Robert Burns: How To Know Him Part 4

Meantime, at the suggestion of his friend and patron, Gavin Hamilton, Burns had begun to arrange for a subscription edition of his poems. It seems to have been only after he went to Mossgiel that he had seriously conceived the idea of writing for publication, and the decision was followed by a year of the most extraordinary fertility in composition. To 1785-1786 are a.s.signed such satires as _Holy Willie_ and the _Address to the Unco Guid_; a group of the longer poems including _The Cotter's Sat.u.r.day Night_, _The Jolly Beggars_, _Halloween_, _The Holy Fair_, _The Twa Dogs_ and _The Vision_; some shorter but no less famous pieces, such as the poems _To a Louse_, _To a Mouse_, _To the Deil_, _To a Mountain Daisy_ and _Scotch Drink_; and a number of the best of his _Epistles_. Many of these, especially the church satires, had obtained a considerable local fame through circulation in ma.n.u.script, so that, proposals having been issued for an edition to be printed by Wilson of Kilmarnock, it was not found difficult to obtain subscriptions for more than half the edition of six hundred and twelve copies. The prospect of some return from this enterprise induced James Armour to take legal measures to obtain support for Jean's expected child, and Burns, fearing imprisonment, was forced to go into hiding while his book was pa.s.sing the press. The church, too, had taken cognizance of his offense, and both Jean and he had to stand up before the congregation on three occasions to receive rebuke and make profession of repentance. He was at the same time completing the preparations for his voyage. In such extraordinary circ.u.mstances appeared the famous Kilmarnock edition, the immediate success of which soon produced a complete alteration in the whole outlook of the poet.

In the first place, the consideration Burns gained from his volume induced Armour to relax his pursuit, and in September, when Jean became the mother of twins, the poet was in such a mood that the sentiment of paternity began to weigh against the proposed emigration.

Some weeks later he learned through a friend that Doctor Blacklock, a poet and scholar of standing in literary circles in Edinburgh, had praised his volume highly, and urged a second and larger edition. The upshot was that he gave up his pa.s.sage (his trunk had been packed and was part way to Greenock), and determined instead on a visit to Edinburgh. The only permanent result of the whole West Indian scheme was thus a sheaf of amorous and patriotic farewells, of which the following may be taken as examples:

WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY MARY?

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's sh.o.r.e?

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across the Atlantic's roar?

O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true; And sae may the Heavens forget me, When I forget my vow!

O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily-white hand; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join; And curst be the cause that shall part us!

The hour, and the moment o' time!

THE GLOOMY NIGHT

The gloomy night is gathering fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter'd coveys meet secure, While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn By early Winter's ravage torn; Across her placid azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal, deadly sh.o.r.e; Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear: But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound: These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!

My peace with these, my love with those; The bursting tears my heart declare, Farewell, my bonnie banks of Ayr!

ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink, [sups]

A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, [rhyme]

A' ye wha live an' never think, Come mourn wi' me!

Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink, [fellow, the slip]

An' owre the sea.

Lament him, a' ye rantin core, [jovial set]

Wha dearly like a random-splore; [frolic]

Nae mair he'll join the merry roar, In social key; For now he's taen anither sh.o.r.e, An' owre the sea!

The bonnie la.s.ses weel may wiss him, [wish for]

And in their dear pet.i.tions place him, The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him [wot, sorely]

That's owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!

Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy b.u.mmle, [drone]

Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, [fuss]

'Twad been nae plea; [grievance]

But he was gleg as ony wumble, [lively, auger]

That's owre the sea!

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear, [cheerful, mourning bands]

An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear: [salt]

'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee; [fragments]

He was her Laureat mony a year, That's owre the sea!

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak his heart at last-- [jilt]

Ill may she be!

So took a berth afore the mast, An' owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune's c.u.mmock [cudgel]

On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, [meal and water]

Wi' his proud independent stomach, Could ill agree; So row't his hurdies in a hammock, [rolled, b.u.t.tocks]

An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguidin', Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; [pockets would]

Wi' him it ne'er was under hidin', He dealt it free: The Muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in a cozie biel; [cover, shelter]

Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, [fellow]

And fu' o' glee; He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!

Your native soil was right ill-willie; [unkind]

But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie!

I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, [last gill]

Tho' owre the sea!

