by Donald Smith
‘I have the honour to be with the highest respect, your much indebted humble servant, Robert Burns,’ you windy old arse-ship, who likes ‘these little Doric pieces of yours in our provincial dialect’ and tells me to keep my eye on Parnassus ‘while warding off the pleasures of wine’.
Yet I owe the Edinburgh Edition entirely to the Earl of Glencairn, Dalrymple of Orangefield, Dean Erskine of Faculty, and the young bucks of the Caledonian Hunt. Now suddenly in Mauchline they doff their bonnets to Rab, as if he were some revelation of new birth, regenerate flesh, an heir to high estate, instead of plain Burns. Even James Armour, who tried to tear the coat off my back, crawls up to mouth inane servilities. His slimy tongue pollutes Jean’s honest image in my mind. I should have spat in his face.
Why should I doff my cap again and settle for a country lass, when I can woo the true-born Muse? The simpering drawing rooms boast no Muse except gentility and servitude. Edinburgh wants all its singers castrati.
I have a good song in hand for Johnson. It’s the speech of James MacPherson below the gallows. Fiddler and half gypsy, he defied the world at the last and broke his beloved fiddle over the knee. ‘No other hand will play on your strings when I am dead and gone.’ And every woman in the crowd felt his caress.
All my reading now is in Milton’s scripture. The sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid unyielding independence, the daring and noble defiance of that great hero, Satan, in the face of adversity.
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty’s a glorious feast!
Courts for Cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the Priest.
His book is always in my pocket.
At the Lodge in springtime, the Grand Master with all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. A numerous and elegant gathering of all the lodges about town. The Grand Master presided with great solemnity, and among his general toasts he gave, ‘Caledonia and Caledonia’s Bard, Brother Burns!’ It ran through the whole assembly and I sat dumb, thunderstruck. But truly that is all I now desire – the appellation of a Scottish bard, and to continue to deserve it. Scottish themes and Scottish notes are my basso profundo. If only I could sound them unplagued by business, for which, heaven knows, I am unfit.
At Ochertyre John Ramsay had a copse of willows planted round a carved inscription: ‘To live in peace and die in joyful hope, within this small but pleasant inheritance of his fathers.’ A Scots Horace retires from the din and dissipation to his pleasing sufficiency, leisure for intellectual pursuits pursued with steady discrimination. Independence of soul and loyal devotion to the Muse, undergirded with some modest rentals.
Would Miller’s Ellisland give me exercise of mind and body with freedom of the spirit? I have already strained my mortal frame to breaking at the plough, drudging labour bound to the unyielding dirt. Was Ramsay or Horace ever harnessed to the ox?
Nasmith’s portrait of me is a true likeness, neither rough nor smooth. He has given it without fee for my engraving. The tribute of friendship to my Muse. He and I watched the dawn rise over Rosslyn together, while the Esk flowed on through its wooded glens. I must not disfigure or deface such a homage.
Creech insists on a glossary of Scotch words and phrases for the next impression – to aid those unfamiliar with our homely speech. Aye and apologise for our own language and national literature. Did Douglas add a glossary when he translated Virgil’s Latin? Did Allan Ramsay hedge The Gentle Shepherd with a bairns’ primer? This is the Edinburgh fashion to eschew our native speech and erase ‘Scotticisms of the tongue’. He has his eye on sales in London and in America.
Two-faced, double-tongued town, you have your perfect mouthpiece, your sublime orifice in William Creech.
You eunuch of language who gelds the poets pith, you Englishman who never ventured south of Tweed, you quack of elocution, you Gretna Green of vowels and consonants, you blacksmith hammering the rivets of absurdity, you butcher of orthographic disembowelling, you pitch-pipe of affected emphasis, you pimp of gender, you Lyon Herald to silly etymology, you executioner of grammar, you scape-gallows from the land of syntax, you scavenger, you pickle herring in the puppet-show of nonsense, you recording angel of barbarous idiom, you baleful meteor foretelling and facilitating the descent to Erebean night. Sleep well, for tomorrow is our day of reckoning.
