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FROM KILMARNOCK TO DUMFRIESSHIRE--NOTES BY THE
WAY--AULD-GIRTH AND ITS SCENERY--THE HOTEL--ON THE ROAD TO
DUMFRIES--GOSSIP--THE BANKS OF THE NITH--FRIAR’S CARSE--FRIENDSHIPS OF
BURNS--”THE WHISTLE”--THE HERMITAGE AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS.
Having realized £500 by the sale of the Edinburgh
edition of his poems, Burns was enabled to live for a time on his means,
and to indulge in tours through Berwickshire and the North of England; and
also, the Highlands, by Inveraray, Loch Lomond, Dunkeld, Castle-Gordon, and
Inverness. In the course of these excursions he was received by men of
rank and taste, and by the people generally with the most gratifying marks
of respect for his brilliant talents, frank manners, and fluent
conversation secured him many friends. In referring to his return to
Mossgiel, Dr Currie says, “It will easily be conceived with what pleasure
and pride he was received by his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He
left them poor and comparatively friendless; he returned to them high in
public estimation and easy in circumstances. He returned to them
unchanged in his ardent affections, and ready to share with them to the
uttermost farthing the pittance that fortune had bestowed.”
With characteristic generosity of heart he handed his
brother Gilbert £180 to relieve him from the embarrassment in which he was
involved by the sterile soil of an ungenial farm, and, despite the
seductive power of “Clarinda”--a talented lady of fashion whose
acquaintance he made in Edinburgh--married his much-loved Jean, and began
to look about for the means to earn daily bread. In this world every man
is left to work out his own fate, and it depends greatly upon the course
he steers what that fate is. Burns at this period of his history was
still “without an aim,” and still far from the enjoyment of “the glorious
privilege of being independent,” even although he had amassed a little
money and had become famous by dint of his giant intellect. As a means of
subsistence he endeavored to procure a situation in the Excise, but
ultimately abandoned the idea for that of returning to his original
occupation of farming. After some deliberation, he entered into
negotiations with his patron, Mr Patrick Miller of Dalswinton, respecting
the farm of Ellisland, and having procured it on favorable terms, set
about preparing a home for his young wife on the banks of the Nith.
Thither, reader, we will follow him, and while tracing his footsteps in
Dumfriesshire, it is to be hoped that my gleaning will prove at once
instructive and entertaining.
On the afternoon of a bonnie summer day, I availed
myself of a short respite from business, and left Kilmarnock by rail with
the intention of wandering at leisure amid the scenery of Nithsdale, and
visiting places celebrated by the residence or muse of Robert Burns. At
the train glided on the ever-changing scenery had a peculiar charm for me,
not only on account of the fact that it was from it the bard drew
inspiration, but because its every rood is hallowed by brave men who
fought and bled for freedom and Scotland, when might was considered right,
and liberty of conscience and action the property of those in power. A
short stoppage occurred at Mauchline, and another at the quaint village of
Auchinleck, near to which is Auchinleck House, the residence of Lady
Boswell. Dr Samuel Johnson made a grumbling, discontented stay at it in
the month of November, 1773. The Lugar was then unsung, and the “moors
and mosses many” had not been celebrated by the bard of Coila, for he was
but in his fifteenth year, and had concluded a grand session of three
weeks at the grammar school of Ayr to return to Mount Oliphant to swing
the “weary flingin" tree in the old barn. The doctor and his biographer
have now a very small share of the affection and gratitude of mankind, but
the name of the poor boy Robert Burns, who worked hard and fared hard, and
received his education by snatches, fame has wafted over the whole world,
and his immortal verses are the solace and delight of his countrymen in
every land where their lot is cast. The illiterate, the learned, the
rich, and the poor admire them, and speak of the poet as of one with whom
they were intimate-in fact, the birch-fringed, amber-flooded streams he
has sung appear to murmur more sweetly and rush more proudly to the notes
of his lyre--
“Nor skill’d one flame alone to fan;
His country’s high-soul’d peasantry
What patriot pride he taught--how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man!
And rustic life and poverty
Grow beautiful beneath his touch.”
Auchinleck House was also the residence of that
enthusiastic admirer of Burns, Sir Alexander Boswell, to whose energy the
erection of the monument on the bank of the Doon is due. He was a poet of
great merit, and it is no small honour to his muse that several of his
songs have been mistakenly ascribed to Burns, and have found a place in
Loudoun editions of his works.
A branch line leads from Auchinleck to Muirkirk, a
village famous in Covenanting annals. John Lapraik, author of the song,
“When I upon thy bosom lean,” resided there when in the song at a
rocking held in the kitchen of Mossgiel on Fasten e’en, 1785, and was
so taken with it that he addressed the author in verse, and in flattering
terms solicited his friendship. Lapraik speedily replied, and sent the
letter by the hands of his son, who, upon arriving at Mossgiel, found the
poet in a field engaged in sowing. “I’m no sure if I ken the hand,
[“Contemporaries of Burns,” p. 26] said Burns as he took the letter; but
no sooner had he glanced at its contents than unconsciously letting go the
sheet containing the grain, it was not until he had finished reading that
he discovered the loss he had sustained.* Ever afterwards Burns and
Lapaik became fast friends, and had frequent and familiar intercourse.
Lapraik was born in 1727. He published a volume of
poetry at Kilmarnock in 1788, and died in the eightieth year of his age,
on the 7th May, 1807. Robert Chalmers some-what rashly states
in his edition of Burns that he must have stolen the ideas and nearly all
the diction of his song from a poem in Ruddiman’s Weekly Magazine,
October, 1773. That Lapraik’s song, and the poem referred to, have more
than a suspicious similarity is not to be disrupted, but whether Lapraik
or the anonymous contributor to that periodical be the plagiarist has yet
to be proved.
As the train rushed from the sweet village of
Auchinleck it crosses a lofty viaduct which spans the Lugar, a stream
celebrated in “My Nannie o’”--a song which is, and ever will be, a
universal favourite--and in a short time passes the town of Old Cumnock,
beautifully embosomed among the hills. Peden, of Covenanting memory, is
buried in its churchyard; and in Breezyhill Cottage--a snug residence in
its vicinity--resides Mr Adam B. Todd, author of “Poems, Lectures, and
Miscellanies,” and other meritorious literary productions. Like Burns he
was bred to farm work, and like him also he cultivated literature under
many difficulties. The following extract is from one of his tributes to
the memory of the ploughman bard:--
“A chequered lot was thine, O Burns, to bear,
Though short they course, thy struggles were severe;
But now life’s thorny path has long been past,
Weary the way, but sweet the rest at last,
And thou art not forgotten in the clay--
Thy fame increaseth with each opening day.
Seasons may pass as Time sublimely steers
His onward course, still heaping years on years;
But while the history of our isle is read,
Thy name shall rank among the honoured dead.”
Beyond New Cumnock--a modes village extending on both
sides of the line--the country, if possible, becomes more fascinating. In
the distance is Glen Afton and the green swelling braes by which it is
enclosed, and also the infant Nith coursing along. It issues from the
Black Loch, as a dark sheet of water in the upper part of New Cumnock
parish is termed, and traverses twelve miles of Ayrshire soil before
entering the county of Dumfries. This loch is also the source of the
Glaisnock, and in reference to this fact the writer of the Statistical
Account of the parish of Old Cumnock points out the possibility of a trout
crossing the mainland. Were it, he supposes, to enter the Ayr at Ayr
harbour it might pass into the Lugar at Barskimming, and from thence into
the Glaisnock at Old Cumnock, by which it could reach the Black Loch and
issue therefrom into the Nith, and eventually drop into the Solway Firth.
The Nith has many tributaries in Ayrshire, but the most important is the
Afton--a rapid and beautiful stream which traverses Glen Afton and joins
it on the east side of the village of New Cumnock. The reader need not be
reminded that this stream is celebrated by Burns in the song beginning--
“Flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise.”
For a long distance beyond New Cumnock the railway
skirts the Nith, and as the train dashes along, many a bosky scene, and
many a green hillside, which cannot fail to impart pleasure, catches the
eye. I just caught a glimpse of Kirkconnel as the train pushed past. It
is a nice little village, and likely to be notable in future years as the
birth-place of Alexander Anderson, author of “Songs of Labour;” “The Two
Angels, and other Poems;” &c. Mr Anderson, although a surface man or
“common navy” on the line, has found leisure not only to educate himself
and become conversant with the French, German, and Italian languages, but
to woo the muses with such success that he is within a stride of being
classed in the front rank of Scottish poets. The following homely verses
from his pen will be read with interest:--
‘CUDDLE DOON.