3. Edinburgh

On the twenty-seventh of November, 1786, mounted on a borrowed pony, Burns set out for Edinburgh. He seems to have arrived there without definite plans, for, after having found lodging with his old friend Richmond, he spent the first few days strolling about the city. At home Burns had been an enthusiastic freemason, and it was through a masonic friend, Mr. James Dalrymple of Orangefield, near Ayr, that he was introduced to Edinburgh society. A decade or two earlier, that society, under the leadership of men like Adam Smith and David Hume had reached a high degree of intellectual distinction. A decade or two later, under Sir Walter Scott and the Reviewers it was again to be in some measure, if for the last time, a rival to London as a literary center. But when Burns visited it there was a kind of interregnum, and, little though he or they guessed it, none of the celebrities he met possessed genius comparable to his own. In a very few weeks it was evident that he was to be the lion of the season. By December thirteenth he is writing to a friend at Ayr:

"I have found a worthy warm friend in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth and brotherly kindness to me I shall remember when time shall be no more. By his interest it is pa.s.sed in the Caledonian Hunt, and entered in their books, that they are to take each a copy of the second edition [of the poems], for which they are to pay one guinea. I have been introduced to a good many of the n.o.blesse, but my avowed patrons and patronesses are the d.u.c.h.ess of Gordon, the Countess of Glencairn, with my Lord and Lady Betty--the Dean of Faculty [Honorable Henry Erskine]--Sir John Whitefoord. I have likewise warm friends among the literati; Professors [Dugald] Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie--the Man of Feeling."

Through Glencairn he met Creech the book-seller, with whom he arranged for his second edition, and through the patrons he mentions and the Edinburgh freemasons, among whom he was soon at home, a large subscription list was soon made up. In the _Edinburgh Magazine_ for October, November, and December, James Sibbald had published favorable notices of the Kilmarnock edition, with numerous extracts, and when Henry Mackenzie gave it high praise in his _Lounger_ for December ninth, and the _London Monthly Review_ followed suit in the same month, it was felt that the poet's reputation was established.

Of Burns's bearing in the fashionable and cultivated society into which he so suddenly found himself plunged we have many contemporary accounts. They are practically unanimous in praise of the taste and tact with which he acquitted himself. While neither shy nor aggressive, he impressed every one with his brilliance in conversation, his shrewdness in observation, and criticism, and his poise and common sense in his personal relations. One of the best descriptions of him was given by Sir Walter Scott to Lockhart. Scott as a boy of sixteen met Burns at the house of Doctor Adam Ferguson, and thus reports:

"His person was strong and robust; his manners rustic, not clownish; a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its effect perhaps from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents.... I would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sagacious country farmer of the old Scotch school; that is, none of your modern agriculturists who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the _douce guidman_ who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments: the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a cast which glowed (I say literally glowed) when he spoke with feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time.

His conversation expressed perfect self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himself with perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness; and when he differed an opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at the same time with modesty.... I have only to add, that his dress corresponded with his manner. He was like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the laird. I do not speak _in malam partem_, when I say I never saw a man in company with his superiors in station and information, more perfectly free from either the reality or the affectation of embarra.s.sment. I was told, but did not observe it, that his address to females was extremely deferential, and always with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged their attention particularly.

I have heard the d.u.c.h.ess of Gordon remark this."

Burns's letters written at this time show an amused consciousness of his social prominence, but never for a moment did he lose sight of the fact that it was only the affair of a season, and that in a few months he would have to resume his humble station. Yet this intellectual detachment did not prevent his enjoying opportunities for social and intellectual intercourse such as he had never known and was never again to know. Careful as he was to avoid presuming on his new privileges, he clearly threw himself into the discussions in which he took part with all the zest of his temperament; and in the less formal convivial clubs to which he was welcomed he became at once the king of good fellows. To the n.o.blemen and others who befriended him he expressed himself in language which may seem exaggerated; but the warmth of his disposition, and the letter writers of the eighteenth century on whom he had formed his style, sufficiently account for it without the suspicion of affectation or flattery. Whatever his vices, ingrat.i.tude to those who showed him kindness was not among them; and the sympathetic reader is more apt to feel pathos than to take offense in his tributes to his patrons. The real though not extraordinary kindness of the Earl of Glencairn, for example, was acknowledged again and again in prose and verse; and the _Lament_ Burns wrote upon his death closes with these lines which rewarded the n.o.ble lord with an immortality he might otherwise have missed: