Between Ourselves Page 2

  My request is ‘Cauld Kail in Aberdeen’, intended for this number, and I beg a copy of His Grace of Gordon’s words to it, which you were so kind as to repeat to me. You may be sure we won’t prefix the Author’s name, except you like. Though I look on it as no small merit that the names of many of the Authors of our old Scotch Songs will be inserted in this work. Johnson’s terms are for each Number, a handsome pocket volume, to consist of at least a hundred songs, with basses for the Harpsichord etc; the price to subscribers five, and to non subs six shillings. I rather write at you, but if you will be so obliging as on receipt of this to write me a few lines.

  Damn all prevarications, but most of all their supreme commander, William Creech.

  Harmoniously pissing and shitting as never before in Auld Reikie. On all other fronts ceasefire prevails.

  She has a serious face beneath those tightly formed ringlets. The hair sits close round a finely moulded head. But she holds her head forward, shyly almost, above the slender neck. Hazel eyes, soulful; a strong nose (too strong?); the firm rosebud of a mouth; distant chin; breasts clear and pointed despite her diffident stance.

  She listens intensely, submissive on the surface, then when she moves or speaks everything is alive, alight in motion. The eyes dance with flecks of understanding, a gleam of mischief.

  My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form

  The frost of hermit age might warm.

  My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind

  Might charm the first of humankind.

  I love my Peggy’s angel air

  Her face so truly heavenly fair

  Her native grace so void of art

  But I adore my Peggy’s heart.

  Climbing ahead of me on the slope to Castle Campbell. She weaves nimbly through the trees, small but sure, perfectly poised. She turns to laugh at me clambering behind, her head haloed through sunlit leaves. What could I not be with such a soulmate, a polestar, a guide, a dancing delight? She brings out the best in me. I don’t boast to Peggy but share only my honest satisfactions. Like Mr Skinner’s poem in my praise – she knows its worth. I tell her the sensible things she wants to hear. On Thursday I will go to inspect Mr Miller’s farm – like the honest tiller of the soil she has in mind. My own Minerva. But she will not have me.

  I used every resource of elegance – flourishes of hand, heart melting meditations, modulations of winning speech. All vain. My rhetoric’s usual effect is lost on her at least. She puts my sincerity to quiet scorn.

  When did that arise? Why?

  Peggy Chalmers stood apart; she held out against me. When she stayed on her father’s farm in Mauchline, I used to visit. Hers was a family lowered from high estate, yet connected to the best society. I passed smoothly from formal bows – the awestruck swain – to a careless arm around the waist. She brought me up hard and short, laying out in no uncertain terms the distance I had still to travel.

  Yet I kept my head, cool and deliberate under fire. I asked her to forgive poor Rab o Mossgiel, whose only fault, whatever rank he had in life, was in loving her too much for his own peace. I had no formal design, outwith the nakedness of my own heart in this matter-of-fact tale. Of course she might wish to cut me off, imposing in effect a complete cure for lovestruck rustics. Or she might allow me to renew the beaten path of friendship.

  That brought her back into line and when we met again in Edinburgh my devotions were a morning walk, heartfelt conversation, books and poetry, now and then a glance or pressure of the hand. Rarely, in some sequestered spot, I chance a gentle touch of lip on cheek, lip on lip.

  Might Caledonia’s Bard not now aspire to Peggy’s lifelong companionship, crowning Miss Chalmers’ sweet company?

  She teased me about my French and then paired me with a French lady who had no English, to catch me out. I failed miserably but she translated smoothing out my faux pas. Minerva of the school bench, sweet Sophia.

  Peggy’s song must go into Johnson’s next volume along with ‘The Lofty Ochils’, recalling those precious days at Harvieston. I have set it to Neil Gow’s ‘Lament for Abercairny’, proving my devotion. Her cousin Charlotte’s song belongs there too along with the air I got at Inverness.

  How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon

  With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair

  But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon

  Was once a sweet bird on the braes of the Ayr.

  All it needs is a fiddle and a Neil Gow.

  Then back to Mauchline I went to the prying tongues. No more sunlit raptures or twilight tête-à-têtes beneath the shady hills. Just restless cares not knowing which way to turn. Farming is the only thing I know, and little enough at that, but it’s a life that killed my father. Now they threaten to break up what remains of my closest family.

  I could not settle to my mind. Should I try again for Jamaica? To stay at home without fixed aim would only dissipate my gains from the Kilmarnock poems, and ruin what compensation I could leave my little ones for the stigma I brought on them. The welcome weans.

  Yet I did have my Mauchline belle, my Juno. After the poetic jaunts she pulled me back to herself. What a relief to spend my pent up emotion into her moist warmth. For weeks and months I had been starved, straining at polite intercourse. Sometimes in Edinburgh I went down from Dowie’s tavern in the darkness and had some Cowgate wench, skirts lifted, hard against the wall, for a few coppers. But Jean’s lovemaking was full and open as the hills of Ayrshire, an honest passion, a body made to be caressed and yoked. Often I took her working breasts into my mouth till nippled hard and sunk my member into her passage. Soft belly under taut muscles rise and fall as boats on a swelling sea.

  That was country love. Rab o Mossgiel in rut. Dear Jean’s only reading is the Psalms of David, and of course a certain book of Scots poems to which she is devoted.

  But Peggy Chalmers will not marry me. Why? She touches tenderly on my feelings, my friendship, my talents, even as she refuses me. But of her own feelings not one word. Her reasons for turning down the ploughman poet? Is she too high for lowly Burns? Her father farms like mine. Too refined for Rab o Mossgiel? We made one happy party beneath the Ochils, conversed as equals, discussed men and women, books and the lovely world. These are the happiest days I have ever known. By Minerva’s native glades and streams. Have I no reason left to hope? What’s wrong with Robert Burns?

  She will surely like these songs, the declaration of a poet’s love. And old Tullochgorum’s paid the highest tribute to my Muse. I must copy Mr Skinner’s letter for her. I value his praise more highly than the approbation or disdain of a roomful of Edinburgh’s literati. He too has drunk at the mountain springs of auld Scotia’s Muse. There is a certain something in the older Scotch songs, a wild aptness of thought and expression, which marks them out not only from English songs but from the modern efforts of our native song wrights. We sons of Caledonian song must hang thegither and challenge the jury of fashion. We can lash that world and find ourselves an independent happiness.

  I wonder if they have begun to talk about Jean’s appearance in Mauchline.

  With Bob Ainslie and Willie. Came home later.

  I have seen Mr Miller’s two farms lying prettily by the Nith. Both are up for lease but the ground is sour and the house at Ellisland half fallen down. O for a Horace in the desert wastes.

  Passable evening despite my troubles.

  After a drink in Anchor Close we went on to Dowie’s. Very private and snug. Smellie was full of some pamphlets from America, newly bound for discreet sale. Some are by Tom Paine, an English Exciseman before going to the Colonies to champion the cause of liberty. By Willie’s lights, Paine has demolished monarchy, for if the power of kings had to be checked by parliaments, how could it be ordained of God? Despotic rule is therefore contrary to natural justice and divine law.

  Yet parliament itself in London defers to hereditary principle with benchfuls of m’lords sitting in judgement on the people’s
representatives, such as they are. A member of parliament may be elected by thirty comfortably dined men. The purpose of government, says Paine, is to preserve liberty and restrain the will of rulers. Where then the ancient King of Scots? Were they not defenders of our nation’s freedoms? Is government now not tyranny by another name?

  The natural right of men, and women – here Smellie raised a romantic glass which we were compelled to follow – is to be free and to have that freedom protected by representation. I believe this from my heart yet my head is overtaken in the race. Where America has gone will Britain follow, or France, or Spain? Bob was very douce. Does he class Smellie’s lectures as philosophy or as sedition? He keeps his own counsel.

  Ainslie has no political passion, no inner fire for freedom. The lawyer’s clerk sits perjink, sleekit even, in the courts and taverns. Yet in his mind every mischief buzzes like a byke of hungry bees. No thought too low for Bob to comprehend, no slight so trivial that it escapes the tally. His ever listening ear sips up my nonsense with a sympathetic snigger. Wayward fancies pile one upon another till the crazy tower comes tumbling down. But if blue devils rise, Bob is my perpetual ally, sure defence and sole protection.