“The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,
Wi’ muckle faucht and din;
O try and sleep ye waukrife rogues,
Your faither’s comin’ in.
They never heed a word I speak;
I try to gie a froon,
But aye I hap them up and cry,
‘O, bairnies, cuddle doon.’
“Wee Jamie wi’ the curly heid--
He aye sleeps next the wa’--
Bangs up an’ cries, ‘I want a piece’--
The rascal starts then a’.
I rin an’ fetch them pieces, drinks,
They stop awee the soun’,
Then draw the blankets up and cry,
“Noo, weanies, cuddle doon.’
“But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries oot fraw ‘neath the claes,
‘Mither, mak’ Tam gie owre at ance,
He’s kittling’ wi’ his taes.’
The mischief’s in that Tam for tricks,
He’d bother half the toon;
But aye I hap them up an’ cry,
‘O, bairnies, cuddle doon.’
“At length they hear their faither’s fit,
An’ as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa’,
While Tam pretends to snore.
‘Hae a’ the weans been guid?’ he asks,
As he pits aff his shoon.
‘The bairnies, John, are in their beds,
An’ lang since cuddled doon.’
An’ just afore we bed oursel’s,
We look at oor wee lambs;
Tam has his airm roun’ wee Rab’s neck,
An’ RAb his airm roun’ Tam’s.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
An’ as I straik each croon,
I whisper, till my heart fills up,
‘O, bairnies, cuddle doon.’
“The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi’ mirth that’s dear to me,
But sune the big warl’s cark and care
Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet, come what will to ilka ane,
May He who sit aboon,
Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld,
‘O, bairnies, cuddle doon.’”
Beyond Kirkconnell the scenery wears a moorland aspect,
but the train speedily tears through it, and in an amazingly short space
of time reaches Sanquhar--a compact, neartly built town with which Burns
was familiar when journeying between Dumfries and Mauchline. We have an
account of one of his visits in a letter to Dr Moore. “In January last,
on my road to Ayrshire,” says he, “I had to put up at Bailie Wigham’s in
Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, and
the grim evening and howling winds were ushering in the night of snow and
drift. My horse and I were both much fatigued with the labours of the
day, and just as my friend, the Bailie, and I were bidding defiance to the
storm over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late
great Mrs Oswald; and poor I am forced to brave all the horrors of a
tempestuous night, and jade my horse, my favourite horse, whom I had just
christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther on through the wildest moors and
hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock.” Sanquhar also figures in the “Five
Carlins,” a political ballad by Burns, and is referred to as
“Black Joan, frae Chrichton Peel,
O’
gipsy kith an’ kin.”
“Peel” is an old Scotch term for a castle or fortalice,
and refers in this instance to the ruined stronghold of the Chrichtons,
Lords of Sanqhar, which stands in a field at the end of the town, and is
seen to great advantage from the railway. During the War of Independence
it passed through many vicissitudes and was the scene of man y sanguinary
engagements between the English and Scotch. There are many curious
traditions connected with it, and one is that Sire William Douglas wrested
it from an English garrison in the following ingenious manner:--It appears
that he and his men concealed themselves in Crawick Glen, while John
Dickson, disguised as a carter, approached it with a load of wood. Having
succeeded in disposing of it to the Governor, the portcullis was raised to
admit him, but he no sooner entered than he jammed his cart within it, and
sounded the onset with might and main. The English being off their guard,
Sire William and his men obtained an easy victory. When possessed by the
Scotch on one occasion, Robert de Clifford and Sir Henry Percy attempted
to reduce it by starvation, and would have succeeded had not the valiant
Wallace come to the assistance of the garrison. The besiegers fled at his
approach, but they were overtaken near Dalswinton, and in the engagement
which followed 500 of them were slain.
