have transcribed some lines for you, but I 
 was trusted, and did not hold it honest even in behalf of 
 my friend. I have not time to give a critique on your 
 verses [pp. 159, 161] just now. Suffice to say, they de- 
 serve and can bear it. The song I think a sweet, simple 
 little thing, quite fit for a song, but I have not light enough 
 to sign my name, far less to say with what regard I am, Dr. 
 Burns, your sincere friend and humble servt. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 I have lighted the candle to tell you that I believe I 
 shall be in Edr. the week after next, where I may possibly 
 be forced to remain ten days longer, but if you are so good 
 as write me, address to Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, care of 
 William Kerr, Esqr., Surveyor of the General Post-Ofiice, 
 Edr., when I shall certainly get your letter. All happiness 
 ever attend you and yours wherever you go, and may you 
 meet friends everywhere as sincere as those you leave be- 
 hind you. I wish you to be as much pleased with the lat- 
 ter as the former, or that any new acquisition should sink 
 the value of the old. Farewell. John and his wife offer 
 compts. 
 
 i^th Novr. '88. 
 
 (i) Mrs. Dunlop must have forgotten hers of the 
 5th; it is unlikely that she received tvvo letters — 
 both missing — between the 5th and the 13th. 
 
 (2) James Mylne, farmer and poet, of Lochhill, in 
 the parish of Morham. He died in December of
 
 174 Correspondence between 
 
 this year, and his Hterary remains, about which Burns 
 was consulted, were pubHshed in 1790 under the title 
 of Poems, Consisting of Misccllancons Pieces and 
 Two Tragedies, by the late James Mylne, at Lochhill. 
 
 To Burns. 
 
 MoRHAM Mains, z^th Nov. 178S. 
 
 Dr. Burns, — I have been very ill since I wrote you 
 
 last. I fear my constitution sympathizes too much with 
 
 G. R. [King George III.], for, eating and sleeping and 
 
 looking about as well as women at threescore commonly 
 
 do, I am deprived of my senses. I have been almost blind 
 
 and wholly deaf for a fortnight past. I hope you shall 
 
 never be so well acquainted with this state as to judge 
 
 truly how much commiseration it claims. How I pity the 
 
 King ! — 
 
 When eye nor ear convey or light or sound, 
 The famish'd mind can hardly stand her ground; 
 Her gates block'd up from every aid beneath. 
 The wicket scarce admits of hope or faith ; 
 The noblest virtues of the soul decay, 
 Even meek-eyed charity is chased away ; 
 Poor fancy tamed strikes but unmeaning notes. 
 As birds in cages swell their joyless throats. 
 Where Colston's shady path 'twixt hedge-rows lay 
 I chearless wand'ring stray'd the other day. 
 Deep sunk in mud the shoes desert my tread ; 
 Close clasping boughs thick arch above my head ; 
 Angry heaven's dark black'ning aspect lowers ; 
 Chill bitter rain in tumbling torrents pours ; 
 Half blind, and blasted by the breath of Fate, 
 Deaf to the voice that warn'd me of my state; 
 Above the threat'ning thunders roll'd unheard, 
 Around, red forky light'nings flash'd unfear'd ; 
 In languid fullness thought itself was lost. 
 And too insipid even to be crost.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 175 
 
 Now piercing wet dash'd cold through every part, 
 
 A friendly letter scrimply eased my heart : 
 
 Its kindly warmth (I think) repell'd the rain, 
 
 There blustering Boreas seem'd to beat in vain. 
 
 O'er the loved lines remembrance grateful run, 
 
 The poet bade me, " My best duty done, 
 
 Then chearful welcome what I could not shun." 
 
 'Tis the first duty sure that's in our power, 
 
 To fly each tempest of life's stormy hour. 
 
 To right, to left, intent I turn my eye. 
 
 And search if haply shelter might be nigh. 
 
 I spy'd where long imbower'd in lofty wood 
 
 The stately dome of Lennox-love ^ has stood ; 
 
 Faint memory quicken'd at the gladsome view. 
 
 Hollows on hope a back-scent to pursue : 
 
 In early prime I held at school a place 
 
 With four young inmates of the Stuart race. 
 
 I thither sped ; the hospitable gate 
 
 Spontaneous folds me from the winter's hate, 
 
 A gentle nymph in mildest accent spoke 
 
 (I heard not when the aweful thunder broke) : 
 
 Kindness can o'er the elements prevail. 
 
 My ear delighted caught her soothing tale. 
 
 " My friend, come in this sacred mansion know, 
 
 A secret few are ever taught below 
 
 (Though Cupid always like a child appears); 
 
 Friendship can live to more than forty years." 
 
 Fair Stuart's secret I to you impart. 
 
 And thank the friendly hand that warm'd my heart. 
 
 Spite of my internal heaviness, I have pleasure in marking 
 by what broken starts your genius bursts forth like the first 
 streams that enlighten the dawn of morn, and rather break 
 darkness as give light. I never suspected any thinking 
 being wiser than myself had formed detached lines unap- 
 propriated to any particular purpose, but while this similar- 
 ity between a wonderful man and a silly woman amuses me, 
 I am not able to judge your work ; not for want of leisure.
 
 1/6 Correspondence between 
 
 for to read your letters is my most important business, the 
 most pleasant and most profitable I have, but that my 
 giddy head is unable to retain thoughts. I shall go to 
 Edr. on Wednesday, if I am tolerably well, where I shall 
 be glad Lady Wallace don't keep me till you are gone. 
 My son could not oblige me more than by his kind behav- 
 iour to you, nor do I know which would flatter me most, 
 to believe it the genuine produce of innate taste or of com- 
 placence to mine. Meanwhile, I am pleased to pronounce 
 him deficient in neither. As I will carry this to town to be 
 franked, if I then can fix my time for being west, I will tell 
 it in a postscript. Adieu. 
 
 MoRHAM, Wednesday. 
 
 Here I am still. A letter this moment tells me Lady 
 Wallace cannot leave town this week ; so I have stole two 
 days more of the rational delight a country farmhouse 
 would afford me were I in a state to enjoy it. I am sure 
 nothing in the metropolis can replace it. That you may 
 understand the former pages of this, I must tell you in 
 plain prose that I found in Miss Stuart of Blantyre the 
 companion of my childhood. We met as we parted after 
 an interval of forty-five years. She showed me my name 
 sewed at that time in her sampler, inclosed in a heart, and 
 amid those of her parents and seven brothers and sisters, 
 most of whom are now dead — and so small and finely 
 wrought that I could not perceive it without glasses. Our 
 dialogue on this occasion was much as follows. Indeed 
 the only poetic fiction is the thunder, for the incident of 
 the letter was real, as it supplied the place of a wet stom- 
 acher to a very clay-cold, shivering, lifeless heart, after the 
 only shower I have seen in this country in seven months.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 177 
 
 She. Behold the pledge of Innocence and Youth ; 
 Work'd in true blue, the emblem of pure truth, 
 Your name there stands ! 
 
 7. That little name that fills so small a space 
 Stands highly honoured midst your royal race. 
 
 She. Mark where it stands : my fondness fixt your part, 
 Just in the centre of my inmost heart. 
 My father, mother, brothers, sisters round ; 
 Alas ! How many strew the fatal ground ! 
 
 /. Alas ! How vain for past events to mourn, 
 Then let us welcome what we cannot shun. 
 To her your moral, you her kindness I disclose. 
 And bless in dreams each friend of my repose. 
 
 Poor Mr. Mylne, the poet I spoke of in my last, unfor- 
 tunately for me, but more so for him, was kept out of my 
 sight by his wife and seven of his children being all in fevers. 
 He is said to be a man of great worth, but I am told I 
 should not like him. I cannot think how people know, for 
 I never can guess myself who I would like beforehand, sel- 
 dom tell why after. 
 
 (i) Lennoxlove — the name of the seat of the 
 Stuarts of Blantyre, near Morham Mains. 
 
 Mr. RoBT. Burns, Mosegill, Mauchline. 
 
 Then, Mosegill and Mauchline crossed out, and 
 " at Ellisland near Dumfries " written in. 
 
 RosECOURT,! Edr., Tuesday. 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinr., Third Decemr. 1788.] 
 
 I am now in Edr., from whence I said in the former 
 
 sheet I would write and acquaint you of my motions. I 
 
 cannot hope to be in Ayrshire for yet a week longer, nor 
 
 dare I hope you will still be there when I come. I sin- 
 
 VOL. I. — 12
 
 178 Correspondence between 
 
 cerely regret this, as seeing the very few friends I Uke is 
 the greatest enjoyment the world has in store for me, and 
 it is with peculiar pleasure I think you permit me to enroll 
 you in their number, and flatter me that you are sincere, as 
 well as polite, when you return me the compliment. I 
 shall see my good friend Mr. Kerr to-morrow, and commit 
 this to his care for Mossgiel, as I trust, if you are removed, 
 your brother will have your address, a deposit with which 
 you have forgot to favour me ; and in the meantime I shall 
 indulge myself in scribbling whatever comes uppermost, 
 since it will cost you nothing but the trouble of reading, 
 which you know is in your own power to take or not, and 
 which I allege you accordingly sometimes decline. I fol- 
 low your idea of a progressive sheet, to put you in mind of 
 it, as a plan from which I have already drawn many visions 
 of future delight, as I am conscious your time must now be 
 much too precious to hope you can give me much of it at 
 once, but now and then a start of a few lines may be a 
 relaxation to yourself, and a feast to me beyond what three 
 courses and a dessert could afford. As to your promised 
 visit, whenever you should hear I was come home, I must 
 not reckon on that but as a poetic flight ; when I consider 
 the many important affairs lie on your hand, and the many 
 for whom all your utmost efforts are now become requisite, 
 reason tells me it cannot, indeed ought not to be more. 
 And I am too truly your friend to wish you even to see 
 me at the expense of doing what you would find took you 
 too long from the inspection of your now complicated 
 cares, and would appear to other people as well as to 
 yourself, when past, too great a sacrifice to be made to 
 any friend who can be of no real use to you or your 
 family. If I may judge by what I have seen of late, a
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 179 
 
 farmer has no time almost at liberty ; at least I have never 
 in seven months seen my son able to afford one day's 
 absence, seldom two hours, without finding something neg- 
 lected and wrong at his return. His exertions are not 
 called for by so many voices as yours ; if they are neces- 
 sary, yours must be still more so, and I must, although 
 't is arguing so powerfully against myself, remind you that 
 both you and I must and ought now to live more for our 
 children than for ourselves : so that I dare not even wish 
 you to come from so enormous a distance to see me with 
 so much fatigue and loss of time to yourself as it were 
 to come for a day from Nithsdale. Yet, should you be 
 remaining in our county when I return, I will positively 
 insist on your promise, and send to claim it, if you let me 
 know by return of post that you will be found so late as 
 the middle of next week ; for I think my time will be there 
 and thereabouts ; but as it does not depend upon myself, 
 I cannot be positive to a few days out or in. I would like 
 to know who your song " Clarinda " ^ was addrest to, or if 
 it was quite Q.jeu d' esprit. Pray tell me, since you despise 
 prudence so much as sometimes to tell a woman a secret, 
 which I was so unfaithful as to read to one man before you 
 had warned me it was one. However, it is of small con- 
 sequence, as he is little in the world, and wholly unac- 
 quainted with the travelled monkey^ whose character I 
 read, but neither named him nor the author. This was 
 the more unfortunate as it was the only instance in which 
 I ever used such a liberty with any production you had 
 entrusted me with, but I really was much taken with the 
 drawing both of it and Crochallan, and wished to see if 
 other people would be the same. The beginning, I think 
 likeways, has a most masterly strength and originaUty,
 
 i8o Correspondence between 
 
 which truly marks it your own. I am only angry at these 
 kind of masculine productions because they are, when I 
 read them before my trifles, like a beef-steak syned 
 [rinsed] down with water gruel, and make me sick of 
 an amusement pleased me before. Yet, since like a child 
 I have found pleasure in catching butterflys, why should 
 I not just go on playing myself so innocently? Will it 
 not even be more childish to give up the chase in a pet 
 because your game is an ortalonque and mine only a 
 fly ? — not a gnat, but of those harmless insects that never 
 sting myself or any one else ; whereas when you fall a-sat- 
 irizing, 't is as dangerous as King Henry the Fourth's bear- 
 hunting with which they entertained the ladies of the 
 French court, where the bears were like to hug their pur- 
 suers to death. Especially when you attack the clergy or 
 the booksellers, they threaten you with a mortal squeeze 
 in return, which I dread may hurt you more essentially 
 than your sharpest sting can do them. They are like 
 game-cocks ; they fight with more than natural weapons, 
 and strike their antagonist through the heart. Nor can 
 any letter of mine protect it, as yours did mine in the 
 piece I send you called " Lennoxlove : inscribed to a 
 Friend." Pray tell me what you think of it. I think you 
 were guilty of more than female affectation when you sup- 
 pose me wanting leizure to read anything you send me. 
 Know I would steal those precious minutes from meat, 
 sleep, company — I'm afraid from my prayers, could I 
 not otherways command it. But you will retaliate, and 
 say with some shadow of reason too, that 't is all affecta- 
 tion I have said about your ideal visit, for had I set half 
 the value on your time which I pretend to do, I would not 
 have made you squander so much of it at present to so
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop i8i 
 
 little purpose. So I shall end this, as Bailie Simond does 
 his dinner, with " Nothing furder," supposing you may also 
 use his words too, and reply " I have got satisfaction." 
 Adieu ! Write me to the care of William Kerr, Esqr., 
 Surveyor of the General Post-Office, Edr., who will know 
 to give it me here, or send it after me should I be gone. 
 Dr. Sir, farewell. Write me, I beg you, for I am miserably 
 deaf and blind, nor could powers inferior to your own 
 give pleasure to your sincere friend, 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Rose Court was a house in George Street, the 
 first edifice built in New Edinburgh, the foundation 
 stone having been laid in 1767. Possibly Lady 
 Wallace removed thither after the fire in her house 
 in James's Court. 
 
 (2) " A Farewell to Clarinda," sent to Mrs. Dun- 
 lop early in the year. See antea, p. 6^. 
 
 (3) See Burns's letter of 23rd October, mitea, 
 p. 157. 
 
 Burns's wanderings between Dumfriesshire and 
 Ayrshire now came to a close. In the first week of 
 December he brought his wife to the banks of the 
 Nith, lodging her temporarily in a neighbouring 
 farm-house, as the building at Ellisland was not yet 
 quite finished. It was a happy time for the poet, and 
 his satisfaction with himself and the world showed it- 
 self in his writings, both prose and verse, the latter 
 of which included about this period the " Elegy on 
 the Year 1788," "Robin shure in Hairst," "Cale- 
 donia, a Ballad," " I hae a wife o' my ain."
 
 1 82 Correspondence between 
 
 Note. 
 
 The following letter was first printed in the second 
 volume of the Wori's of Robert Burns, edited by Dr. 
 Currie, published in 1800. There, however, it was 
 printed without the words of " Auld lang syne," but 
 with a foot-note of reference to the different version 
 sent by Burns to George Thomson in 1793, and given 
 in the fourth volume of Currie's edition. This orig- 
 inated an inference that the same version of the song 
 had been sent by Burns to both correspondents ; and 
 subsequent editors, improving upon that inference, 
 printed the letter to Mrs. Dunlop in combination 
 with the words of the song as written for Thomson. 
 Distrust of Currie's methods kept alive a lingering 
 suspicion that, in this case, as in numerous others, he 
 had tampered with the original letter. Scott Douglas, 
 editing the Works of Robert Burns, 1877, wrote: 
 " The poet transcribed the song for Mrs. Dunlop in 
 his letter, dated 17th December 1788, and it is un- 
 fortunate that Dr. Currie did not print a verbatim 
 copy of it along with that letter, instead of simply 
 referring his reader to the Thomson correspondence 
 for it." Many a student of Burns, before and since, 
 has wished that Currie had done this ; and has criti- 
 cised the " unfortunate " methods practised by him 
 upon this, and upon many others of these letters. 
 
 Now that wish is gratified ; for the words of *' Auld 
 lang syne," herein given, are transcribed verbatim 
 from the original Burns manuscript, now in the pos- 
 session of Mrs. J. V. L. Pruyn, Albany, N. Y. A 
 photographic fac-simile of the document was pub- 
 lished in The Century Magazine for February, 1898,
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 183 
 
 in illustration of an article by Cuyler Reynolds, 
 entitled The Manuscript of '^ Aiild Lang Syne." 
 
 The Pruyn manuscript consists of a single quarto leaf 
 of the Burns letter, having on one side the first three 
 verses and the chorus, and on the other side the last 
 two verses of " Auld lang syne," the prose lines begin- 
 ning " Light be the turf," and the first verse only of 
 " My Bonie Mary " ; so that both the beginning and 
 the ending of the letter have either been lost since 
 Currie had it, or are now in other and unknown hands. 
 
 The mistake in writing " sye " for " syne," in the 
 fourth line of the chorus, was undoubtedly only a slip 
 of the poet's pen. With him, as with most other 
 writers, such slips occasionally happen ; and in the 
 hurried way in which he was often obliged to write, 
 that is no wonder. In the copy of " Tarn o' Shanter," 
 which he wrote for Mrs. Dunlop, there are two in- 
 stances of important omissions. He copied : — 
 They had been for weeks thegither, 
 
 omitting the word " fu'," which gives pith to the Hne. 
 And again, he copied : — 
 
 The Landlady grew gracious, 
 
 leaving out " and Tam," without whose name it were 
 doubtful upon whom she bestowed her " favors, secret, 
 sweet and precious." Indeed, Mrs. Dunlop herself had 
 been in doubt, for she supplies the omitted words in this 
 way: — 
 
 The Landlady grew unco gracious. 
 Acknowledgment is due to Mrs. J. V. L. Pruyn, to 
 Mr. Cuyler Reynolds, and to The Century Company, 
 for united consent to the present use of the original 
 
 Burns letter. R. B. Adam. 
 
 Buffalo, N. Y., 7th March, 1898.
 
 184 Correspondence between 
 
 To Mrs. DuNLOP. 
 
 Ellisland, \-]th December 1788. 
 
 My dear honored Friend, — Yours, dated Edinburgh, 
 which I have just read, makes me very unhappy. " Almost 
 blind and wholly deaf" are melancholy news of human- 
 nature ; but when told of a much-loved and honored friend, 
 they carry misery in the sound. Goodness on your part 
 and gratitude on mine began a tie which has gradually and 
 strongly entwisted itself among the dearest chords of my 
 bosom ; and I tremble at the omens of your late and 
 present ailing habit and shattered health. You miscalcu- 
 late matters widely when you forbid my waiting on you, 
 lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. My small scale of 
 farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than what 
 you have lately seen at Moreham Mains. But be that as it 
 may, the heart of the man and the fancy of the poet are the 
 two grand considerations for which I live : if miry ridges and 
 dirty dunghills are to engross the best part of the functions 
 of my soul immortal, I had better have been a rook or a 
 magpie all at once, and then I should not have been 
 plagued with any ideas superior to breaking of clods and 
 picking up grubs, not to mention barn-door cocks or mal- 
 lards, creatures with which I could almost exchange lives at 
 any time. If you continue so deaf, I am afraid a visit will be 
 no great pleasure to either of us ; but if I hear you are got so 
 well again as to be able to relish conversation, look you to it, 
 madam, for I will make my threatenings good. I am to be 
 at the New-year-day fair of Ayr, and by all that is sacred 
 in the world, friend ! I will come and see you. . . . 
 
 Your meeting, which you so well describe, with your old 
 school- fellow and friend was truly interesting. Out upon 
 the ways of the world ! They spoil the " social offsprings
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 185 
 
 of the heart." Two veterans of the "men of the world " 
 would have met with little more heart-workings than two 
 old hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the 
 Scotch phrase "Auld lang syne" exceedingly expressive? 
 There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled 
 through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old 
 Scotch songs. I shall give you the verses on the other 
 sheet, as I suppose Mr. Kerr will save you the postage. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE.i 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 And never thought upon ? 
 Let 's hae a waught o' Malaga, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 Chorus. 
 For auld lang syne, my jo, 
 
 For auld lang syne ; 
 Let 's hae a waught o' Malaga, 
 
 For auld lang sye. [sic] 
 
 And surely ye '11 be your pint-stoup ! 
 
 And surely I '11 be mine ! 
 And we '11 tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes, 
 
 And pou't the gowans fine ; 
 But we 've wander'd mony a weary foot 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 We twa hae paidl't i' the bum 
 
 Frae morning sun till dine ; 
 But seas between us braid hae roar'd, 
 
 Sin auld lang syne. 
 For auld, &c. 
 
 And there 's a han' my trusty fiere, 
 
 And gie 's a han' o' thine ; 
 And we '11 tak a right guidewilly waught. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 old 
 
 draught 
 days of long ago. 
 
 tankard 
 
 pulled 
 
 waded 
 
 dinner-time 
 
 broad 
 
 friend 
 hand 
 
 draught with 
 goodwill
 
 1 86 Correspondence between 
 
 Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven-inspired 
 poet who composed this glorious fragment ! There is more 
 of the fire of native genius in it than in half a dozen of mod- 
 ern English Bacchanalians. Now I am on my hobby-horse, 
 I cannot help inserting two other old stanzas which please 
 me mightily. 
 
 MY BONIE MARYi 
 
 Go, fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
 
 And fill it in a silver tassie, cup 
 
 That I may drink, before I go, 
 
 A service to my bonie lassie : 
 The boat rocks at the Pier o' Leith, 
 
 Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry, 
 The ship rides by the Berwick-Law, 
 
 And I maun leave my bonie Mary. 
 
 The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 
 
 The glittering spears are ranked ready. 
 The shouts o' war are heard afar, 
 
 The battle closes deep and bloody : 
 It 's not the roar o' sea or shore 
 
 Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
 Nor shouts o' war that 's heard afar — 
 
 It 's leaving thee, my bonie Mary ! 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 (i) Burns deliberately misled Mrs. Dunlop about 
 the authorship of both " Auld Lang Syne " and " My 
 Bonie Mary," just as he told Thomson that he re- 
 covered the former from an old man's singing. 
 " Auld Lang Syne " was indeed modelled on one or 
 other of two older songs — one, called " Old long- 
 syne," attributed to both Sir Robert Aytoun and 
 Francis Sempill, the other called " Auld Lang Syne,"
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 187 
 
 by Allan Ramsay. Yet the whole is, to all intents 
 and purposes, Burns's own, and the finest stanzas, 
 the third and fourth, are entirely original. So with 
 regard to " My Bonie Mary," Burns writes in his 
 notes in the Mtiseitm that only the first four lines 
 were old, the rest was his own. These four lines he 
 probably took from a homely ballad stated by Buchan 
 to have been composed in 1636 by Alexander Leslie 
 of Edinburgh, grandfather of Archbishop Sharp. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 
 Ellisland, Dumfries. Dunlop, 24^5 Decbr. 1788. 
 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinr., Twenty-ninth Deer. 1788.] 
 
 Dr. Sir, — I am quite in haste to tell you, as I sincerely 
 think you will have pleasure in that intelligence, which to 
 most part of the world may be very insignificant, that I 
 am once more returned to Ayrshire, and, what is yet more, 
 to my hearing. As to sight, the spectacles do so well now 
 that I almost forget I have lost it. Yet, great is the loss, 
 since it makes one less able to read the soul in the face of 
 our friends. But at threescore one is seldom put to any 
 trouble in that way; so they may the more readily and 
 quietly acquiesce in those faults of the eyes which only pre- 
 clude an examination of nonentities, tho', thank God ! I 
 have some good friends whose characteristic features are 
 by nature too strongly marked for me ever, I hope, to 
 mistake them, and in whom I always find out all and even 
 more than I could ever have looked for when my percep- 
 tions were at the best. It is now ten days I have been 
 here — one half of which I have passed in bed without 
 ever having it made. Yet this I reckon well spent, not, 
 as the country folks say, because we get a sight of our
 
 1 88 Correspondence between 
 
 sins in that situation, but that I found this confinement 
 tended to remove the temporary punishment of mine by 
 removing the deafness which is at present perfectly gone, 
 and I cannot express the pleasure I feel in being able to 
 share the trifles which commonly circulate around us, and 
 which reason pretends to despise, but without which all her 
 boasted treasures leave us wretched. You say somewhere 
 " Man is not a happy creature," and a few days ago I 
 would have re-echoed "nor woman neither;" but as I am 
 one, I frequently change my mind, and when I received 
 your great packet, found I thought differently from what 
 I had just been doing the moment before. How kind it 
 was to make it so large, when others would never have 
 thought of bestowing a single line on the poor miserable 
 who could not see to read it. Well, I believe the very 
 weight of it sunk my sorrows before I got at the inside. 
 You know 't is a poetic maxim of mine " Kindness can o'er 
 the elements prevail," and I assure you it has at least in my 
 constitution a wonderful power over every distress and 
 disorder, both of body and mind. Were death himself to 
 attack me, I should draw much supporting courage from 
 the consideration that my obsequies would be engraven 
 on the heart of a poet who, I flatter myself, would be too 
 much concerned to write my epitaph, and might travesty 
 Pope, and, striking his pensive bosom, say " Here is not 
 Gay," and say so without falsehood or affectation ; for I 
 deceive myself most egregiously if you would not be 
 melancholy for at least two hours after the first intimation 
 of my demise. I even glory in the thought, and would 
 not exchange it to make any human creature, even myself, 
 happy for double the time. Is not this a noble swatch 
 [sample] of female generosity that can so sincerely rejoice
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 189 
 
 in the distress of another ; yet, take my word on it, what- 
 ever others may pretend, we are all alike in these things, 
 and our greatest fear ever is that our friends will be too 
 soon comforted, not that they will grieve too tenderly. 
 However, spite of all your pains to prepare me, I don't 
 expect to creep into my last sleep this year yet, nor am I 
 really shaken with illness, as my female weak way of com- 
 plaining has led you to believe. On the contrary, I have 
 spent this summer and harvest upon the whole in more 
 health and chearful ease than I had known for several 
 years past, and spite of a few sharp rubs of sickness now 
 and then, have been far better in general than I had for a 
 long while ever looked for a possibility of being in this 
 wafe [solitary], deserted world ; for, spite of myself, I still 
 find it so whenever I begin to be sick or serious, unless the 
 Muse, the Bard, or the friend step kindly forward to my 
 relief. To these I have of late been greatly indebted. 
 The first withdraws as our society here grows more nu- 
 merous ; the last cruel fortune has dragged to a woful dis- 
 tance, and I ought not to struggle against her, but welcome 
 what I cannot shun as chearfully as I can, nor even look 
 fonvard to Ayr Fair with those expectations which the 
 beginning of your last gave birth to, and the end bid 
 vanish into disappointment. And did you really read my 
 lines half a dozen times over? And why don't you tell 
 me their faults? Or are they still not worth a criticism 
 from your hand? I have a family of very unfortunate 
 friends indeed, to whom fate seems to deny everything, 
 and to whom I am therefore able to deny nothing, not 
 even my rhymes. To them I have even left some written 
 copies of one or two pieces, among which is this last. 
 So, should you adopt anything of mine, you may be
 
 190 Correspondence between 
 
 already detected. But I have a better opinion of your 
 taste than to imagine you run the least risque of making 
 so foolish a sacrifice of your own professional fame. In- 
 deed you have many of mine that never saw the light but 
 to yourself, and your letting it in upon them would strike 
 deeper against you in my mind than as a poet. I there- 
 fore look upon it as an impossibility from the friend I so 
 highly regard. I like your first "Hermitage"^ best; 
 indeed I like it very much. The second is too gloomy, 
 and the change indicates a fickleness I don't wish to meet. 
 In short I am vext to see my favourite discarded for any 
 rival whatever, and feel for it as if it were myself rejected 
 for some newer acquaintance. You see how much I love 
 auld-lang-syne, and what I think due to it. I have found 
 out a rustic poetess ^ whose ambition aspires to be a 
 chambermaid or bairn's-woman [nurse], but if you are at 
 the fair you shall know all I know about her, and see some 
 of her works ; not that I admire them except for being 
 hers. Besides, she writes blank verse, which I don't like. 
 Did you ever see an Ode wrot by an officer beginning 
 " Go, little boy, to yonder tower"? I would wish to hear 
 your opinion of it, that I may see how far it agrees with or 
 differs from mine. You did right to send your last by a 
 private hand, for indeed 't is a mistake that my friend 
 Kerr would save me postage. I assure you that is a dis- 
 tinction he reserves for the Scots Bard alone, "who (as 
 he told me) was the only instance ought to claim an ex- 
 emption from the obligations of his duty ; that to favour 
 him could never be defrauding the publick, who were all 
 his debtors," ^ since which I have given him the trouble 
 of all I wrot you. For those you write me I pay them with 
 great pleasure when I cannot get them without it. Only,
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 191 
 
 don't forget the word single, the omission of which some- 
 times cost fivepence. I wish to God you instead of G. R. 
 had as much for every word you could write. Miss M'Kay 
 is gone. Lady Wallace, Mr. and Mrs. Henri, and my 
 former family [are] to pass the winter and spring here ; so 
 that we are too many people to have much society, at 
 least of the kind I reUsh most, but which I very seldom 
 find ; for, like all delicate pleasures, it is too easily broken 
 in upon, and at my time of life a small house and a small 
 company seem most consonant to the indolent dispositions 
 of the mind. Even my own colony are oft too large for 
 my shrunk-up soul, whose comprehensive faculties could 
 be all satisfied at Morham, but are sometimes surfeited in 
 this crowded circle. But this is a language no man can 
 understand under thirty, and you must tire of it as I do 
 of hearing French, which my ear cannot interpret a single 
 word of; unless your ideas may perhaps be as premature 
 as they are superlative and spontaneous. Adieu. 
 