  It was Ainslie, a few nights since, that whispered Hastie’s Close into my ear. There he claimed gambling, cockfights and other bodily combats were to be had for easy money. Entry should to be petitioned and obeisance made to a Prince of those infernal regions. Don’t ask who, Bob croaked, a warning finger pressed to his pouting lips.

  The other two had drunk over deeply to go anywhere except home. But my incapacity for wine left me strangely lucid, light-headed on a cold and starry night. In their stupor Bob and Willie presumed that I was after Cowgate warmth, so I took the narrow passage down, crossed into Hastie’s Close and tapped at the forementioned door. My assurance gained admission to the fringes of a scene of fervour such as Mauchline scarcely boasts. The Prince seemed absent and I escaped unscathed. Bob will want to weasel out the tale, but I can guard this secret for myself perhaps to go again in some idle hour.

  No word from Creech. Peggy’s letter expected daily.

  Refused. Publication outlawed.

  None outside her circle would know and those who do admit the justice of my praise. Poetic compliments cannot be misinterpreted. Moreover what I sketched are mental charms without a hint of impropriety. Away with sheepish modesty, my lovely Peggy Chalmers. Besides both pieces are set to music and ready at the printer’s desk. To be blunt, woman, your looks are somewhat above the mean, but it’s your wit that justifies my verse. I must get out my pen and persuade her that Caledonia’s Bard cannot hurt her. Or else change the names. These are not the japes of Rhymer Rab – is that what she thinks of me?

  Life is too short for these jarring passages. In a week I should be in Ayrshire, then on for Nithside. I cannot wait in Edinburgh on a lady’s whim and pleasure.

  Her letter to the young heir is apt though. She sends me it in confidence knowing she can depend upon my discretion. In sober moments the young fool admits his selfishness. Given his unsteadiness, the circumstances in which he finds himself, his father’s disposition and a thousand other not-to-be-disregarded niceties, the whole affair with Charlotte is fantastic. Peggy’s letter brings him down to earth though not severely, and he did not take it amiss. It’s me she denies outright. Still the young idiot insists on gratifying inclination at the enormous and cruel expense of Charlotte’s peace – the very woman for whom he professes undying love. A volatile schoolboy who knows two times two better than a woman’s heart. Tant pis. May the Devil take all these brats before the amiable and lovely go down under their purse-proud contempt.

  Can Peggy not see my position in all this? Her natural ally and judicious friend, a spiritual helpmate and comforter. What’s the point? My time is nearly done with Edinburgh and genteel society. The hour has run – tomorrow will decide my affairs with Creech.

  ‘Mr Burns, good day to you, sir, and welcome. No, the pleasure is all mine.’ And before I can take up my point, ‘Come through now, there is company already gathered.’

  ‘Mr Creech, I need to… I would be very grateful if you might see—’

  ‘We have Mr Fergusson here today and our distinguished editor, your good friend, Mr Smellie…’ All the while gently patting and ushering me through to the main shop, where Edinburgh’s literati minor and major are assembled.

  ‘I need to settle my affairs.’ Turned like a stubborn sheep in the gate.

  ‘Come now, Mr Burns, it is too early for gentlemen to settle business. All will be attended to later.’

  ‘You are already very behindhand, Mr Creech.’

  ‘Ah you are a poet. Young authors must become accustomed to how things proceed in the world. Had Mr Smellie rushed Encyclopaedia Britannica in this way he would never have passed the first volume. Gracious, here is one of our learned divines, Reverend Kemp of the Tolbooth. Have you sat under him? Mr Kemp! How can I be of assistance today?’

  The poet creeps away to join in general conversation…

  Went on with Smellie to Anchor Close and drank to the damnation of all printers. Later in the afternoon, Creech himself came in all affability, discoursing widely on the decline of morals ‘in our fair town.’ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘at one time Sunday was strictly observed as a day of devotion but now people stroll about at all hours, and the evenings are often loose and riotous with bands of young apprentices.’ He seemed to eye me at this stage as if to say, ‘and young poets.’ ‘The fines for bastard children have risen fivefold in the last ten years.’ I put my money on the table and left.