A miserable dank haar has crept up, enveloping all the chimney steeps of Auld Reikie. A day to sit by the fire and brood. As the chill steals in our windows, a hot toddy supplements the best effort of Newcastle coals.
Now I can tell what I saw in Hastie’s Close. For your eyes only, my trusty confidante.
As before, a light knock gained admittance to the outer chambers. There, the keepers – messengers, attendants – sat slumped around two or three tables dimly lit by tallow lamps, awaiting events.
This antechamber is also a gateway or crossroads since from there you can see further chambers and passages opening in every direction. Move right or left, up or down, and you slip deeper into a torch lit warren.
Below, a tight-packed array of tables marks the gamblers’ den. At two crowded boards, dice rattle. At another, kings, queens and jacks are ranked against each other. And on all sides, the same assembling of stakes, piles of glinting coins, cries of despair, hands slapped down in triumph. Girls of the town serve porter, wine and whisky, receiving leers, taunts and rough handling as their due.
Up ahead, you enter a different kingdom. The rooms are swathed in damask hangings and Turkish rugs. Coarseness is subdued by a presiding madam, arrayed like the hostess of an aristocratic drawing room, but more richly. Callers are ushered onto cushioned settles and soothed with wine. From an inner recess, women enter one by one for selection and delight, leading their purchasers back into a honeycomb of little rooms beyond. I watched with fascination, like a traveller to an Oriental palace, but declined, preferring to take my exercise en plein air.
Back to the antechamber. The right turn narrows onto a steep, wooden stair. Down it goes in three deep stages, far below the Cowgate. Darkness closes around the stale airs until at the lowest rung a blaze of torches bursts on the eye. A ring of faces, black mouths hanging open, presses forward, flickering in a sheen of eager lust. At the centre of the pack a whirl of hate, frenzied, goaded beyond bearing, torn and slashed by armoured spurs and sharpened beaks. For one brief moment all are held in violent consummation. Blood seeps into the filthy sand and one limp feathered creature lies inert. No notice paid as the mangled winner is scooped up and strident voices call wagers to set up the next cruel conflict.
I turn away, bile rising in my throat. How can man out-beast nature and do the Devil’s work without a devil’s prompting? Breath clammy in my face, a vile mouth urges the superiority of dog fights, the promised climax of the night’s proceedings. I clamber back up the steps, retching as I go. I want to break out into the cold night air, see starlight above the roofs. But in the antechamber an attendant catches my arm. The Deacon is asking to see me; will I step this way.
I am firmly steered into a room on the left. Two or three steps take me up into a formal rectangular space. A handsome, oval table first draws the eye, as the light is coming from a silver branched candelabra glowing on its polished surface. Around the candles, decanters and crystal goblets glint.
‘Good evening, Mr Burns, you are very welcome.’
The voice is low in pitch, even in tenor, Scots, but measured and formal in the English style. As my vision adjusts I make out a compact figure at the other end of the table, an elegantly cut coat with brocaded waistcoat. The face is broad with deeply recessed eyes surmounted by arched brows. Their blackness is accentuated by a white powdered wig above.
‘Please, join me for a glass of claret.’
He gestures towards a high-backed chair and takes another for himself. I notice a merchant’s tricorn hat set to one side and, leaning against his chair, a knobbed cane.
‘We had not anticipated the honour of a visit from ou
r distinguished poet. I must apologise. Had we known, I would have arranged a guided tour.’
‘Curiosity drew me,’ I replied hesitantly.
‘Naturally. It begins that way and then curiosity draws you back.’
He poured a full glass of mellow liquid for me and then one for himself. ‘I hope you like wine, Mr Burns. This is the best Bordeaux has to offer our Auld Alliance.’
I took a sip.
‘Who are you, sir, if I may be bold to ask?’
‘They call me the Deacon. Here I answer to that name and to no other.’
‘The Deacon it is. The wine is very pleasing.’
‘Indeed. Perhaps if we become better acquainted I will tell you something of my life.’
‘You do not seek fame or reputation?’
‘Alas, that would be my undoing.’