 My having left no room for a subscription on the other 
 side is proof positive of that esteem and regard with which 
 I am your obliged friend and humble servant, 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Burns must have sent Mrs. Dunlop a MS. 
 of the second version of the lines " Written in Friars' 
 Carse Hermitage." He transcribed the first for her 
 in his letter of the 2nd August. 
 
 (2) Janet Little (1759-1813), a poetess, known as 
 " the Scottish Milkmaid." She entered the service 
 of Mrs. Henri as a dairy-maid at Loudoun Castle, 
 and published a volume of poems in 1792. She mar- 
 ried John Richmond, a labourer, at Loudoun Castle.
 
 192 Correspondence between 
 
 (3) Kerr bore a reputation for much greater 
 laxity in the matter of franking his friends' com- 
 munications. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. DuNLOP of Dunlop, 
 Dunlop House. 
 
 Ellisland, Nezv-year-day Morning 1789. 
 
 This, Dear Madam, is a morning of wishes ; and would 
 to God that I came under the Apostle James's description : 
 — " The effectual, fervent Prayer of a righteous ma?i avail- 
 eth much." In that case, Madam, you would welcome in 
 a year full of blessings : everything that obstructs or disturbs 
 tranquillity and self-enjoyment should be removed, and 
 every pleasure that frail humanity can taste should be yours. 
 I own myself so little a Presbyterian that I approve of set 
 times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion 
 for breaking in on that habituated routine of life and 
 thought which is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind 
 of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, to a 
 state very little superior to mere machinery. This day ; 
 the first Sunday of May — a breezy, blue-skyed noon some- 
 time about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm 
 sunny day about the end of Autumn ; these, time out of 
 mind, have been with me a kind of holidays. Not like 
 the Sacramental, executioner-face of a Kilmarnock Com- 
 munion ; but to laugh or cry, be cheerful or pensive, moral 
 or devout, according to the mood and tense of the season 
 and myself I believe I owe this to that glorious paper 
 in the Spectator, " The Vision of Mirza," a piece that 
 struck my young fancy before I was capable of fixing 
 an idea to a word of three syllables. "On the fifth day 
 of the moon which, according to the custom of my fore-
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 193 
 
 fathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, 
 and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high 
 hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in 
 meditation and prayer," etc. 
 
 We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance 
 or structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seem- 
 ing caprices in them, that one shall be particularly pleased 
 with this thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a 
 different cast, makes no extraordinary impression. I have 
 some favorite flowers in Spring, among which are the moun- 
 tain daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, 
 the budding birk and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and 
 hang over with particular delight. I never hear the loud, 
 solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild, 
 mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover in an autumnal 
 morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthu- 
 siasm of devotion or poesy. Tell me, my dear friend, to 
 what can this be owing ? Are we a piece of machinery that, 
 like the Eolian harp, passive, takes the impression of the 
 passing accident? Or do these workings argue something 
 within us above the trodden clod ? I own myself partial to 
 these proofs of those awful and important realities, a God 
 that made all things, man's immaterial and immortal nature, 
 and a world of weal or woe beyond death and the grave, 
 these proofs that we deduct by dint of our own powers and 
 observation. However respectable individuals in all ages 
 have been, I have ever looked on mankind in the lump to 
 be nothing better than a foolish, headstrong, credulous, 
 unthinking mob ; and their universal belief has ever had 
 extremely little weight with me. Still I am a very sincere 
 believer in the Bible ; but I am drawn by the conviction of 
 a man, not the halter of an ass. 
 VOL. I. — 13
 
 194 Correspondence between 
 
 Apropos to an ass, how do you like the following Apos- 
 trophe to Dulness, which I intend to interweave in "The 
 Poet's Progress " ? ^ — 
 
 O Dulness, portion of the truly blest ! 
 Calm, shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 
 Thy sons ne'er madden in th^ fierce extremes 
 Of Fortune's polar frost or torrid beams. 
 If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
 With sober, selfish ease they sip it up ; 
 Conscious their great success they well deserve, 
 They only wonder some folks do not starve : 
 The sage, grave hern thus, easy, picks his frog, 
 And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog. 
 When Disappointment snaps the thread of hope ; 
 When, through disastrous night, they darkling grope ; 
 With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
 And just conclude that " Fools are Fortune's care." 
 So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
 Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 
 Not so the idle Muses' madcap train. 
 Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain : 
 In equanimity they never dwell. 
 By turns in soaring Heaven or vaulted Hell. 
 
 I have sketched two or three verses to you, but as a private 
 opportunity offers immediately, I must defer transcribing 
 them. A servant of mine goes to Ayrshire with this, but I 
 shall write you by post. If I am to be so happy as have it 
 in my power to see you when I go to Ayr-fair, which I very 
 much doubt, I will try to dine at Dunlop in the Wednesday 
 of that week. 
 
 If it is good weather in the fair-week, I shall try my ut- 
 most ; for if I hit my aim aright, it will not be in my power 
 in any given time again. — Farewell ! Robt. Burns. 
 
 (i) See antea, p. 159.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 195 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, 
 Ellisland, near Dumfries. 
 
 1st Jan. 1789. 
 
 Dr. Sm, — This is the first day of a New Year. Let me 
 begin it by wishing everything good to him whose genius, 
 but yet more whose kind attentions, has conferred unnum- 
 bered obUgations and pleasures on the last ; whose corre- 
 spondence has been to me a varied scene of hope and 
 delight, and an intercourse of that mixture between amuse- 
 ment and esteem to which I believed I was become wholly 
 superannuated. May the coming months arrive to you full 
 fraught with all your wishes, and those wishes be what man- 
 kind's seldom are, directed to what can make your hap- 
 piness most truly permanent. Your powers, my good 
 friend, are suited, like the genial rays of the sun, to all 
 climes and seasons ; they possess a varied temperament for 
 every soil, and I find your letters equally soothe a mel- 
 ancholy, rejoice a merry, or awaken a languid hour ; while 
 they please and oblige me alike at every moment, and in 
 every mood. As for myself, in perfect health, restored to 
 my hearing, surrounded by the numerous family about me, 
 easie and seemingly pleased, beheving those at a distance 
 from me have likewise room to be so too ; what have I 
 more to ask at this calm evening twilight of my life but 
 grateful sensibility to taste and acknowledge so many bless- 
 ings? Yet still I own I look forward with anxious impa- 
 tience to the time of Ayr-fair, and often ask myself the 
 question if you will be there ? How gladly would I pay 
 double postage for a letter, even tho' the word single should 
 not be on the back of it, that put it in my power to be no 
 longer sceptic on so interesting an article of futurity. Were 
 some fairy or genie to afford me three wishes, I verily 
 believe just now the first I should form would -be that this
 
 I q6 Correspondence between 
 
 were the Fair-day, the second, that you came to it, and the 
 third, that you left it for your friends here ; for, beUeve me, 
 though I am perfectly sensible I ought not to wish or ap- 
 prove of your coming from Dumfries to see us, I shall be 
 extremely proud you can ever once imagine the visit worth 
 the trouble of your making it from Ayr. I therefore have 
 resolved to tell you so, though you must pay dear for the 
 intelligence, as my friend Kerr is, I believe, gone to Lon- 
 don, and I could not resolve to run the risque of missing 
 the pleasure you had in speculation for me by delaying to 
 say I would count the days betwixt in hope of its accom- 
 phshment. Besides, though this is a sort of will-o'-the-wisp 
 idea, I cannot help at same time suggesting that I don't 
 think it is more than twenty miles further if you go to 
 Haddington, as you told me you must do, to come this 
 road ; and twenty miles is not a great deal out of a poet's 
 way to see any friends whom his fancy represents in so fair 
 a garb as to deserve his notice in despite of both time and 
 space, those fatal destroyers of all worldly joys, I have 
 read your 22nd of Novbr.^ Why do you tell me 'tis dis- 
 simulation? 'tis the emanations of a heavenly spirit, the 
 soundest judgment and the most benevolent soul. I have 
 long suspected no man was free from fraudful affectation, 
 but I must do you the justice to say that you are almost the 
 only one creature I have ever seen have the good sense to 
 affect something that could render them the more estimable 
 by being real. Most of us leave nature only to assume 
 something worse in her stead. You have certainly only 
 put on her fairest clothing, and it sits so becomingly that 
 I 'm sure I should never have guessed it was not your own 
 property. Shall I for the future, when I admire your 
 sentiments, surmise to myself that the writer may be but a
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 197 
 
 wolf in sheep's clothing, or believe you in earnest wherever 
 I would wish my friend to be so? Indeed, this is so much 
 my native bias that I need hardly take advice on the sub- 
 ject, as I much doubt if it is in my power to run counter, 
 even were I to hear an assertion from the mouth of truth 
 herself, as you say, for I can hardly take your own word 
 that you are not expressing exactly what you think in that 
 paper where your principles appear to me as undisguised as 
 your expression ; your very wishes wear but a gauze veil, 
 which needs not the lynx's eye of friendship to see through 
 it. I wrot you some days ago by Edr., but apprehend you 
 may not get my letter should Kerr be gone before its arrival 
 there. I shall therefore send this the other road, and if 
 you won't be ill pleased with me for enlarging its size, will 
 enclose an elegy on the death of the poor man whose 
 tragedy I formerly told you I was so well pleased with. 
 His worth of character, his retired modesty of mind, both 
 as a man and an author, the melancholy distress of his 
 wife, children, niece, nephew, and servants, as well as the 
 strangers hired to them at the time of his exit, added to the 
 eagerness I felt to see him, and my disappointment in hear- 
 ing the dismal story, unhinged my mind, and I daresay you 
 will not find any justice done the subject ; but I put it in 
 better hands by informing you of the circumstances, so 
 shall end by assuring you nothing will give me more 
 pleasure than your verbal critic on this and all you have 
 seen from Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. MYLNE, AUTHOR OF 
 "DARTHULA," 
 
 ADDREST TO KOBT. BURNS 
 
 Let all the tears of all the Muses flow, 
 And yours and mine redouble all their woe !
 
 198 Correspondence between 
 
 Yet Grief prepares her sharpest shaft for you, 
 A brother farmer, and a poet too. 
 
 I give you below a cherard [charade] as a specimene of 
 elegant entertainment in high life, which I cannot even 
 write or spell the name of : — 
 
 My first is an engine, my second a stone, 
 
 My third is combin'd, not beauty alone, 
 
 But what must still please man, woman, and child, 
 
 The figure so lovely, the manner so mild. 
 
 The word — Cranstone. 
 
 (i) A missing letter, perhaps that in which the 
 poet transcribed the second version of the lines 
 " Written in Friars' Carse Hermitage." 
 
 We append here the New Year's Day Address to 
 Mrs. Dimlop, which has hitherto, in accordance with 
 Currie's date, been assigned to the beginning of 1790. 
 In the Cente7iary edition, on the strength of Mrs. 
 Dunlop's acknowledgment, on ist January 1791, of a 
 letter, a poem, and a gilded card from Burns, it is 
 maintained that 1791 is the correct date. The most 
 casual reading of the Lochryan MSS. ought to have 
 shown that the true date was 1789. On the ist 
 January of that year Burns wrote to Mrs. Dunlop: 
 " I have sketched two or three verses to you, but as a 
 private opportunity ofifers immediately, I must defer 
 transcribing them." On the 22nd Mrs. Dunlop 
 acknowledged an address which " proclaims my age 
 and infirmities by pointing out that deafness which,
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 199 
 
 thank Heaven ! is at present gone." Compare the 
 line in the poem — 
 
 Deaf as my friend, he sees them press. 
 
 It is almost superfluous to point out the other inter- 
 nal evidence of its date that the poem contains. But, 
 as much has been made of the reference to a grand- 
 child's cap that Mrs. Dunlop was making, it may be 
 noted that the perpetuity of that occupation with her 
 was a subject of jest with Mrs. Dunlop, and that, 
 moreover, she had been congratulated by Burns on 
 the birth of a grandchild at the end of October 1788. 
 Finally, it was in 1788 that Rachel Dunlop painted 
 her sketch of Coila, as the correspondence proves, 
 and while it is probable that Burns conceived her as 
 still touching it at the beginning of 1789, it is scarcely 
 possible that he would refer to the incident in 1791, 
 or 1790 either. An allusion in Mrs. Dunlop's letter 
 of 6th April 1790 may be noted, and it is all but cer- 
 tain that the poem which Mrs. Dunlop acknowledged 
 on 31st December 1790 (not ist January 1791) was 
 " Tarn o' Shanter." 
 
 SKETCH — NEW YEAR'S DAY. 
 
 TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
 
 This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, 
 To run the twelvemonths' length again : 
 I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
 With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
 Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
 To wheel the equal, dull routine.
 
 200 Correspondence between 
 
 The absent lover, minor heir, 
 In vain assail him with their prayer ; 
 Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 
 Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
 Will you (the Major's with the hounds; 
 The happy tenants share his rounds ; 
 Coila 's fair Rachel's care to-day, 
 And blooming Keith 's engaged with Gray) 
 From housewife cares a minute borrow — 
 That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow — 
 And join with me a-moralizing — 
 This day 's propitious to be wise in. 
 First, what did yesternight deliver ? 
 " Another year is gone for ever." 
 And what is this day's strong suggestion? 
 " The passing moment 's all we rest on 1 " 
 Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 
 Or why regard the passing year ? 
 Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 
 Add to our date one minute more ? 
 A few days may — a few years must — 
 Repose us in the silent dust. 
 Then, is it wise to damp our bliss .^ 
 Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 
 The voice of Nature loudly cries, 
 And many a message from the skies. 
 That something in us never dies : 
 That on this frail, uncertain state. 
 Hang matters of eternal weight : 
 That future life in worlds unknown 
 Must take its hue from this alone ; 
 Whether as heavenly glory bright. 
 Or dark as Misery's woeful night. 
 
 Since, then, my honor'd first of friends. 
 On this poor being all depends, 
 Let us th' important ncnv employ. 
 And live as those who never die. 
 Tho' you, with days and honors crown'd, 
 Witness that filial circle round
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 201 
 
 (A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 
 A sight pale Envy to convulse), 
 Others now claim your chief regard ; 
 Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, 
 Stewarton. 
 
 MosSGiEL, Wedensday Morning. 
 \^Jan. 1789.] 
 
 No ill-weather in Hay or Harvest ever gave me so cha- 
 grining a disappointment. This morning I had set apart 
 for a visit to my honored Friend — you cannot imagine, 
 Madam, what happiness I had promised myself; when be- 
 hold, "the snows descended, and the winds blew," and 
 made my journey impracticable. As it will be impossible 
 for me to wait a journeyable day, I send you this to apol- 
 ogise for my seeming neglect, and to acknowledge the 
 receipt of two ^ kind Epistles from you, since I wrote you 
 on New Year's Day. I had got a hundred and fifty things 
 to say to you, which a hundred and fifty sheets of paper 
 would not record ; but I shall be in Ayrshire in the Spring, 
 and you know with what rapture two Poetic folks will meet, 
 amid opening daisies, budding hawthorns, and fragrant 
 birks. Now I talk of Poetic, you must know, as I came to 
 Sanquhar on Saturday evening — the landlord and landlady 
 are my particular acquaintances — I had just dispatched 
 my dinner, and was sitting in a family way over a friendly 
 bowl, glad that my weary body and soul had found out 
 so comfortable a place of rest — when lo ! the quondam 
 Mrs. Oswald ^ wheeled into the courtyard with an immense 
 retinue, and the poor Bard is oblidged, amid the shades of 
 night, bitter frost, howling hills and icy cataracts, to goad 
 his jaded steed twelve miles farther on to another stage.
 
 202 Correspondence between 
 
 O for a muse, not of heroic fire but satiric aquafortis, to 
 gnaw the iron pride of unfeehng greatness ! Before I 
 reached the other stage, I composed the following, and 
 sent it off at the first Post-ofiice for the Coiirant: — 
 
 ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. O- 
 
 OF A 3 
 
 Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
 Hangman of creation, mark, 
 Who in widow-weeds appears, 
 Laden with unhonored years ? 
 Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
 Baited with many a deadly curse ? 
 
 STROPHE 
 
 View the wither'd Beldam's face ; 
 
 Can thy keen inspection trace 
 
 Aught of Humanity's sweet, melting grace ? 
 
 Note that eye — 't is rheum o'erflows, 
 
 Pity's flood there never rose : 
 
 See these hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 
 
 Hands that took — but never gave. 
 
 The Great despis'd her and her wealth ; 
 
 The poor-man breath'd a curse by stealth. 
 
 Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
 
 Lo ! there she goes, unpitied and unblest, 
 
 She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest I 
 
 ANTISTROPHE 
 
 Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes 
 
 (A while forbear, ye torturing fiends) ; 
 
 Seest thou whose steps, unwilling, hither bends .■* 
 
 No fallen angel kick'd from upper skies ; 
 
 'T is thy trusty quondam mate, 
 
 Doom'd to share thy fiery fate 
 She, tardy, hell-ward plies.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 203 
 
 EPODE 
 
 And are they of no more avail, 
 
 Ten thousand glittering pounds a year ? 
 In other worlds, can Mammon fail, 
 
 Omnipotent as he is here ? 
 O bitter mockery of the pompous bier. 
 
 While down the wretched Vital-part is driven ! 
 The cave-lodg'd Beggar, with a conscience clear, 
 
 Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven. 
 
 To soften the matter a little, I altered the title to Mrs. 
 
 A of O . I was afraid they should suspect me 
 
 for the author. 
 
 I shall be impatient to hear from you. Adieu ! — I am 
 ever, Dr. Madam, your oblidged friend and humble servant, 
 
 RoBT, Burns. 
 
 (i) Only one is extant. 
 
 (2) Mary Ramsay, daughter of Alexander Ram- 
 say, a Jamaica merchant, brought large estates in 
 America and the West Indies, on her marriage, to 
 Richard Oswald, son of the Rev. George Oswald, 
 Dunnet, Caithness. Richard Oswald acquired great 
 wealth as a London merchant and as an army con- 
 tractor (" plunderer of armies ") in the Seven Years' 
 War. He was one of the commissioners who arranged 
 with Franklin and his colleagues at Paris the peace 
 between Great Britain and the United States. He 
 purchased Auchencruive in Ayrshire, and lived there 
 till his death in 1784. 
 
 (3) The Ode did not appear in the Con rant ; 
 Burns sent a copy on 23rd March to Dr. Moore, with 
 an explanation of its origin that differs only verbally 
 from that which he gave Mrs. Dunlop. The Ode
 
 204 Correspondence between 
 
 was published in the London Star of 7th May with- 
 out the couplet in the first strophe — 
 
 The Great despis'd her and her wealth ; 
 The poor man breath'd a curse by stealth. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 To Burns. 
 
 \z2nd January 1789.] 
 
 — in consequence of this horrid snow storm, which, how- 
 ever, has not been so dreadful as your imagination or the 
 friends who were unwilling to part with you would repre- 
 sent it. They would tell you it must be impassable here, 
 whereas on the other side the question I must inform you 
 my son went a visiting on Wednesday, and to-day we had 
 strangers from a distance here. I felt a kind of chagrine 
 in seeing them, as it shewed me the road lay open, and 
 that you might have come from Ayr (if you were there), if 
 I had not convinced you that I did not wish it, or if you 
 had wished it very earnestly yourself Now, I hardly know 
 which of these alternatives I would least like to fix upon as 
 the cause of that absence I so much regret. It is quite 
 tantalizing to think that you have been five times at Dun- 
 lop last year, and I have never once seen you, who, I am 
 sure, would have set more value on the visit than all the 
 rest put together. But thus the good things of this world 
 are frequently shared out, and we ought, spite of all, to be 
 thankful for our most scanty portion. You see your moral 
 lessons are not lost upon me. Nay, I flatter myself you 
 may improve by writing them, as well as I by reading. 
 Meantime, I consider myself as obliged and honoured even 
 by an address which proclaims my age and infirmities by 
 pointing out that deafness which, thank Heaven ! is at
 
 ( 
 
 I 
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 205 
 
 present gone. If it must return, at least I shall hope my 
 friend and my enemy (the only one I know of having) 
 shall not see me on the same day. You say you will polish 
 the New Year's Day piece. I protest against every altera- 
 tion. Every address to a friend or from a friend ought to 
 stand in the first chalk, the spontaneous effusion of the soul, 
 uncorrected by any secondary consideration. In short, I 
 cannot part with one word you have ever meant should be 
 mine. Leave it to the Royal button-maker [George III.] 
 to give his works \kvt fion [Fr. = finishing touch], and act 
 like your true master nature, who puts forth all his in pris- 
 tine glory. I was got just here when I was interrupted to 
 receive yours from Fanny Burns.^ Poor thing ! Her cheek 
 glowed and her eyes sparkled as she told me she has one 
 for me from her cousin. 
 
 Your oaten reed of sweet celestial sound 
 
 Makes orphan-hearts with grateful joy rebound! 
 
 To gen'rous love one tie points out another, 
 A mother's children, or a father's brother. 
 
 I have just been reading your infusion of gall, wormwood 
 and aquafortis. I had been half cursing your mare myself 
 as I found care of her had frighted you from venturing this 
 length. I had not, however, vented much ill-nature ; only 
 wished poets had never rode in coaches and lost the use of 
 their legs, or stood in awe of spoiling their steed, but 
 strutted still afoot like old Homer or Ossian; when I was 
 struck with remorse at finding myself so distanced in the 
 race of spleen. Are you not a sad, wicked creature to send 
 the poor old wife straight to the devil because she gave you 
 a ride in a cold night? I am sure your wrath had great 
 need of a cooler too, but few of us know our own necessities.
 
 2o6 Correspondence between 
 
 Lord help us ! But what is worse than all, that it spoils 
 a fair thought I had drest out for the door of a moving 
 library I have in a box, and was as follows — 
 
 This little box by fortune seems design'd 
 
 A motley emblem of the owner's mind j 
 There folly reigns with unrelenting sway, 
 
 Here wit lies hid from wisdom's scorching ray. 
 Here Milton and Cervantes have their parts, 
 
 There Blair and Spenser charm with varied arts. 
 The holy precepts of our faith lie here ; 
 
 Our country's love by Wallace rendered dear. 
 The Good Aurelius on this shelf shall shine 
 
 (O grant my God his virtues may be mine !) 
 Now Row and Mallet both adorn this cell. 
 
 And Burns shall here in future volumes swell. 
 
 I won't write you again this great while, for I am going 
 to be very busy sewing shirts for my son, if I can for blind- 
 ness. I ought to send your Spenser, but I feel loath to part 
 with it yet. I could get you Voltaire's Maid of Orleans, 
 but I have heard such a character of it that I am afraid I 
 ought not to take it into my own hand, or reach it to yours. 
 But of this you must judge yourself, as it is neither a letter 
 or language I can read. Only, remember you must never 
 say you had it from me, or if it is undecent, allow it to 
 corrupt either your heart or your writings ; or I shall never 
 forgive myself for having any hand in gratifying a curiosity 
 in which I do not share. I saw your favourite Mr. Adair ^ 
 at Edr. ; he mentioned you almost as partially as you did 
 him to me. He is a relation of mine — I wish he were 
 also an acquaintance. I would be glad you renewed your 
 intercourse with him ; if that could bring it about, it would 
 really be doing me a favour, for a reason I shall probably 
 tell you some day or other, if ever we are ordained to meet,
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 207 
 
 which I begin somewhat to doubt. I am too old and too 
 cold for poetic raptures to be inspired either by blooming 
 hawthorn or budding birks, nor by your account can aspire 
 to class with the hare-brain'd heads of inspiration — 
 
 Since I in mediocrity am bom to dwell, 
 
 Can neither soar to Heaven nor dare to sink to Hell. 
 
 Apropos to birch, I, who am always very prudent for my 
 neighbours, am more than half of opinion you should, 
 instead of a holly garland, get a birch rod as a reward for 
 your Ode, since it was torturing the living to be avenged 
 of the senseless dead. Remember, this is only poetic 
 justice, and not pronounced by me. 
 
 Curst be the line, how smooth soe'er it flow, 
 That tends to make one worthy man my foe. 
 
 For, as the lines may have beauty and merit if unappro- 
 priated, I would absolve them and mercifully only punish 
 the guilty author, whose rash flights on Pegasus are calcu- 
 lated to break his own neck instead of burning the innocent 
 Ode, which, without a name or date is a moral sermon 
 against avarice, speculation and oppression. Perhaps you 
 may be as disinterested yourself as the Capt. of the City 
 Guard of Edr., who cryed to the enraged mob to take his 
 body but spare his wig. I heard a man say lately he had 
 seen a poem of yours so grossly indelicate he was ashamed 
 to read it alone on a brae side. Could I have believed 
 this, I would blush to write you, or call you my acquaintance 
 and a friend I valued. I hope, if it is the case that you 
 have once been so far to blame, it was at least before we 
 had ever met, and that this is one of the follies long cast 
 to air and poUshed off by mine, if not by better company. 
 Farewell ! for now I 'm sure you find I fatigue myself and
 
 2o8 Correspondence between 
 
 you writing too long. I believe Kerr is still in Scotland, but 
 as I am not sure, will send this by my young namesake. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Burns's cousin, daughter of his uncle Robert, 
 who died in Stevvarton. The poet showed great kind- 
 ness to his cousins after the old man's death (3rd 
 January 1789), and took Fanny into his household. 
 
 (2) Dr. James M'Kittrick Adair, Burns's compan- 
 ion on his tour in the Devon Valley in October 1787, 
 and husband of Charlotte Hamilton. 
 
 To Burns. 
 
 Dunlop, 24M I believe of Janry 1789. 
 