Beyond Sanquhar the railway passes through a track of
country unsurpassed for picturesque beauty. Having passed Carronbridge and
Thronhill--both quiet villages--Closeburn is reached. Streaching away on
the east side of the line are Closeburn Hills amid which is the fine
waterfall, Crichope Linn, and a cabe which tradition states was used by
the Covernanters. Sire Walter Scott seems to have been aware of its
associations, for in “Old Mortality” he portrays it has the hiding place
of the Balfour of Burley. Burns was familiar with Closeburn. He used to
visit an inn at Brownhill, and made the landlord, whose name was Bacon,
the subject of an impromptu effusion. His friend, Kirsty Flint, also
resided in Closeburn. She was well acquainted with old music and ballads,
and nothing delighted the poet better than to hear her sing her
songs--indeed, he generally got her to “lilt” over any new effusion before
giving it to the world. A short distance from Closeburn is Auldgirth
station. Upon the train drawing up at it, I stepped on to the platform, a
pilgrim in the land. However, this added piquancy to the excursion, and
was just the thing to gratify my love for adventure and sight-seeing.
Following the straggling passengers down a rather steep roadway, I entered
the village--if village it can be called, for it only consists of a
Gothic-like building called Auldgirth Hotel, and some two or three one-storeyed
houses--and beheld a scene of bewitching beauty. In front lay a fine
alluvial holm through which the Nith winds like a silver thread, and from
which verdant wood-draped, sheep-speckled hills raise in rugged grandeur.
Enraptured with the scene I wandered down a broad tree-shaded road, and in
an ecstasy of delight listened to the water rippling beneath a stupendous
ivy-mantled bridge and to the wild notes of a mavis and a blackbird, which
sang an accompaniment in a neighboring thicket and with other warblers of
the grove bade a vocal farewell to departing day. The lowing of cattle
and the shouts of a group of rompish children sounded in the distance with
a strange captivating solemnity which lured me onward all unmindful of the
fact that I had omitted to secure a lodging for the night. Returning to
the village, I entered the hotel and was delighted to find that the
accommodation, although homely, was good, and completely belied the
external appearance of the building. Mr Emerie (for such is the name of
the landlord), and his lady proved affable, obliging, and kindly, and I
experienced n difficulty in being “put up” for the night; but the hours of
the evening wore slowly away, and I was only too happy to be shown to the
chamber assigned me. I slept soundly, and when morning returned awoke to
find that the sunbeams had entered the apartment and were streaming across
the floor. After partaking of a substantial, well-served breakfast, I
took leave of mine host and started to visit those scenes in Dumfriesshire
which the residence or muse of Robert Burns has rendered famous, but will
not readily forget the hospitality of the inmates of Auldgirth Hotel.
I lingered a while at the bridge referred to, to take a
farewell look at the lovely scene. A short distance above it is the
tree-embosomed mansion-house of Blackwood, the residence of an ancient
Dumfriesshire family, who claim descent from Sir John Copland, a
Northumbrian knight, who took David II. prisoner at the battle of
Neville’s Cross in 1346, and knocked out the monarch’s front teeth with
the haft of his dagger in the struggle. The father of Allan Cunningham,
the celebrated Scottish poet, was gardener on this estate, and the house
he lived in and in which his illustrious son was born stood under one of
the fine yew trees lining the approach to the princely residence. Small
wonder it is the boy imbibed the spirit of poesy in such a retreat, for
dull the eye must be that cannot behold the grand, the lofty, poetry of
nature in the scenery. The clear pebbly-bottomed stream glistened in the
sunshine and purled from among the woods which stud the vale and deck the
sides of the steep uplands, rolling on until concealed from view in a
cleft of the verdant hills in the distance.
“How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,
Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom!
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,
Where lambkins wanton through the broom!”
