_At_ PROFESSOR FERGUSON’S _house in Edinburgh, nearly a year later--in
February_.
_It is a cheerful, comfortable room, marked by the taste and culture
of Edinburgh literary society at its best, with the elegance of
fashion. A few portraits of Scots men of letters and action hang on
the wall--Allan Ramsay, Robert Fergusson, James VI., Robert Bruce; in
addition there are books and a pair or two of claymores, and two or
three prints, including one by Bunbury of a dead soldier and his dog.
On the mantelpiece is a bust of David Hume. The chill Scots winter day
is brightened by a large fire in the grate; outside is snow._
_Folding doors are open to a room beyond, where a luncheon party has
been taking place. The ladies have left the table, and are seated
round the room before us. They are the hostess_, MRS. FERGUSON, _the_
DUCHESS OF GORDON, MRS. MONTGOMERY, MISS TAYLOR, _and with them a boy
of fifteen, the young_ WALTER SCOTT. _Men’s voices can be heard from
time to time._
_Another lady, young and beautiful_, MRS. STEWART OF STAIR, _is seated
at the piano, singing to her own accompaniment_.
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream--
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave!
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream--
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
[_At the end of the song_ WALTER SCOTT _goes to a desk at the back of
the room, and turns over the pages of a book_.]
_The Duchess_: Bravo! A very beautiful song.
_Miss Taylor_ (_very fashionable, rather plain, towards fifty, and not
for poetry_): And you say he gave it to you?
_Mrs. Stewart_: He sent it this morning.
_Miss Taylor_: Rather indelicate, don’t you think--that piece about
snowy feet?
_Mrs. Stewart_: I think it’s lovely.
_Miss Taylor_: Well, I must say I should feel rather embarrassed myself.
_Mrs. Ferguson_ (_benign and easy, the professor’s wife_): I like that
tune so much--Afton Water, isn’t it?
MRS. STEWART: Yes.
MRS. FERGUSON: Jamie used to whistle it, I remember.
_Mrs. Montgomery_ (_marble, more the duchess than_ GORDON _herself_): I
must say, Mrs. Ferguson, your young lion behaves himself quite prettily.
_The Duchess_: Why shouldn’t he, Mrs. Montgomery?
_Mrs. Montgomery_: Oh well, Duchess, you would hardly expect it from a
ploughman, now would you?
_The Duchess_: ‘Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green
braes’--wouldn’t you expect it of that?
_Mrs. Stewart_: His conversation is entrancing.
_Miss Taylor_: A very dangerous young man, and with those eyes too.
_The Duchess_: Nonsense, Martha. You needn’t alarm yourself.
_Miss Taylor_: Well, I shouldn’t like to be alone with him.
_The Duchess_: I am sure he would be discreet. I think you’re a very
lucky woman, Mrs. Stewart. I wish Mr. Burns would write poems to me.
My husband says there’s never been such a natural genius in Scotland
before.
_Mrs. Montgomery_: Oh, come now. For an uncultivated talent it is
pretty well, we may allow. But we must not turn his head.
_Miss Taylor_: I entirely agree with you, Mrs. Montgomery. Most unsafe.
_Mrs. Stewart_: I wonder he hasn’t married.
_Mrs. Montgomery_: Oh, my dear, haven’t you heard of the scandal in his
own village? It would have been jail I’m told if it hadn’t been for
some Mr. Gavin Hamilton who took a fancy to him. But I believe he has
several families.
_Miss Taylor_: I really don’t think we ought to encourage him. And one
of his poems, I hear, is quite friendly to the Devil.
_The Duchess_:
But, fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak’ a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken--
Still hae a stake--
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
E’en for your sake!
_Miss Taylor_: Most confusing.
_Walter Scott_ (_moving from his book to_ MRS. STEWART): Have you any
more of his poems, ma’am?
_Mrs. Stewart_: I have his book, Walter.
_Walter Scott_: I wish I could read it.
_Mrs. Stewart_: I’ll lend it to you.
_Walter Scott_: Will you really? Thank you. He has got lovely eyes,
hasn’t he? I should write poems if I had eyes like that. Couldn’t you
sing again?
_Mrs. Ferguson_: Yes, please do, Mrs. Stewart.
_Miss Taylor_: Something with a little religion in it.
_Mrs. Stewart_ (_after a glance at this, sings_):
Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling
And round that neck entwine her!
Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,
O, what a feast her bonnie mou’!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner.
