THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 9
Edinburgh had still another class of genteel convivialists, to whom
the poet was attracted by principles as well as by pleasure; these
were the relics of that once numerous body, the Jacobites, who still
loved to cherish the feelings of birth or education rather than of
judgment, and toasted the name of Stuart, when the last of the race
had renounced his pretensions to a throne, for the sake of peace and
the cross. Young men then, and high names were among them, annually
met on the pretender's birth-day, and sang songs in which the white
rose of Jacobitism flourished; toasted toasts announcing adherence to
the male line of the Bruce and the Stuart, and listened to the strains
of the laureate of the day, who prophesied, in drink, the dismissal of
the intrusive Hanoverian, by the right and might of the righteous and
disinherited line. Burns, who was descended from a northern race,
whoso father was suspected of having drawn the claymore in 1745, and
who loved the blood of the Keith-Marishalls, under whose banners his
ancestors had marched, readily united himself to a band in whose
sentiments, political and social, he was a sharer. He was received
with acclamation: the dignity of laureate was conferred upon him, and
his inauguration ode, in which he recalled the names and the deeds of
the Grahams, the Erskines, the Boyds, and the Gordons, was applauded
for its fire, as well as for its sentiments. Yet, though he ate and
drank and sang with Jacobites, he was only as far as sympathy and
poesie went, of their number: his reason renounced the principles and
the religion of the Stuart line; and though he shed a tear over their
fallen fortunes--though he sympathized with the brave and honourable
names that perished in their cause--though he cursed "the butcher,
Cumberland," and the bloody spirit which commanded the heads of the
good and the heroic to be stuck where they would affright the
passer-by, and pollute the air--he had no desire to see the splendid
fabric of constitutional freedom, which the united genius of all
parties had raised, thrown wantonly down. His Jacobitism influenced,
not his head, but his heart, and gave a mournful hue to many of his
lyric compositions.
Meanwhile his poems were passing through the press. Burns made a few
emendations of those published in the Kilmarnock edition, and he added
others which, as he expressed it, he had carded and spun, since he
passed Glenbuck. Some rather coarse lines were softened or omitted in
the "Twa Dogs;" others, from a change of his personal feelings, were
made in the "Vision:" "Death and Doctor Hornbook," excluded before,
was admitted now: the "Dream" was retained, in spite of the
remonstrances of Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, and Mrs. Dunlop; and the
"Brigs of Ayr," in compliment to his patrons in his native district,
and the "Address to Edinburgh," in honour of his titled and
distinguished friends in that metropolis, were printed for the first
time. He was unwilling to alter what he had once printed: his friends,
classic, titled, and rustic, found him stubborn and unpliable, in
matters of criticism; yet he was generally of a complimental mood: he
loaded the robe of Coila in the "Vision," with more scenes than it
could well contain, that he might include in the landscape, all the
country-seats of his friends, and he gave more than their share of
commendation to the Wallaces, out of respect to his friend Mrs.
Dunlop. Of the critics of Edinburgh he said, they spun the thread of
their criticisms so fine that it was unfit for either warp or weft;
and of its scholars, he said, they were never satisfied with any
Scottish poet, unless they could trace him in Horace. One morning at
Dr. Blair's breakfast-table, when the "Holy Fair" was the subject of
conversation, the reverend critic said, "Why should
'--Moody speel the holy door
With tidings of _salvation_?'
if you had said, with tidings of _damnation_, the satire would have
been the better and the bitterer." "Excellent!" exclaimed the poet,
"the alteration is capital, and I hope you will honour me by allowing
me to say in a note at whose suggestion it was made." Professor
Walker, who tells the anecdote, adds that Blair evaded, with equal
good humour and decision, this not very polite request; nor was this
the only slip which the poet made on this occasion: some one asked him
in which of the churches of Edinburgh he had received the highest
gratification: he named the High-church, but gave the preference over
all preachers to Robert Walker, the colleague and rival in eloquence
of Dr. Blair himself, and that in a tone so pointed and decisive as to
make all at the table stare and look embarrassed. The poet confessed
afterwards that he never reflected on his blunder without pain and
mortification. Blair probably had this in his mind, when, on reading
the poem beginning "When Guildford good our pilot stood," he
exclaimed, "Ah! the politics of Burns always smell of the smithy,"
meaning, that they were vulgar and common.