 Dr. Burns, — It is but two days since I told you I would 
 not write again for a great while, and lo ! here I am already 
 with the pen in my hand. Now, should you be incHnable 
 to complain of this breach of my promises, and reproach 
 me with being worse than my word, I shall certainly repent 
 the right I have given you as a friend to find fault, and wish 
 once more to reserve the priviledge politeness always allows 
 my sex of never being in the wrong. But I will hope this 
 is an error to which you may indulge a little partial favour ; 
 so shall tell you from whence it proceeds. You must then 
 know Mr. Mylne of Lochhill, who died a very few weeks 
 ago, was a very great friend of my son John's, indeed more 
 so than any man in East Lothian, except one other, who 
 is also dead this last week. I had last night a melancholy 
 letter from John, where, after telling me this double unfore- 
 seen disaster, he adds — 
 
 " There was found in Mr. Mylne's cabinet an address to 
 Burns, I am informed (by Mr. Carfrae ^) very capital ; it
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 209 
 
 was inclosed in a letter, and had every appearance of being 
 wrote just before his death with an intention of being sent 
 to Mr. Burns. I told poor Mylne's son-in-law that you 
 said something about an elegy. He wished much to have 
 seen it, and expressed an earnest hope that it might be 
 wrote perhaps by Burns. They are to send the address 
 to me in a few days to be forwarded through your means 
 according to the seeming desire of the deceased." 
 
 This for my son. I, finding the death of the man whose 
 dramatic piece was still vibrating on my ear, and the 
 dreadful fate of a family a few days before in an enviable 
 state of health and prosperity, affect my very soul, and 
 incline me to throw my poor ideas together upon paper, 
 foolishly fancied you might be struck with a similar desire, 
 and therefore said to John I might possibly be able to 
 send him an elegy on the poet if it could be consolatory 
 to any of his family to see one. Now, John, by repeat- 
 ing this, had brought me under the necessity of producing 
 something or disappointing the fond wish of the afflicted. 
 Should I transmit the lines I sent you, I am apprehensive 
 they would pass for yours, and bring disgrace upon your 
 past and distrust upon your future fame, which I could 
 not rub off in any way but by acknowledging them myself, 
 which is among the last expedients I would willingly be 
 reduced to accept. Should the circumstances I formerly 
 told you and those I now relate move the gentle spirit 
 which I know frequently inhabits your breast, and should 
 your compassion flow with the tenth part of the ease, 
 strength or eloquence that accompanyed a late overflow of 
 the gall with which yqu embalmed the memory of a person 
 whose name was before odious to me (from private resent- 
 ment), I will much more seriously commend what will still 
 
 VOL. I. — 14
 
 21 o Correspondence between 
 
 be in unison with my own feelings than I before blamed you 
 for an attack which, I confess, gratified my own spleen in 
 every line, but which I never have shewed but to my son 
 Andrew, as I am sure it would make a loud cry against 
 you were you pointed to as the author. I feel a great 
 desire to see this address to you, and still more to hear if 
 the sad story of its author touches those invisible threads 
 that tremble over a birk-bud or a hawthorn bloom, and 
 convey quick sensibility from their narrow base to their 
 almighty original. Indeed, my good friend, if this produce 
 not a few lines of heavenly song, you will disappoint me as 
 much as it can Mr. Sherrif or Carfrae. Tho' at the same 
 time that I do not think the last of these gentlemen devoid 
 of taste, I own I do not build much on the approbation he 
 bestows on, as it were, the last words of a long-known and 
 much honoured friend, whose death would fall like a 
 thunderclap, and must be long and warmly lamented by a 
 whole county where he was idolized (although his genius 
 was overlooked or uncomprehensible) for his modest, quiet, 
 inoffensive, useful life, and honest, pious conversation, free 
 from every arrogant, assuming air of importance or supe- 
 riority, either as a farmer or a scholar, in both which points 
 the knowing considered him as eminent, but the latter of 
 which was probably a bright beam that only hurt eyes unac- 
 customed to behold its blaze when it chanced to be dis- 
 cover'd by his neighbours. Yet I own Mylne is to me 
 almost the poet of creative imagination, as fate forbade my 
 ever seeing him, but I am sure his friends must now feel in 
 reading his last address (which 1 believe was suggested by 
 my having begged leave to introduce you to him should 
 you be in that part of the country) something similar to 
 what I would do should I be doomed to read your last
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 21 1 
 
 production after your funeral, instead of looking down upon 
 it, as I hope to do, from a more elevated station than this 
 world can afford ; tho' even in this case there would remain 
 a considerable distraction, as although clever, sensible men, 
 their sensations on this occasion would follow after mine 
 at as great a distance as my ideas humbly tread after 
 yours where we happen to think in unison, but where my 
 words can no more express your thoughts than the faint 
 reflection this moment on the cold, wet surface of decay- 
 ing jaundiced snow does my figure. This is Sunday. I 
 would spend it with more pleasure in writing you than I 
 dare suppose you can have in reading anything I ever 
 wrote, did not the post remind me it is time to fold up 
 my letter and give it him. Perhaps it may reach you 
 before my last sent by little Fanny. Poor thing ! She 
 will have a cold scramble through the snow ; so without 
 your arm she might have had through the world. I 
 wonder when I think of these things if the everlasting 
 rewards of the good are as superlatively different as the 
 gifts and inspirations which nature lends the candidates 
 who start for them. Adieu ! — Believe me, with daily 
 encreasing esteem, Dr. Sir, your sincere friend and obliged 
 humble sert. Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 Should a packet come for you, may I open it ? Tell me 
 this, and what aim you have missed that allows you to name 
 spring for being in Ayrshire. You see I have forgot and 
 wrot too far to fold. Were you to pay it, I would grudge 
 the clean paper ; yet don't save yours upon me. I assure 
 you 't is my favourite expense, perhaps the only one where I 
 have not sometimes been a miser — a bold confession this 
 as you treat the character, even where most eminently
 
 2 I 2 Correspondence between 
 
 successful. But I don't know how I have pict up courage 
 never to stand in that awe of you most people would think 
 you were intitled to, nor I hope have ever disoblidged by 
 this want of deference. 
 
 (i) Mr. Carfrae, minister of Morham,who afterwards 
 wrote Burns about the publication of Mylne's poems. 
 
 This year, which began with the New Year's Day 
 Address to Mrs. Dunlop, is exceedingly rich in let- 
 ters, both new and old, from the poet to his friend. 
 She was truly at this time his " confidate," and he did 
 not allow many weeks to pass without sending to 
 Dunlop a compound of prose and verse substantial 
 enough to satisfy the vanity of the most exacting 
 correspondent. The letter which follows is notable 
 not only for its poetic contents, but also for the poet's 
 vindication — not the only one he offered to Mrs. 
 Dunlop — of the practice of composing Fescennine 
 verse. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop. 
 
 To be left at the Stewarton Carrier's 
 
 quarters, Kilmarnock. 
 
 Ellisland, t,th Feb. 1789. 
 
 I have rummaged every Stationer's shop in Dumfries for 
 a long and broad, ample and capacious, sized sheet of writ- 
 ing paper, just to keep by me for epistles to you, and you 
 see, dear Madam, by this honest-looking page, that I have 
 succeeded to a miracle. I own indeed you deserve a jolly 
 letter. In the first place, you are no niggard that way your- 
 self, a quality absolutely necessary in a friendly correspond- 
 ence ; and in the next place, you seem determined not
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 2 1 3 
 
 only to deserve my friendship such as it is, but to buy it. 
 There is a spirit in receiving as well as in giving presents ; 
 and I insist, Madam, that you shall give me credit for a 
 very considerable portion of the former, as I have always 
 accepted the many kind instances of your beneficence, 
 without expressing or even feeling any of that pettishness of 
 stricken pride which so many people mistake for true 
 spirit. I am a miserable hand at your fine speeches ; and 
 if my gratitude is to be reckoned by my expression, I shall 
 come poorly off in the account. Your benevolent notices 
 of my poor, little cousin, I cannot pass in silence : for your 
 goodness where your humble servant has been the object, a 
 chearful honest, thank you, is all I can say about it. In 
 giving me your friendship, Madam, you have given me a 
 solid, permanent addition to my happiness ; and we shall 
 not quarrel about the ceremonials of it. 
 
 I have received both your letters, and on the first com- 
 ing to hand, I would have written you by post ; but as it 
 rejoices my heart to send you a packet, I have waited for 
 the return of one of my Mauchline friends who has been with 
 me this week, to forward it without that cursed postage. 
 
 Your story of poor Mills [Mylne] has much interested 
 me. If it is in my power, Madam, to gratify your wishes 
 by a little compliment, in the way of my trade, to the mem- 
 ory of a friend of yours, you know it will give me the high- 
 est pleasure to do it. If the epistle he has done me the 
 honor to write me, come to your hand, open it and wel- 
 come. Still, you must make me this allowance in your 
 commands, that if the capricious baggage, my Muse, is not 
 propitious, I will not attempt any thing on the subject. I 
 have had themes on my hands for years, without being able 
 to please myself in my best efforts.
 
 214 Correspondence between 
 
 There is a small river, Afton,^ that falls into Nith, near 
 New Cumnock, which has some charming, wild, romantic 
 scenery on its banks. I have a particular pleasure in those 
 little pieces of poetry such as our Scots songs, etc., where 
 the names and land-skip-features of rivers, lakes, or wood- 
 lands, that one knows, are introduced. I attempted a 
 compliment of that kind, to Afton, as follows : I mean it 
 for Johnson's Musical Museum. 
 
 Flow gently, clear Afton, among thy green braes, 
 And grateful I '11 sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
 My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
 Flow gently, clear Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, 
 Ye blackbirds that sing in yon wild thorny den, 
 Thou green-crested plover thy screaming forbear, 
 I charge you disturb not my slumbering Fair. 
 
 How lofty, clear Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
 Far-mark'd with the courses of clear-winding rills ; 
 There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
 My flocks, and my Mary's sweet cot, in my eye. 
 
 How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below. 
 Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; 
 There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
 The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 
 
 Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. 
 And winds by the cot where my Mary resides : 
 How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. 
 As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy pure wave. 
 
 Flow gently, clear Afton, among thy green braes. 
 Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays. 
 My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
 Flow gently, clear Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 I believe I formerly mentioned some of the following 
 verses to you, but I have, since, altered them with a view to
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 215 
 
 interweave them in an epistle from an unfortunate lady 
 whom you knew. Whether I may ever finish it, I do not 
 know, but I have one or two of the principal paragraphs 
 already by me, of which the following is one : ^ — 
 
 Now, maddening, wild I curse that fatal night ; 
 Now bless the hour that charm'd my guilty sight. 
 In vain the laws their feeble force oppose, 
 Chain'd at his feet they groan Love's vanquish'd foes ; 
 In vain Religion meets my shrinking eye ; 
 I dare not combat, but I turn and fly : 
 Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire ; 
 Love grasps her scorpions, stifled they expire : 
 Reason drops headlong from her sacred throne, 
 Thy dear idea reigns, and reigns alone ; 
 Each thought intoxicated homage yields. 
 And riots wanton in forbidden fields ! 
 
 By all on high, adoring mortals know ! 
 By all, the conscious villain fears below ! 
 By what, alas ! much more my soul alarms, 
 My doubtful hopes once more to fill thy arms ! 
 Even shouldst thou, false, forswear the guilty tie. 
 Thine, and thine only I must live and die ! 
 
 I am very sorry that you should be informed of my sup- 
 posed guilt in composing, in some midnight frolic, a stanza 
 or two perhaps not quite proper for a clergyman's reading 
 to a company of ladies. That I am the author of the verses 
 alluded to in your letter, is what I much doubt. You may 
 guess that the convivial hours of men have their mysteries of 
 wit and mirth ; and I hold it a piece of contemptible base- 
 ness, to detail the sallies of thoughtless merriment or the 
 orgies of accidental intoxication, to the ear of cool sobriety 
 or female Delicacy. 
 
 I intend setting out for Edinburgh on Monday se 'en- 
 night, and shall be there about a week. I inclose you a
 
 2i6 Correspondence between 
 
 piece of my prose,^ which, for obvious reasons, I send you 
 for your sole amusement : it is dangerous ground to tread 
 on. A lover of Scots Drink can never forgive the late 
 usage of our D rs. If you honor me with a letter dur- 
 ing my stay in town, please direct to the care of Peter Hill, 
 Bookseller, Parliament Square. — I have the honor to be, 
 Dear Madam, your highly oblidged humble servt. 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 (i) This statement, while it throws no light on the 
 identity of the Mary of the song, settles beyond 
 doubt the vexed question of the name-place of 
 " Sweet Afton." The song is No. 389 in the fourth 
 volume of Johnson's Miiseimi. Note that the origi- 
 nal epithet was " clear " not " sweet," an instance of 
 a second thought leading the poet astray. 
 
 (2) The second version of " Passion's Cry," first 
 sent to Clarinda (see App. B, vol. ii.), and now adapted 
 to the case of Mrs. Maxwell Campbell of Skerring- 
 ton, and supposed to be addressed by her to her 
 paramour from the West Indies. See Chambers, vol. 
 ii. p. 6y ; vol. iii. p. 37. 1896. Mrs. Dunlop had 
 known Mrs. Maxwell Campbell before her fall. 
 
 (3) The " Address of the Scotch Distillers to the 
 Right Hon. William Pitt." See Chambers, vol. iii. 
 pp. 59-61. 
 
 To Burns. 
 
 Dunlop, lotk Fehry. [1789]. 
 
 Dr. Burns, — I have been very busy since I vvrot you 
 last, at least busy for a lady, who, if the fairest, are certainly 
 not the most useful part of creation. I have in the last six
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 2 1 7 
 
 weeks or thereabout made my son six holland shirts, which, 
 bUnd as I am, is no small undertaking, when one considers, 
 too, of what pleasures I have deprived myself meantime, 
 and that while I have been painfully earning the twelve or 
 fifteen shillings my work would have cost, I have not even 
 indulged myself in writing a single letter to you, who are 
 the approven correspondent of my choise, and whose letters 
 I would not exchange for all the intellectual feast I could 
 have gathered from the Alexandrian Library (especially as 
 it would be mostly Greek or Latin). Do you think that 
 petty sum, even to such a miser as I, should be an equiva- 
 lent for so much self-denial? A common calculator would 
 at once answer No ; but I have another manner of stating 
 the accompt. When I work I consider myself not only as 
 intitled to the price of my labour, but as unaccountable also 
 for as much of my income as I should in the space of time 
 have lost at cards or squandered in some amusement suited 
 to my rank and circumstances, and in those decorations 
 which vanity or custom seem to appropriate to my age and 
 situation, and which my family would not have thought 
 interested or selfish my turning from theirs wholly to my 
 own use. Thus, as the reward of my industry, I reckon 
 myself at liberty to trifle away something not exceeding a 
 great deal what I have saved them in cash, and where the 
 satisfaction to myself may be in some degree proper turned 
 to the advantage I hope they will reap by my sober moder- 
 ate example in the future imployment of their time. Now, 
 if my arithmetic can be trusted, I do not rate this too high 
 ^t £S- ^ly head therefore, while my hands were going, 
 was intently employed on solving this problem, " 'What shall 
 I do with this that it will please me most and longest? " I 
 have no taste for dress ; the sum can be of no import to all
 
 21 8 Correspondence between 
 
 my children ; to give it to one would be like discord throw- 
 ing an apple among the goddesses. To be sure, I may buy 
 a lottery ticket, at least part of one, but alas ! I have little 
 faith, and in truth no desire for wealth. Therefore hope 
 will be cold and insipid and disappointment fretting in 
 this poor, abortive South-Sea scheme. At this moment of 
 my speculation fancy presented a vision which made me 
 happy for a moment, although the ^30,000 prize could 
 not do so in idea for myself. I put the note into an old 
 snuff-box, saying to myself with exultation at the discov- 
 ery, " This will buy a quarter chance for my friend Burns. 
 Should he have as little faith as I have, he will not tell 
 me so, but will convert it into something that will please 
 himself here. I can never be disappointed, and shall for 
 a year to come enjoy the dear delight of knowing that 
 there is a possibility of my having been the means of mak- 
 ing the fortune of a man whose talents I admire, whose 
 character I esteem, and whose friendship I flatter myself I 
 in a considerable degree possess ; to whom my country 
 owes much and pays little, who may henceforth celebrate 
 still more than he has already done the fame of my fore- 
 fathers, and do it the more warmly for my sake. Yes, 
 money for once does make me happy, and nothing shall 
 divert it from this channel, where I feel it able to pour 
 forth a great, an innocent, and inexhaustible spring of joy, 
 that will flow uninterrupted for twelve or fourteen months 
 in spite of Fortune herself. Nay, should she then do as I 
 would have her, I shall half forgive many a scurvy trick 
 she has heretofore played me." So saying, I shut the lid, 
 and shut it shall remain till I know my letters go so safe as 
 may tempt me to trust this treasure of future hope to the 
 same conveyance ; for of late I have had some doubt from
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 219 
 
 your silence which I in vain cast about to find a reason for. 
 Sometimes I think you have not received my two last let- 
 ters ; sometimes I fear lest any expression or omission of 
 mine has verified in your mind a prediction you long ago 
 uttered that I would not have delicacy to carry on a corre- 
 spondence without hurting you. If I have done so, I dare 
 not say I would pluck out an eye or cut off a hand, but I 
 would throw my pen in the fire, and blot out the offending 
 particle with a tear of sincere penitence, to be again rein- 
 stated in my own forgiveness and your favour, tho', unless 
 I have whipt myself out of it with the birch-rod you put in 
 my way, and which female wit, which is always foolish and 
 often ill-bred, led me to catch it when I was affecting not 
 to be pleased with your inimitable Ode, which Churchill 
 might have been proud of, I cannot guess why you should 
 deprive me of a letter now and then, when you know what 
 pains I have bestowed to draw from you that correspond- 
 ence I was shunning from almost every other quarter. 
 Make me easie on this point if you can, and don't allow 
 me to look back with regret to Agt. last, when I heard from 
 you four times in one month. Yet I would not be unrea- 
 sonable. I would allow you to be silent in seed-time and 
 harvest, or whenever you were better employed for Mam- 
 mon or the Muses. Only, I would like you told me what 
 you were about beforehand, or shewed me afterwards. I 
 wrot you a long letter by Fanny Burns, and sent you a 
 book, which I stole for that purpose half an hour before, 
 having heard it was very scarce, and perhaps only for that 
 reason much valued. I yesterday received the inclosed 
 letters and poem to send you, which I take the earliest 
 opportunity of doing. I shall make no farther comment 
 than by saying I do think the only Scots a man ever tryed
 
 2 20 Correspondence between 
 
 to write to me must appear a badly chosen specimen of 
 English tragedy, and would hardly promote the interest of 
 the family in any future publication. I have altered and 
 transposed some lines of my Elegy on Mr. Mylne at the 
 beginning and end thus. Ending as below : — 
 
 Let all the tears of all the Muses flow, 
 
 And yours and mine redouble all their woe ; 
 
 Yet Grief reserves her sharpest shaft for you, 
 
 A brother-farmer and a poet too. 
 
 Should lightning blast the Lover's painted dome 
 
 And make his nuptial bed a funeral tomb. 
 
 Not more the shoke your bosom-chords could tear, 
 
 And less the loss society would bear 
 
 Beyond the leech's salutary skill, etc. 
 
 And Cormac greet him with a prince's love, 
 The King of Kings his words and works regard, 
 And crown his goodness with a great reward. 
 
 In this shape it will appear as a letter wrot you with the 
 accounts of his death, and perhaps those who wish it so 
 may flatter themselves it is not only to but by you, as it will 
 be sent anonymous, and every one does not know hands. 
 
 You say one always writes best where the heart is really 
 interested in the subject. Now, tell me how you like the 
 following address to a young lady of your acquaintance, 
 where I asure you the author was much interested. 
 
 When French Marcatchi forms our British race 
 
 To move in all the elegance of grace, 
 
 The first exertions of the youthful fair 
 
 Distort the figure and degrade the air. 
 
 The awkward jump may fill us with surprize, 
 
 But pours no pleasure on our sated eyes : 
 
 So the first efforts of the feeling brain 
 
 Contorts the face and raise each swelling vein; 
 
 Quick sensibility in hurried starts is seen, 
 
 A childish hoyden romping on the green ;
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 221 
 
 Her kindness forward, and her anger loud, 
 Her carriage rustic, and her spirit proud. 
 A generous frenzy animates that soul. 
 Where in-born rectitude rejects controul. 
 From her bright eyes keen flashes ardent dart, 
 Deep crimson dyes each motion of her heart. 
 A hulkish form, with intervening shade, 
 Obscures the lovely work by Nature made, 
 Till passing time a magic vail prepare' 
 Of modest beauty's mild attractive air; 
 Move to soft melody life's shifting scene, 
 And mark its ever calm gentle and serene. 
 When sage experience holds the bearing rein. 
 That slacks the nerves to harmony again, 
 Then the pure honey of the melting soul 
 Throws a milk liquid lustre on the whole ; 
 Bids neat simplicity of dress adorn. 
 And gesture modest as the blushing mom. 
 Whose sweet effulgence lumid tears bedew, 
 Such as soft love or pity draws from you. 
 So too be yours the gentle whispering gale, 
 And sweet perfumes her vernal breath exhale, 
 Diffusing pleasure to each living thing 
 Young, gay and chearful as the blythsome spring. 
 Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws, 
 Shrink mildly fearful even from applause ; 
 Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 
 And all you are, my charming girl, seem. 
 Straight as the fox-glove ere her bells disclose, 
 Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows. 
 Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
 Your form shall show some shadow of your mind. 
 Your manners shall so true your soul express. 
 That all shall long to know the worth they guess. 
 Congenial hearts their partner shall espie. 
 And ladies love the maid they must envy. 
 
 \1th Febry. 
 
 I was just got this length when I had yours where you 
 answer me as it were by anticipation. I read this over
 
 222 Correspondence between 
 
 again, and half inclined to put it in the fire ; yet I re- 
 membered it was your property, and I had no right to 
 abstract it from you. I therefore send it immediately, 
 tho' half afraid yours has been so long on the road it may 
 miss you. I shall let you pay for it, as I am not sure if 
 Mr. Kerr is in town. I will even run the chance of losing 
 you 8d. by adding a cover rather than excite curiosity by 
 telling the public that you are in Edr.,^ when perhaps you 
 would not chuse to be honour'd with their notice. I will 
 also send you the packets I received for you from my son 
 John two days ago, containing Mr. Carfrae's letter and the 
 poem with the altered lines on poor Mylne, which you 
 may dispose of as you please, only never saying but they 
 are your own, at least not hinting that they are mine. 
 There was also a letter for you from John, containing, I 
 dare say, nothing but expressions of the real goodwill he 
 bears you, or an invitation to see him if you were in that 
 neighbourhood. I do not send it, lest it should make this 
 too large, and the travling charges immense, should it have 
 to follow you to Nithsdale. Meantime, if you let me know 
 by next post if anything prolong your stay in town so long 
 that it could reach you there, and that Kerr is still there 
 to take charge of a future letter for you, I will then write 
 you all my Edr. commissions, send you John's letter and 
 any thing else that strikes me in the head, rhyme or prose. 
 I must undeceive you in one thing. I was not even ac- 
 quaint with poor Mylne. I only read "Darthula,"^ and 
 wished to see him, but death stept between. You are 
 the only poet good enough to allow me the name of your 
 sincere friend, Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 Postscript. — Yours has been a fortnight on the road. 
 I cannot afford to save postage at such an expense again.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 223 
 
 (i) Burns visited Edinburgh about the end of 
 February to have a further " racking " of accounts 
 with Creech, and, as afterwards appears (p. 233), to 
 arrange about getting an Excise division. Mrs. 
 Dunlop's letter of the lOth caught him there, and 
 his reply, which follows here, is the only letter he is 
 known to have dated from the capital during this 
 visit. 
 
 (2) The title of Mylne's tragedy, previously 
 noticed. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, 
 
 Stewarton. 
 
 Edin. Saturday Morning l^zyd Feb. 1789]. 
 
 Your kind packet, my much esteemed friend, is just 
 come to hand. In my hurried hours in this place I have 
 not yet had time to peruse Mylne's verses, but I have three 
 times o'er without interval perused your incomparable 
 verses to your young lady. It is evident, My dear Madam, 
 that you were deeply interested in the subject ; as you 
 have in these lines not only risen above yourself, but, upon 
 the honor of a Man, and the skill of a Critic ! you have 
 risen above any thing of the kind done by any author now 
 living. So soon as I return to Nithsdale, which will be in 
 four or five days, I shall write a criticism on their merits. 
 
 I am here more unhappy than I ever experienced before 
 in Edinburgh. I am a poor man of business, and I have 
 got some very serious business to do ; I love the social 
 pleasures in moderation, but here I am impressed into 
 the service of Bacchus ; and I am from home. 
 
 But, truce with peevish, poor complaining ! I will not 
 tax your friendship with my weakness. Were it not for
 
 2 24 Correspondence between 
 
 hurting your feelings, I would likewise add, that I will no 
 more be thus indebted to your beneficence ; but I checked 
 a momentary pang of something like wounded pride, and 
 taxed my ingenuity to assist your wishes. It oblidges me 
 to let you into an intention of mine rather prematurely, 
 but as it is the only way I can think of being oblidged by 
 you, in that manner, I must tell it you. I hope to be 
 a father again in about two or three months, and I had 
 resolved and indeed had told Mrs. Burns, that the said 
 child should be christened by the name of Frances Dun- 
 lop, if a girl, or Francis, etc., if a boy; that while the 
 child should exist, it might be a witness of a Friendship 
 to which I owe much of the pleasurable part of my life ; 
 a Friendship which I wish to hand down to my posterity as 
 one of the honors of their Ancestor. Let this said Miss 
 Frances or Mr. Francis be the object of your intended 
 beneficence with all my soul. Perhaps in the case of 
 a boy, you would rather wish to wait for one of your own 
 sex, that might take the exact Name ; and as I have not the 
 smallest doubt of being very soon able to accommodate 
 you in that way too, I shall expect your commands some- 
 time before the important period. 
 
 I am here just in a vortex, so must conclude with a 
 simple heartfelt A Dieuje vous coinmende ! 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 I '11 write you on my return home. 
 
 Mrs. DuNLOP of Dunlop, 
 
 Dunlop House, Stewarton. 
 
 Ellisland, March i,th, 1789. 
 
 Here am I, my honored Friend, returned safe from the 
 Capital. To a man who has a home, however humble or 
 remote ; if that home is like mine, the scene of Domestic
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 225 
 
 comfort ; the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business 
 of sickening disgust. 
 
 Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you ! 
 
 When I must sculk into a corner, lest the rattling equi- 
 page of some gaping blockhead, contemptible puppy, or 
 detestable scoundrel should mangle me in the mire, I am 
 tempted to exclaim — " What merits have these wretches 
 had, or what demerits have I had, in some state of Pre- 
 existence, that they are ushered into this state of being 
 with the sceptre of rule and the key of riches in their 
 puny fists; and I am kicked into the world, the sport 
 of their folly or the victim of their pride ? " I have read 
 somewhere of a monarch, in Spain I think it was, who 
 was so out of humour with the Ptolemean system of as- 
 tronomy, that he said, had he been of the Creator's coun- 
 cil he could have saved Him a great deal of labor and 
 absurdity. I will not defend this blasphemous speech; 
 but often as I have glided in humble stealth through the 
 pomp of Princes' Street, it has suggested itself to me as an 
 improvement on the present Human figure, that a man 
 in proportion to his own conceit of his consequence in 
 the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his 
 common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we 
 draw out a perspective. This trifling alteration, not to 
 mention the prodigious sa\dng it would be in the tear 
 and wear of the neck and limb-sinews of many of his 
 Majesty's liege subjects in the way of tossing the head 
 and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast ad- 
 vantage in enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials 
 in making a bow or making way, to a Great Man, and that 
 too, within a second of the precise spherical angle of 
 VOL. I. — 15
 
 2 26 Correspondence between 
 
 reverence or an inch of the particular point of respectful 
 distance, which the important creature itself requires ; as 
 a measuring glance at its towering altitude would deter- 
 mine the affair like instinct. 
 