And so it petered out in an exchange of small talk, casual pleasantries, as if for all the world we were not sitting at the door of hell. He seemed to enjoy my nervous glances and diffident remarks, his keen attention missing nothing. Throughout, the Deacon remained immovably calm and gracious.
‘May I offer you further entertainment for the night?’
I declined, pleading a weak constitution, and took a clumsy leave, thanking my host for his cordial reception. What other variety might be on offer? How did he know I was there, or who I was? I must be more discreet in future, if I go again. Certainly I would like to find out more about the Deacon. What threads bind him to the daylight world? Ainslie will know but I should not raise his suspicions.
A welcome interruption – invited for supper later by little Jean. A rosebud of unblemished innocence. Put away the journal.
Stupid most of the day and unfit for any other labours. The fog clung round us turning daylight into night. Joined the Cruikshanks for supper, savouring every moment of kindness and honest fellowship round a homely table. Thanking my Maker for his mercies to us his children.
Met Woods the player by arrangement at his favourite coffee house. The theatricals are in crisis since I left on my tours – playhouse riven and almost ruined. I found Woods voluble, verging on ecstatic. All more thrilling than the stage dramas.
It began with Venice Preserved. Jackson the Manager decided to cast my confidant Woods, his former leading man, as Pierre, and his new rising light James Fennell as Jassier. This even though Woods had been accustomed to Jassier and Fennell to Pierre. In truth Fennell would rather have taken Pierre and my friend to have retained Jassier, since both were already proved before the public. But Jackson maintained his right to cast in the public’s best interest, insisting that if need be he would play his leading men on alternate nights until a clear preference emerged. Worst of both worlds?
As it happened, it was Mr Fennell as lead on the opening night. He was cried down in the theatre with shouts of ‘the Manager’, ‘bring on Woods’ and so forth. Anyway Jackson stood firm. Next letters arrived at the stage door threatening assault and worse on Fennell if he did not give way. Night after alternate night the performance was drowned in the pit.
Who were the instigators? Not friends of Woods – William’s only desire is to see the company thrive. A darker Edinburgh tide was running. Fennell is an Eton and Cambridge man used to the best standing in English society. Coming to Edinburgh he presumed the same, calling in the best drawing rooms of the town. But horror – he is an actor! There lies his offence: to transgress, as Woods put it, the invisible yet immutable laws of rank. Had he only consulted the poet. Actors are toasted on Edinburgh stages but tainted in the town, especially New Town. Fennell might be supreme as either Jassier or Pierre, but taboo-breakers must be driven out beyond the pale.
Still, Jackson stood manfully by his player. Then suddenly the ground shifted under him. Rumour was rife that in the heat of his nightly conflict Fennell had used an unbecoming expression. O woe thrice woe, did he ‘bloody’ or ‘damn’ in the teeth of bloody and damnable Edinburgh? The final blow was dealt with a letter sent to Jackson and signed by one hundred and sixty advocates or solicitors, headed by Erskine Dean of Faculty and Solicitor-General Dundas. The text as William related was brief but deadly.
‘We are of the opinion that Mr Fennell’s late deportment to the public, and your conduct as a Manager, require a very ample apology from both; and that if Mr Fennell refuses to make such an apology, you ought immediately to dismiss him; and we take this method of intimating to you, that if this opinion is not complied with by Wednesday evening neither we nor our families will hereafter frequent your theatre, except that from our high regard to Mrs Siddons, we shall postpone executing our resolution till her engagement expires.’
The coup de grâce. Thus Edinburgh is governed. What theatre could persist abandoned by the lawyers and lairds of North Britain? Fennell was withdrawn. Yet that same Wednesday, a faction rose up in the boxes demanding Fennell. Poor Jackson was blamed and forced to publish his bookings for the side boxes in the press, vehemently denying he had admitted any clandestine claque into any part of the house, either before the doors were opened or by other covert means.