In April, the second or Edinburgh, edition was published: it was
widely purchased, and as warmly commended. The country had been
prepared for it by the generous and discriminating criticisms of Henry
Mackenzie, published in that popular periodical, "The Lounger," where
he says, "Burns possesses the spirit as well as the fancy of a poet;
that honest pride and independence of soul, which are sometimes the
muse's only dower, break forth on every occasion, in his works." The
praise of the author of the "Man of Feeling" was not more felt by
Burns, than it was by the whole island: the harp of the north had not
been swept for centuries by a hand so forcible, and at the same time
so varied, that it awakened every tone, whether of joy or woe: the
language was that of rustic life; the scenes of the poems were the
dusty barn, the clay-floored reeky cottage, and the furrowed field;
and the characters were cowherds, ploughmen, and mechanics. The volume
was embellished by a head of the poet from the hand of the now
venerable Alexander Nasmith; and introduced by a dedication to the
noblemen and gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt, in a style of vehement
independence, unknown hitherto in the history of subscriptions. The
whole work, verse, prose, and portrait, won public attention, and kept
it: and though some critics signified their displeasure at __EXPRESSION__s
which bordered on profanity, and at a license of language which they
pronounced impure, by far the greater number united their praise to
the all but general voice; nay, some scrupled not to call him, from
his perfect ease and nature and variety, the Scottish Shakspeare. No
one rejoiced more in his success and his fame, than the matron of
Mossgiel.
Other matters than his poems and socialities claimed the attention of
Burns in Edinburgh. He had a hearty relish for the joyous genius of
Allan Ramsay; he traced out his residences, and rejoiced to think that
while he stood in the shop of his own bookseller, Creech, the same
floor had been trod by the feet of his great forerunner. He visited,
too, the lowly grave of the unfortunate Robert Fergusson; and it must
be recorded to the shame of the magistrates of Edinburgh, that they
allowed him to erect a headstone to his memory, and to the scandal of
Scotland, that in such a memorial he had not been anticipated. He
seems not to have regarded the graves of scholars or philosophers; and
he trod the pavements where the warlike princes and nobles had walked
without any emotion. He loved, however, to see places celebrated in
Scottish song, and fields where battles for the independence of his
country had been stricken; and, with money in his pocket which his
poems had produced, and with a letter from a witty but weak man, Lord
Buchan, instructing him to pull birks on the Yarrow, broom on the
Cowden-knowes, and not to neglect to admire the ruins of Drybrugh
Abbey, Burns set out on a border tour, accompanied by Robert Ainslie,
of Berrywell. As the poet had talked of returning to the plough, Dr.
Blair imagined that he was on his way back to the furrowed field, and
wrote him a handsome farewell, saying he was leaving Edinburgh with a
character which had survived many temptations; with a name which would
be placed with the Ramsays and the Fergussons, and with the hopes of
all, that, in a second volume, on which his fate as a poet would very
much depend, he might rise yet higher in merit and in fame. Burns, who
received this communication when laying his leg over the saddle to be
gone, is said to have muttered, "Ay, but a man's first book is
sometimes like his first babe, healthier and stronger than those which
follow."
On the 6th of May, 1787, Burns reached Berrywell: he recorded of the
laird, that he was clear-headed, and of Miss Ainslie, that she was
amiable and handsome--of Dudgeon, the author of "The Maid that tends
the Goats," that he had penetration and modesty, and of the preacher,
Bowmaker, that he was a man of strong lungs and vigorous remark. On
crossing the Tweed at Coldstream he took off his hat, and kneeling
down, repeated aloud the two last verses of the "Cotter's Saturday
Night:" on returning, he drunk tea with Brydone, the traveller, a man,
he said, kind and benevolent: he cursed one Cole as an English
Hottentot, for having rooted out an ancient garden belonging to a
Romish ruin; and he wrote of Macdowal, of Caverton-mill, that by his
skill in rearing sheep, he sold his flocks, ewe and lamb, for a couple
of guineas each: that he washed his sheep before shearing--and by his
turnips improved sheep-husbandry; he added, that lands were generally
let at sixteen shillings the Scottish acre; the farmers rich, and,
compared to Ayrshire, their houses magnificent. On his way to Jedburgh
he visited an old gentleman in whose house was an arm-chair, once the
property of the author of "The Seasons;" he reverently examined the
relic, and could scarcely be persuaded to sit in it: he was a warm
admirer of Thomson.