_Miss Taylor_: Really!
_The Duchess_: I think my husband is right, Miss Taylor.
[_From the room beyond comes the sound of voices, or particularly of
one voice, raised in argument._ MRS. MONTGOMERY _majestically moves up
to a view of the proceedings_.]
_Mrs. Montgomery_: Dear me. Mr. Burns seems to be making a speech. I
fear I was mistaken.
_The Duchess_: It’s that foolish man Robertson. He was speaking ill of
Mr. Gray’s _Elegy_. He was very provoking. Mr. Burns does quite right
to defend it.
_Burns’s voice_ (_from the far room_): Sir, I now perceive a man may
be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, and after all be a
damned blockhead.
[_The_ REVEREND MR. ROBERTSON, _a pedantic and acidulated clergyman,
comes hurriedly through the door accompanied by his host_, PROFESSOR
FERGUSON, _followed by_ BURNS.]
_Mr. Robertson_: Did you hear that?
_Professor Ferguson_: I beg you, Mr. Robertson--
_Robertson_: It is highly preposterous--
_Burns_: Will you allow me, sir, to apologise? I withdraw my
observation, and you may call the _Elegy_ what you will.
_Ferguson_: May I add my word--
_Robertson_: Very well, very well. I will overlook your indiscretion,
Mr. Burns. And believe me Gray is a very inferior poet.
[_They are now followed into the room by_ DR. BLACKLOCK, _the aged
blind poet, and_ LORD MUIR, _a middle-aged sporting laird_. BLACKLOCK
_sits beside the_ DUCHESS OF GORDON, _conducted by_ FERGUSON;
ROBERTSON _by_ MISS TAYLOR; MUIR _on a chair near them_; FERGUSON
_goes to_ WALTER SCOTT, _who has returned to his book at the window;
and_ BURNS _joins_ MRS. STEWART, _who is still seated at the piano.
There is an undercurrent of conversation from the various groups._]
_Miss Taylor_ (_to_ ROBERTSON): That was extremely generous of you,
dear Mr. Robertson.
_Robertson_: Charity becomes my cloth, madam.
_Muir_ (_immensely pleased with the incident_): Yes, but a damned
blockhead. That’s straight riding, you must allow that, sir.
_Robertson_: I regret, your lordship, I am no Nimrod.
_Muir_: No, but damme, sir, we can all admire a straight line. I like
the lad.
_Miss Taylor_: It’s all very well, Lord Muir, but it’s most unbecoming
to call a reverend gentleman a--h’m--blockhead.
_Muir_: A damned blockhead, ma’am, that’s the word.
_Robertson_ (_turning his back to him, addressing_ MISS TAYLOR): As
I was remarking to you at luncheon, the history of pew-rents is very
misleading--
[_They drift into their own conversation._]
_Muir_ (_to_ MRS. MONTGOMERY, _under his breath_): That’s the kind of
poetry I can understand.
_Burns_ (_to_ MRS. STEWART): You did me great honour in your singing.
_Mrs. Stewart_: The songs are their own recommendation, Mr. Burns.
_Burns_: Sponsored by such beauty, madam, they could not fail.
_Mrs. Stewart_ (_touching the piano very lightly to the air of ‘Afton
Water’_): Do you find Edinburgh agreeable?
_Burns_: Some moments of it.
_Mrs. Stewart_: I hear of your fame everywhere.
_Burns_: Fortunately it does not deceive me.
_Mrs. Stewart_: But you have the sincere interest of many.
_Burns_: There are not many whose interest is valuable. With most, I
please for a season--a new fashion in the window.
_Mrs. Stewart_: A poet must not be bitter, Mr. Burns.
_Burns_: I am not bitter, madam. I know my friends from the rest, that
is all.
_Mrs. Stewart_: Your friends should be happy.
_Burns_: You are very gracious. You forget the--condescensions.
_Mrs. Stewart_: But that would be impossible.
_Burns_: Believe me, it is common. My plough lends a virtue to flattery.
_Mrs. Stewart_: There is honest esteem as well--delight.
_Burns_: I am as sensitive to it, madam, as the top leaves to the last
ripple of evening wind. You are bountiful.
_The Duchess_ (_speaking across_): Mrs. Ferguson, do you think we might
ask Mr. Burns to sing one of his songs himself?
_Mrs. Ferguson_: If he would be so kind.
_Burns_: Madam, if her Grace so compliments me. Will Mrs. Stewart play
an air for me?