“Birds sang love on ilka spray,” and everything was
fresh with the dew of the morning, but business and time were pressing and
would not permit me to linger long in the locality. Moving slowly along
the road I tapped at a cottage door to make sure that the right direction
was being pursued. It was opened by a smart girl, who, in answer to a
query, called her father, a blythe old shoemaker, with spectacles on brown
and a huge leather apron in front of him. He was the real prototype of a
village souter, and just the sort of man I was desirous of seeing;
therefore, without formality, I made him aware that I was a stranger and
anxious to gain information regarding the district, but more especially of
the Poet’s residence in it. Drawing himself up and pushing the spectacles
higher on his forehead he said--”Weel, if it’s Burns you’re speerin’ aboot,
there’s Friar’s Carse, the Hermitage, and Ellisland, doun the river there
a bit, but there’s naething here about, I’m sorry to say, connected wi’
him. Of course he was often here, and gaed alang this road when riding to
or frae Machline, but that’s a’. Auld ruins? Weel, there’s nane herawa’
except the tower whaur Lagg, the persecutor o’ the covenanters, leeved;
it’s mang the hills yonder, but there’s nocht to be seen about it. But up
in yon wood by the river-side there’s the reamins o’ a Druidical temple;
gin ye haud doun the bankin’ to the Carse it will be on your way, an’ ye
should gag an’ see it. Antiquarians dispute about it, for you see
Glenriddle spoilt it by completing the circle wi’ new stane, but I’m
inclined to think it genuine, for the basin that received the blood of the
victim and let it rin into the earth is aye there. You can get a glint o’
the Carse yonder at the bend o’ the river, so gin ye haud alang the bankin’
you’ll come to it, and anybody’ll let yo usee the Hermitage and Ellisland,
for they’re a’ close heighten--’deed it hadna’ been ‘Preaching Saturday’
I’d gane wi’ you myself’, but I canna very weel get awa’.” I was sorry
for this, for such a campanion would have been invaluable. This specimen
of the old man’s conversation is given that readers who may be inclined to
follow my footsteps may have a knowledge of the route to be pursued and a
slight idea of the antiquities to be met with. Shoemakers are highly,
intelligent as a class, but his one, “remote from towns,” and who “never
changed nor wished to change his place,” is exceptionally so. He proved
himself conversant with the life and writings of Burns. On no account
will he allow the one or the other to be disparaging spoken of, and woe
betide the man who is his presence dares
“To draw his frailties from their dread abode.”
In illustration of the Poet’s magnanimity and kindness
of heart, he told me that his grandmother, who lived in the vicinity of
Ellisland, “selt a dram without a license,” and carried on a very fair
illicit trade. This coming to the ears of the authorities, Burns received
notice to call and make a seizure. Before doing so, however, he sent a
few hanks of yarn to the old lady with the intimation that she was to wind
it speedily, for the gauger would call for it in the afternoon. He went,
but all exciseable commodities were removed, and he found nothing to
reward the search. This act of course lost a fine to the government but
saved the woman. Following the path recommended, I held along the bank of
the river until the plantation containing the Druidical remains were
reached. It crowns the summit of a high embankment overlooking the stream,
and commands a charming prospect of hills, dales, and leafy woods. The
place was somewhat “eerie,” and the dead leaves rustled strangely beneath
my tread, but I had no difficulty in finding the whereabouts of the
supposed temple, which consists of a circle of rudely-hewn stones set on
end. They are some five feet in height and ten apart, and surround a
central one of somewhat larger proportions. Passing through the
plantation, greatly to the dismay of its inhabitants, who sounded their
notes of alarm as they flew from branch to branch, or bounded away in
timorous haste to seek refuge in their burrows, I came to a low stone
wall, which I cleared with a bound, and landed in a field. Holding along
its edge, I entered a roadway, and after a short walk reached Friars’
Carse.
The mansion--a beautiful Gothic building--occupies the
site of a monastic house, and is pleasantly situated in a wood-embosomed
dell on the banks of the Nith. The present proprietor has made an
extensive and tasteful addition to the old residence, improved the grounds
in its vicinity, and by the restoration of the Hermitage evinced an
appreciation of the poetic genius inseparably associated with the estate.
When Burns tilled the soil of Ellisland, Friars’ Carse
was the residence and property of Captain Riddle, a gentleman of taste,
and an antiquary of some note, whose social disposition won many friends,
but none were more welcome to his home that his gifted but less affluent
neighbour, the Poet. At his table Burns mad eth acquaintance of Captain
Francis Grose, the antiquary--
“A fine fat fodgel wight,
O’ stature short, but genius bright”--
and was introduced to Maria Woodley, daughter of a
governor of Berbice, and the wife of Glenriddle’s young brother, “a lady,”
says the Rev. Hately Waddell, “of great beauty and spirit, with some
fashionable foibles and perhaps follies incident to her sex, but many
gifts and accomplishments also--one of the most favoured correspondents
and heroines of our author, his friend, his adversary, and his enlogist.”
