Now I talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for writing to
you on paper of this kind is my pruriency of writing to you at large.
you on paper of this kind is my pruriency of writing to you at large.
Robert Burns
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 old reason, that I do not read your letters. All your
epistles for several months have cost me nothing, except a swelling
throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration.
When Mrs. Burns, Madam, 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 _eclatant_ 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 Edinburgh, 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?
I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for my journey of life;
but, upon my honour, I have never seen the individual instance.
Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner for
life, who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my
favourite authors, &c. , 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, Madame_,) are sometimes to be found among females of
the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the
would-be gentry.
I like your way in your church-yard 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 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
revery manner, are a monstrous tax in a close correspondence.
R. B.
* * * * *
CXXXII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Mrs. Miller, of Dalswinton, was a lady of beauty and talent: she
wrote verses with skill and taste. Her maiden name was Jean Lindsay. ]
_Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. _
I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac
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? "
My increasing cares in this, as yet strange country--gloomy
conjectures in the dark vista of futurity--consciousness of my own
inability for the struggle of the world--my broadened mark to
misfortune in a wife and children;--I could indulge these reflections
till my humour should ferment into the most acid 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 for my wounded spirit.
I was yesterday at Mr.
perhaps, be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries; but not
from your very old reason, that I do not read your letters. All your
epistles for several months have cost me nothing, except a swelling
throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration.
When Mrs. Burns, Madam, 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 _eclatant_ 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 Edinburgh, 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?
I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for my journey of life;
but, upon my honour, I have never seen the individual instance.
Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner for
life, who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my
favourite authors, &c. , 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, Madame_,) are sometimes to be found among females of
the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the
would-be gentry.
I like your way in your church-yard 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 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
revery manner, are a monstrous tax in a close correspondence.
R. B.
* * * * *
CXXXII.
TO MRS. DUNLOP.
[Mrs. Miller, of Dalswinton, was a lady of beauty and talent: she
wrote verses with skill and taste. Her maiden name was Jean Lindsay. ]
_Ellisland, 16th August, 1788. _
I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac
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? "
My increasing cares in this, as yet strange country--gloomy
conjectures in the dark vista of futurity--consciousness of my own
inability for the struggle of the world--my broadened mark to
misfortune in a wife and children;--I could indulge these reflections
till my humour should ferment into the most acid 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 for my wounded spirit.
I was yesterday at Mr.