In Jedburgh, Burns found much to interest him: the ruins of a splendid
cathedral, and of a strong castle--and, what was still more
attractive, an amiable young lady, very handsome, with "beautiful
hazel eyes, full of spirit, sparkling with delicious moisture," and
looks which betokened a high order of female mind. He gave her his
portrait, and entered this remembrance of her attractions among his
memoranda:--"My heart is thawed into melting pleasure, after being so
long frozen up in the Greenland bay of indifference, amid the noise
and nonsense of Edinburgh. I am afraid my bosom has nearly as much
tinder as ever. Jed, pure be thy streams, and hallowed thy sylvan
banks: sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom
uninterrupted, except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love!"
With the freedom of Jedburgh, handsomely bestowed by the magistrates,
in his pocket, Burns made his way to Wauchope, the residence of Mrs.
Scott, who had welcomed him into the world as a poet in verses lively
and graceful: he found her, he said, "a lady of sense and taste, and
of a decision peculiar to female authors." After dining with Sir
Alexander Don, who, he said, was a clever man, but far from a match
for his divine lady, a sister of his patron Glencairn, he spent an
hour among the beautiful ruins of Dryburgh Abbey; glanced on the
splendid remains of Melrose; passed, unconscious of the future, over
that ground on which have arisen the romantic towers of Abbotsford;
dined with certain of the Souters of Selkirk; and visited the old keep
of Thomas the Rhymer, and a dozen of the hills and streams celebrated
in song. Nor did he fail to pay his respects, after returning through
Dunse, to Sir James Hall, of Dunglass, and his lady, and was much
pleased with the scenery of their romantic place. He was now joined by
a gentleman of the name of Kerr, and crossing the Tweed a second time,
penetrated into England, as far as the ancient town of Newcastle,
where he smiled at a facetious Northumbrian, who at dinner caused the
beef to be eaten before the broth was served, in obedience to an
ancient injunction, lest the hungry Scotch should come and snatch it.
On his way back he saw, what proved to be prophetic of his own
fortune--the roup of an unfortunate farmer's stock: he took out his
journal, and wrote with a troubled brow, "Rigid economy, and decent
industry, do you preserve me from being the principal _dramatis
personæ_, in such a scene of horror." He extended his tour to
Carlisle, and from thence to the banks of the Nith, where he looked at
the farm of Ellisland, with the intention of trying once more his
fortune at the plough, should poetry and patronage fail him.
On his way through the West, Burns spent a few days with his mother at
Mossgiel: he had left her an unknown and an almost banished man: he
returned in fame and in sunshine, admired by all who aspired to be
thought tasteful or refined. He felt offended alike with the patrician
stateliness of Edinburgh and the plebeian servility of the husbandmen
of Ayrshire; and dreading the influence of the unlucky star which had
hitherto ruled his lot, he bought a pocket Milton, he said, for the
purpose of studying the intrepid independence and daring magnanimity,
and noble defiance of hardships, exhibited by Satan! In this mood he
reached Edinburgh--only to leave it again on three hurried excursions
into the Highlands. The route which he took and the sentiments which
the scenes awakened, are but faintly intimated in the memoranda which
he made. His first journey seems to have been performed in ill-humour;
at Stirling, his Jacobitism, provoked at seeing the ruined palace of
the Stuarts, broke out in some unloyal lines which he had the
indiscretion to write with a diamond on the window of a public inn. At
Carron, where he was refused a sight of the magnificent foundry, he
avenged himself in epigram. At Inverary he resented some real or
imaginary neglect on the part of his Grace of Argyll, by a stinging
lampoon; nor can he be said to have fairly regained his serenity of
temper, till he danced his wrath away with some Highland ladies at
Dumbarton.
His second excursion was made in the company of Dr. Adair, of
Harrowgate: the reluctant doors of Carron foundry were opened to him,
and he expressed his wonder at the blazing furnaces and broiling
labours of the place; he removed the disloyal lines from the window of
the inn at Stirling, and he paid a two days' visit to Ramsay of
Ochtertyre, a distinguished scholar, and discussed with him future
topics for the muse. "I have been in the company of many men of
genius," said Ramsay afterwards to Currie, "some of them poets, but
never witnessed such flashes of intellectual brightness as from
him--the impulse of the moment, sparks of celestial fire." From the
Forth he went to the Devon, in the county of Clackmannan, where, for
the first time, he saw the beautiful Charlotte Hamilton, the sister of
his friend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline. "She is not only beautiful,"
he thus writes to her brother, "but lovely: her form is elegant, her
features not regular, but they have the smile of sweetness, and the
settled complacency of good nature in the highest degree. Her eyes are
fascinating; at once expressive of good sense, tenderness and a noble
mind. After the exercise of our riding to the Falls, Charlotte was
exactly Dr. Donne's mistress:--
"Her pure and eloquent blood
Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,
That one would almost say her body thought."