_Muir_: Couldn’t it be something with a chorus--eh? Nothing like
opening the lungs, sir (_to Robertson_).
_Robertson_: I regret, your lordship, I am no Orpheus.
_Muir_: No, but damme, sir, sing cracked, what odds?
_Burns_: Do you know ‘The Campbells are Coming,’ madam?
_Mrs. Stewart_: This?
[_She plays the air._]
_Burns_: Aye--that. I’ve made some new verses for it--thus--
[_He sings._]
Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay,
Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay,
I looked down to bonnie Lochleven
And saw three bonnie perches play.
The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!
The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!
The Campbells are comin’ to bonnie Lochleven,
The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!
Great Argyle he goes before;
He makes the cannons and guns to roar,
Wi’ sound o’ trumpet, fife and drum;
The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!
The Campbells are comin’, etc.
The Campbells they are a’ in arms,
Their loyal faith and truth to show,
Wi’ banners rattling in the wind,
The Campbells are comin’, Oho! Oho!
The Campbells are comin’, etc.
[_The_ DUCHESS OF GORDON, _and_ MRS. STEWART, _with_ BLACKLOCK _and_
FERGUSON, _join enthusiastically in the choruses_, MRS. FERGUSON _more
mildly_, MRS. MONTGOMERY _perfunctorily, and_ MUIR _excitedly, moving
about the room, vainly exhorting_ ROBERTSON _and_ MISS TAYLOR. WALTER
SCOTT, _tense with wondering admiration, slowly approaches_ BURNS _as
he sings, and stands beside him_.
_At the close of the song there is a burst of applause, and cries of_,
‘Bravo! Bravo! Another please, Mr. Burns,’ _through which is heard_.]
_Miss Taylor_ (_to_ ROBERTSON): Very incendiary in sentiment, I must
say.
_Robertson_: A very just criticism.
[_The calls for another song persist._]
_Burns_: The tune of ‘The Collier’s Bonnie Lassie’?
[MRS. STEWART _plays the air, and he sings, very quietly, his audience
now_ MRS. STEWART _alone_.]
O saw ye bonnie Lesley,
As she gaed o’er the Border?
She’s gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects, we before thee:
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o’ men adore thee.
The Deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He’d look into thy bonnie face,
And say, ‘I canna wrang thee!’
[_Very gravely and courteously he bows to_ MRS. STEWART _at the end,
and to a murmur of approval moves across to the fireplace_. MRS.
STEWART _remains talking to_ WALTER. MUIR _follows_ BURNS _to the
fireplace_.]
_Muir_: Very pretty, Mr. Burns--especially that one about the
Campbells. I believe you join our little party at dinner to-night?
_Burns_: I am much obliged to your lordship.
_Muir_: The Barley Sheaf at seven. I subscribed for two copies of your
book. Don’t understand most of it, but I daresay I’ve spent money
worse. And I like straight riding, sir. Seven o’clock. [BURNS _bows to
this_.]
_Muir_ (_to the_ DUCHESS): Good-day, your Grace. (_To_ MRS. FERGUSON.)
Very entertaining, Mrs. Ferguson.
[_He takes his leave generally and goes, speaking to_ FERGUSON _on his
way out_. ROBERTSON _is saying good-bye to_ MISS TAYLOR, _and crosses
to_ MRS. FERGUSON.]
_Robertson_: Good-afternoon, Mrs. Ferguson. A most instructive
gathering, I am sure.
_Mrs. Ferguson_: Good-afternoon, Mr. Robertson. It was very considerate
of you to spare us the time.
_Robertson_ (_bowing stiffly to_ BURNS): Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns. And
may the Lord chasten your muse.
_Burns_: Yes, sir. I will speak to Him about it.
_Robertson_: I will remember it in my devotions.
[_He follows_ MUIR, _taking leave of the company as he goes_.]
_Burns_ (_to_ MRS. FERGUSON): I fear I was a little heated before we
left table. I beg your indulgence. (_To the_ DUCHESS.) Ma’am.
_The Duchess_ (_privately to him_): You were quite right. He is
a--damned blockhead, I think you said.
_Ferguson_ (_to_ MISS TAYLOR): Very striking poems those, don’t you
think, Miss Taylor?
_Miss Taylor_: Poetry is a pagan art, Mr. Ferguson.
_Ferguson_: But such fervour is refreshing.
_Miss Taylor_: Very irregular.