Fortunately for Jackson and his company, the sublime Siddons, whose voice alone is worth a symphony of music, had been engaged for the whole summer, and she held the house, even though the poor Manager was compelled to bring a second leading man from London at short notice and ruinous expense. This was Jackson’s penalty for offending certain Edinburgh gentlemen. Dictators of taste and conscience, they bestride our narrow stage like canting ministers their pulpits. Without their patronage no voice is heard, no picture viewed, no volume printed. Even the English are helpless before them. I have ploughed that bitter furrow on my own account. Must speak with Jackson about writing Scottish dramas.
Coming home, a cordial letter waited on my table. I knew the hand immediately; Peggy and Charlotte are the favourite resting places of my souls on the weary journey through this thorny wilderness. God knows, I am ill-fitted for the struggle. I glory in being a poet, I want to be thought wise, I would be generous, I wish to be rich. But at bottom I am left outcast like a ne’er do well player.
A wan sun without light or warmth. I feel that horrid hypochondria pervading every atom of my body, and my soul. Nerves in a damnable state. Let them go to hell – I’ll fight it out.
Invitation arrived to take tea next week at Miss Nimmo’s, and all in order to meet a young friend who admires my poetry. Some worthy, gushing female, no doubt plain to boot. My limb is flaccid from lack of exercise, or even incentive.
Dumfries again tomorrow. One last inspection will decide for a farm in that county, or its back to brother Gilbert at Mossgiel, and some neighbouring kail patch. A return to old haunts could drag me back into old habits. Must shake them off, and scour the filth of Edinburgh from my boots.
Another note from dear Miss Nimmo, very concerned. I shall not miss her tea party on my return, but I expect at the least a bevy of princesses.
Breathe the life of the land, even in its dooly season, and the Muse revives. Pleased with this tender wee thing for Johnson. Will add some mended stanzas for an old tune. Mixed with thoughts of Jean and the pleasant banks of the bonnie Doon.
As I gaed doon the water-side
There I met my shepherd-lad,
He rowed me sweetly in his plaid,
And he caad me his dearie.
Caa the yowes to the knowes,
Caa them where the heather grows,
Caa them where the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie.
Will ye gang down the water-side
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide,
The moon it shines fu clearly.
Caa the yowes to the knows,
Caa them where the heather grows,
Caa them where the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie.
Miss Nimmo’s acquaintance answers to Agnes McLehose. A Nancy by choice, almost a widow apparently, and brimming with life. Our eyes played b
all and racquet across the tea cups. She wants me, Mrs McLehose that is, to take tea in her rooms at Potterrow. I must find out more – she has poetic inclinations.
Unable to get out of bed. Had to call for Betty’s help to hobble into my chair. My kindly hosts sent for Wood the surgeon.Confined now to quarters till things mend, useless limb stretched before me. Even pissing awkward. My God, what a fool. Fergusson would turn it into a poem. The journey to Leith of Rob the Rhymer and how he came home with one leg. A comic upset to Odysseus, wayward peregrinations that topple pious Aeneas from his pedestal.
Ainslie, Willie and self hired a chaise for our jaunt to Leith. Spanking brown pony with supple flanks, so a brisk spin ensued beneath bright sunshine and clouds. Were we chasing them or they us? We passed two fisher lasses on the road got up in the shawls, full skirts and handsome bodices of their calling. Empty creels. I drew the coachman to a halt and invited the sea maidens aboard, but they were having none of the poet’s vessel. Pity, Nature had made them for love. They laughed and waved us off.
By the shore we set up court in the Ship Inn. Rob and Smellie were in high form, and the company grew as merchantmen and carriers looked in on us. We were joined by some local ladies of the entertaining kind. Our coachman made up one of the party. Toasts and songs followed each other. Willie became entangled on both sides, so the poet was obliged to take one wing in hand. Food and more drink came on. Willie began to sink but then rose again like Neptune from the waves, locks uncombed, wild-thatched and staring. Does he never shave himself? The salt air induced hunger. Food and more drink were brought. O, the seagoing life.
Coming out late, darkness had already wrapped itself around the quay. Black mastheads were the only pointers. We piled into the coach, pushing our guide before us. Spirits threatened to fall as we trotted out of the port, so Willie proposed a singing competition. Each would better the other, verse by verse with a new stanza. I can only remember a couple.
BURNS:
Saw ye my Maggie