Accompanied by this charming dame, he visited an old lady, Mrs. Bruce,
of Clackmannan, who, in the belief that she had the blood of the royal
Bruce in her veins, received the poet with something of princely
state, and, half in jest, conferred the honour of knighthood upon him,
with her ancestor's sword, saying, in true Jacobitical mood, that she
had a better right to do that than some folk had! In the same pleasing
company he visited the famous cataract on the Devon, called the
Cauldron Lian, and the Rumbling bridge, a single arch thrown, it is
said by the devil, over the Devon, at the height of a hundred feet in
the air. It was the complaint of his companions that Burns exhibited
no raptures, and poured out no unpremeditated verses at such
magnificent scenes. But he did not like to be tutored or prompted:
"Look, look!" exclaimed some one, as Carron foundry belched forth
flames--"look, Burns, look! good heavens, what a grand sight!--look!"
"I would not look--look, sir, at your bidding," said the bard, turning
away, "were it into the mouth of hell!" When he visited, at a future
time, the romantic Linn of Creehope, in Nithsdale, he looked silently
at its wonders, and showed none of the hoped-for rapture. "You do not
admire it, I fear," said a gentleman who accompanied him; "I could not
admire it more, sir," replied Burns, "if He who made it were to desire
me to do it." There are other reasons for the silence of Burns amid
the scenes of the Devon: he was charmed into love by the sense and the
beauty of Charlotte Hamilton, and rendered her homage in that sweet
song, "The Banks of the Devon," and in a dozen letters written with
more than his usual care, elegance, and tenderness. But the lady was
neither to be won by verse nor by prose: she afterwards gave her hand
to Adair, the poet's companion, and, what was less meritorious, threw
his letters into the fire.
The third and last tour into the North was in company of Nicol of the
High-School of Edinburgh: on the fields of Bannockburn and
Falkirk--places of triumph and of woe to Scotland, he gave way to
patriotic impulses, and in these words he recorded them:--"Stirling,
August 20, 1787: this morning I knelt at the tomb of Sir John the
Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace; and two hours ago I
said a fervent prayer for old Caledonia, over the hole in a whinstone
where Robert the Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks of
Bannockburn." He then proceeded northward by Ochtertyre, the water of
Earn, the vale of Glen Almond, and the traditionary grave of Ossian. He
looked in at princely Taymouth; mused an hour or two among the Birks of
Aberfeldy; gazed from Birnam top; paused amid the wild grandeur of the
pass of Killiecrankie, at the stone which marks the spot where a second
patriot Graham fell, and spent a day at Blair, where he experienced the
graceful kindness of the Duke of Athol, and in a strain truly elegant,
petitioned him, in the name of Bruar Water, to hide the utter nakedness
of its otherwise picturesque banks, with plantations of birch and oak.
Quitting Blair he followed the course of the Spey, and passing, as he
told his brother, through a wild country, among cliffs gray with eternal
snows, and glens gloomy and savage, reached Findhorn in mist and
darkness; visited Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth murdered Duncan; hastened
through Inverness to Urquhart Castle, and the Falls of Fyers, and turned
southward to Kilravock, over the fatal moor of Culloden. He admired the
ladies of that classic region for their snooded ringlets, simple
elegance of dress, and expressive eyes: in Mrs. Rose, of Kilravock
Castle, he found that matronly grace and dignity which he owned he
loved; and in the Duke and Duchess of Gordon a renewal of that more than
kindness with which they had welcomed him in Edinburgh. But while he
admired the palace of Fochabers, and was charmed by the condescensions
of the noble proprietors, he forgot that he had left a companion at the
inn, too proud and captious to be pleased at favours showered on others:
he hastened back to the inn with an invitation and an apology: he found
the fiery pedant in a foaming rage, striding up and down the street,
cursing in Scotch and Latin the loitering postilions for not yoking the
horses, and hurrying him away. All apology and explanation was in vain,
and Burns, with a vexation which he sought not to conceal, took his seat
silently beside the irascible pedagogue, and returned to the South by
Broughty Castle, the banks of Endermay and Queensferry. He parted with
the Highlands in a kindly mood, and loved to recal the scenes and the
people, both in conversation and in song.