[BURNS _has moved up to_ FERGUSON, _and is studying the Bunbury print
on the wall_.]
_Blacklock_: That young man has the pure flame of genius in him.
_Mrs. Montgomery_: A little disconcerting, doctor. We have to remember
society, you know.
_Blacklock_: Society may be trusted with its own preservation, Mrs.
Montgomery, but Scotland has never heard songs the like of that before.
We must cherish them.
_Burns_: There is a sublime pathos in that. (_Reading from the
print._) ‘The child of misery baptised in tears.’ Whose words are those?
_Ferguson_: I do not remember. Dr. Blacklock, perhaps--Doctor, ‘The
child of misery baptised in tears’--do you recall the author?
_Blacklock_: No, I am afraid not.
[WALTER SCOTT _speaks with some timid excitement to_ MRS. STEWART.]
_Mrs. Stewart_: Walter Scott here tells me they are by Langhorne.
_Burns_: Indeed, Langhorne. You read the poets?
_Walter Scott_: Every day.
_Burns_: They will never fail you. I am much indebted to you, Mr. Scott.
[_He leaves the boy entirely elated, and moves towards his place by
the fire._]
_Blacklock_: Mr. Burns.
_Burns_ (_crossing to him_): Sir?
_Blacklock_: I am an old man, Mr. Burns, and I have been allowed, if I
may say so, many honours. I would give them all to have written those
songs.
_Burns_: They have often been my only security, sir.
_Mrs. Montgomery_: Dr. Blacklock is very considerate of your merit, Mr.
Burns.
_Burns_: There are obligations, ma’am, not easy to discharge with
modesty. I am very sensible of Dr. Blacklock’s kindness.
_Blacklock_: Mr. Burns is quite right, Mrs. Montgomery. I was not
offering him compliments.
[_He lifts his hand paternally for_ BURNS _to take_. BURNS, _with
great tenderness, returns the salute, and goes back to the fireplace_.
MISS TAYLOR _rises and moves over to_ MRS. FERGUSON.]
_Miss Taylor_: Good-afternoon, Mrs. Ferguson. We meet on Friday.
_Mrs. Ferguson_: Yes, Miss Taylor.
_Miss Taylor_: Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns. I trust you will not neglect
the vineyard.
_Burns_: There are no vineyards at Mossgiel, madam.
_Miss Taylor_: I mean the Lord’s. The labourer must be worthy of his
hire.
_Burns_: The labourer--hired. Yes, I will remember.
[MISS TAYLOR _takes leave of the_ DUCHESS _and the company, and goes,
accompanied to the door by_ MRS. FERGUSON.
WALTER SCOTT _comes to_ MRS. FERGUSON _and shakes her hand. He stands
a moment before_ BURNS, _looking at him uncertainly_.]
_Burns_ (_holding out his hand, which_ WALTER _takes_): Good-bye.
_Walter Scott_: Good-bye, sir.
[_Leaving_ BURNS _rather poignantly taken aback by the unexpected
ceremony of address, he bows to the_ DUCHESS _and the others and
goes_. MRS. STEWART _is now standing by_ DR. BLACKLOCK, _and as_ MRS.
MONTGOMERY _rises, she takes her place_.]
_Mrs. Montgomery_ (_to her hostess_): Good-afternoon. Good-afternoon,
Duchess. If I can help Mr. Burns with any recommendation, he will let
me know. Word left at Wilson’s bookshop will reach me.
[_She goes, escorted by the_ FERGUSONS.]
_The Duchess_: Dr. Blair was praising your poems this morning, Mr.
Burns. But he suggested that you might with advantage enlarge your
scope. He spoke of Dr. Young and Mr. Akenside.
_Burns_: I fear my Pegasus is for light journeys only, your Grace.
[MRS. FERGUSON _is now sitting opposite_ MRS. STEWART _with_
BLACKLOCK. FERGUSON _joins the group at the fire_.]
_Blacklock_: If Mr. Burns would humour me before I go, might I ask for
another of his--masterpieces.
_The Duchess_: Yes--please.
_Burns_: Will Mrs. Stewart favour me--the duet you were speaking of?
[MRS. STEWART _goes to the piano, and they sing_.]
_She_
As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He row’d me sweetly in his plaid,
And ca’d me his dearie.
Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them where the heather grows,
Ca’ them where the burnie rows,
My bonnie dearie!
_He_
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.
Ca’ the yowes, etc.
_She_
If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said,
I’se gang wi’ you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca’ the yowes, etc.