 You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor Mylne's 
 poem which he has addressed to me. The piece has a 
 good deal of merit, but it has one damning fault — it is 
 by far too long. Besides, my success has encouraged such 
 a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public notice 
 under the title of Scots Poets, that the very term, Scots 
 Poetry, borders on the burlesque. When I write to Mr. 
 Carfrae, I shall advise him rather to try one of his de- 
 ceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigiously hur- 
 ried with my own matters, else I would have requested a 
 perusal of all Mylne's poetic performances; and would 
 have offered his friends my assistance in either selecting 
 or correcting what would be proper for the Press. What 
 it is that occupies me so much, and perhaps oppresses my 
 present spirits, shall fill up a paragraph in some future 
 letter. In the mean time, allow me to close this epistle 
 with a few lines done by a friend of mine, which for beauty 
 I shall put against any as many lines in our language. I give 
 you them, that, as you have seen the original, you may 
 guess whether one or two alterations I have ventured to 
 make in them be any real improvement. 
 
 Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws 
 Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause : 
 Be all a Mother's fondest hopes can dream, 
 And all you are, my charming girl, seem. 
 Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose. 
 Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows. 
 Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
 Your form shall be the image of your mind.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 227 
 
 Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
 That all shall long to know the worth they guess ; 
 Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
 And even sick'ning Envy must approve. i 
 
 I have the honor to be, Madam, your oblidged friend and 
 humble servt, Robt. Burns. 
 
 (i) Mrs. Dunlop's " Address to a Young Lady " 
 amended. See antea, p. 220. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 
 Ellisland, Dumfries. Dunlop, I'&th March 1789. 
 
 [Franked by Kerr : Edinr., Twenty-first March 1789.] 
 
 Dear Sir, — I cannot express the pleasure I always feel 
 in discovering I am got two letters in your debt, nor do 
 I know how to thank my good friend for an event so 
 truly soothing to my pride. Believe me I most sincerely 
 acknowledge this as amply compensating for a thousand 
 mortifications it might be subjected to in my intercourse 
 with those of the world I value less, and whose claims are 
 built on very different foundations — different in the eyes 
 of the world, and still more widely different in mine. 
 
 I knew not where to find you, in town or countr}', in 
 peace or war, tuning your melodious reed, dropping aqua 
 fords, or whetting the sharp scythe of political satire'^ — 
 a word my mild Muse does not ev^en know how to spell, 
 you see. I was afraid you might be so strongly sucked 
 into the vortex where you were as to stay longer than you 
 planned or I wished. I could not write, but often thought 
 of you, and in one of those reveries which fancy sometimes 
 leads me into, my pen of itself scratched the inclosed verses 
 and letter, almost without knowing it; perhaps I should
 
 2 28 Correspondence between 
 
 have thrown both in the fire, but, as I told you formerly, 
 " Unawed before the bard, the phantoms pass." You say 
 I wounded your pride. I am sure I never intended to do 
 so ; nay, should I now probe that wound to the very quick, 
 it would still be the cruel act of a friendly surgeon, who 
 wished only to cure the patient, not torture the distemper ; 
 nay, loath would I be even it should expire under my hand, 
 for I think in a moderate degree it is one of the best com- 
 panions ever a poor man was blest or even sometimes curst 
 with. But if you have no objection to consult Mr. Graham 
 on the merits of this composition,^ seal and send it ; you 
 have my free leave, though I am so much a stranger to 
 your present plans that I durst not do so myself without 
 consulting you ; though your ideas of female delicacy will 
 not be increast by my present communication, unless in 
 this you are as truly superiour to the general run of the 
 world as I have often esteemed you on other occasions, or, 
 as Fate has often left you beneath your worst inferiours in 
 fortune and in the estimation of fools. It is a cruel tax 
 malevolence lays on talents to depreciate the moral char- 
 acter of those who incontestably possess them, and force 
 one's friends, in resentment of underhand massacres, to 
 repeat truths that speak plain enough themselves to all 
 who are unprejudiced by malicious whisperers. Should 
 such earwigs have crawled towards Fintry, I would like to 
 brush them off. It was this train of thinking led me to 
 write the inclosed, and the same motive may perhaps induce 
 you to send it, spite of any objections pride may enter. 
 
 I delight in your fancyful cynic adieu to the metropolis, 
 nor can any line even of yours give me more pleasure than 
 the one that so naturally assures me of your finding home 
 the scene of domestic comfort. You tell me you were
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 229 
 
 prest into the service of Bacchus, and I suspect you have 
 been on actual duty when you wrot; you say so much 
 more than usual of my poor lines. Are you not afraid to 
 make one snail put forth her horn to a ludicrous exaltation, 
 since self-conceit is to be the moving spring? Yet I don't 
 know but in time your correspondence may make me a 
 shadow of a poet, for I feel I imbibe some of your graces, 
 particularly that noble obstinacy that led you rather to 
 leave poor Wallace wight unhappy for ever than yield one 
 syllable to my criticism. After your good example I re- 
 solve to defend my last couplet as preferable in its own 
 place to your alteration. Perhaps yours might be more 
 emphatical from a man to his mistress, but an old woman, 
 speaking to her young ward, points out the single partner 
 for life, not the vain idea of general admiration or divided 
 love exprest in the first line, and in the last alludes in the 
 word envy only to that desire of equalling by a laudable 
 emulation or imitation the happy female we approve of. 
 That envy whose malignity sickens at being forced to 
 applaud is truly masculine, wholly unknown to the soul of the 
 gentle pupil, and even only taught at second hand to the old 
 monitress herself when time has stole away the softness of 
 her sex. Read them a fourth time, and say, if truth will let 
 you, that you are not then of my opinion, and if you would 
 not think the mind more enchanting that aspired to the 
 affection of those of her own sex who saw her please more 
 than themselves, than hers who could rejoice in the hope of 
 their sick'ning and pining with envy at those qualities to 
 which they could not refuse their reluctant applause. 
 
 I dare not ask what is busying or troubling you, since 
 you don't yet like to say. While we live in this world we 
 must frequently share its distresses. I truly sympathise
 
 230 Correspondence between 
 
 with yours, even without knowing what they are, nor am 
 I free from my own at this moment. Indeed the mother 
 of a score of children can seldom want cares or crosses, 
 either in reality or imagination. In every situation, how- 
 ever, I must feel your friendship and esteem inexpressibly 
 soothing ; nor can anything flatter my self-love more than 
 the value you place on my correspondence and regard, 
 when you intend me the name of your child in so kind and 
 obliging a manner. Yet I must tell you you have made 
 a miserable choise, for a sad worthless name it has proved 
 to nineteen who have already worn it, and to whom it has 
 never, as far as I remember, signified one single straw more 
 than the name itself, which to be sure, as a name, might 
 serve a Spanish guarda costa or a German prince. As I 
 was baptized Frances Ann, and by law and custom obliged 
 to call myself Agnew Dunlop, while vanity bids me remind 
 you and myself I was a Wallace, yet, my dr. sir, if you 
 know anybody the child might be the better of, it would 
 be unjust to it, poor little innocent ! to load it with so 
 much lumber, even should there be two again to bear the 
 weight ; for you know I never deceived you from the first. 
 We set out, like King Pharamond and his secretary, with 
 no expectations from each other but those of speaking and 
 hearing truth just in the first unstudied shape in which she 
 presented herself to either pen, and I 'm sure at least I 
 have kept to the articles in always giving you the undis- 
 guised thoughts of the minute, be what they would. But 
 to leave this ; how do you like the following simile ? — 
 
 The village damsels follow in a train, 
 To pick the gleanings of the yellow grain; 
 One maid distinguished in an azure vest 
 Superiour shone, eclipsing all the rest.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 231 
 
 Amidst the barren, spritty grass below, 
 
 Superiour rising to superiour woe. 
 
 So the blue hare-bell oft is singly seen 
 
 In robe unclouded deck th' uncultur'd green 1 
 
 Sweet solitary flower by Nature cast, 
 
 Without a leaf to shield her from the blast. 
 
 Bent by each breath, and trembling from the knell, 
 
 And hence by peasants term'd the Dead Man's Bell. 
 
 I am sorry to see you have wrot out your foolscap. I 
 wish you had kept a sheet for me. I assure you 'twas 
 greatly adapted to my taste, and I regret the change. 
 Meanwhile, the different size of this obliges me to bid you, 
 I dare say, what you will think no premature adieu. 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) She had made more than one attempt at the 
 word, but really succeeded in the end. 
 
 (2) Mrs. Dunlop, who knew Graham of Fintry, 
 one of the Commissioners of Excise, had written him 
 on Burns's behalf, and also a set of verses, probably 
 on the same theme. 
 
 The following letter shows that Burns had reached 
 a state of mind almost approaching despair about his 
 farm, long before his sweeping statement to Gilbert 
 of January 1790, that "It is a ruinous affair on all 
 hands." Here we have him, in March 1789, when 
 he had not been a year in Ellisland, speaking of his 
 farm as " a very, very hard bargain, if at all practi- 
 cable." Yet, barely a couple of months before, on 
 3rd February, he wrote to Bishop Geddes that he 
 had good hopes of the farm ; while on 22nd January 
 he had told Lady Betty Cunningham that he was pretty
 
 232 Correspondence between 
 
 sure that it would do well in time, though for several 
 years it would require more assistance than his pocket 
 could afford. But Burns had of course moods about 
 his farm as about many other things. Otherwise the 
 letter throws fresh light on the procedure taken by 
 the poet in order to procure regular occupation in 
 the Excise. Besides racking accounts with Creech 
 on his visit to Edinburgh in February, he had inter- 
 viewed Mr. Graham of Fintry with a view to appoint- 
 ment to a division. 
 
 Mrs. DuNLOP of Dunlop, 
 
 Dunlop House, Stewarton. 
 
 Ellisland, 2$fk March 1789. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I have this moment your kind packet 
 of the 1 8th, and tho' sore tired with the labours of the day, 
 
 . . . throwing the grain 
 Into the faithful bosom of the ground, 
 
 yet, as I have a boy, my herd, going for Ayrshire to-morrow 
 morning, and who will be at Kilmarnock, I shall make him 
 go so much farther and leave this at Dunlop. 
 
 You have a little miscalculated my feelings, my honored 
 friend, respecting the naming of my child. To name my 
 child after any of the Great, with a view to their future 
 beneficence, is quite foreign to my ideas : my motive is 
 gratitude, not selfishness. Though I may die a very poor 
 man, yet I hope my children shall ever boast the character 
 of their Father ; and as that father has some few in the 
 upper ranks of life to whom he is peculiarly indebted, or 
 whom he holds peculiarly dear, he wishes his children like- 
 wise to indulge an honest pride on that account ; and not 
 only as a memento of these honors their father enjoyed,
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 233 
 
 but as an incentive to noble action, he will call his children 
 after the names of his illustrious friends and benefactors. 
 I intend, Madam, as first at my heart, to begin with your 
 honored name ; and my first child shall be Frances Wallace 
 or F. Dunlop as you please, for really I dare not venture 
 on the whole list of your appellations. 
 
 As for Mr. Graham's letter, Madam, it is of a piece with 
 your usual goodness, and is what I highly approve of; only 
 when I tell you the narrative of my situation, plans in life, 
 etc., you will see the propriety of altering the scope of 
 your epistle. The latter part indeed of that epistle is what 
 in no situation I could think on : I have marked in the 
 epistle itself, where that part begins. 
 
 You remember. Madam, I had two plans of life before 
 me ; the Excise and farming. I thought, by the glimmer- 
 ing of my own prudence, the Excise was my most eligible 
 scheme ; but all my Great friends, and particularly you, 
 were decidedly, and therefore decided me, for farming. 
 My master, Mr. Miller, out of real tho' mistaken benevo- 
 lence, sought me industriously out, to set me this farm, as 
 he said to give me a lease that would make me comfortable 
 and easy. I was a stranger to [the] country, the farm and 
 the soil, and so ventured on a bargain, that instead of 
 being comfortable, is and will be a very, very hard bar- 
 gain, if at all practicable. I am sorry to tell you this, 
 Madam, but it is a damning truth ; though I beg, as the 
 world think that I have got a pennyworth of a farm, you 
 will not undeceive them. To bring myself about, I thought 
 of getting an Excise Division in the midst of which I live, 
 and this was what took me last to Edinburgh ; but there are 
 in the Excise-Board certain regulations which, notwith- 
 standing Mr. Graham's warmest exertions, baffled all my
 
 2 34 Correspondence between 
 
 hopes. By Mr. Creech, who has at last settled amicably 
 and fully as fairly as could have been expected, with me, I 
 clear about ;^440 or ^450.^ To keep my brother from ruin, 
 and scattering my aged parent and three sisters comfortless 
 in the world, I advanced him about ;^2 0o of that money : 
 this you know was an indispensible affair, as their wellbeing is 
 certainly to me the same as my own. What money rests for 
 myself, you will guess is too little for my own stock ; but my 
 Master allows me some money to build and inclose, and with 
 that I could have done — if the farm would have done. 
 
 But to close this tedious epistle, and to give you some- 
 thing more comfortable in my views ; my brother's lease is 
 near expiring, he may be able to live by my lease, as he 
 can with propriety do things that I now can not do ; I will 
 plant him in this farm and throw myself on the Excise at 
 large, where I am sure of immediate and constant bread. 
 
 Let these matters lie between you and I only. 
 
 As for your writing Mr. Graham, it is what pleases me 
 above all things ; but no plans in it if you please ; I wish 
 him to know how I labour under a sense of his goodness, 
 and, if you will, your thanks to him for his kindness to a 
 man in whose welfare you have interested yourself: and if 
 you give them a little different turn, now that you know my 
 situation, send the verses above all things. 
 
 Now I talk of verses, I own your criticism on my emen- 
 dation of your line to be just ; but one thing. Madam, has 
 escaped your attention. " Envy," either a noun or verb, 
 is accented on the first syllable, consequently the word 
 cannot well close your line. 
 
 Forgive this miserable scrawl. — I have the honor to be. 
 Madam, your oblidged friend and very humble servt. 
 
 RoBT. Burns.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 235 
 
 If you write Mr. Graham, his address is, George Street, 
 Edinr. I must not seem to know any thing of the matter, 
 so let it just go by the nearest Post-Office. R. B. 
 
 (i) This is not inconsistent with the poet's letter 
 to Dr. Moore of 4th January, in which he said he 
 believed he should clear about ^400 some little odds, 
 including the result of the settlement still pending, 
 and it can be made to agree with Currie's statement 
 that the whole profits of the edition were ^^500. 
 
 From the letter that follows we learn for the first 
 time that Robert Burns might, had his inclination and 
 the good will of a patron chimed in, have been a pro- 
 fessor in the University of Edinburgh. Mrs. Dunlop 
 pressed him hard to become an applicant for the new 
 chair, the foundation of which is related below, and 
 through her and Dr. Moore his name was brought 
 before the patron. It does not, however, appear that 
 the poet ever seriously thought of applying for the 
 post. He at first doubted the feasibility of the pro- 
 ject, and finally in July expressed his obligation to his 
 two friends for their exertions on his behalf, but said 
 that he knew the professorship was to him an unat- 
 tainable object. 
 
 Ad. Mr. RoBT. Burns, 
 
 Elliesland, Dumfries. 1st April 17S9. 
 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinr., Third April 1789.] 
 
 Dr. Sir, — Your boy called here one morning before I 
 
 was well out of bed. I, however, regretted not seeing him 
 
 the less as Will Mure told me he was not directly returning.
 
 236 Correspondence between 
 
 and my knowing I could send my letter post-free hindered 
 me from being very earnest about writing by him ; so I did 
 not detain him, understanding he had some Uttle business in 
 the neighbourhood. Indeed I should have been vext to 
 think he had walked from Kilmarnock with a letter which I 
 should have had next day by post at any rate. It was mak- 
 ing the poor boy pay too dear for my pleasure ; yet when I 
 saw how much it contained of your private concerns, I less 
 grudged his walk. Assure yourself I shall not mention what 
 you tell me, or broach any plan that can hurt you either in 
 interest or happiness, by hinting it to any body but yourself. 
 As for forming schemes, it is a kind of castle-building that 
 I cannot resign, as it pleases myself and does little harm to 
 any thing else. I am, however, truly vext to think I have 
 ever given my opinion where you don't find it answer either 
 your ideas or mine. However, remember it was respecta- 
 bility, not wealth, was my object ; and my sentiments are 
 still the same spite of the event. Yet I own my feeling is 
 painful, and something similar to that of having a child die 
 of the inoculation. I mourn both, but repent neither. 
 Providence always sends some consolation ; where do you 
 beheve I find it at present? Just in the very circumstance 
 that ought to grieve me most, in the pride of knowing any 
 opinion of mine could for a moment influence your supe- 
 riour judgement. I feel pleased even at the very time when 
 I discover my advice has been unfortunate, a sure proof 
 generosity is not the strongest point of my character, tho' 
 't is the first time I ever found out or suspected it was 
 vanity. I can hardly still think it so ; I rather impute it to 
 the pleasure of esteeming you now more than I could ever 
 have done had you at once plunged eagerly into a profes- 
 sion where, although I must follow an old friend, I could
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 237 
 
 never have thought of looking for a new one. The very 
 thing you suggest about your brother struck me before, and 
 I one day mentioned it in the idea of instabihty and want 
 of application being frequently too close companions of 
 genius. The gentleman to whom I was speaking replied — 
 How could I think of that? If the bargain was a good one, 
 conferred as a personal favour, was it generous to assume a 
 right of transferring it to one for whom it was never meant ? 
 If it was bad, 't was unjust and inhuman to throw it on a 
 friend. I made no answer. I leave it to your animadver- 
 sions to fix a proper one, as I know no mind more decisive 
 or more manly in its determinations. Do not think I ever 
 miscalculate your motives in any thing. I always refer 
 them to the very best native workings of a good heart and 
 a sound, lincorrupted understanding. If I ever under-rate 
 them, it is for want of sublimity in myself to reach the 
 height to which your eagle fancy may soar. I may some- 
 times, notwithstanding, blame, or at least differ from your 
 way of thinking, and reprobate it as romantically disinter- 
 ested, but never as sordid or mean. I am incapable of 
 misconstruing the compliment you pay me, tho' I would 
 even sacrifice it rather than hurt the little one, if by this 
 resignation it might gain a better friend than it can ever 
 hope in me. I am sorry when you bid me chuse, to quit the 
 appellation of my husband ; yet I think the son of a Poet 
 must be Wallace. You will remember it is long since I told 
 you you would make that name live five hundred years longer, 
 tho' I am sure I did not dream of this method of bringing it 
 about, which confers an honour upon me beyond my ex- 
 pectation or desert, but of which I feel the full value. I 
 cannot allow you to speak of gratitude, unless you mean on 
 my side, who have ever been the obliged party. You have
 
 238 Correspondence between 
 
 allowed me to engross a portion of your time and attention 
 that was material to me and to yourself by an intercourse 
 which tended to rouse my then vacant mind, flatter my 
 self-love, and always afford me a lively pleasure. You have 
 indulged me in scribbling long letters, and knowing you 
 would answer them, as if the correspondence had been as 
 great an acquisition to you as I found it to myself; and 
 this at a time when your more knowing friends were telling 
 you it was a loss, and that all private letters were waste of 
 genius and trifling ones inexcusable in those who were 
 courted by wealth, rank, or science from every comer, and 
 ought to be taken up with nothing but their advancement 
 in fame or fortune. You have stuck by me spite of all 
 these wise arguments, and placed me at the head of your 
 list of distinguished friends in preference to so many proud 
 pre-eminencies that you have taught me a value I never 
 before put upon precedency. For the little while I have to 
 live I trust I shall never be shoved out of the post of honour 
 to which you direct my ambition. Were my lease long 
 enough, I should fear to see you rich enough to go to 
 London, that thick atmosphere which choaks most unprofit- 
 able regards. But I forgot that I meant to bid you read 
 your friend Creech's advertisement in the Edr. Courajit for 
 proposals about a professor of Agriculture.* I would have 
 you give this a little serious attention, since I do not beUeve 
 there is a man in the kingdom who might so properly blend 
 the theoretical and practical knowledge that plan would 
 seem to require, and the proposal being to be sent marked 
 with a private motto and kept secret if desired, seemed to 
 me a tempting circumstance, should the situation on in- 
 quiry prove convenient, reputable, and such as might be 
 held for life or dropt as one afterwards found eligible
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 239 
 
 should they please the donor, which there appeared no 
 great risk in trying. Besides, Edina would not be so 
 irksome when one was not from home there, nor would a 
 grave member of the College be so oft the prey of jolly 
 Bacchus as an Exciseman, at least against his will. But if 
 you write for any competition which you would have un- 
 known, don't correct a single letter with your own hand ; 
 't is as remarkable as the awns [beard] of a barleycorn ; I 
 also ought to have told you that I lately saw your brother's 
 landlord, the Nabob.^ I said I wondered he had quit you 
 for a tenant. He said he had kept a much better man for 
 his purpose ; your brother was a much better farmer, one 
 he would really be sorry to lose, and who had ten times 
 the sense of you. I don't repeat this as chit-chat, but to 
 induce you to examine how the land lies there before you 
 fix on the transplantation purposed. I wish to God some- 
 body that could serve your interest thought of it half as 
 often as I do. A poet is a Proteus which shows himself 
 in every shape. A farmer's house, a newspaper advertise- 
 ment, a book, a song, a tree, a river, or a mountain, bring 
 you along with them to my imagination, and becomes itself 
 more interesting from being so accompanyed. I must 
 believe you my friend, now that you tell me my faults, 
 therefore hear them with more grateful pleasure than my 
 praise, and since I must not quote Shakspear's Ail 's Well 
 that Ends Well'm my favours, I avail myself of Broome's ^ — 
 
 One line for sense and one for rhyme, 
 For any man 's sufficient at a time. 
 
 Being convicted I plead total ignorance of English law with 
 regard to accent and every part of grammar, nor can I claim 
 the privileges you and others would be allowed, being no
 
 240 Correspondence between 
 
 licence as a poet. I must just stand condemn'd as a 
 poacher unless you allow of this alteration in my poor tor- 
 tured couplet. 
 
 Congenial minds their partner shall approve, 
 Nor ladies envy her they truly love. 
 
 Adieu. I have not room for my name ; perhaps by now 
 you have it at home in the first edition. In every one be- 
 lieve it that of a friend, with additions and emendations, 
 the growth of every month of our acquaintance. Will the 
 accommodation * stop the Poefs Progress ? I hope not, for 
 I am interested in every step of his road that I have yet 
 seen. I am less friendly to the Epistle of the Unfortunate 
 Lady^ who writes very like a man and he no small profi- 
 cient either. But my family is too large just now for me to 
 turn critic. So in honest Erse Dieu vous benisse ! 
 
 (i) Mr, William Johnstone Pulteney, afterwards 
 baronet of Westerhall by succession to his brother, 
 who had acquired the vast fortune of the Pulteney 
 family by his marriage with the heiress of Daniel, 
 presented to the University of Edinburgh, through 
 the Town Council, of which Creech was a member, 
 the sum of ^^1250 to endow a Chair of Agriculture. 
 Pulteney retained the first presentation in his own 
 hands, and appointed in the year 1790 Dr. Andrew 
 Coventry of Shanwell, who filled the chair for a great 
 many years. By the terms of the appointment he was 
 taken bound to deliver " a set of Instructions or Lec- 
 tures on the subject of Agriculture, respecting the 
 nature of soils and manures; the modes of cultiva- 
 tion; the succession of crops; the construction of
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 241 
 
 the implements of husbandry ; the best and most 
 successful known practices ; the manner of instituting 
 experiments to ascertain the effect of any proposed 
 practice in any soil or climate ; and the best manner 
 of introducing or training skilful labourers and country 
 artificers, where these may be wanting." 
 
 (2) Mossgiel, which the Burnses leased from Gavin 
 Hamilton, as factor for the Earl of Loudoun, passed 
 in 1786 into the possession of the neighbouring pro- 
 prietor, Claud Alexander of Ballochmyle, father of 
 " The Bonie Lass," who had made a fortune in India, 
 and in the slang of the day was therefore a nabob. 
 
 (3) William Broome (1689-1745), Pope's collabo- 
 rator in the translation of Homer. 
 
 Hibernian politics, O Swift ! thy doom, 
 
 And Pope's, translating ten whole years with Broome. 
 
 Dii7iciad. 
 
 (4) The final payment by Creech in connection 
 with the 1787 edition. 
 
 (5) The sketch (see antca, p. 215) afterwards in- 
 corporated in " Passion's Cry." 
 
 About this time Burns commenced his connection 
 with the recently started first London evening paper, 
 Peter Stuart's, TJie Star and Evejiing Advertiser, 
 which took from him the " Ode to the Departed 
 Regency Bill," then the " Ode to the Memory of Mrs. 
 Oswald of Auchencruive," the "New Psalmody" for 
 Kilmarnock Chapel, etc. It will be noted that from 
 the start the poet appreciated the risk he ran in mix- 
 
 VOL. I. — 16
 
 242 Correspondence between 
 
 ing himself up with poHtics. The Regency Bill was 
 of course introduced by Pitt, on George the Third's 
 first attack of madness, conferring the regency on the 
 Prince of Wales with certain restrictions which were 
 denounced by Fox and the Prince's friends. 
 
 Mrs. DuNLOP of Dunlop, 
 Dunlop House, Stewarton. 
 
 Ellisland, -yd April 1789. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I have this moment finished the following 
 political Squib, and I cannot resist the temptation of sending 
 you a copy of it — the only copy indeed that I will send to 
 any body, except perhaps anonymously to some London 
 Newspaper. Politics is dangerous ground for me to tread 
 on, and yet I cannot for the soul of me resist an impulse of 
 any thing like Wit. 
 
 ODE TO THE DEPARTED REGENCY BILL. 
 
 Daughter of Chaos' doting years 1 
 Nurse of ten thousand hopes and fears I 
 Whether thy airy, unsubstantial shade 
 (The rites of sepulture now duly paid ;) 
 Spread abroad its hideous form 
 On the roaring civil-storm ; 
 Deafening din, and warring rage, 
 
 Factions wild with factions wage : 
 
 Or under ground, deep-sunk, profound, 
 Among the demons of the earth, 
 
 With groans that make the mountains shake, 
 Thou mourn thy ill-starred, blighted birth : 
 
 Or in the uncreated void. 
 
 Where seeds of future-being fight, 
 
 With lightened step thou wander wide, 
 To greet thy mother ancient night;
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 243 
 
 And as each jarring, monster mass is past, 
 Fond recollect what once thou wast : 
 In manner due, beneath this sacred oak, 
 Hear, Spirit, hear ! thy presence I invoke 1 
 
 By a Monarch's heaven-struck fate ! 
 By a disunited State ! 
 By a GENEROUS Prince's wrongs I 
 By a Senate's war of tongues ! 
 By Opposition's eager hand, 
 Grasping at an airy wand ! 
 By a premier's sullen pride, 
 Louring on the changing tide ! 
 By dread Th-rl-w's powers to awe, 
 Rhetoric, Blasph-my, and Law 1 
 By the turbulent ocean, 
 A Nation's commotion 1 
 By the harlot caresses 
 Of Borough Addresses ! 
 By days few and evil ! 
 Thy portion, poor devil ! 
 By Power, Wealth, Show ! the gods by men adored ; 
 By nameless Poverty ! their hell abhorred : 
 By all they hope ! By all they fear 1 
 Hear ! And appear ! 
 Stare not on me, thou ghostly Power ! 
 Nor grim with chained defiance lour ! 
 No Babel-structure would I build. 
 
