CCCXVI.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[In the double service of poesy and music the poet had to sing of pangs which he never endured, from beauties to whom he had never spoken.]

FORLORN my love, no comfort near, &c.[284]

How do you like the foregoing? I have written it within this hour: so much for the speed of my Pegasus; but what say you to his bottom?

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 284: Song CCLVIII.]

CCCXVII.

TO MR. THOMSON.

[The unexampled brevity of Burns's letters, and the extraordinary flow and grace of his songs, towards the close of his life, have not now for the first time been remarked.]

LAST May a braw wooer.[285]

Why, why tell thy lover.[286]

Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm of this air, that I find it impossible to make another stanza to suit it.

I am at present quite occupied with the charming sensations of the toothache, so have not a word to spare.

R. B.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 285: Song CCLIX.]

[Footnote 286: Song CCLX.]

CCCXVIII.

TO MRS. RIDDEL.

_Supposes himself to be writing from the dead to the living._

[Ill health, poverty, a sense of dependence, with the much he had deserved of his country, and the little he had obtained, were all at this time pressing on the mind of Burns, and inducing him to forget what was due to himself as well as to the courtesies of life.]

MADAM,

I dare say that this is the first epistle you ever received from this nether world. I write you from the regions of h.e.l.l, amid the horrors of the d.a.m.ned. The time and the manner of my leaving your earth I do not exactly know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of intoxication contracted at your too hospitable mansion; but, on my arrival here, I was fairly tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this infernal confine for the s.p.a.ce of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days, and all on account of the impropriety of my conduct yesternight under your roof.

Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever-piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name I think is _Recollection_, with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last night so much injured, I think it would be an alleviation to my torments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the men of the company I will make no apology.--Your husband, who insisted on my drinking more than I chose, has no right to blame me; and the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But to you, Madam, I have much to apologize. Your good opinion I valued as one of the greatest acquisitions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There was a Miss I----, too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and una.s.suming manners--do make on my part, a miserable d--mned wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs. G----, a charming woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in my favour; this makes me hope that I have not outraged her beyond all forgiveness.--To all the other ladies please present my humblest contrition for my conduct, and my pet.i.tion for their gracious pardon. O all ye powers of decency and decorum! whisper to them that my errors, though great, were involuntary--that an intoxicated man is the vilest of beasts--that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any one--that to be rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me--but--

Regret! Remorse! Shame! ye three h.e.l.l-hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels, spare me! spare me!

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, Madam, your humble slave.

R. B.

CCCXIX.

TO MRS. RIDDEL.

[Mrs. Riddel, it is said, possessed many more of the poet's letters than are printed--she sometimes read them to friends who could feel their wit, and, like herself, make allowance for their freedom.]

_Dumfries, 1795._

Mr. Burns's compliments to Mrs. Riddel--is much obliged to her for her polite attention in sending him the book. Owing to Mr. B.'s being at present acting as supervisor of excise, a department that occupies his every hour of the day, he has not that time to spare which is necessary for any belle-lettre pursuit; but, as he will, in a week or two, again return to his wonted leisure, he will then pay that attention to Mrs. R.'s beautiful song, "To thee, loved Nith"--which it so well deserves. When "Anacharsis' Travels" come to hand, which Mrs.

Riddel mentioned as her gift to the public library, Mr. B. will thank her for a reading of it previous to her sending it to the library, as it is a book Mr. B. has never seen: he wishes to have a longer perusal of them than the regulations of the library allow.

_Friday Eve._

P.S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged to Mrs. Riddel if she will favour him with a perusal of any of her poetical pieces which he may not have seen.

R. B.