_Blacklock_: The sweetest voice of Caledonia’s sons, Mrs. Ferguson.
_The Duchess_ (_rising_): Well, your poet has captivated me entirely,
Mrs. Ferguson. I return to Gordon Castle next week, Mr. Burns. I hope
you will visit us there.
_Burns_ (_kissing her offered hand_): If you will indulge me so far,
your Grace.
[_The_ DUCHESS _says good-bye to_ MRS. STEWART _and_ DR. BLACKLOCK,
_and goes out with_ MRS. FERGUSON, _passing_ FERGUSON _at the door_.
FERGUSON _moves down to_ BLACKLOCK.]
_Blacklock_ (_rising_): Mr. Ferguson? I am greatly your debtor. It has
been one of the most memorable occasions in a long life. A very great
privilege, Mr. Burns.
[_He holds out his hand in the direction of_ BURNS, _who takes it with
real veneration_. _Then he goes_, FERGUSON _directing his steps_.]
_Burns_: You are staying in Edinburgh long?
_Mrs. Stewart_: I leave to-morrow.
_Burns_ (_looking at his watch_): I must go. Mrs. Ferguson will be
tired of me. You sang enchantingly.
_Mrs. Stewart_: You are joining the Barley Sheaf party to-night?
_Burns_: Yes.
_Mrs. Stewart_: You are happy there?
_Burns_: I am free. And nobody patronises me.
_Mrs. Stewart_: But they have been very civil to you here.
_Burns_: Some of them. And there have been consolations even beyond
that. The old man, and the boy, and you. But the others--you heard. Why
should I? Where does it lead me?
_Mrs. Stewart_: Success at the Barley Sheaf is more gratifying?
_Burns_: I know, madam, I know. But I shall never learn discipline.
_Mrs. Stewart_: Not even for the sake of your friends?
_Burns_: In a few weeks I shall have passed out of all this--back from
it, if you will. My friends, who will they be then? I do not expect
remembrance.
_Mrs. Stewart_: That is not kind.
_Burns_: It is generous of you to think it. O, I am not ungrateful,
believe me. I have been fortunate in opinions that I shall cherish.
But those--with their vineyards, and preachments over me, and
Akensides, and Wilson’s bookshop--did you hear that? My time may come,
but it is not now, in Edinburgh.
_Mrs. Stewart_: And so birthright may be wasted, at the Barley Sheaf?
_Burns_: Do not let me deceive you, madam. Like my songs--yes, I pray
you will do that. But they thrive in that company--I am at home there.
I am not proud of it, and it will settle my account early, likely
enough. But I know my condition. Virtue was born a caprice in me,
madam, and fortune has not husbanded her for me. I sing sometimes, and
for the rest I have no talent, perhaps, but a little to know myself.
_Mrs. Stewart_: I understand. And you will be yourself.
_Burns_: Even through disaster, I must. It is the only honour I have.
[_The_ FERGUSONS _come back_.]
_Mrs. Ferguson_: Forgive us, please.
_Burns_: Thank you, Mrs. Ferguson, for your kindness--it was very
obliging of you to bring me here. Good-afternoon.
_Mrs. Ferguson_: Good-afternoon, Mr. Burns.
_Ferguson_: Many flattering things have been said, Mr. Burns.
_Burns_ (_to_ MRS. STEWART): Good-afternoon, madam.
_Mrs. Stewart_: Good luck, Mr. Burns.
_Ferguson_ (_going out with him_): Very flattering, I assure you. Most
gratifying you must find it--
[_They go out._]
_Mrs. Ferguson_: Shall you come with me, my dear, to Dr. Mackenzie’s?
_Mrs. Stewart_: I think I would rather stay at home this afternoon,
Mrs. Ferguson.
[FERGUSON _returns and goes to his desk for a book_.]
_Mrs. Ferguson_: Certainly, my dear. I’ll tell Maggie.
_Ferguson_: Very pleasant. Dr. Robertson was most instructive at lunch
upon the second epistle, don’t you think? Yes.
[_He bustles out._]
_Mrs. Ferguson_: She shall bring tea to you here.
[_She goes._]
[MRS. STEWART _plays a few notes of ‘Afton Water’ on the piano. Then
she changes the air, and sings very softly._]
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad,
Tho’ father and mother and a’ should gae mad,
O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.
[_She pauses, and laughs lightly and humorously at herself, and_]
THE CURTAIN FALLS