 Where, Order exiled from his regal sway. 
 Confusion may the Regent Sceptre wield, 
 
 While all would rule — and none obey. — 
 Go ! to the world of man relate 
 The story of thy strange, eventful fate : 
 And call presumptuous Hope to hear, 
 And bid him check his blind career ; 
 And tell the sore-vexed sons of Care, 
 Never, never to despair ! 
 Paint Charles's speed, on wings of fire. 
 The object of his fond desire
 
 244 Correspondence between 
 
 Beyond his boldest hopes at hand : 
 
 Paint all the triumph of the Prtl-nd-band ; 
 
 Mark, how they seem to lift th' elated voice ! 
 
 And who are these that in their joy rejoice? 
 Jews, Gentiles, what a motely crew ! 
 Their iron tears of joy their flinty cheeks bedew ; 
 See, how unfurled their parchment ensigns fly, 
 And, PRINCIPAL and interest! all the cry. — 
 But just as hopes to warm enjoyment rise, 
 Cry, CONVALESCENCE ! and the vision flies. — 
 
 Then next pourtray a darkening, twilight gloom, 
 
 Eclipsing, sad, a gay rejoicing morn, 
 While proud ambition to th' untimely tomb 
 
 By gnashing, grim, despairing fiends is borne ! 
 Paint RUIN, in the shape of high DuND 
 
 Gaping with giddy terror o'er the brow : 
 In vain he struggles — the Fates behind him press, 
 And clamorous hell yawns for her prey below ! 
 How fallen That, whose pride late scaled the skies ! ! ! 
 And This, like Lucifer, no more to rise ! ! ! 
 
 Again pronounce the powerful word : 
 See Day, triumphant from the night, restored. 
 
 Then know these truths, ye sons of men 
 (Thus end thy moral tale). 
 Your darkest terrors may be vain, 
 Your brightest hopes may fail. 
 
 I have this moment an opportunity of sending this to 
 Post, so can no more — not even review the past. R. B. 
 
 In the collection of Mr. R. B. Adam of Buffalo, 
 there is a MS. of this poem dated 17th March 1789. 
 The Ode was published in the London Star of 17th 
 April, dated Edinburgh the 7th, and signed " Agri- 
 cola." Burns told Lady Harriet Don that it was 
 " mangled in a newspaper." Probably Stuart, the
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 245 
 
 editor, struck out of the MS. sent him hnes 59-62, 
 " Jews, Gentiles," etc., modified the two preceding 
 hnes to cover the omission, and made verbal changes 
 in lines 53 and 56. In the copy made for Captain 
 Riddel lines 25 and 26 were omitted. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, 
 
 Dunlop House, Stewarton. 
 
 Ellisland, 2\st April 1789. 
 
 My honored Friend, — If you knew my present hurry of 
 building, planning, planting, ploughing, sowing, etc. etc., you 
 would give me great credit for this sheet-ful, if I live in leis- 
 ure to fill it. Every minute has five minutes' business to do, 
 and every crown has a twenty-shilling errand to run. I have 
 just got a reading of some books I wanted much ; and a 
 parcel of poems, now in the current of subscription, have 
 given me, and daily give me, a world of trouble in revising 
 them. They are hopeless trash ; but the authoress is a 
 poor young creature whose forefathers have seen better 
 days ; for which consideration I submit to the horrid drudg- 
 ery. I have over and above, the 3d vol. of the Scots Songs 
 ^Miiseunf^ among my hands, among which will appear 
 some delectable pieces of my Muse's dreams. 
 
 Two mornings ago as I was, at a very early hour, sowing 
 in the fields, I heard a shot, and presently a poor little hare 
 limped by me, apparently very much hurt. You will easily 
 guess, this set my humanity in tears and my indignation in 
 arms. The following was the result, which please read to 
 the young ladies — I believe you may include the Major, 
 too ; as whatever I have said of shooting hares, I have not 
 spoken one irreverend word against coursing them. This 
 is, according to your just right, the very first copy I wrote.
 
 246 Correspondence between 
 
 ON SEEING A FELLOW WOUND A HARE WITH 
 
 A SHOTi 
 
 Inhuman man ! curse on thy barbarous art, 
 
 And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! 
 
 May never Pity soothe thee with a sigh, 
 Nor ever Pleasure glad thy cruel heart I 
 
 Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
 The bitter little that of life remains : 
 No more the thickening brakes or verdant plains 
 
 To thee, or home, or food, or pastime yield. 
 
 Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form ; 
 That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed. 
 The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
 
 The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom warm. 
 
 Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe. 
 
 The playful Pair croud fondly by thy side ; 
 
 Ah, little Nurslings ! who will now provide 
 That life, a Mother only can bestow ! 
 
 Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait 
 
 The sober eve, or hail the chearful dawn, 
 
 I '11 miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 
 And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy hapless fate. 
 
 It would truly oblidge me, to have your opinion of the 
 foregoing. I must take some other opportunity to answer 
 the particulars of your last. I beheve the Professorship yoti 
 mention will be an idle project ; but whatever it may be, I, 
 or such as I, am quite out of the question. 
 
 You are rather premature on me in expecting your name- 
 child so soon. In about two months, I hope to tell you 
 another story. By the way, should I have a boy, will you 
 honor him with the appellation, or will you wait a girl? 
 You see, I am set in for trade. I wish I had lived of Jok- 
 tan,^ in whose days, says Moses, the earth was divided.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 247 
 
 Then, a partriarchal fellow like me might have been the 
 father of a nation. 
 
 But even in that case I should have been a loser if I had 
 then been denied the happiness and honor of subscribing 
 myself, Dr. Madam, your oblidged friend and humble 
 servt. RoBT. Burns. 
 
 (i) The draft in the letter of 4th May to Alexander 
 Cunnincrham is the earliest hitherto known. Both it 
 and the version in the text dififer in several places 
 from, and have one verse more than the poem as 
 it was adjusted to Dr. Gregory's criticism. 
 
 (2) Joktan was of the children of Shem, and begot 
 thirteen sons. See Gen. x. 25. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 
 EUisland, Dumfries. 2yd April 1789. 
 
 [Franked by Kerr : Edinburgh, Sixth May 17S9.] 
 
 Dr. Sir, — This is the feast or fast for the recovery of 
 our King.^ I say with all my heart — Thy will be done ! 
 For on this subject I have no will of my own ; my very 
 wishes are lost in immensity or buried in profound ig- 
 norance, and I am ready with the implicit faith of indiffer- 
 ence to believe what is is best. But I am not well ; my 
 spirits are contracted, and everything around me on too 
 large a scale for my present enjoyment. My house is so 
 big I can see but one end of it ; my company so numerous 
 I can hear none of them for the noise of the rest ; my very 
 devotion, inadequate to the occasion, embraces only a very 
 few friends, for whom indeed my sincere good wishes never 
 fail to arise with the dawning light, and to contribute to 
 their accomplishment would be all the Heaven I would ask 
 upon earth. Yet it is more than I fear will ever be granted
 
 248 Correspondence between 
 
 me, nor can I learn to be contented without it, and perform 
 that first of all duties to fill quietly our appointed post, and 
 never let will-o'-the-wisp wishes tempt us to repine at what 
 we cannot better but may often mar by those indifferent 
 efforts which jostle us out of the ranks and hurt both our 
 cause and ourselves. This length mortified pride had made 
 me peevish ; I expected a letter and missed it. I dare say 
 I found much better, for I have just got yours, and will 
 forget every thing disagreeable for that which always gives 
 me pleasure. My soul, before as inanimate as this drizzly 
 day, brightens to a gleam of sunshine, and, if not reason, 
 recollection and rhyme may once more befriend me, and fill 
 up my blank sheet as well as my void intellects, which were 
 wholly asleep till roused by the welcome sight of your hand 
 — the only one almost that never fails for some minutes at 
 least to brush off the dust and cobwebs gathered round an 
 indolent, inactive mind, good for nothing to others or itself. 
 This were an overwhelming idea, but your friendship gives 
 the lie to it, and tells me I am still something, since I 
 possess what the proudest of the land in vain may envy. I 
 shall do what few Nabobs can, feel truly happy in my 
 wealth, without examining too curiously whether I owe it to 
 conquest, or if it constitute the only remaining inheritance 
 from my ancestors. The last would please my vanity ; the 
 first gratify my self-love. Meantime I find food for both in 
 the compliment Dr. Moore and you pay me in naming your 
 sons for me, especially yours, where the surname makes it 
 unequivocal, and there being no relation to prompt the 
 distinction must make me regard it as the more peculiar 
 mark of goodwill, and of that degree of esteem I dare not 
 flatter myself I can ever deserve, unless by feeling the true 
 value of it, which I beg you may give me full credit for.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 249 
 
 I am assured the professorship is unappropriated, even 
 in idea. It is endowed by Mr. Poultney. I wish to God 
 he thought of both you and it as I do, and it would be 
 yours, at least if you wish it should be so ; but perhaps you 
 would have an aversion to it. We are subject sometimes 
 to strange dislikes. I know a friend of yours who feels 
 always something come over her heart like the cold fit of an 
 ague every time she thinks of a pert Exciseman, nor is this 
 an inexplicable matter to me, for I have a kind of antipa- 
 thy myself at cats, so that there is only one of the whole 
 race I can endure. She indeed is a fine little creature, and 
 quite a favourite ; she cannot cry, and is the very reverse 
 of the rest of the species. But you know it has long been 
 said " No rule without an exception," and I must confess I 
 have seen already more than one among Excisemen who, 
 like modest Irishmen, were always wondered at, and almost 
 regarded like the good Bishop of Marseilles, who had 
 escaped all the contagion of the plague. You bid me tell 
 you my opinion of the " Hare." It was thrice read in the 
 circle, and more liked every time than the first. Had it 
 been any hand but yours, I don't know if I had done it so 
 much justice, for I don't like the measure, which to my 
 ears feels cramp and unnatural, and prevents my following 
 the thought smoothly. I feel as Sterne did driving hard 
 on rough road, I think when he left Maria or the dead ass ; 
 I don't know which, but it would do for either. The 
 thoughts are beautifully tender, spite of your cursing as 
 heartily as a Jewish judge when all the people said Amen. 
 But what struck me most was " Go live the bitter little that 
 of life remains," etc. The whole recalled the remembrance 
 of a dead seal-fish I once saw with two young ones sucking, 
 and I tryed to throw my fancy into the very form that I
 
 250 Correspondence between 
 
 felt murder your's, so natural it is to imitate or rather be 
 imperceptibly led by those we admire, even where we ad- 
 mire them least. This was the produce : — 
 
 No agonies now rend thy bursting heart, 
 Thy lifeless young fix't at the ebbing flood ; 
 Cold death coagulates thy milk and blood. 
 
 Convulsive starts no longer pangs impart. 
 
 So petrified by pride to Parian stone 
 
 On some mock marble sculptur'd orphans show, 
 Meagre and cold ! that vain parade of woe 
 
 Swells not the heart like simple Nature's groan. 
 
 I wonder at the ease (impudence I fear any body else 
 would call it) with which I scribble all my nonsense to 
 you, as a child would scratch mathematical schemes to Sir 
 Isaak Newton, had it happened to find a bit of chalk on 
 his desk. Sir Isaak was a good man, and would have set 
 all soon to rights again with his pocket-handkerchief; so 
 may you by lighting your pipe — should you ever have 
 the toothach as I have had this month bypast — with my 
 verses ; for remember I positively prohibit your giving 
 them to the maid to make broaches, or any of those kind 
 of uses that would subject me to be laughed at by any body 
 but yourself Meantime I wish our convicts at Botany 
 Bay may trade to the same purpose, and get valuable com- 
 modities for their iron nails, glass beads, etc. etc., as I do 
 when you send me your compositions in exchange — nay, 
 not only copies, but the proof-prints new from the mint, 
 what money can never henceforth buy, and even tell me 
 you think these my just right. I wish from the bottom of my 
 soul you may ever find a friend worthy of your gratitude, 
 for it surely would be extreme when you repay me so richly 
 for, I dare say, often trying your patience, and exhausting
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 251 
 
 it too, while I was really indulging myself more than I had 
 it in my power to do in any other way whatever. When 
 you read this, don't lower like the Premier o'er the 
 "changing tide " ^ — a beautiful, fine image as I see it 
 reflected in the clear mirror of my ruling star, for such I 
 greet the new poetic constellation which may perhaps 
 hereafter be called, like the one in the heavens, the 
 "something Georgius " \_Georgi2im Sidus'], though I 
 believe the Cuer-Carw would have been more proper; 
 apropos to which, in some lines you saw lately I intended 
 writing, after giving " every Stuart his due," ^ by way of 
 an additional cause for doing so, this couplet — 
 
 E'er since in early youth (unknown) he trode 
 With worth and learning Catrine's loved abode. 
 
 Apropos to which again I must tell you I lately met a fine 
 young fellow, clever, well-principled, good-hearted, and 
 proudly independent of spirit, but the world says mad, and 
 I am not sure if they are wholly mistaken. He did some- 
 thing out of the common road, and I gave him your 
 " Epitaph of a Bard " to read. He was so pleased with 
 it I made him a present of the book. He said he was 
 ashamed to see but one of his name among the subscrip- 
 tions. " I suppose yours will grace his next publication," 
 replied I. Says he, " I had an old grand-uncle, who told 
 great lies, not to be believed but laughed at. He told us 
 one day Old George was not dead nor planting cabbage at 
 Hanover. Where was he then? 'One day,' says he, 'I 
 was marching our Regt. (Scots Dutch) to the parade 
 at the Hague. A fellow called me from a gin-shop. I 
 did not chuse the men should see I could drink, but 
 when they dismist I returned to the little, fat, red-faced
 
 252 Correspondence between 
 
 landlord, and asked how he knew me. " Lord Arthur," says 
 he, "don't you know George Guelph? I keep this gin- 
 shop ; it 's a hundred times better than to be King ; won't 
 you give me your custome?" "Shake hands," says I; 
 " you 're a d — d honest fellow — I '11 not only come 
 myself, but I '11 fetch the whole regt." ' And I," added 
 my guest, "will not only subscribe myself, but fetch my 
 whole clan, and a pretty numerous one they are." We had 
 some more chat about you, and it was he told me about 
 the professorship being unengaged, so after the company 
 parted it run in my head, and I wrot what you shall have 
 in another sheet as if addrest to Creech. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 See these subscriptions ; view the ample scroll ! 
 Like Death's mixt legends that contain the whole. 
 What mighty hands from distant lands unfurled, 
 Seem to announce him Laureate for the World I 
 Sated with conquest, tired of public view, 
 His independent hand now grasps the plough. 
 
 While through the records of old Time you pry. 
 Ages and nations open'd to your eye ; 
 Great Source of Learning ! I appeal to you, 
 If he who holds the pen and guides the plough, 
 Fir'd by ambition, sedulously aims 
 To form her mind and fertilize her plains : 
 Is not the man by Nature's hand design'd 
 To frame her labours useful and refin'd ? 
 To make old Agriculture joyous smile, 
 And force forth plenty from a rigid soil.'' 
 To add strong Practice to that classic lore 
 By Theory mangled in our schools before .'' 
 
 This is a very late spring, but spite of the cold the daisies 
 begin to rise ; yet my hopes of seeing you are not bloom- 
 ing. I rather almost despair of ever having that pleasure 
 again ; yet, as you once told me you meant to be in
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 253 
 
 Ayrshire about this time, it would have vext me to leave 
 it, which I was greatly importuned to do, two days ago, 
 when two- of my daughters went for some weeks to Edin- 
 burgh. Should you arrive, you would just find me at the 
 old trade making another grandchild's cap. I suppose you 
 won't, however, leave Mrs. Bums till the strangers are 
 introduced, and she well again. You ask if I am for a 
 son or a daughter. I shall be thankful, as the saying is, for 
 whatever God sends, nor say, like the greedy Bishop of 
 Bath and Wells — " Baith 's best." I hear Dr. Moore 
 is publishing a novel, but I don't know the name or nature 
 of it. I am also told he is printing a tragedy — I mean a 
 play — for I don't know what kind of one it is neither. A 
 man is lost at London, at least much lost; to me it has 
 been a fatal whirlpool, that has sucked in several of my 
 friends who now inhabit about Westminster Abbey. But 
 what is as bad, those who escape that are so crowded one 
 is squeezed out of their head, tho' I ought not to say so of 
 the Dr., who never in his life has forgot me where he could 
 serve, though frequently when he might have pleased me 
 much by his remembrance. Dr. Burns, if you have, as I 
 hope you have, my happiness much at heart, just reverse 
 this mode, for my spirit, proud and independent like your 
 own, leads me to prefer being pleased and flattered to the 
 most material service I could receive. Happy is it for me 
 if this is also your way of thinking, since it is my pride that 
 I have been hitherto enabled sometimes to please you, 
 whereas, with all the wish in the world, it is beyond my 
 most sanguine hope that it should ever be in my power to 
 be of the most insignificant service to you. Every body 
 would know your "Regency Bill " were it to appear. You 
 cannot have a child more like the father, should you have 
 twins every year as long as you live. I am, notwithstand-
 
 254 Correspondence between 
 
 ing the length of this, almost as busie as you, but my labours 
 aiford less pleasant variety. I might be sick-nurse in some 
 hospital, for all my family almost are sick. I am the best 
 myself, being only distracted with the toothache two hours 
 every forenoon, and pretty well for the rest of the day. 
 I dare not complain much lest they tell me 't is a common 
 affectation in old women, who would fain pretend to have 
 teeth after they are all gone. Farewell. May you escape 
 this and all evils, and always honour with your regard, Dr. 
 Sir, your obliged, humble servt. Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) Thursday, 23rd April, vi^as appointed a day of 
 public thanksgiving for the recovery of George the 
 Third from the mental derangement which was the 
 origin of the Regency Bill. This same occasion was 
 the subject of Burns's " Stanzas of Psalmody," pub- 
 lished in the Star, and beginning, " O, sing a New 
 Song to the Lord." 
 
 (2) " Ode to the Departed Regency Bill." 
 
 (3) This cryptic allusion is to Professor Dugald 
 Stewart. 
 
 The " New Psalm for the Chapel of Kilmarnock," 
 which forms the first of the poetical transcripts in the 
 following letter, was published in the Star on 14th 
 May, with the date Kilmarnock, 30th April. Duncan 
 M'Leerie was the hero of an old Kilmarnock song. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, /^th May 1789. 
 
 You see. Madam, that I am returned to my folio epistles 
 
 again. I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy but I 
 
 wish to send it to you ; and if knowing and reading them 
 
 gives half the pleasure to you, that communicating them to 
 
 you gives to me, I am satisfied.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 255 
 
 As I am not devoutly attached to a certain monarch, I 
 cannot say that my heart ran any risk of bursting, on Thurs- 
 day was se'ennight,^ with the struggling emotions of grati- 
 tude. God forgive me for speaking evil of dignities ! but I 
 must say that I look on the whole business as a solemn farce 
 of flagrant mummery. The following are a few stanzas of 
 new Psalmody for that "joyful solemnity," which I sent to a 
 London newspaper with the date and preface following. 
 
 Kilmarnock, 25th April. Mr, Printer, — In a certain 
 chapel, not fifty miles from the market-cross of this good 
 town, the following stanzas of Psalmody, it is said, were 
 composed for, and devoutly sung on the late joyful solem- 
 nity of the 23rd. 
 
 O, sing a new song to the Lord ! 
 
 Make, all and every one 
 A joyful noise, ev'n for the King 
 
 His restoration. 
 
 The sons of Belial in the land 
 
 Did set their heads together ; 
 " Come, let us sweep them off," said they, 
 
 " Like an o'erflo\ving river." 
 
 They set their heads together, I say. 
 
 They set their heads together: 
 On right and left, and every hand, 
 
 We saw none to deliver. 
 
 Thou madest strong two chosen ones, 
 
 To quell the Wicked's pride : 
 The Young Man,2 great in Issachar, 
 
 The burden-bearing tribe ; 
 
 And him, among the Princes, chief 
 
 In our Jerusalem, 
 The Judge ^ that 's mighty in Thy law, 
 
 The man that fears Thy name. 
 
 Yet they, even they, with all their strength, 
 
 Began to faint and fail ; 
 Even as two howling, rav'ning wolves 
 
 To dogs do turn their tail.
 
 256 Correspondence between 
 
 Th' ungodly o'er the just prevail'd, 
 
 For so Thou hadst appointed, 
 That Thou might'st greater glory give 
 
 Unto Thine own annointed. 
 
 And now Thou hast restored our State, 
 
 Pity our Kirk also, 
 For she by tribulations 
 
 Is now brought very low ! 
 
 Consume that high-place, Patronage, 
 
 From off Thy holy hill ; 
 And in Thy fury burn the book * 
 
 Even of that man M'Gill. 
 
 Now hear our prayer, accept our song, 
 
 And fight Thy chosen's battle ! 
 
 "We seek but little, Lord, from Thee, 
 
 Thou kens we get as little ! 
 
 Duncan M'Leerie. 
 
 So much for psalmody. You must know that the pub- 
 lisher of one of the most blasphemous party London news- 
 papers is an acquaintance of mine, and as I am a little 
 tinctured with Buff and Blue myself, I now and then help 
 him to a stanza. 
 
 I gave another poetic whim in my head, which I at 
 
 present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the Rt. Honble. Ch. 
 
 J. Fox, Esquire ; but how long that fancy may hold, I can't 
 
 say. A few of the first lines I have just rough sketched as 
 
 follows : — 
 
 SKETCH 
 
 INSCRIBED TO CHARLES JAMES FOX, ESQ. 
 
 How Wisdom and Folly ineet, mix, and unite ; 
 
 How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white ; 
 
 How Genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
 
 Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction, 
 
 I sing. If these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
 
 I care not, not I : let the critics go whistle !
 
 Robert Barns and Mrs. Dunlop 257 
 
 But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory 
 At once may illustrate and honor my story. 
 
 Thou first of our orators, first of our wits. 
 Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits; 
 With knowledge so vast and with judgment so strong. 
 No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
 With passions so potent and fancies so bright, 
 No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right ; 
 A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, 
 For using thy name, offers fifty excuses. 
 
 Good L — d, what is Man ! for as simple he looks. 
 Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks ! 
 With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil. 
 All in all he 's a problem must puzzle the devil. 
 
 On his one ruling passion Sir Pope ^ hugely labors, 
 That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours. 
 
 Human Nature 's his show-box — your friend, would you know him .-' 
 Pull the string, Ruling Passion — the picture will show him. 
 What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. 
 One trifling particular — Truth — should have miss'd him! 
 For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
 Mankind is a science defies definitions. 
 
 Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 
 And think Human Nature they truly describe : 
 Have you found this or t' other .' there 's more in the wind. 
 As by one drunken fellow his comrades you 'II find. 
 But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan 
 In the make of that wonderful creature called Man ; 
 No two virtues, whatever relation they claim. 
 Nor even two different shades of the same. 
 Though like as was ever twin brother to brother. 
 Possessing the one shall imply you 've the other. 
 
 But truce with abstraction, and truce with a Muse 
 W^hose rhymes you '11 perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign to peruse : 
 Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, 
 Contending with Billy ^ for proud-nodding laurels ? 
 VOL. I. — 17
 
 258 Correspondence between 
 
 My much-honor'd Patron, believe your poor Poet, 
 
 Your courage much more than your prudence, you show it ; 
 
 In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle : 
 
 He '11 have them by fair trade — if not, he will smuggle ; 
 
 Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em, 
 
 He 'd up the back-stairs, and by G he would steal 'em ! 
 
 Then feats like Squire Billy's, you ne'er can achieve 'em, 
 It is not, out-do him — the task is, out-thieve him ! 
 
 I beg your pardon for troubling you with the enclosed to 
 the Major's tenant before the gate ; it is to request him to 
 look me out two milk cows : one is for myself and another 
 for Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, a very obliging neighbour 
 of mine. John very obligingly offered to do so for me ; 
 and I will either serve myself that way or at Mauchline 
 Fair. It happens on the 20th curt., and the Sunday pre- 
 ceding it I hope to have the honor of assuring you in per- 
 son how sincerely I am, Madam, your highly obliged and 
 most obedient humble servant, Robt. Burns. 
 
 (i) See antca, page 254. 
 
 (2) William Pitt. 
 
 (3) Lord Chancellor Thurlow. Pitt and Thurlow 
 had opposed the appointment of a regent armed with 
 all the powers of a king. 
 
 (4) Dr. William M'Gill's Essay on the Death of 
 Jesus Christ. 
 
 (5) Pope's Essay on Matt. 
 
 (6) Pitt. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 Elliesland, Dumfries. 
 
 [Efidorsed: 20 May '89.] 
 [Franked by Kerr : Edinburgh, Twenty-eighth May 1789.] 
 
 Dr. Sir, — I don't know how to account for it that, spite 
 of your being part of two days here,^ I never mentioned
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 259 
 
 several things I wished much to talk of, and those we did 
 speak about in so cursory a way I might as well have let 
 them alone. Indeed you seemed just in the same style, 
 since what you told me of your business for your brother 
 was one of these half-confidences which is always either 
 too little or too much. I did not think myself at liberty 
 to ask any question farther than you chose to communicate, 
 especially as the rest of the company might have accident- 
 ally shared the information only meant for myself; yet you 
 cannot believe I was wholly void of curiosity. Believe me, 
 I wish the prosperity of all your family, wherever it can be 
 attained without any slur on that rectitude of your own 
 character in which your supereminence has hitherto shone 
 even more bright than genius alone can possibly reach to. 
 There are plans in life where the gain is so great on one 
 side and the sacrifice so high on the other that the guilt 
 becomes greater and the distress more lasting than robbery 
 or even murder might occasion. No merit in a man can 
 plead pardon for the woman who breaks over that pale 
 which a distinction of ranks has affixt in society. Unless 
 he has made his native superiority plain to the world, it 
 can never with propriety come under her notice. Her 
 motives must therefore be debasing to her, and her con- 
 duct disgraceful to her friends. She must forfeit their 
 esteem, renounce their affection, and plunge a dagger in 
 their heart deeper than her death could do. Nor will one 
 so little tied to the decencies of female duties probably ever 
 make a tolerable wife in other respects, even should she be 
 able to bend to a reduced situation, embittered by remem- 
 brance of what she has thrown away herself, and of the joy 
 and comfort of which she has deprived those to whom her 
 figure in life was a real and inestimable property, or perhaps
 
 26o Correspondence between 
 
 a devolved trust dearer than life itself. You observe there 
 are many things your brother can do on a farm which you 
 cannot now do ; there are likewise many women might 
 have married you who would become justly contemptible 
 by marrying him, even allowing him to be, as Mr. Alex- 
 ander says he is, the preferable man of the two. Many 
 matches you might have embraced which in him would be 
 very ungenerous, and taking a mean, unmanly advantage 
 of folly or affection. In these cases the principle is, how- 
 ever, less blameable than the cool, unimpetuous accessory. 
 For all which reasons I trust you will never be seen as- 
 sistant to any plan where there is great disparity in anything 
 but cash, unless the man has acquired Mat like your own, 
 or the woman has enough to do what she pleases inde- 
 pendent of remorse, which would require a far greater sum 
 than the one you mentioned. But forgive me, the deli- 
 cacie of your own mind must suggest all and more than I 
 can say on this subject. Did I not think so, I could not 
 esteem you as I do ; so farewell this anticipated theme, 
 since I am convinced wherever honour grips that will 
 always be your border, and one which neither personal 
 interest nor fraternal affection will be able to make you 
 step over. 
 