She gives graphic and affecting account of her last interview with the
poet, which will be noticed in its proper place.Another lady of culture,
whose society was enjoyed by Burns at Friars’ Carse, was a Miss Deborah
Davis, a relative of Glenriddle, and the heroine of two of the poet’s
songs. She was of short stature, and from this circumstance was made the
subject of the following epigram, which the bard uttered on being asked by
a friend why God made her so little and the lady beside her so large--
“Ask why God made the gem so small,
And why so huge the granite?
Because God meant mankind should set
The higher value on it.”
A rather romantic incident in the life of this lady
deserves notice. At an early age she fell in love with a Captain Delany,
who, to all appearance, reciprocated the passion.
“He made himself acceptable to her by sympathizing in
her pursuits and writing verses on her, calling her his Stella, an ominous
name, which might have brought the memory of Swift’s unhappy mistress to
her mind.” Says Allan Cunningham:--”After offer of marriage was made and
accepted, but Delany’s circumstances were urged as an obstacle; delays
ensued; a coldness on the lover’s part followed; his regiment was called
abroad; he went with it; she heard from him once and no more, and was left
to mourn the change of affection--to droop and die. He perished in battle
or by a foreign climate soon after the death of the young lady, of whose
love he was so unworthy. The following verses on this unfortunate
attachment form part of a poem found among her papers at her death. She
takes Delany’s portrait from her bosom, presses it to her lips, and says--
‘Next to thyself, ‘tis all on earth
Thy Stella dear doth hold;
The glass is clouded with my breath,
And as thy bosom cold--
That bosom which so oft has glowed
With love and friendship’s name,
Where you the seed of love first sowed
That kindled into flame.
‘You there neglected let it burn;
It seized the vital part,
And left my bosom as an urn
To hold a broken heart.
I once had thought I should have been
A tender, happy wife,
And passed my future days serene
With the, my James, through life.’”
Beside these and other friendships, the mansion-house
of Friars’ Carse is celebrated on account of a bacchanalian contest which
took place in one of its rooms on the 16th October, 1789. The
prize was a little ebony whistle which a Danish champion of Bacchus in the
train of Annie of Denmark brought to this country. There was many a
contest for its possession, for it appears that he was in the habit of
laying it on the table at the commencement of a drinking bout, and whoever
outdrank his companions and blew it when they were all under the table
carried it off as a trophy. After proving victor on many occasions, this
champion of the bottle encountered Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxweltown, and
defeated him after three days and three nights’ hard drinking. The
whistle afterwards came into the possession of Captain Riddle, who decided
upon having a friendly contest for it at Friars’ Carse. For that purpose
he challenged Mr. Ferguson of Craigdarroch, and Sir Robert Lawrie of
Maxwelton, and invited Burns to witness the fray. The following affidavit
graphically describes the proceedings:--
“Closeburn Hall, Dec. 2, 1841.
“I, Wm. Hunter, blacksmith, in Lake-head, parish of
Closeburn, was, for three years and a half previous to my bein apprenticed
to John Kilpatrick, blacksmith in Burnland, parish of Dunscore , servant
to Capt. Robt Riddle, of Friars’ Carse, in Dumfriesshire. I remember well
the night when the Whistle was drunk for at Friars’ Carse by the
three gentlemen--Sir Robert Lawrie, Mr. Ferguson of Craigdarroch, and
Captain Riddle. Burns the poet was present on the occasion. Mrs. Riddle
and Mrs. Ferguson of Craigdarroch dined with the above gentlemen. As soon
as the cloth was removed the two ladies retired. When the ladies left the
room, Burns withdraw from dining table, and sat down in the window
looking down the river Nith; a small table was before him. During the
evening Burns nearly emptied tow bottles of spirits--the one of brandy,
the other of run--mixing them in tumblers with warm water, which I often
brought to him not. He had paper, pen and ink before him and continued
the whole evening to write upon the paper. He seemed, while I was in the
room, to have a little conversation with the three gentlemen at their
wine. I think from what I could observe he was composing the ‘Whistle’ as
he sat with his back to the gentlemen, but occasionally turned towards
them. The corks of the wine were all drawn by me, and it was claret the
three gentlemen drank. As far as I can recollect, I did not draw more
than fifteen bottles of claret. It was about sunrise when the two
gentlemen were carried to bed. Craigdarroch never during the course of the
night fell from his chair. The other two gentlemen often fell, and had to
be helped, with the assistance of Burns and myself, on to their chairs.
