LETTER TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 37 inspiration, to pour the deathless names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, morallooking phantom, strides across my imagination, and pronounces these emphatic words : 'I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, I do not come to open the ill-closed wounds of your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you pain: I wish through these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. I will not mention how many of my salutary advices you have despised; I have given you line upon line, and precept upon precept; and while I was chalking out to you the straight way to wealth and character, with audacious effrontery you have zig-zagged across the path, contemning me to my face. You know the consequences. It is not yet three months since home was so hot for you, that you were on the wing for the western shore of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide your misfortune. 'Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in your power to return to the situation of your forefathers, will you follow these will-o'-wisp meteors of fancy and whim, till they bring you once more to the brink of ruin? I grant that the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a step from the vericst poverty; but still it is half a step from it. If all that I can urge be ineffectual, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, let the call of pride, prevail with you. You know how you feel at the iron gripe of ruthless oppression: you know how you bear the galling sneer of contumelious greatness. I hold you out the conveniences, the comforts of life, independence, and character, on the one hand; I tender you servility, dependence, and wretchedness on the other. I will not insult your understanding by bidding you make a choice.' This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble station, and woo my rustic muse in my wonted way, at the ploughtail. Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those her distinguished sons who have honoured me so much with their patronage and approbation, shall, while stealing through my humble shades, ever distend my bosom, and at times, as now, draw forth the swelling tear. R. B. During the first blaze of Burns's reputation in Edinburgh, several rhyming epistles were addressed to him publicly and privately generally of no other value than to shew how immensely he had stepped beyond all common bounds of success in cultivating the rustic muse. One, however, from a Mrs Scott of Wauchope, in Roxburghshire, was neatly and effectively written, and to it Burns made a suitable reply. THE GUDEWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE TO BURNS. My cantie, witty, rhyming ploughman, I haffins doubt it is na true, man, That ye between the stilts was bred, Wi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed; Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch, As get a single line of Virgil. And then sae slee ye crack your jokes O' Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox: Our great men a' sae weel descrive, And how to gar the nation thrive, Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them, And as ye saw them, sae ye sang them. Ye are a funny blade, I swear; And though the cauld I ill can bide, Catechism endure Yet twenty miles and mair I'd ride TO THE GUDEWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE. And wi' the lave ilk merry morn E'en then, a wish, I mind its power— Shall strongly heave my breast- The rough burr-thissle, spreading wide I turned the weeder-clips aside, My envy e'er could raise, But still the elements o' sang She roused the forming strain; At every kindling keek, Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, And we to share in common: Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, She, honest woman, may think shame That slight the lovely dears; talk fools 39 To shame ye, disclaim ye, Ilk honest birkie swears. For you, no bred to barn and byre, fellow worn rump door Meanwhile the preparation of the new edition was going rapidly on in the printing-office of William Smellie-a man who, like Creech, mingled literary labours with those attending one of the trades of literature. There was a vast fund of knowledge, shrewdness, and talent under the rude exterior of Smellie. In his office, at the foot of the Anchor Close, he had done typographic duty for Gilbert Stuart, Robert Fergusson, Dr Robertson, Hugo Arnot, Adam Smith, and many others of the recent and living literati of Scotland, all of whom had been his personal friends. His son Alexander, who lately died at an advanced age, perfectly remembered the visits of the Ayrshire Ploughman to the composing room, along which he would walk three or four times, cracking a whip which he carried, to the no small surprise of the men. He paid no attention to his own copy under their hands, but looked at any other which he saw lying on the cases. One day he asked a man how many languages he was acquainted with. 'Indeed, sir,' replied the man, 'I've enough ado wi' my ain.' Burns remarked that behind there was one of his companions setting up a Gaelic Bible, and another composing from a Hebrew Grammar. 'These two,' said the compositor, are the greatest dolts in the house.' Burns seemed amused by the remark, and said he would take a note of it. Mr Alexander Smellie also communicated the following anecdote: There was a particular stool in the office which Burns uniformly occupied while correcting his proof-sheets; as he would not sit on any other, it always bore the name of Burns's Stool. It is still (1844) in the office, and in the same situation where it was when Burns sat on it. At this time Sir John Dalrymple was printing in Mr Smellie's office an Essay on the Properties of Coal CROCHALLAN FENCIBLES. 41 Tar. One day it happened that Sir John occupied the stool when Burns came into the correcting room looking for his favourite seat. It was known that what Burns wanted was the stool; but before saying anything to Sir John on the subject, Burns was requested to walk into the composing room. The opportunity was taken in his absence to request of Sir John to indulge the bard with his favourite seat, but without mentioning his name. Sir John said, "I will not give up my seat to yon impudent staring fellow." Upon which it was replied, "Do you not know that that staring fellow, as you call him, is Burns the poet?" Sir John instantly left the stool, exclaiming, "Good gracious! Give him all the seats in your house!" Burns was then called in, took possession of his stool, and commenced the reading of his proofs.' Burns was introduced by his printer to one of those convivial clubs composed of men of good condition which then abounded in Edinburgh, each usually founded upon some whim or conceit which shone through all its proceedings. The club in question assumed the name of the Crochallan Fencibles, from a composite cause. Its landlord Douglas was noted for singing a beautiful Gaelic song called Crochallan (properly Cro Chaleinthat is, Colin's Cattle). This, with the raising of fencible regiments going on at the time to protect the country while the army was chiefly engaged in fighting the American colonists, had given the convivial society an appellation. It was customary to subject a new entrant to a severe ordeal of raillery, by way of proving his temper, and Burns acknowledged that on that happening to himself, he had been 'thrashed' in a style beyond all his experience. Here Burns met several of the men whose acquaintance he had previously made at the Canongate Kilwinning Lodge, particularly one William Dunbar, an uncommonly merry uproarious good fellow, who in the hours of mirthful relaxation appeared as Colonel of the Crochallans, but in the moments of daylight sobriety, practised as a douce writer to the signet, from which position he ultimately stepped up to the dignity of Inspector General of Stamp Duties for Scotland. On Smellie Burns composed some impromptu lines: : To Crochallan came, The old cocked hat, the gray surtout, the same; He commemorated Willie Dunbar in verses of a different strain |