On his return to Edinburgh he had to bide the time of his bookseller
and the public: the impression of his poems, extending to two thousand
eight hundred copies, was sold widely: much of the money had to come
from a distance, and Burns lingered about the northern metropolis,
expecting a settlement with Creech, and with the hope that those who
dispensed his country's patronage might remember one who then, as now,
was reckoned an ornament to the land. But Creech, a parsimonious man,
was slow in his payments; the patronage of the country was swallowed
up in the sink of politics, and though noblemen smiled, and ladies of
rank nodded their jewelled heads in approbation of every new song he
sung and every witty sally he uttered, they reckoned any further
notice or care superfluous: the poet, an observant man, saw all this;
but hope was the cordial of his heart, he said, and he hoped and
lingered on. Too active a genius to remain idle, he addressed himself
to the twofold business of love and verse. Repulsed by the stately
Beauty of the Devon, he sought consolation in the society of one, as
fair, and infinitely more witty; and as an accident had for a time
deprived him of the use of one of his legs, he gave wings to hours of
pain, by writing a series of letters to this Edinburgh enchantress, in
which he signed himself Sylvander, and addressed her under the name of
Clarinda. In these compositions, which no one can regard as serious,
and which James Grahame the poet called "a romance of real Platonic
affection," amid much affectation both of language and sentiment, and
a desire to say fine and startling things, we can see the proud heart
of the poet throbbing in the dread of being neglected or forgotten by
his country. The love which he offers up at the altar of wit and
beauty, seems assumed and put on, for its rapture is artificial, and
its brilliancy that of an icicle: no woman was ever wooed and won in
that Malvolio way; and there is no doubt that Mrs. M'Lehose felt as
much offence as pleasure at this boisterous display of regard. In
aftertimes he loved to remember her:--when wine circulated, Mrs. Mac
was his favourite toast.
During this season he began his lyric contributions to the Musical
Museum of Johnson, a work which, amid many imperfections of taste and
arrangement, contains more of the true old music and genuine old songs
of Scotland, than any other collection with which I am acquainted.
Burns gathered oral airs, and fitted them with words of mirth or of
woe, of tenderness or of humour, with unexampled readiness and
felicity; he eked out old fragments and sobered down licentious
strains so much in the olden spirit and feeling, that the new cannot
be distinguished from the ancient; nay, he inserted lines and half
lines, with such skill and nicety, that antiquarians are perplexed to
settle which is genuine or which is simulated. Yet with all this he
abated not of the natural mirth or the racy humour of the lyric muse
of Scotland: he did not like her the less because she walked like some
of the maidens of her strains, high-kilted at times, and spoke with
the freedom of innocence. In these communications we observe how
little his border-jaunt among the fountains of ancient song
contributed either of sentiment or allusion, to his lyrics; and how
deeply his strains, whether of pity or of merriment, were coloured by
what he had seen, and heard, and felt in the Highlands. In truth, all
that lay beyond the Forth was an undiscovered land to him; while the
lowland districts were not only familiar to his mind and eye, but all
their more romantic vales and hills and streams were already musical
in songs of such excellence as induced him to dread failure rather
than hope triumph. Moreover, the Highlands teemed with jacobitical
feelings, and scenes hallowed by the blood or the sufferings of men
heroic, and perhaps misguided; and the poet, willingly yielding to an
impulse which was truly romantic, and believed by thousands to be
loyal, penned his songs on Drumossie, and Killiecrankie, as the
spirit of sorrow or of bitterness prevailed. Though accompanied,
during his northern excursions, by friends whose socialities and
conversation forbade deep thought, or even serious remark, it will be
seen by those who read his lyrics with care, that his wreath is
indebted for some of its fairest flowers to the Highlands.
The second winter of the poet's abode in Edinburgh had now arrived: it
opened, as might have been expected, with less rapturous welcomes and
with more of frosty civility than the first. It must be confessed,
that indulgence in prolonged socialities, and in company which, though
clever, could not be called select, contributed to this; nor must it
be forgotten that his love for the sweeter part of creation was now
and then carried beyond the limits of poetic respect, and the
delicacies of courtesy; tending to estrange the austere and to lessen
the admiration at first common to all. Other causes may be assigned
for this wane of popularity: he took no care to conceal his contempt
for all who depended on mere scholarship for eminence, and he had a
perilous knack in sketching with a sarcastic hand the characters of
the learned and the grave. Some indeed of the high literati of the
north--Home, the author of Douglas, was one of them--spoke of the poet
as a chance or an accident: and though they admitted that he was a
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