 I had this moment the inclosed "^ from Mr. Moore, and 
 have done you the favour of allowing you a reading of my 
 answer, which I beg you may put a wafer in, and send to 
 the Dr., whether you subscribe to the contents or not. My 
 reason for letting you see it was that, if you thought of the 
 plan, you might take any step you thought could help it 
 forward, as no time should be lost, if indeed it is not 
 already over, which I am somewhat apprehensive of. I 
 intended you a long letter, but this incident led me to
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 261 
 
 address it to Mr. Moore, and my weak eyes have now 
 
 made me blind. Yet I must give you a few lines more 
 
 before I can bid you adieu. You heard me get a most 
 
 violent attack for encouraging a man to expose himself by 
 
 asking copies of nonsense he had wrot in rhyme. The 
 
 accusation would have hurt me in any company, but more 
 
 especially in yours. It set me in a dishonest as well as an 
 
 unhospitable point of light, as unjust to a man and brutal 
 
 to my guest. As you said of vindicating your conduct to 
 
 those whose esteem you valued, I, who value your esteem 
 
 more than perhaps anybody does mine, wish to vindicate 
 
 mine to the man, the friend, and the poet, where to every 
 
 eye I must have appeared blamable by the representation 
 
 of a fact I could not wholly deny, but which T. will try to 
 
 elucidate more in my own favours by giving you the copies 
 
 in question. The one was an address to a gentleman of 
 
 the Weymes family, pretending to be the chief of the name, 
 
 and whom the author wished to inspire with a resolution 
 
 to stand for member of Parliament against a man who, he 
 
 believed, had used him ill and broke his word. Whatever 
 
 you say to the poetry, I don't believe you will find the 
 
 arguments foolish, cold, or ill-calculated to move a vain 
 
 man descended from M'Dufif. The other was an epigram 
 
 on reading " A Bard's Epitaph " of your acquaintance, and 
 
 as follows : — 
 
 Go, manly Bard, all Nature's words are thine ; 
 
 Thou giv'st them as thou had'st them clearly from the Nine. 
 
 Tho' Fortune (that Blind B ) has heretofor frown'd, 
 
 Be thy intrinsic worth with all her honours crown'd. 
 
 The gentleman is (some people say) mad. He is perhaps 
 no poet, but I aver he is no fool at least, tho' only a poor 
 rhymer like myself. I positively assert I meant not to lead
 
 262 Correspondence between 
 
 him to expose himself by pretending to applaud what I 
 thought ridiculous, but the conversation has so far opened 
 my eyes to other folks' ideas that I believe I will never try 
 crambo clink again, lest you should prove as hard a judge 
 on me as the Major did on my poor visitor, in whom you 
 may some time or other be more interested. Meanwhile, 
 adieu. — Yours, with honest sincerity and friendly esteem, 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 Send me your Epitaph on R. Mure [Muir] . 
 
 (i) This is the sole reference extant to a visit 
 Burns must have paid to Dunlop in the summer of 
 this year. Apparently some projected marriage of 
 Gilbert to a lady " above his station " was discussed 
 on the occasion, as well, perhaps, as the suggestion 
 that Gilbert might take over the farm of Ellisland. 
 
 (2) Dr. Moore's communication probably referred 
 to the professorship. See antea, p. 235. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, 
 
 Dunlop House, Stewarton. 
 
 Ellisland, z\st June 1789. 
 
 Dear Madam, — Will you take the effusions, the miser- 
 able effusions, of low spirits, just as they flow from their 
 bitter spring? I know not of any particular cause for this 
 worst of all my foes besetting me, but for some time my 
 soul has been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of 
 evil imaginations and gloomy presages. 
 
 Monday Evening. 
 
 I have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick ^ give a sermon. He 
 is a man famous for his benevolence, and I revere him ; 
 but from such ideas of my Creator, good Lord deliver me !
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 263 
 
 Religion, my honored friend, is surely a simple business, 
 as it equally concerns the ignorant and the learned, the 
 poor and the rich. That there is an incomprehensible 
 Great Being, to whom I owe my existence, and that He 
 must be intimately acquainted with the operations and 
 progress of the internal machinery and consequent out- 
 ward deportment of this creature which He has made : 
 these are, I think, self-evident propositions. That there 
 is a real and eternal distinction between virtue and vice, 
 and, consequently, that I am an accountable creature ; that 
 from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as 
 from the evident imperfection, nay, positive injustice, in 
 the administration of affairs, both in the natural and moral 
 worlds, there must be a retributive scene of existence be- 
 yond the grave, must, I think, be allowed by every one 
 who will give himself a moment's reflection. I will go 
 further, and affirm that from the sublimity, excellence and 
 purity of His doctrine and precepts, unparalleled by all the 
 aggregated wisdom and learning of many preceding ages, 
 though, to appearance, He himself was the obscurest and 
 most illiterate of our species; therefore Jesus Christ was 
 from God. . . . 
 
 Whatever mitigates the woes or increases the happiness 
 of others, this is my criterion of goodness ; and whatever 
 injures society at large or any individual in it, this is my 
 measure of iniquity. 
 
 What think you. Madam, of my creed? I trust that I 
 have said nothing that will lessen me in the eye of one 
 whose good opinion I value almost to the approbation of 
 my own mind. 
 
 Your little dear namesake has not yet made his appear- 
 ance, but he is every day expected. I promise myself
 
 264 Correspondence between 
 
 great assistance in training up his young mind to dignity 
 of sentiment and greatness of soul, from the honored name 
 by which he is called. I know many would despise and 
 more would laugh at, such a way of thinking ; but with all 
 reverence to the cold theorems of Reason, a few honest 
 Prejudices and benevolent Prepossessions, are of the ut- 
 most consequence, and give the finishing polish to the 
 illustrious character of Patriot, Benefactor, Father and 
 Friend ; and all the tender relations included in the en- 
 dearing word. Family. What a poor, blighted, rickety 
 breed are the Virtues and charities when they take their 
 birth from geometrical hypothesis and mathematical dem- 
 onstration ! And what a vigorous Offspring are they when 
 they owe their origin to, and are nursed with the vital 
 blood of a heart glowing with the noble enthusiasm of 
 Generosity, Benevolence, and Greatness of Soul ! The 
 first may do very well for those philosophers who look on 
 the world of man as one vast ocean, and each individual 
 as a little vortex in it whose sole business and merit is to 
 absorb as much as it can in its own center ; but the last 
 is absolutely and essentially necessary when you would 
 make a Leonidas, a Hannibal, an Alfred, or a Wallace. 
 
 Whether this long letter may contribute to your enter- 
 tainment is what I cannot tell ; but one thing I know, my 
 own spirits are a good deal the lighter for this opportunity 
 of assuring you how sincerely I have the honor to be, 
 Madam, your oblidged friend and humble servt. 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 (i) The Rev. Joseph Kirkpatrick was minister of 
 Dunscore (the parish in which Ellisland is situated), 
 and Burns with his family attended Dunscore Church.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 265 
 
 To Burns. 
 
 Dunlop, 27 tk June 1789. 
 
 Surrounded as I have been by disease and death, tho' 
 my hand has been employed sewing trimmings for the 
 cofifin and the face cloth for the dead, or in making the 
 necessary preparations for the birth of another grandchild, 
 which birth I am not without apprehension may be attended 
 with the loss of a daughter, whose delicate state of health 
 wears but a dismal presage at present, yet to whom my 
 cares are of no use, and who is now about to leave me ; 
 my thoughts have often fled to you, and had they been 
 placid enough to allow of my putting them on paper, would 
 ere now have added another to the volumes you are about 
 to receive, inscribed on the title-page "From the Author." 
 You will judge of the situation we have been in, when I tell 
 you we had two servants up every night, indeed sometimes 
 three, watching the sick and the dying for above a month 
 together; that for ten days there was not a room in the 
 house but one out of reach of the agonising cry of an ex- 
 piring man, and in that one lay Mrs. Henri unable to speak 
 and half frantic with pain. The poor man was my son's 
 servant, come here from Berwick the very day before he 
 took his bed, a stranger and forlorn ; knew no face or name 
 around him, and was the son of a poor widow whom he 
 had supported for eight years and now left desolate. Oh ! 
 my friend, could I tell you this poor fellow's distress and 
 his manly, resigned, pious, dutiful manner of clearing his 
 thorny path to the grave, the calm serenity, mild affection, 
 and devout dignity his mind displayed during the intervals 
 of racking torture, or even in distraction when pain did not 
 extort the loudest screams of unutterable anguish, it could 
 not fail to create in your heart such emotions as might be
 
 266 Correspondence between 
 
 productive of the finest poem you ever vvrot. But I will 
 not dwell on a scene the tremors of which shook my nerves, 
 and made me unable to write you. This accounts for my 
 silence. But how, my dr. Sir, shall I satisfy myself in 
 accounting for yours ? In my intercourse with you I find 
 it exemplified that there is no pleasure without pain, for 
 you have been so good to me, and I have enjoyed it with 
 so much grateful pleasure, that your attentions have ac- 
 quired a degree of that attribute in providence which re- 
 quires unremitting exertion for our preservation, and which 
 the Psalms describe by saying " He shuts his hand we die." 
 Believe me, when you shut your ink-glass my spirits grow 
 much more faint than many of those who die in metaphor 
 and song. I am seriously afflicted, and with all the anxiety 
 of disappointed hope and jealous timidity of friendship, dif- 
 fident of its own claims, set about examining if I can have 
 drawn upon myself that deprivation in which I feel un- 
 happy in the full ratio of that relief my mind formerly 
 reaped from your works, and still more from the fond idea 
 of having secured a rank in your esteem which I fear you 
 don't find on nearer investigation I have merit to hold 
 entire. Have I said or wrot ought to displease? Even 
 were it so, how can I retract ? My words and letters are 
 the very pictures of my soul at the moment, and she cannot 
 wear disguise, even should her genuine features disgust a 
 friend ; nor would that regard be flattering which was pro- 
 cured by carrying false colours. Yet there are instanta- 
 neous ideas pass over every mind that fleet away like the 
 changing clouds of the sky, and, when told our friend, 
 should possess his memory no longer than they do our 
 own, at least not to our hurt. What confidence expresses 
 candour should peruse ; the heart treasure what it approves ;
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 267 
 
 and the pen point out what it dislikes, that it may be re- 
 moved as far as is possible or proper. Judge of me, dear 
 Bums, by yourself. You would, I think, scorn to wear a 
 false face for any one, but you would shave your beard to 
 please your wife, or perhaps even to please me, if you 
 thought that care could tend to put it further in your power. 
 Trust me, I would not conceal, but really endeavour to 
 prune away every exuberance or impropriety from my mind 
 that could lessen your esteem, or create one disagreeable 
 sensation in your breast. So don't punish any transient 
 error by withdrawing a correspondence the most pleasing 
 and indeed the only one of mere choice I now possess, and 
 of which I assure you I feel the whole value. Do you re- 
 member you begged my pardon for enclosing a letter under 
 my cover, and said you would never trouble me with an- 
 other? Did you mean by this you would not write me 
 again? I begin to fear you did, although I cannot guess 
 why. I must own that, after 59 years habituated to mor- 
 tification and disappointment, I should find this one of the 
 most questionable shapes in which they ever appeared to 
 me ; but this is too terrific a specter for fancy herself to 
 introduce. I will not, dare not think of it. 
 
 After receiv-ing the note I had from Mr. Moore which I 
 sent you, I wrot Mr. Creech to send me the books, and 
 added that if he had no better conveyance he might send 
 yours also, and I should take care you should receive them. 
 Accordingly, two days ago, Zehcco ^ came, and with it 
 Charlotte Smith's Sonnets "^ from herself. I used the free- 
 dom to stop them a day or two, that I might look at the 
 last, and with a pencil have touched the lines I liked best. 
 If you differ, your handkerchief will at once obliterate the
 
 268 Correspondence between 
 
 slight mark, but with what enhanced delight would I have 
 read your Spenser had you left such indications of your 
 partiality to better my judgment and direct ray taste ! I 
 shall send it and the three above-mentioned volumes to 
 Wilson at Kilmarnock to be forwarded to you, or to lie 
 till called for, as you chuse to direct in a letter I will hope 
 to have from you hy post, as I sometimes persuade myself 
 you have only delayed writing to give me the additional 
 joy of hearing your son was born, and Mrs. Burns as well 
 as I must ever wish the person you like best and on whom 
 your future happiness in this world most depends. 
 
 Some days ago I happened to be in company where the 
 conversation turned on Natural Philosophy and that equi- 
 librium supported by the powers of nature through all the 
 elements, from whence was a transition to the counterpoise 
 of misery and happiness in different spheres and situations 
 of human life, and some anecdotes about an old acquaint- 
 ance of yours, from whence we had some strictures on 
 your politicks and poetry, concluded by some regrets over 
 a resolution you had exprest of printing nothing for four- 
 teen years to come. This, after the company parted, pro- 
 duced some lines, which I shall send you, since I am a 
 little afraid my proposal about your books has retarded 
 your having them so soon as they might otherwise have 
 arrived. But it is not the first time, though I wish it rnay 
 be the last, when my desire to serve my friends has turned 
 out to my disappointment and their disadvantage, as is the 
 present case when you get my scrawl for a succedaneum, as 
 Dr. Moore would say, for his and C. Smith's books. But, to 
 use your own words, it shall be the last time for a great 
 while at least that I will give you any trouble, unless you 
 write me that you wish it. Farewell ! — Yours sincerely, 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop.
 
 Rob'ert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 269 
 
 Great and exalted above private ends, 
 Thro' Nature's laws Almighty Love extends. 
 Observe her works ! she equalises all, 
 See water rise up from its deepest fall ; 
 No cloud imbu'd with keen electric fire, 
 Unsharing lets a brother cloud retire. 
 
 Since writing the above I have this moment the inclosed 
 from Mr. Moore, which I send that you may see what 
 has past, though I am afraid the time has past. Yet, as I 
 mentioned before, I am pleased your name has been an- 
 nounced to Mr. Poultney, who is really the Maecenas of this 
 age, and may, God willing, as the sailors say, give you a 
 fair wind another time. Adieu ! 
 
 (i) ZelucOf Dr. Moore's novel, was published this 
 year. 
 
 (2) Elegiac Sonnets and other Essays, by Charlotte 
 Smith (vol. i., Chichester, 1784). 
 
 The following letter, it will be noted, was begun on 
 the same day as the preceding one, and presumably 
 after it had been despatched to the post-office. 
 Then, having meanwhile received the Burns letter 
 dated Ellisland, 21st June, Mrs. Dunlop immediately 
 began this second letter, which, being interrupted by 
 her journey to Loudoun Castle, with her daughter, 
 Mrs. Henri, remained unfinished till after her return 
 to Dunlop House in July, and was not franked by 
 Kerr, at Edinburgh, until the 17th of that month. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 
 Elliesland, Dumfries. Dunlop, z-jth June 1789. 
 
 [Franked by Kerr : Edinburgh, Seventeenth July 1789.] 
 
 I have just, my worthy friend, received yours this moment. 
 The value is threefold on account of its reaching me before
 
 270 Correspondence between 
 
 it could be enforced by the receipt of a long, stupid piece, 
 I dare say it was, which I wrot you when I laboured 
 under an apprehension of your being tired of reading my 
 scribbles, which, however long they may be, are very short 
 compared to the long ^ I think for your replies, which al- 
 ways afford me pleasure far superiour to what goes under 
 the name of entertainment. An opera or masquerade ticket 
 costs half a guinea, your letter fourpence. Were the case 
 reversed, believe me, my choice would not in consequence 
 be reversed too, spite of my propensity to economy, which 
 carries me further on some roads than it does anybody else ; 
 at least a number of my friends and of my enemies think 
 so, perhaps for very different reasons, tho' perhaps two 
 more than all others, both for this one, namely, that none 
 of the two know ought of the matter, my reasons and 
 motives being often a secret even to myself — a situation to 
 which I suppose a man of your good sense must be wholly 
 a stranger, though amongst us ladies nothing is more com- 
 mon. Indeed this kind of self- ignorance is our daily 
 bread, so that it is no wonder we so often appear whim- 
 sical and capricious to the rest of the world — a fault which, 
 as a poet, you are bound to forgive, if not to like us the 
 better for it. I hope you are so like a woman yourself 
 as to have changed your mood long ago, and that this shall 
 no longer find you in low spirits, but that the exhilarating 
 dose of confessing yourself to me has kept you merry ever 
 since. I can readily absolve every heterodoxy of your 
 creed, nor is there any great room to fear ever your religion 
 and mine should run far counter, unless upon the principle 
 that two of a trade can never agree. I even find in your 
 faith a charming support and auxiliary for my own, as the 
 one is founded on solid understanding and rational indue-
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 271 
 
 tion, and the other on the spontaneous, undigested sug- 
 gestions of warm affections. A man is attached by his 
 judgement to his duty and his God ; a woman by her pas- 
 sions and her heart. A timid sense of her own weakness 
 makes her soul clasp to her Creator, and to those protect- 
 ing, comforting friends He has given her. Everj^ endear- 
 ing duty strengthens those ties to which she wishes to owe 
 her happiness and safety, and from whence alone she draws 
 her consequence in this life, or probably borrows strength 
 to reach the reward she looks forward to in the next. Let 
 man glory in his reason and his strength, while woman 
 owes to her native weakness, her goodness and her grace, 
 and learns to pity ills she fears to feel. Yet I confess no 
 fear for hell has ever as yet reached me, except it was that 
 of cherishing for a moment any wish that could seem to 
 deserve it — for example, one such as hurts me in Char- 
 lotte Smith's Elegy, but I have given my thoughts of her 
 works on the cover. Oblige me in return with yours of the 
 Doctor. I am ashamed to think how I must have dis- 
 appointed him by keeping it so long out of your power to 
 pronounce a sentence for which he is so truly anxious, and 
 for which I am likeways impatient, as he is now the earliest 
 and best friend I have alive, and tryed by more than fourty 
 winters. 
 
 l-^th July. 
 
 When I had wrot this far, I was interrupted. I went to 
 Loudoun with JNIrs. Henri, who is much better ; there she 
 kept me longer than I intended, and thus my letter lay un- 
 finished and your books unsent. I am now in earnest to make 
 up as far as I can my lee-way'in both. I have just received 
 yours with the truly delightful Elegy,^ in which I would have 
 multiplyed the favourite marks without omitting one. The
 
 272 Correspondence between 
 
 poet need never ask those tears of pity which would spon- 
 taneously embalm his memory and overflow his grass-grown 
 turf, for which the sons of tenderness or of genius would for- 
 get that of Newmarket itself, and feel their losses and gains 
 here still more interesting. You say my letter gave you 
 pain. I hope not so much as your silence gave me. You 
 have, however, like a true Christian, revenged yourself, and 
 heaped coals of fire on my head by the pleasure I felt from 
 the kindness as well as the poetry of yours, for to you I 
 found myself indebted for both, and beUeved my anxiety 
 about Mrs. Henri and her prospect of going abroad in bad 
 health inspired the tender ideas that flow too warm from 
 the heart to be wholly fiction. But O ! my friend, imagina- 
 tion does not reach the horrors of truth to the poor female 
 who quits her native country and carries with her the sensi- 
 bility of an affectionate character and the weakness of a 
 woman. My daughter Mrs. Vans ^ at this moment sits over 
 the cellar, under the floor of which she has been forced to 
 thrust, at dead of night by stealth, the scarce cold remains 
 of a sister and a friend she carried with her, and of a child 
 she bore and nursed in that alien land, and never could shew 
 to her mother, her brothers, or her sisters, and whose bones 
 she must leave perhaps to the rage of superstition, from 
 which she can only flatter herself to protect them by paying 
 rent for the vault for ten years after she leaves the place, 
 when it is believed the bodies will be consumed by time and 
 a mixture of lime with which they are covered at the instant 
 of hiding them from the cruelty of human (worse than) 
 wolfs ; these only prowl for food. How can we connect the 
 present glorious stand of France for freedom with these re- 
 maining fetters of the mind? Are they as yet only galley- 
 slaves, escaping and knocking down everything with their
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 273 
 
 chains in their flight, or is this the native character of man 
 which will remain after the establisliment of freedom ? Tell 
 me, you who have looked through Nature, and know all her 
 various mazes, how long the impressions made by living 
 under an absolute government remain on the mind, and 
 whether the abject debasement of the lowest class, or the 
 overbearing insolence of the v-ery softest of the upper ones, 
 is most disgusting. For my own part, I believe I should like 
 an Italian lazzeretto better than a French gentleman, as pity 
 is a feeling more congenial to my soul than indignation, 
 which frivolity and arrogance united must unavoidably create, 
 whereas the greatest worldly bliss I have ever tasted has 
 lain in the admiration, esteem, and reverence inspired by a 
 truly amiable generous mind, at once noble and tender. 
 Where great talents are joined with interesting weaknesses 
 and amusing whimsical varieties, sometimes even little faults 
 themselves season the compound perfectly to my taste ; such 
 it has sometimes been my happiness to meet or think I had 
 met ; for if the illusion lasts, it is the same thing to me in 
 this world, and I dare say will be set right some way or 
 other so as not to vex me in the next. Such I have be- 
 lieved some of my relations, and some such I have fancied 
 my friends, even in the dark evening of my life. If I am 
 wrong, may Heaven and they have goodness to protract the 
 error as long as my existence ! Forgive me. Dr. Sir, if in 
 one instance I presume to chalk out even your path ; in 
 every other the powers of your own mind will naturally point 
 to what will please me far beyond the farthest suggestion of 
 my own fancy. Yet I will freely own this one is now be- 
 come perhaps more important than all the rest put together. 
 So, pray don't neglect your que, though I don't even know 
 how to spell it, and should I ever inadvertently forfeit the 
 
 VOL. I. — 18
 
 274 Correspondence between 
 
 place I now flatter myself by your permission with holding 
 in your registers, don't let me discover my misfortune, since 
 I should feel it an irretrievably great one, the very suspicion 
 of which would distress me more than many of those disasters 
 the world pity most. It must be some months hence before 
 I can give you good news of Mrs. H. I expect much sooner 
 to have yours of Mrs. Burns. May they be happy as your 
 fondest wish. I have this moment accounts of the death of 
 a worthy old woman, one who, I think, liked me as much as 
 any thing on earth, and attended me inlying of 13 children. 
 She was my grandfather's servant, my brother's infant keeper, 
 and my tenant's wife, aged 94 or 95. My spirits are this 
 moment laid with her in the grave, where I bless God she is 
 at rest, for her only son, a batchelor, who has brought up 
 and been a father to three familys of her grandchildren, and 
 dedicate his very life to her, is thought in a consumption. 
 
 I thought to tell you of a humble poetess* who came 
 from Ecclesfechan to be my chamber-maid on the merit of 
 her attempting what seemed beyond her line in the way of 
 writing or thinking. I parted with her to my daughter, 
 thinking a child's maid, if she was fit for it, a better 
 place than I had to offer. She was glad to go to Loudoun, 
 because she heard you lived near it, and, as she told me, 
 hoped to see you. Her outside promises nothing ; her 
 mind only bursts forth on paper, of which I send you a 
 specimen in her own hand. She is industrious, and seems 
 good-temper'd and discreet, but betrays no one indication 
 that I could discover of ever having opened a book or 
 tagged a rhyme ; so that I hope she will not be less happy 
 for having tryed it. Adieu. Your books go to-night to 
 Wilson, who says he can always get them sent you easily. 
 I take another sheet to tell you I have sent your " Faery
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 275 
 
 Queene " with the other volumes to Kilmarnock. I had it 
 so long by me I was half unwilling to quit sight of it, though 
 alas ! it was become invisible to my optics, but yet it was the 
 memorial of another poet as well as its author, and I re- 
 gretted I had not scratched the margins as I read it, but 
 I was not then so well acquainted with the owner as to 
 assume that liberty with his property. Tell me what you 
 think of Jenny Little's " Looking-Glass." The occasion 
 on which she wrot it was to convince a young lady who 
 doubted the authenticity of her having wrot something else 
 she had shewed her, and asked her to write on a given sub- 
 ject. She said she had never done so, but, since she wished 
 it, would try if she would give her one. She told her she 
 had that forenoon broke a glass she was vext about, and 
 bid her celebrate it. She did so, and a gentleman asked 
 her on the same footing to make the acrostic on his name. 
 These are play, not genius, and I fear you will say, like 
 mistress like maid ; and if you do, I 'm even afraid the maid 
 will have most reason to be offended with the proverb. She 
 made another in the character of a lover on a girl she called 
 Calista, drest in her grandmother's crimson plaid, which 
 gave the hint for some lines and a sketch of a landskip, with 
 which I put off an idle half-hour, and which I send you to 
 shew you how ladies put off a rainy morning doing they 
 don't know what, and doing it they don't know how, and 
 then exposing the folly to those they wish most their friends 
 as I do now. All I shall say in my own vindication is that 
 Scripture commands us to do as we would be done by, and 
 I literally obey when I write and assure you of the sincere 
 esteem and regard with which I am, Dr. Sir, your obliged 
 and obedient humble servt., and, truth bids me add, ever 
 gratefully your friend, Fran. A. Dunlop.
 
 276 Correspondence between 
 
 Next month is August. Last August brought me four 
 letters from the best correspondent and one of the most 
 admired as well as esteemed men of my acquaintance. 
 Ought I ever to hope any other month of my life shall dare 
 pretend to rival August, 1788? I wish the Scots Bard 
 would try what might be done in honour of the '89 which 
 he ushered in so respectably with a New Year's gift that 
 Swift's Stella or his own might have been vain of, especially 
 if they had been three score like your humble servt. Are 
 you not grateful for all this clean paper from me? I 
 grudge it.^ 
 
 ( 1 ) Think long, Scotticism for eagerly desire, with 
 a touch of hopelessness. 
 
 (2) See infra, p. 278. Burns's of the 7th had 
 been received. 
 
 (3) Mrs. Vans Agnew, Mrs. Dunlop's fourth daugh- 
 ter, who lived long abroad. 
 
 (4) Janet Little (1759-18 13), "the Scottish milk- 
 maid " poetess, was placed in charge of the dairy at 
 Loudoun Castle, the residence of the Henris. She 
 published a volume of poems in 1792, became the 
 wife of John Richmond, a labourer at Loudoun 
 Castle. * 
 
 (5) The postscript was written in the centre of 
 a quarto page, with blank or " clean " spaces on all 
 sides of it. 
 
 The month of July 1789 has hitherto seemed 
 almost a blank month in Burns's correspondence. 
 The only letter of his dated in this month that has 
 been published is that of the 31st to Mr, Graham of 
 Fintry. We are able to present the two which follow
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 277 
 
 — of the 7th and 17th — from the Lochryan MSS. 
 To his ordinary heavy labours the poet at this time 
 had added the negotiations about his appointment to 
 the Excise division in the midst of which he Hved, 
 and the studies which, under Mr. Graham's direction, 
 he pursued in order to fit himself for his new duties. 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, 
 Dunlop House, Stewarton. 
 
 ELLiSLANDy?</j/ jth, 1789. 
 
 Yours of the 27th June, which came to hand yesternight, 
 has given me more pain than any letter, one excepted, that 
 I ever received. How could you, my ever-honored, dear 
 Madam, ask me, whether I had given up your correspond- 
 ence, and how you had offended me ? Offended me ! 
 Your conduct to me, Madam, ever since I was honored 
 with your notice, has been equally amiable as uncommon ; 
 and your Correspondence has been one of the most supreme 
 of my sublunary enjoyments. As I mentioned to you in a 
 letter you will by this time have received, I have since I 
 was at Dunlop been rather hurried and out of spirits ; and 
 some parts of your late conduct has laid me under peculiar 
 embarrassments. You had alarmed me lest that instead of 
 the friend of your confidence, I was descending to be the 
 creature of your bounty ; for though you bestowed, not in 
 the manner of serving me, but as if oblidging yourself; yet 
 for the soul of me I could not help feeling something of 
 the humihating oppression of impotent gratitude. 
 
 July %tk. 
 
 I have been interrupted by the arrival of my aged Parent 
 and my brother ; and as he will convey this as far as Mauch- 
 line I shall finish my letter, though I cannot make it quite
 
 278 Correspondence between 
 
 so long as I had otherwise intended. As I have no roman- 
 tic notions of independancy of spirit, I am truly oblidged to 
 you and Dr. Moore for mentioning me to Mr. Pulteney. 
 From the manner in which God has divided the good 
 things of this life, it is evident that He meant one part of 
 Mankind to be the Benefactors, and the other to be the 
 Benefacted ; and as He has thrown me among this latter 
 class I would wish to acquiesce with chearfulness. The 
 Professorship is, I know, to me an unattainable object, but 
 Mr. Pulteney's character stands high as a Patron of merit, 
 and of this, had I no other proof, you have made me be- 
 lieve that I have some share. 
 
