No. XCI. BURNS TO G. THOMSON. Brow, on the Solway-frith, 12th July, 1796. AFTER all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you for five pounds. A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise, and engage to furnish you with five pounds' worth of the neatest song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on "Rothemurche" this morning. The measure is so difficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me! FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. Tune-" Rothemurche." I. Fairest maid on Devon banks, And smile as thou were wont to do? II. Then come, thou fairest of the fair, No love but thine my heart shall know. Crystal Devon, winding Devon, Wilt thou lay that frown aside, And smile as thou were wont to do? ["These verses," says Currie, "and the letter enclosing them, are written in a character that marks the feeble state of Burns's bodily strength. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he could not have been in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainly he had many firm friends, nor under any such necessity of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But about this time (nine days before his death), his reason began at times to be unsettled, and the horrors of a jail perpetually haunted his imagination." I have in the Life of the Poet asserted that he was in great poverty before he died, and that sometimes, in the course of the spring of 1796, his family were all but wanting bread. Those who say he had good friends around him seem not to know that he had a soul too proud to solicit help, and to forget that there are hearts in the world ready to burst before they beg. The five pounds for which he solicited Thomson were to meet the demands of David Williamson, to whom he owed the price of the cloth of his volunteer regimentals—the money should have been paid in April: and the ten pounds which he requested, and by return of post obtained, from his cousin, James Burness, grandfather of Lieutenant Burness the Eastern Traveller, was for his wife, then about to be confined in child-bed. It is not known that he applied to any one else, and he would not have applied to either his cousin or to Thomson, had he not been sorely pressed: the fact of his being in want was known to all his neighbours and admitted by himself. In this song-the last he was to measure in this world-his thoughts wandered to Charlotte Hamilton, and the banks of the Devon. Well might he exclaim :— "Couldst thou to malice lend an ear?"-ED.] No. XCII. G. THOMSON TO BURNS. MY DEAR SIR: 14th July, 1796. EVER since I received your melancholy letters by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating. in what manner I could endeavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a pecuniary offer, but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution. I thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and, with great pleasure, inclose a draft for the very sum I proposed sending. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one day, for your sake! Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume of poetry? If too much trouble to you, in the present state of your health, some literary friend might be found here, who would select and arrange from your manuscripts, and take upon him the task of editor. In the mean time it could be advertised to be published by subscription. Do not shun this mode of obtaining the value of your labour remember Pope published the Iliad by : subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and do not reckon me intrusive with my advice. You are too well convinced of the respect and friendship I bear you, to impute any thing I say to an unworthy motive. Yours faithfully. The verses to "Rothemurche" will answer finely. I am happy to see you can still tune your lyre. [The dying Poet wrote entreatingly for five pounds, and Thomson sent the exact sum which he requested, from inability to send more: or, as he avers, from a dread of giving offence to the sensitive mind of Burns. It would have been as well had the sum been larger; but one cannot well see how Thomson deserves censure for doing that, and no more, which his correspondent requested him to do. Professor Walker, a man little inclined to irony, says that, on this subject, "the delicate mind of Mr. Thomson is at peace with itself." "Therefore there need no more be said here." Since this volume went to the press, Mrs. Burns, the bonnie Jean of many an imperishable song, has passed from among us, and now lies side by side with “the plighted husband of her youth." She was a dutifulnay, generous wife, an affectionate mother, and a good neighbour. One word of reproach was never uttered by her lips to Robert Burns: and when their narrowing fortunes required great economy, she was the first to propose that his illegitimate daughter should be taken under his roof. She treated the girl like one of her own. She sang Scottish songs with much grace and taste: she danced neatly and with spirit: though not much of a |