  Johnson much dispirited. Sales of The Museum have barely met expenses and he despairs of a second volume. I encouraged his honest soul. Perhaps this is not a profitable endeavour, but it will endure. You, sir, are a patriot for the music of your country, and we know how Scotland rewards patriots. But if we proceed steadily and correctly your name will be immortal. In the long run the textbook and standard of Scottish song will have a long-lasting sale, if maybe not a huge market. He seemed comforted. I took some soup with Mrs Johnson and teased the bairns. What a genuine, good-hearted fellow he is; I will do everything in my power to aid him.

  Expenses are mounting with no with no relief from Creech. How long can I afford to wait? Yet what hope is there of securing payment if I leave?

  Miller is a gentleman but his latest letter hints clearly at the need for a decision on this damned farm.

  The ever plausible Creech cannot deny my dues. There it is in Mackenzie’s own venerable hand – six hundred pounds at least, less bookseller’s accursed discount. How long can he hold out against me? I cannot eat further into the Kilmarnock money.

  Hard gripes again today roun my heart. Is it fear, the spectre of haggard poverty, who preys on the poor and wastes their flesh?

  Jean is waiting for me in Mauchline. I made her no promises – the ones I did make were torn up in my face. Now Armour would almost pay me to wed his daughter.

  No courage to go out. Betty brought me up a dish of stew. She has a tender spot for the will o the wisp poet.

  Glanced idly at some songs that will help Johnson’s second volume.

  Ainslie, Smellie, with myself, Beugo the engraver, Nasmith and Captain Henderson (both neighbours here in James’ Square) made a merry party. Simple food married with good music. When we finished the night was young, so I sampled Hastie’s Close again with more substantial satisfactions.

  Beugo is doing my phiz. It can appear in future looking like all other fools on my title page. I will be as famous as John Bunyan or Blind Milton, and have my poor birthday in the almanac along with Black Monday and the Battle of Bothwell Brig.

  Let them adorn the editions, for there will not be many more additions. My familiar Muse seems to have abandoned me, chafed and wearied by the little fat gods of criticism. My recent poetry has been tried before an Edinburgh jury and found wanting. My verse is condemned as a libel against the fastidious ranks of taste. My satires are
deemed defamation, the author forbidden to print on pain of – of what? Forfeiture of character, of reputation. Of the means of livelihood. There they have me. I cannot supplicate the Muses empty handed.

  I should have stayed plain Rhymer Rab and strung my woodnotes wild for those who recognised and understood them. Let those who have lugs hear.

  It was Gavin Hamilton’s idea to print, and that led to Kilmarnock. Friend and landlord, he defended me against the godly crew, for he had his own quarrel with Holy Willie. So the gentlemen of Ayrshire subscribed, as well as ministers, farmers, and all the brothers of the lodge. Without their guineas I would have gone to Jamaica, but their notice secured Henry Mackenzie’s praise. His was the Mason’s word that hailed the heaven-taught ploughman and secured my entry to Edinburgh, a new Man of Feeling.

  Instead of taking ship I was borne on a tide of acclamation. Yet Kilmarnock brought no end to servitude; it was but the prelude to greater obligation. With each new mark of favour dependence on my patrons grows. Letters, visits and dedications pile higher than the poems which they profess to honour.

  ‘Fate has cast my station in the veriest shades of life, but never did a heart pant more ardently than mine to be distinguished.’

  ‘How supremely I was gratified in being honoured with the countenance and approbation of one of my dear loved country’s most illustrious sons.’

  ‘Allow me, my Lord, to proffer my warm and fond request to be permitted to publish these verses.’

  ‘So, my Lord, I must return to my rustic station and in my wonted way woo my rustic Muse at the plough stand. Still, my Lord, while the drops of life, while the sounds of Caledonia warm my heart, gratitude to that dear-prized country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those her distinguished names who have honoured me so much with their approbations and patronage, shall, while stealing through her humble shades, ever distend my bosom and at times draw forth the swelling tear… like pustules fit to burst.’