 I some time ago met with the following Elegy ^ in MSS., 
 for I suppose it was never printed, and as I think it has 
 many touches of the true tender, I shall make no apology 
 for sending it you : perhaps you have not seen it. 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 Strait is the spot and green the sod 
 
 From whence my sorrows flow, 
 And soundly sleeps the ever-dear 
 
 Inhabitant below. 
 
 Pardon my transport, gentle Shade, 
 
 "While o'er this turf I bow; 
 Thy earthly house is circumscribed 
 
 And solitary now. 
 
 Not one poor stone to tell thy name, 
 
 Or make thy virtues known ; 
 But what avails to thee, to me, 
 
 The sculpture of a stone ? 
 
 I '11 sit me down upon this turf. 
 
 And wipe away this tear; 
 The chill blast passes swiftly by 
 
 And flits around thy bier.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 279 
 
 Dark is the dwelling of the dead, 
 
 And sad their house of rest ; 
 Low lies the dead by Death's cold arm 
 
 In aweful fold embraced. 
 
 I saw the grim Avenger stand 
 
 Incessant by thy side ; 
 Unseen by thee, his deadly breath 
 
 Thy lingering frame destroyed. 
 
 Pale grew the roses on thy cheek 
 
 And withered was thy bloom, » 
 
 Till the slow poison brought thy youth 
 
 Untimely to the tomb. 
 
 Thus wasted are the ranks of men. 
 
 Youth, health and beauty fall ; 
 The ruthless ruin spreads around 
 
 And overwhelms us all. 
 
 Behold, where round thy narrow house 
 
 The graves unnumbered lie ; 
 The multitudes that sleep below 
 Existed but to die. 
 
 Some with the tottering steps of age 
 
 Trode down the darksome way ; 
 And some in youth's lamented prime, 
 
 Like thee, were torn away. 
 
 Yet these, however hard their fate. 
 
 Their native earth receives. 
 Amid their weeping friends they dyed 
 
 And fill their father's graves. 
 
 From thy loved friends where first thy breath 
 
 Was taught by Heaven to flow, 
 Far, far removed, the ruthless stroke 
 
 Surprised and laid thee low. 
 
 At the last limits of our isle, 
 Washed by the western wave.
 
 280 Correspondence between 
 
 Touched by thy fate a thoughtful bard 
 Sits lonely on thy grave. 
 
 Pensive he eyes, before him spread, 
 
 The deep outstretched and vast ; 
 His mourning notes are borne away 
 
 Along the rapid blast. 
 
 And while amid the silent dead 
 
 Thy hapless fate he mourns, 
 His own long sorrows freshly bleed, 
 
 And all his grief returns. 
 
 Like thee cut off in early youth 
 
 And flower of beauty's pride, 
 His friend, his first and only joy, 
 
 His much-loved Stella died. 
 
 Him too the stern impulse of fate 
 
 Resistless bears along ; 
 And the same rapid tide shall whelm 
 
 The Poet and the song. 
 
 The tear of pity which he shed 
 
 He asks not to receive, 
 Let but his poor remains be laid 
 
 Obscurely in the grave. 
 
 His grief-worn heart with truest joy 
 
 Shall meet the welcome shock; 
 His airy harp shall lie unstrung 
 
 And silent on the rock. 
 
 O my dear maid, my Stella, when 
 
 Shall this sick period close, 
 And lead thy solitary Bard 
 
 To his beloved repose ? 
 
 I have marked the passages that strike me most. I 
 like to do so in every book that I read, and it will be a 
 double pleasure in perusing the volumes you announce 
 me, to see your favorite passages.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 281 
 
 Poor Mrs. Henri ! I shall be as impatient to hear news 
 of her almost as I shall be of another whom I need not 
 name. I hope that you see her situation through the 
 exaggerating medium of fearful apprehension. 
 
 Farewell, Madam ! God send good news to us all ! 
 Do me the justice to believe me when I assure you that 
 there is scarcely any thing in life which gives me so much 
 pleasure as that I have the honor to be, Madam, your 
 oblidged friend and humble servt. Robt. Burns. 
 
 (i) This description of the origin of the Elegy on 
 Stella is as mystifying as that prefixed to the tran- 
 script of the poem in the Glenriddell MS. — "The 
 following poem is the work of some hapless son of 
 the Muses who deserved a better fate. There is a 
 great deal of ' The voice of Cona ' in his solitary, 
 mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed 
 in Shenstone's language, they would have been no 
 discredit even to that elegant poet. — R. B." 
 
 Ad. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, 
 by Stewarton. 
 
 Ellisland, i-jthjidy 1789. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I assure you it is none of my least in- 
 centives to rhyme that it gives me an opportunity not only 
 of acknowledging, but you are good enough to think, in 
 some degree of repaying that hopeless debt of kindness 
 and friendship which I so largely owe you. You know 
 my sentiments respecting the present two great parties 
 that divide our Scots Ecclesiastics. I do not care three 
 farthings for Commentators and authorities. An honest, 
 candid enquirer after truth, I revere; but illiberality and
 
 282 Correspondence between 
 
 wrangling I equally detest. You will be well acquainted 
 with the persecutions that my worthy friend, Dr. M'Gill, 
 is undergoing among your Divines. Several of these rev- 
 erend lads, his opponents, have come thro' my hands 
 before ; but I have some thoughts of serving them up 
 again in a different dish. I have just sketched the fol- 
 lowing ballad, and as usual I send the first rough-draught 
 to you. I do not wish to be known in it, tho' I know, 
 if ever it appear, I shall be suspected. If I finish it, I am 
 thinking to throw off two or three dozen copies at a Press 
 in Dumfries, and send them as from Edinr. to some 
 Ayrshire folks on both sides of the question. If I should 
 fail of rendering some of the Doctor's foes ridiculous, 
 I shall at least gratify my resentment in his behalf. I 
 long to hear from you, not only for your criticism on this, 
 but for a much more important matter, to be informed of 
 Mrs. Henri's fate and welfare. Whatever interests you, 
 can not be indifferent to me. 
 
 THE KIRK'S ALARM 1 — A BALLAD 
 
 Tune — " Push about the brisk bowl " 
 
 Orthodox, Orthodox, who believe in John Knox, 
 Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
 
 There 's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the west — 
 *' That what is not sense must be nonsense," Orthodox, 
 " That what is not sense must be nonsense." 
 
 Doctor Mac,2 Doctor Mac, ye should stretch on a rack, 
 
 To strike evildoers wi' terror ; 
 To join FAITH and sense, upon any pretence, 
 
 Was heretic, damnable error. Doctor Mac, 
 
 Was heretic, damnable error. 
 
 Town of Ayr, Town of Ayr, it was rash, I declare, 
 To meddle wi' mischief a brewing ;
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 283 
 
 Provost John ' is still deaf to the church's relief, 
 And Orator Bob * is its ruin, etc. 
 
 D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart 's like a child 
 
 And your life like the new-driven snaw, 
 Yet that winna save ye, old Satan must have ye, 
 
 For preaching that three 's ane and twa, etc. 
 
 Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your spiritual guns, 
 
 Ammunition ye never can need ; 
 Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough, 
 
 And your sculls are a storehouse o' lead, etc. 
 
 Rumble John,5 Rumble John, mount the steps with a. groan. 
 
 Cry the Book is wi' heresy cramm'd. 
 Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle, muck-water 
 
 And roar every note o' the d — mn'd, etc. 
 
 Simper James,s Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames, 
 
 There 's a holier chase in your view ! 
 I '11 lay on your head that the pack ye '11 soon lead. 
 
 For puppies like you there 's but few, etc. 
 
 Singet Sawnie,' Singet Sawnie, are ye herding the penny, 
 
 Unconscious what danger awaits ; 
 With a jump, yell and howl, alarm every soul, 
 
 For Hannibal 's just at your gates, etc. 
 
 Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, there 's a tod i' the fauld, fox 
 
 A tod meikle waur than the Clerk,^ 
 Douglas, Heron and Co. has e'en laid you fu' low, 
 
 But tho' ye canna bite ye may bark, etc. 
 
 Poet Willie,9 Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, 
 
 Wi' your " liberty's chain " and your wit : 
 O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride. 
 
 Ye only stood by where he , etc. 
 
 Jamie Goose,!" Jamie Goose, ye hae made but toom roose empty boast 
 
 In hunting the wicked Lieutenant,'^ 
 But the Doctor 's your mark, for the L 's holy ark 
 
 He has couper'd and ca'd a wrang pin in, etc. driven
 
 284 Correspondence between 
 
 This is all the length I have gone.^^ Whether I proceed 
 any farther is uncertain. 
 
 Captn. Grose," the well-known author of the Antiquities 
 of England and Wales, has been through Annandale, Niths- 
 dale and Galloway, in the view of commencing another 
 Publication, The Antiquities of Scotland. As he has made 
 his headquarters with Captn. Riddel, my nearest neighbour, 
 for these two months, I am intimately acquainted with him ; 
 and I have never seen a man of more original observation, 
 anecdote and remark. Thrown into the army from the 
 Nursery, and now that he is the father of a numerous 
 family, who are all settled in respectable situations in life, 
 he has mingled in all societies, and knows every body. His 
 delight is to steal thro' the country almost unknown, both 
 as most favorable to his humour and his business. I have 
 to the best of my recollection of the old buildings, etc., in 
 the County, given him an Itinerary thro' Ayrshire. I have 
 directed him among other places to Dunlop House, as an 
 old building worthy of a place in his Collection. It would 
 have been presumption in such a man as I, to offer an in- 
 troductory letter between such folks as Captn. Grose and 
 Major Dunlop, tho' for the honour of my native county, I 
 could have wished that Captn. Grose had been introduced to 
 the Dunlop family, and the Major would have been of much 
 use to him in directing him thro' the farther corner of 
 Cunningham, a place I little know ; however if you dis- 
 cover a chearful-looking grig of an old, fat fellow, the 
 precise figure of Doctor Slop, wheeling about your avenue 
 in his own carriage with a pencil and paper in his hand, 
 you may conclude " Thou art the man." 
 
 Perhaps after all, I may pluck up as much impudent 
 importance as write to the Major by him. He will go for
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 285 
 
 Ayrshire in four or five days, but I have directed him thro' 
 Carrick and Kyle first. — I have the honour to be, Madam, 
 your humble friend and most obedient servt. 
 
 RoBT. Burns. 
 
 (i) " Lament " deleted and " Alarm " written in as 
 a second thought. 
 
 (2) Dr. M'Gill. (3) Provost Ballantine. 
 
 (4) Robert Aiken. (5) Russell. 
 (6) M'Kindlay. (7) Moodie. 
 
 (5) G. Hamilton, writer. 
 
 (9) Peebles ; see a poem he published on the Revolution thanks- 
 giving, 
 (ic) Young, New Cumnock. 
 (11) Lieut. Mitchel, Deleagles. 
 
 Notes (2) to (11) are Burns's, written in the 
 margins of the copy. No attempt is made here to 
 supplement his annotations. 
 
 (12) This letter antedates the composition of " The 
 Kirk's Alarm." Hitherto no earlier copy has been 
 known than that which Burns sent to John Logan 
 on 7th August, and which is complete but for one 
 stanza. The Presbytery took action in Dr. M'Gill's 
 case on 15th July ; so the poet must have written off 
 at a heat these eleven stanzas, which he forwarded 
 to Mrs. Dunlop on the 17th. The complete poem 
 contains eighteen stanzas. 
 
 (13) The "fine, fat, fodgel wight," for whose An- 
 tiqinties of Scotland " Tam o' Shanter " was written. 
 This is the first mention of him in Burns's corre- 
 spondence.
 
 286 Correspondence between 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 
 Elliesland, Dumfries. -r. . ., . o 
 
 DuNLOP, ij/.^M^A 1789. 
 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinburgh, Third August 1789.] 
 Dr. Burns, — Where, my ever esteemed friend, shall I 
 begin my letter? Methinks I hear the voice just set to the 
 shrill key of satire answer " I have many a time seen you 
 not know where to end one." But should wit prompt this, 
 I will not believe your judgment or inclination seconds the 
 sally. On the contrary, you have convinced me my letters 
 in general give you pleasure by persuading me one of them 
 has given you pain, — an effect, I 'm sure, the writer of them 
 never meant to produce, though, as the cause was my com- 
 plaint of your silence, and I have found your grief productive 
 of repentance, I must own I for once rejoice in your sorrow 
 and profit by your amendment. I have received two of yours 
 since I presumed, perhaps improperly, to murmur at not 
 hearing from you, instead of expressing my gratitude for 
 the part of your time — a part so much more than I can 
 deserve or return — which you had so kindly stole from the 
 rest of the world to dedicate to me. You tell me writing 
 to me is an incentive to rhyme. If so, ages unborn shall 
 bless and thank my memory, for one rhyme will lead to 
 another, and the breathings of a truly poetic soul will be 
 often such as will soothe the anguish of the wounded spirit, 
 and elevate the mind sunk in despondency. Even the airy 
 bubble blown by levity as long as the eye can follow it 
 steals us from this world's woes, and though it instantly 
 burst if we regard the hand it fell from, we watch the drop- 
 ping of the next as eagerly as a child that looks for soap 
 bells glittering a moment to the sun before they are forever 
 lost in empty air. True, they did not please long ; but 
 which of our worldly enjoyments do? Besides, they cost
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 287 
 
 no trouble to the maker. 'Twas but a puff; his breath is 
 unexhausted, and ready to blow off a thousand more as long 
 as they can divert himself or please us children of the 
 world. Perhaps, too, some of these brittle bells may, like 
 brittle china, be rouped off by the candle before they are 
 broken, and bring in more, while in fashion, than a better 
 thing could do. Time or place sometimes imprint a local 
 value that will rise and fall quicker than the stocks, per- 
 haps sink 100 per cent by to-morrow in the auction of 
 wit. 'T is hard to say how the sales run. Her cap, like 
 that of Liberty, is sometimes plain and solid, of inestimable 
 value ; sometimes light, and hung round with bells ; some- 
 times guarded with squibs and crackers, such as a certain 
 friend of mine, trying on said cap t' other day, shaked off 
 with an angry toss of his head at the presbytery when they 
 were seating themselves to furnish a drawing of the Holy 
 Inquisition. I fear, however, they will show their noble 
 perseverance by continuing till the last act, and giving an 
 auto-de-fe, in which I wish they may allow the Dr. to get 
 away without the Benitor [san benito] — I believe they 
 call the robe they march to be burnt in, and which it would 
 give a sacred satisfaction to the Auld gentleman to fit on a 
 worthy man before he left the world, perhaps as much as 
 he formerly felt in lighting up the ignis fatuus spark that 
 misled the same court to persecute one of the first men 
 ever adorned the priesthood through fourteen presbyteries, 
 four or five synods, and two General Assemblies, for having 
 once, some years before he was admitted one of the num- 
 ber, gone twice the figure eight at a wedding. Now, my 
 friend, having some partiality for my female taste, asks my 
 opinion of fancy's toys sometimes, particularly of this last 
 cap she wore. What shall I say ? Shall I satirize satire, or
 
 288 Correspondence between 
 
 hold the match to fire her future squibs? In truth, I be- 
 heve I will do neither. All I can afford is to laugh a few 
 minutes at these King's-birthday frolicks and fireworks. I 
 did so heartily, but, my dr. Burns, I am now in the last 
 evenings of my life ; the bright torch of your genius is 
 perhaps the last I shall ever see lighted, and I grudge 
 extremely to see it wasted singeing musketoes in a cor- 
 ner, instead of being set on a hill where it cannot be hid, 
 and giving light to the world. Besides, I cannot help being 
 afraid that, instead of relieving the Dr., and putting his 
 enemies to shame, you may be blowing the horn for a new 
 chase against one of his friends, and a man who rivals him 
 in innocent simplicity and goodness of heart. But I need 
 
 not tell you what D r Mild is when you have painted 
 
 him so strongly and in his true natural colours, as like a 
 picture as ever was sketched by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Yet 
 should your ballad lead the puppies full cry a heretic-hunt- 
 ing, you '11 wish you had bit your tongue rather than given 
 the view-hollo, and cast off a whole pack of blood-hounds 
 against a poor little white rabbit. Should this happen, I 
 verily think it would be the blackest sin you ever com- 
 mitted, and I 'm sure I would sympathize with your peni- 
 tential pangs, which could not fail of being very acute, were 
 you to hurt one whom all mankind ought to love, for he 
 loves them all, and if he sometimes scolds them in the pul- 
 pit, he means it all for their own good. As for the rest of 
 your game, I am thankful I don't know one of them ; but 
 since they are beasts of prey, 't is fair to annoy them on 
 their own account. Yet I have known an otter turn and 
 lame a man for life who pursued him for his skin. And 
 will it not be more provoking still to meet mischief where 
 nothing is to be got but a vile guff of rank malice which
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 289 
 
 one would be glad to run out of the reach of. 'T is strange 
 how I go on when I set a scribbling to you — I who never 
 almost now scribble to any one else, and have not yet men- 
 tioned what you were so good as say interested you most, 
 the health of my poor Susan, She is better, and I would 
 now fain hope may carry about her child the full time, and 
 improve in strength aftem'ards, as the wise people about her 
 flatter me she has no threatening symptoms remaining — a 
 fact for which, however, I have hardly full faith ; but I dare 
 not pry too far in futurity. We have no accounts of An- 
 thony yet, and 't is there I feel myself most vulnerable, tho' 
 I cannot say why. May the God of earth and ocean guard 
 him ! His heart is the monument where my memory, I 
 think, will be longest enshrined. There is a tenderness in 
 his filial piety I never saw any other possess. Never can I 
 forget the proofs I once saw of it, and if my soul anticipates 
 that lingering look our departed spirits cast back to earth, 
 't is to hope I will live in his mind united to his father. 
 
 My cares are at present cruelly divided. I believe I 
 must go a while to the east country, and that John's wife 
 will not admit of my remaining till the last with Susan. 
 Poor thing ! she has no friend but myself to trust to for the 
 care of herself, her former son and a family they can in no 
 way afford to have neglected. The other is still amongst 
 her friends, and almost still in the bosom of her own family. 
 I shall therefore endeavour to add my mite of comfort to 
 those who have most need of it. Yet I will hope to hear of 
 you and yours before I leave home, as I shall not go for a 
 fortnight longer, nor till I have carried home Lady Wallace 
 to Loudoun, and seen how they all go on ; so that you may 
 write me here till I furnish you a new address, before which 
 time I shall hope to have heard of Mrs. Burns and her child 
 VOL. I. — 19
 
 290 Correspondence between 
 
 being as well as can be expected, getting your strictures on 
 Zeluco, and your telling me as much as you chuse to tell me 
 of the plan you were engaged in when I saw you last. The 
 news of the day here is that Col. FuUarton ^ is gone to Con- 
 stantinople with the first recommendations ever given to 
 any British man to serve in the Turkish Army. I think he 
 is wrong, but his is a glorious ambition, the fault of heroes 
 and of gods. I wish to God he had been my son, or, as the 
 King said of General Wolff, that he had bit my eldest son 
 and infected him with half his own enterprize of spirit, which 
 has already commanded civil and military applause, fame, 
 and fortune. I wonder if, like the Great Frederick, he is 
 insensible to love. I wish he were as fond of a daughter 
 of mine as ever you were of your Jean. Would it not be a 
 noble conquest, worthy the blood of Wallace ? Yet many 
 a hero would make a wretched bad husband, and perhaps 
 even he might be of that number. At least, as I shall have 
 very little chance of him for a son-in-law, I shall comfort 
 myself in remembering that this is no impossibility. Fare- 
 well, but I trust not a long farewell, while you possess so 
 much of the esteem and best wishes of 
 
 Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 Your fat merry grig has not appeared that I have heard of 
 yet, but I mentioned him to Andrew, who says he knew 
 one of the name at Gibraltar a good many years ago, and 
 will be glad to renew the acquaintance, if it is the same, or 
 if not, I think will not be dissatisfied to begin a new score 
 wherever you mark the page. I am grown so blind I doubt 
 I must give up letter-writing, or you will give up reading 
 first, for it will soon be impossible even for myself. While 
 you can make it out yet, let me tell you I have marked
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 291 
 
 your " Ode to Mrs A 's Memory," " Address to the 
 
 Regency Bill," last "Elegy," and "Afton Water," as worthy 
 of immortal preservation from the press: the "Hare" I 
 know you noted yourself, and vanity prompts my wishing 
 you to recollect your New Year's Day, Eighty-nine imploy- 
 ment without recantation. I now leave you to congratu- 
 late my worthy friend Kerr on his promotion.^ I like him 
 the better that he has taste to distinguish the Scots Bard as 
 the only man in whose favours he exerts his priviledge of 
 franking. I wish all the rest of the world who had the 
 power of rewarding merit shared as much in the predi- 
 lection of, Dr. Burns, your sincere friend, and obedient, 
 humble sert. 
 
 (i) Colonel William Fullarton of Fullarton (see 
 antea, p. 14), at this time forty-five years of age; 
 " Brydone's brave ward " of the " Vision." He did 
 not spend the rest of his life in the service of the 
 Turkish government, for, as previously noted, he 
 entered the British Parliament in 1796, and sat till 
 1803, and he was subsequently governor of Trinidad. 
 
 (2) Probably to the Secretaryship of the Post 
 Office. 
 
 Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop. 
 
 N. B. Just now) 
 .. T J r- ..1 ( Missent to Stewarton. 
 at Loudon Castle > ^ . , r. 
 
 near Kilmarnock. ) Postage paid at Stewarton. 
 
 Ellisland, \<^th August 1789. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I had written you ere this time but for 
 waiting the issue of two to me important events which were 
 hanging in the wind. I mentioned to you my Excise hopes 
 and views. I have been once more a lucky fellow in that 
 quarter. The Excisemen's Salaries are now ;^5o per ann..
 
 292 Correspondence between 
 
 and I believe the Board have been so oblidging as fix me in 
 the Division in which I Hve ; and I suppose I shall begin 
 doing duty at the commencement of next month.^ I shall 
 have a large portion of country, but, what to me and my 
 studies is no trifling matter, it is a fine romantic Country. 
 
 More luck still ! About two hours ago I welcomed home 
 your little Godson.^ He is a fine squalling fellow, with a 
 pipe that makes the room ring. His Mother as usual. 
 
 Zeluco I have not thoroughly read so as to give a critique 
 on it. To say it is an excellent performance is but echoing 
 the opinion of the world : I shall be more particular in my 
 remarks. 
 
 You will easily guess that in the present situation of my 
 family, and in my preparations for the Excise, that I have 
 indeed little spare time. To you, Madam, that little spare 
 time is more chearfully devoted than to any other person or 
 purpose. 
 
 Miss Charlotte Smith has delighted me. Her Elegy in 
 particular is one of the first performances that I have ever 
 seen. Your pencil has in every mark prevented mine. — I 
 have the honor to be. Dear Madam, your oblidged, grateful 
 humble servt., Robt. Burns. 
 
 P- S. — The following lines I sent Mr. Graham as my 
 thanks for my appointment : — 
 
 3 I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
 A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that feigns : 
 " Friend of my life ! " my ardent spirit burns, 
 And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
 For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
 The Gift still dearer as the Giver you. 
 
 Thou Orb of Day ! Thou other Paler Light I 
 And all ye many-sparkling Stars of Night I
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 293 
 
 If aught that Giver from my mind efface ; 
 
 If I that Giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
 
 Thou roll, to me, along your wandering spheres, 
 
 Only to number out a villain's years ! 
 
 * I lay my hand upon my swelling breast, 
 And grateful would — but cannot speak the rest. 
 
 (i) Scott Douglas suggested that Burns did not 
 commence duty as an exciseman till the beginning of 
 November. In the new Chambers, vol. iii. p. 96, on 
 the strength of an entry in " List of all the Divisions, 
 officers, expectants, etc., in Scotland as they stand at 
 10th October 1789," it is inferred that he entered 
 upon his duties immediately on receiving the appoint- 
 ment, i. c. about the beginning of August. This 
 letter shows that he expected at least to start at the 
 beginning of September. 
 
 (2) Francis Wallace, born i8th August 1789, died 
 9th July 1803. 
 
 (3) This sonnet is dated in the original MS., lOth 
 August. 
 
 (4) These two lines are not, as the editors of the 
 Centenary Burns say they are, wanting in the Loch- 
 ryan MS. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, 
 
 Elliesland, Dumfries. ,-. ^7 .. _. o 
 
 Dunlop, 20th Augt. 1789. 
 
 [Franked by Kerr : Edinburgh, Twenty-fourth August 1789.] 
 
 Dr. Burns, — ^\^^y have you not wrote me ? Is this, 
 like most of our misfortunes, my own fault? Did I not tell 
 you I was uncertain as to my place of destination? Nay, 
 did I not hint at some fear your letter might never reach 
 me? Indeed, there is no part of my property for which
 
 294 Correspondence between 
 
 I would feel more anxious concern than the safety of my 
 letters from the very few friends with whom I keep up any 
 sort of correspondence, or rather to whom I sometimes 
 write ; for 't is now many years since I could be said to 
 maintain any regular intercourse by letter even with my 
 absent children. How strange must this appear to you 
 who I have perfectly persecuted with a correspondence, 
 who has been haunted with my letters in whole volumes ; 
 and who, I dare say, has even felt it often an encroach- 
 ment on your time to give them a cursory glance of an eye 
 while you were thinking on something else ; or, if you 
 really favoured them with your attention, would hardly 
 ever meet anything that could deserve or reward it ; who 
 have, nevertheless, had the goodness to write me often to 
 flatter my self-love by the kind and obliging manner in 
 which you did it to amuse and interest me by the com- 
 munication of your ideas in verse and prose, and sometimes 
 raise me in my own esteem by an apparent confidence you 
 seemed to repose in me, and a certain partial regard which 
 seemed to distinguish me more than I ought to have ex- 
 pected among the multitudes whom your fame had ren- 
 dered emulous of your notice. Believe me, you never used 
 the slightest expression which vanity could construe in her 
 own favours, that I did not read with grateful delight, proud 
 even to draw compliment itself from your pen, for even 
 compliment indicates a desire to please ; and what so 
 pleasing as that wish in one who, without ever thinking of 
 the matter, had hit on the way of pleasing all the world 
 beside? I believe I have formerly told you I had an 
 unbounded wish once in my life to have seen the King of 
 Prussia and Dr. Oliver Goldsmith. After reading your 
 works, I was seized with the like to know you. This was
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 295 
 
 the more particular, as at that time my mind was in so tor- 
 pid a state as hardly to admit any suggestion entitled to the 
 name of a wish ; indeed this was rather confined to an 
 emotion of curiosity, and fully exprest in these lines — 
 
 Let me each cranny of that soul peruse 
 Admire that man and wonder at that muse. 
 
 But never did I once suppose either he or his Muse in the 
 course of their studies would make the pause required for a 
 single comma to peruse anything I could offer to their view. 
 I only run and cried " Holla ! " to stop the passengers till 
 I should have a full look at them. They run on, peeping 
 a little behind as I came up, when at last, pleased or per- 
 haps only diverted at my awkward eagerness in the chase, 
 instead of stopping with the Irish intrepidity of the beauti- 
 ful Miss Gunnings, who bid the mob gaze their fills, you, to 
 my inexpressible satisfaction, reached me a friendly hand, 
 and even bid your INIuse herself help to raise me out of that 
 Gulph of Despond in which my very soul was then im- 
 mersed. She sprung on with reviving energy at the un- 
 hoped-for aid, and fluttered a while like a butterfly in 
 winter, who appears all alive and well, but that is soon over 
 with her, and I believe with me too. A thousand anxieties 
 at this moment tear me to pieces. Anguish rebounds upon 
 me from beyond the Indian Ocean. I hear nothing of my 
 dear Anton. His dog, all he had to leave behind him, is 
 suddenly dead. Superstition is ever alive when we are 
 unhappy. Last night his howl alarmed me for his master ; 
 to-day his everlasting silence speaks a direful presage to my 
 heart. I have just rent myself from poor Susan, round whom 
 teeming sorrows crowd which I cannot disperse. The com- 
 motions of France strike at my peace, and my daughter-in- 
 law's situation calls me to a divided duty; I cannot say
 
 296 Correspondence between 
 
 which will be foremost. I believe neither of these ladies 
 will be for a month yet. I shall, if no unforseen circum- 
 stance prevent me, be with the poorest and most helpless 
 (John's wife), but will not leave this for a fortnight yet. 
 So, pray do write me during that time, if possible, but 
 don't say my conduct ever hurts you, or suppose you can 
 change your place in my friendship, unless to take a higher. 
 I wish to God your promotion in life could keep pace with 
 your permanent rank in my regard or goodwill. I must 
 acknowledge you have not indeed risen without purchase, 
 since you have given yourself frequent trouble to preserve 
 what you owed to merit alone, and could not be robbed of 
 without injustice. What others may despise, but what you 
 teach me to value (my friendship), you say has added to 
 your happiness. That makes it inestimable in my own 
 eyes, and I will in future be, if possible, still more wary on 
 whom I bestow it. Yet how shall I say so, since hitherto 
 it has always been an involuntary gift, and I much doubt 
 will always remain so, spite of every caveat reason can 
 enter. Reason, with all her pretentions, is only human, 
 and therefore apt to err. Those native impulses which 
 sometimes leads our approbation, or rather choice of our 
 most intimate friends, resembles instinct, which is some- 
 where called the voice of God, and therefore must be right. 
 At least, as I have always found it productive of most 
 happiness, both in prospect and reality, I am resolved to 
 encourage a pleasing delusion which has never yet hurt me, 
 but to which I have been indebted for the most enviable 
 moments of my existence — a propensity which prompted 
 me to cultivate your acquaintance when I was flying that of 
 the world, and which procured a favourable reception for 
 those scrawls with which I presumed to intrude upon you
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 297 
 
 before you had, like Ahasuerus, held out the golden scepter 
 of kind consent with which you have now sanctioned my 
 approach, and interested me in every thing that interests 
 you, not only as a poet, but as a friend, to whom I 
 consider myself as under everlasting obligations, such, 
 indeed, as I trust in God I shall never again owe to any 
 one ; for I hope Providence will close my eyes without any 
 future event being able to sink me in such melancholy as 
 had overwhelmed me when chance first threw your writings 
 in my hand, and the singularity of the Kilmarnock title- 
 page induced me to investigate their merit. I found there 
 strains Uke the Tomb of Becket, fit to awake the dead. I 
 read, then write. My knell, which seemed ringing out, was 
 turned into chimes, for, like Falstaff, you were not only 
 moral and witty, but caused it in others ; and tho' my 
 chimes were perhaps but fools' bells, they helped to divert 
 the child who rung them, but whose mind was unsuited to 
 other occupations, and were generally addrest to you. 
 Since I have resumed some care of my family, of which I 
 was long incapable, I lift the pen seldomer, and my needle, 
 or the varied concerns of those children for whom I live, 
 oftener employs my hand and my mind, so that, were it 
 worth your while to think of me at all, I 'm apprehensive 
 you might believe me whimsical and unsteady in cultivation 
 of that friendship I had so eagerly solicited. 
 
 I am just returned from Loudoun. The greatness of 
 the place, where ;^8ooo a year more than the income of 
 the estate had been spent, and so fine a fortune ruined ; the 
 respectability of the old Earl's ^ character as a landlord and 
 master in his private capacity, that sacred shrine in which 
 he still lives, sainted the warm, affectionate hearts of his yet 
 remaining servants and dependant pensioners ; when I add
 
 298 Correspondence between 
 
 to these the mean venality of his public political life, mus- 
 ing on all together as I wandered through those sweet, 
 serpentine hermit's paths which he had consecrated to prof- 
 ligacy and Miss Mason, I cannot help saying within myself. 
 What is man, or to what end is he created or endowed with 
 so heterogeneous a mixture of vice and virtue, fervour and 
 folly? Why did he who made hundreds happy ruin him- 
 self? Why was so connubial a mind destined for celibacy? 
 Had the Earl only been fond of this girl, one might have 
 exclaimed with Pope, " Health, fame, fortune, what art thou 
 to love?" But when they follow him to London, that idea 
 which might adorn the fete champetre disappears in the 
 crowd of demoiselles amongst whom Kate Walker's gray 
 hairs shine a badge of constancy that in wedded life had 
 done honor to the Scots peerage. After all, this man's 
 benevolence of heart embalms his memory, and I weep 
 over the alienation of property and want of lineal repre- 
 sentatives of John, Earl of Loudoun, who provided for the 
 posterity or declining age of every thing that had ever 
 been about him, and eclipsed the remembrance of his suc- 
 cessor, to whose gentle goodness you were no stranger, but 
 whose name is never pronounced now in that place where 
 misfortune ended his days, and has buried his former life in 
 oblivion. Well, be it so ; let former times, since it must 
 be so, be forgotten. Let the name of Morni be forgotten, 
 and the young men say, " Behold the father of Gaul " ; 
 when Campbells, Craufords, and Wallaces shall be passed 
 away, in those later days perhaps some fashionable biogra- 
 pher shall arise who, celebrating the fame of his young hero, 
 may set out by telling us his father's name was F. W. Burns, 
 son to the renowned bard of that name, whose contempo- 
 rary writers alledge he was a peasant in the West, but whose
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 299 
 
 works prove a degree of erudition inconsistent with that 
 report, as it seems more probable he had been the son of 
 some noble Scot, who, for some crime, perhaps that of 
 fidelity to his unfortunate Kings, had forfeited his splendid 
 situation in the world, and been driven to shelter himself in 
 obscurity, into which he carried those brilliant acquirements 
 that could never be hidden, but, bursting forth in the eight- 
 eenth century, dazzled the world, and, spite of the amazing 
 revolutions which then took place in Europe and America, 
 shared so much of their divided attention. Meanwhile the 
 polish of western manners at that time was great, so that 
 we find the belles-lettres cultivated by all stations, particu- 
 larly among the female sex. In Augt. 1789 a chamber- 
 maid in Ayrshire, the early residence of the above-mentioned 
 bard, wrote in the dialect of the country some poems, of 
 which we have the following lines remaining. Her name 
 was Janet Little, but critics dispute whether she had it from 
 her father, or because her genius was believed of the dwarf- 
 ish kind — a species of stature and wit then imported into 
 Britain by the famous Count Borowastic, and from thence 
 greatly admired and sure of making the possessor's fortune 
 or immortalising his memory. The lines as follows : — 
 
 In Royal Anna's golden days 
 Hard was the task to gain the bays ; 
 Difficult was the hill to climb ; 
 Some brak a neck, some lost a limb. 
 The votries for poetic fame 
 Got off decripet, blind, and lame; 
 Except that little fellow Pope, 
 Few ever then won near the top ; 
 And Homer's crutches he may thank, 
 Or down the brae he 'd got a clank. 
 Addison, Thompson, Young,.and Prior 
 Did mount on Pegasus without a fear.
 
 300 Correspondence between 
 
 In hopes to please a learned age ; 
 
 But Doctor Johnson in a rage 
 
 Unto posterity did show 
 
 Their blunders fast, their beauties slow. 
 
 But now he 's dead, ye well may ken. 
 
 When ilka sumph maun hae a pen. 
 
 And write in hamely uncouth rhymes, 
 
 And yet, forsooth, they please the times. 
 
 A plowman chiel, Rab Burns his name, 
 
 Pretends to write and thinks nae shame 
 
 To souse his sonnets on the Court; 
 
 And troth what 's strange, they praise him for 't, 
 
 Ev'n folks that 's of the highest station 
 
 Ca's him the glory of our nation ; 
 
 z^th August '89. 
 
 I shall set out for Morham Mains, I think, about the 
 eighth of next month at farthest, but will hope to hear from 
 you here before that time, and that you will give me 
 accounts of your own family, where I trust, spite of your 
 silence, all goes well, and I may already wish you joy of the 
 arrival of your little stranger, which my own indistinctness 
 has, I presume, hindered me from seeing anounced to. — 
 Dr. Sir, yours, etc. etc., Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) John, fourth Earl of Loudoun, took a very 
 active part in repressing the Jacobite Rebellion of 
 1745. He also served his country abroad, being 
 Governor of Virginia, and in 1756 Commander-in- 
 Chief of the forces in America. He spent a great 
 deal in the improvement of the estate of Loudoun, 
 particularly in planting, his specialty being willows. 
 He was a Scotch representative Peer for the long 
 period of forty-eight years. He died unmarried in
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 301 
 
 1782 in his seventy-seventh year, and was succeeded 
 by his cousin, James Muir Campbell, fifth Earl, who 
 married Miss Macleod of Raasay, sister of the Isa- 
 bella of Burns's song, " Raving winds around her 
 blowing." He shot himself on account of financial 
 troubles in 1786. This last Earl was the landlord of 
 the Burnses at Mossgiel, and it was at his death that 
 the farm was sold to Alexander of Ballochmyle. He 
 left an only daughter, afterwards referred to as the 
 little Countess, who took the Loudoun estate and 
 title into the Hastings family by her marriage with 
 the first Marquis. Her great-grandson is the present 
 Earl of Loudoun. 
 
 To Mrs. Dunlop. 
 
 Ellisland, dth Sept. 1789. 
 
 Dear Madam, — I have mentioned in my last my ap- 
 pointment to the Excise and the birth of little Frank, who, 
 by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to the honorable 
 name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly countenance and 
 a figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months 
 older ; and likewise an excellent good temper, though when 
 he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite so loud as the horn ^ 
 that his immortal namesake blew as a signal to take out the 
 pin of Stirling Bridge. 
 
 I had some time an epistle, part poetic and part prosaic, 
 from your poetess Miss J. Little,^ a very ingenious, but 
 modest, composition. I should have written her as she 
 requested, but for the hurry of this new business. I have 
 heard of her and her compositions in this country, and, I 
 am happy to add, always to the honor of her character. 
 The fact is, I know not well how to write to her : I should
 
 302 Correspondence between 
 
 sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how to stain. 
 I am no dab at fine-drawn letter-writing; and, except 
 when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, which hap- 
 pens extremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her 
 name) that presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, when 
 necessitated to write, as I would sit down to beat hemp. 
 
 Some parts of your letter of the 20th August, struck me 
 with the most melancholy concern for the state of your 
 mind at present. . . . 
 
 Would I could write you a letter of comfort ! I would 
 sit down to it with as much pleasure as I would to write an 
 epic poem of my own composition that would equal the 
 Iliad. Religion, my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A 
 strong persuasion in a future state of existence ; a proposi- 
 tion so obviously probable, that, setting revelation aside, 
 every nation and people, so far as investigation has reached, 
 for at least four thousand years, have, in some mode or 
 other, firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and pre- 
 tend to doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring 
 pitch ; but when I reflected that I was opposing the most 
 ardent wishes and the most darling hopes of good men, and 
 flying in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was 
 shocked at my own conduct. 
 
 I know not whether I have ever sent you the following 
 lines, or if you have ever seen them ; but it is one of my 
 favourite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my 
 progress through life, in the language of the book of Job, 
 
 Against the day of battle and of war — 
 
 spoken of religion : 
 
 3 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 
 'T is this that gilds the horror of our night :
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 303 
 
 When wealth forsakes us and when friends are few ; 
 
 When friends are faithless or when foes pursue; 
 
 'T is this that wards the blow or stills the smart, 
 
 Disarms affliction or repels his dart ; 
 
 Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
 
 Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies. 
 
 I have been very busy with Zeluco. The doctor is so 
 obhging as to request my opinion of it ; and I have been 
 revolving in my mind some kind of criticisms on novel- 
 writing, but it is a depth beyond my research. I shall, 
 however, digest my thoughts on the subject as well as I can. 
 Zeluco is a most sterling performance. 
 
 Farewell ! — A Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous commende. 
 
 R. B. 
 
 (i) Fra Jop the horn he hyntyt and couth blaw 
 Sa asprely, and warned gud Jhon Wricht : 
 The rowar out he straik with gret slycht ; 
 The laifif zeid doun, quhen the pynnysont gais. 
 A hidwys cry amang the peple rais ; 
 Bathe hers and men in to the wattir fell ! 
 
 Schir William Wallace, book 7, lines 1 180-5. 
 
 Jop (formerly Grymmysbe) was a pursuivant of 
 Edward. 
 
 (2) It is not known if Burns replied to her letter. 
 She afterwards visited Ellisland to obtain an interview 
 with Burns, but failed, as the poet had broken his 
 arm, and was confined to bed. 
 
 (3) These lines are from Verses to James Hervey 
 on his Meditations, by a physician. They are usually 
 prefixed to the Meditations and Contemplations.
 
 304 Correspondence between 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, Elliesland, 
 
 Dumfries. 
 
 MoRHAME Mains, 6th Sept. 1789. 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinr., Ninth Septr. 1789.] 
 
 Dr. Burns, — I told you my fears for Susan. Providence 
 has verified the presages, but in a way I thought not of. 
 She is well as I could dare to hope, but her child has paid 
 the price of her redemption, and, believe me, I account it a 
 small one, and bless that hand which has been pleased to 
 take the innocent babe to itself, though in a way that gave 
 me the most alarming fears for the mother's life. Just the 
 day after I wrote you last, I got an express telling me she 
 was delivered of a dead boy in consequence of a fright she 
 had got by one of the horses falling down in a strong convul- 
 sion as she was airing in a carriage about ten days before. 
 Those, my friend, are secured from such accidents who have 
 no carriage. Let us learn to know and mark the advantages 
 of our lot with a gratefully contented heart and a justly dis- 
 tinguishing eye. I had a carriage, but, having also a lame 
 horse, could not use it to fly to my distrest child. I sent to 
 hire, but could find none. I set out on foot to beg from 
 Cunninghame Lienshaw one to Kilmarnock, and so got to 
 Loudoun in time to find the child buried and the dis- 
 appointed mother in all the agonies of departed hope and 
 bodily weakness. I staid with her till the tenth day was 
 past, when I left her pretty much recovered to the care of 
 her grandmother and sisters, and set about preparing to set 
 out for this, when the same post brought me your letter and 
 one from John telling me his wife had likeways brought him 
 a son, and begging to see me with all convenient speed. I 
 set off on Thursday night at seven o'clock, came to Glasgow, 
 and even there could hardly find a chaise ; got one by 
 twelve, and after spending all night on the road, arrived
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 305 
 
 here next morning, where I found all so well that I might 
 just as well have staid quietly at home, and enjoyed the 
 sood luck these twin letters had announced, and which I 
 hope shall long be preserved for the happiness of all con- 
 cerned. One would have thought I had some presentiment 
 of what a hurry I should be put in when I welcomed the 
 little Wallace so long ago, for indeed I should now hardly 
 have commanded time for his reception. Why has he no 
 companion to chear his journey through the dreary vale, or 
 do you expect he is to be worth two himself that he is thus 
 degraded by coming single ? However, a sturdy boy and a 
 stout recovering mother are sufficient to a reasonable man. 
 It would be truly poetic to look for more. I cannot tell you 
 the agitation your letter occasioned me ; 't is the fate of your 
 pen to express more at a stroke than others can convey in 
 volumes, but never was it more strongly shewed than in this 
 letter. My superannuated sight and the flutter of my spirits 
 at the premature intelligence from East Lothian prevented 
 my distinguishing an ornamental flourish your poetic quill 
 had described in writing £ :, which I took for a first figure. 
 By this error my generous imagination bestowed just an 
 additional hundred a year on my friend, and I dare honestly 
 aver no hundred ever gave me so great pleasure. I revelled 
 on the delightful idea, which accompanyed me above an hun- 
 dred miles, when an unfortunate newspaper, which explained 
 the late agmentation, created a suspicion, and a further in- 
 spection of the letter destroyed the golden dream, and forced 
 me to retract the pleasing error which had made me so 
 happy. I had blest Graham with as much fervor as the old 
 Patriarch did Jacob when he tasted the savory meat. Isaac 
 was deceived too, yet the blessing stuck ; perhaps so will 
 mine. I sincerely wish it for your sake, who knows not 
 
 VOL. I. — 20
 
 306 Correspondence between 
 
 how good I am in doing so, for do you know he affronted 
 me by wholly overlooking my letter. I could not have for- 
 given this, had he not proved he could not overlook what 
 merited his notice by his attentions to you, which irrevo- 
 cably secure him my best wishes, spite of the envy with 
 which I read your pathetic address of thanks. Would I 
 could have served you so as to have deserved such ! But, 
 since that can never be, may he continue to deserve them, 
 if possible doubly, on whom they are now so feelingly be- 
 stowed. I have a mind surely singularly susceptible of the 
 passion of envy, since many and oft have been the times 
 when the mention of your mother has excited it in my 
 heart, I hope, however, she was not left you when the 
 news reached you that would make her happy ; so you see, 
 though envious, I am not malevolent. You might have told 
 me if your brother's schemes of improvement lay in Annan- 
 dale and promised success, but perhaps this is an en- 
 croaching question. If so, treat it, like Fintry, with silent 
 contempt, and I shall, as I have done on that occasion, for- 
 get and forgive it, nay, perhaps even think it was only an 
 act of grace and propriety. So you really admire Charlotte 
 Smith; so do I. I wish you admired Zeluco too, that I 
 might plead favour with the author by telling him so, for 
 I have been greatly in fault to him of late. How shall I 
 thank you for remembering me so kindly amid all your 
 hurry of business, while I, who am incapable of business, 
 find it so difficult to remember the very friends that cling 
 forever closest to my heart. Can you believe I have not 
 wrot the Dr. since the letter I sent him by you, and which 
 seemed wholly penned for the sake of another ; but there is 
 a greatness of soul in that man which enables him to dis- 
 cover that the strongest mark of real esteem and regard is
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 307 
 
 that confidence of friendship which inclines us to interest 
 our friends in the fate of all we ourselves approve, and be- 
 lieve worthy of their approbation and friendship ; so that, 
 while I wished to recommend your concerns to him, I 'm 
 sure I paid him the most acceptable compliment in my 
 power, and I would not have had more satisfaction in it 
 than he would have felt had it fallen in his power to serve 
 you. The end of my paper now reminds me of bidding 
 you farewell, and I am called to tea besides ; else I would 
 have given you some lines I wrot some days ago, along with 
 five shillings, which I could not well present, without a 
 wrapper. At least something, perhaps the love of scrib- 
 bling, told me so, and as it was an innocent amusement, I 
 indulged myself in what hurt nobody else. Adieu. — Be 
 ever certain of the best wishes of Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 I shall be here a fortnight at least ; so hope to hear. 
 
 Ad. Mr. Robert Burns, Elliesland, 
 Dumfries. 
 
 MoRHAM Mains, 20th Sept. 1789. 
 [Franked by Kerr: Edinr., Twenty-third Septr. 1789.] 
 
 My Dr. Sir, — You tell me you sympathise with a state 
 of mind most of your sex laugh at, and wish to write me a 
 letter of comfort. You say this with your usual strength of 
 expression, so forcibly that the very wish seems to accom- 
 plish its end, and changes the tenour of my spirits more 
 than I thought had been in the power of man or of, in- 
 deed, any event, unless the actual arrival of a letter from 
 my dear Anton. Yet we are told no man knows himself; 
 I may add nor woman neither, for my mood was become 
 merry even before I reached your sweet consolatory verses, 
 and I had discovered, contrary to your assertion, that religion,
 
 308 Correspondence between 
 
 though perhaps the best, is not the only sweetener of our 
 real or dreaded afflictions. There is what the doctors call 
 a succedaneum, and I find it in the very sight of your 
 hand on paper, which inspires something not rhyme-proof, 
 for it sets me often a scribbling, when I daresay you must 
 discover I have nothing on which to found the baseless 
 fabrick of the vision. But that is all one ; it amuses me, 
 and, as an undoubted proof of my friendship, I hope 
 pleases you. At least, I can honestly assure you nothing 
 you could send me that brought me conviction of yours 
 would fail of producing the most pleasing sensation of 
 which the human mind is capable — far beyond the pic- 
 tures of Raphael, the music of Handel, or, I believe, the 
 very poetry of any author whatever, not excepting yourself. 
 I intended writing you last night, but happening to lift the 
 "Cotter's Saturday Night," it was impossible for me to 
 close the book without reading it, tho' for the five hundred 
 time. Do, I beg you, try if you can make anything now 
 like it. I 'm sure no one else I have ever seen can ; but 
 I '11 say no more of it, or I could speak of nothing else, 
 and I have much nonsense crowding to my pen in conse- 
 quence of your writing me or of your not writing poor Jenny 
 Little, for which you give a true female reason, because 
 doing what is right is like beating hemp. Consider, my 
 dear friend, we ought all to be very often made beat hemp, 
 and put for life in the correction-house, or as they name 
 it in Holland, the for-bettering house, to oblige us to do 
 what reason approves or good-nature demands, whether it 
 happens to coincide with the whim of the minute or not. 
 Heaven knows I am not practising just now, or I should 
 rather write poor Jenny myself than employ myself preach- 
 ing duties to you, which you both know and, I am con-
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 309 
 
 vinced, perform much better than ever I did or ever will 
 do, unless Providence should wholly regenerate my nature. 
 And if the new composition, with all its perfections, should 
 not happen to hit the capricious fancy of some few of my 
 former friends, I would beg and pray to resume the old 
 woman, with all her imperfections, abating the blindness 
 which prevents me from their converse on paper, and the 
 deafness which diminishes the joy of meeting. But though 
 I can hardly answer it. Lord be praised ! I can read a 
 letter, even concluding with a French compliment, with 
 unspeakable delight, where that very compliment breathes 
 French freedom and EngHsh honesty or Scots kindness, 
 which, let me acknowledge, is more congenial to my birth, 
 and consequently dearer to my heart, than either the one 
 or the other, notwithstanding the great novelty of the first. 
 But now for verse, as ever since you told me how much 
 you preferred it, I have liked rhyme and rhymers. Nay, 
 not only so, but a friend of mine some time ago having 
 unfortunately one day told me he hated poetry, I have 
 never been able to do justice to the thousand good quali- 
 ties he possesses ever since, but have half-hated him spite 
 of the finest eyes in the world, and I believe one of the 
 best hearts it contains. Were you an unmarried man, I 
 would be ashamed to expose so much caprice, but I hope 
 you know to value our sex with all their little amiable weak- 
 nesses, nay even consider our faults, like the spots and 
 blemishes of a Mocha-stone, as so many beauties that in- 
 crease our value. I read your Elegy and wrot : — 
 
 The tears of fair Myra, once shed in despair, 
 Now sweeten our garments and perfume our hair. 
 The tears of Golconda cast orient day, 
 Pour'd rich from the diamond's brilliant ray.
 
 3IO Correspondence between 
 
 I read your last letter, and it mixing with something that 
 went before it, produced as follows : — 
 
 Tell me, my friend, thy comprehensive mind. 
 From high Parnassus has explor'd mankind, 
 View'd every object this wide world contains. 
 Through the fine medium of poetic brains ; 
 Try'd every doubt cold wisdom can suggest 
 By the pure fire that warms a poet's breast. 
 Why instinct only to poor brutes is given. 
 
 I take a new sheet and shall stain it, I think, by telling 
 you there are proposals printed for publishing Mr. Mylne's^ 
 works. Now, as I mean to send you a copy of the book in 
 a present when published, will you allow me to honour the 
 subscription with your name ? I have only one objection, 
 which is, the friends intend inscribing it to Henry the 
 ninth,^ who was at school with the author, who then wrote 
 a poem addrest to him beginning with these lines. 
 
 Ode to Mr. Henry Dundas, written at the Grammar 
 School at Dalkeith, by James Mylne, now farmer in E. 
 Lothian : — 
 
 Wilt thou remember then a friend, 
 So far beneath thee plac'd by fate ? 
 Away false fears that injure him ! 
 Hence low distrust of my desert ! 
 While I deserve his love, no time 
 Shall wean me from my Harry's heart. 
 In youth yon oak and ivy joined. 
 Not equal they, yet close they grew; 
 Time has their boughs so intertwin'd 
 No force can them dissever now. 
 
 Mr. Dundas kept up a correspondence with the poet 
 through life, but, as far as I can hear, never did him any 
 favour. He has indeed promised to assist one of his sons.
 
 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 311 
 
 and if he does, will have a better right than I would at 
 present subscribe to for the credit of the friend or the book. 
 Write me here, and tell me if I shall mark your name or 
 only my own. I know they will wish yours if you don't 
 think it can injure yourself to lend it ; I shall not be longer 
 here than two weeks, so pray write soon if you don't find it 
 too inconvenient a sacrifice to the happiness of, Dr. Sir, your 
 sincere friend and humble sert., Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 (i) James Mylne (see antea, p. 226, etc.). Mrs. 
 Dunlop was here asking permission to add Burns's 
 name to the list of subscribers for his poems, where 
 it actually appeared. See Mrs. Dunlop's letter of 
 19th October, postea, vol. ii. p. 7. 
 
 (2) "Henry the ninth" was Henry Dundas, treas- 
 urer of the Navy, Pitt's friend, his Grand Vizier for 
 Scotland, who, there is reason to believe, was not well 
 affected to Burns. See Chambers, vol. iii. p. 242, etc. 
 
 To Burns. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 SENT WITH A CROWN TO J. L. 
 
 Once Fate the lots of mortals cast ; 
 
 Monarchs came first, but poets last. 
 
 Jove called the synod of his gods 
 
 To rectify the partial odds : 
 
 The court was open'd by Apollo, 
 
 " Ye powers, if my advice you 'd follow, 
 
 Since kings are cap't with crowns of gold, 
 
 A silver crown let poets hold." 
 
 Great Jove just then was reading Bums, 
 
 And ev'ry god had peeped by turns ; 
 
 So for the glory of Old Ayr, 
 
 The vote was put and carried fair.
 
 312 Robert Burns and Mrs. Dunlop 
 
 As spoksman for the tuneful! class 
 
 Up starts a stout and strapping lass ; 
 
 " Ye Antechristian Pagan powers, 
 
 What paultry barb'rous favours yours, 
 
 111 suited to poetic brains, 
 
 Whose treasuries thousand worlds contains 
 
 Above each mercenary craft. 
 
 My tether-stake 's a besom shaft, 
 
 And he who 's favour'd most by you, 
 
 Like Trismegistus, holds a plough 
 
 (I wish 't were better worth his hold), 
 
 (And beat from Oswald's purest gold)." 
 
 Her egis here Minerva shook, 
 And loud and wisely thus she spoke : 
 " Silver to age can comfort give, 
 Or make a lover's passion live ; 
 Of worldly things ne'er make a pother. 
 Take this yourself or give 't your mother." 
 
 And do you really think Charlotte Smith's elegy so super- 
 lative? I wish I had it to read again, for I must confess 
 I did not even think it the best of her own works, but I 
 dare say I must not have done it justice, since you honour 
 it with so high a place in your esteem. Or may not even 
 your taste be sometimes a little subject to whim? I hope 
 your friendship is that my weak claim may retain it; or 
 shall I rather trust to your gratitude for that sincere esteem 
 with which I must ever remain, Dr. Sir, your obliged and 
 obedient humble sert., Fran. A. Dunlop. 
 
 I beg to hear of the mother and child ; ours are better 
 and better hourly. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
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