After Burns, myself, and the other servants now dead, had carried upstairs
Sir Robert Lawrie and Captain Riddle, Craigdarroch walked himself upstairs
without any help. Craigdarroch then went into one bedroom where Sir
Robert Lawrie was and blew stoutly the whistle; next he entered Captain
Riddle’s bedroom and blew the whistle as stoutly there--Burns being
present. Burns, after had had seen and assisted the two above-named
gentlemen to bed, walked home to his own farm-house of Ellisland, about a
mile from Friars’ Carse. He seemed a little the worse of drink, but quite
able to walk and manage himself. Burns often afterwards talked to me of
the evening that was passed at Friars’ Carse when the whistle was drank
for, and he told me again and again that he wrote the whole poem of the
‘Whistle’ that evening at Friars’ Carse. Indeed, he filled that evening,
I well recollect, four sheets of paper larger that the present one (large
post) with writing, all of which he took home with him. As I was
apprentice to Kilpatrick, the blacksmith, who always shod Burns’ horses
when he was Ellisland, I often saw Burns while I was shoeing his horses.
All the above particulars I am willing to verify on oath.
(Signed) “WILLIAM HUNTER.
“December 2nd, 1841.”
It seems strange at this date that “three jolly good
fellows”--one an elder of a church and another an M.P--could indulge to
such excess, but then it was considered no breach of decorum to be “as
drunk’s a gentleman,” or to fall from one’s chair overpowered by liquor at
the festive board; and there is no apology required for Burns being
present at such an orgie.
I would have had a peep at the room in which the
contest took place and in which “The Whistle” was composed, but upon
learning that the family were from home, I contented myself with a stroll
through the grounds, and a right enjoyable one it was.
Accosting a man engaged in mowing grass, I enquired for
the Hermitage. Being told that its situation was on the verge of a
neighboring wood, I acted on his advice, and sought out the head
gardener. He proved of a cheerful disposition, and so extremely obliging
that he proffered to accompany me to the spot and give what information he
could regarding it.
After climbing a steep ascent we entered the wood in
question, but as we threaded a narrow path among the trees, a colony of
crows in the branches over our heads began to caw! caw! caw! and raise a
clamour as if indignant at the intrusion of their privacy. I rather liked
their din, and stopped now and again to watch their circuitous flight far
above our heads, guessing the cause of their alarm to be that some objects
of his murderous aim, for here and there among the grass lay numerous
stiffened sable members of the fraternity. Poor things! many had the
appearance of having died in great agony, and lay crouched and cramped as
they were when mercifully relieved from suffering by death. I lifted a
live but disabled one, but not before it seized my finger with its bill,
and being accustomed to look upon man as a common enemy. I did my utmost
to assure it of the kindness of my intentions, but it was no use, and I
could not do anything for it I laid it down saying--
“Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wanted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o’er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom pressed.”
Crows are certainly thieves, and, despite their black
attire and gravity of mien, are not so just and upright as farmers desire,
but if the safety of crops demand their partial destruction it should be
gone about in a humane and efficient manner.
The Hermitage is situated in an obscure corner of the
wood, and looks as somber as if it had not been visited for months. It is
a small modern-looking building of one storey with an inscription over its
doorway stating that it was restored in 1874. Previous to its restoration
it was in ruins, and it says much for the present proprietor of Frairs’
Carse that it is in the present tidy condition. The original building
measured ten and a-half feet by eight, and was erected by Captain Riddle.
When Burns came to Ellisland he delighted to wander by the Nith and
through the grounds and woods of Friars’ Carse, a circumstance which
probably induced the Captain to provide him with a key for the Hermitage,
so that he could go in and out when he felt it convenient to do so. He
often retired to this retreat, and in its solitude under the character of
bedesman, composed “Verses in Friar’s Carse Hermitage.” He inscribed the
first six lines on the window pane, but his--Robert Chambers informs
us--”was removed on a change of proprietors, and being brought to sale at
the death of an old lady in 1835 was purchased for five guineas.”
When the gate of the railed enclosure of the present
retreat is thrown open the first thing that attracts attention is the
rigid form of a monk, with shaven crown, chipped nose, and folded hands,
lying on its back at the entrance. Possibly it is a remnant of the “auld
nick-nackets” which belonged to honest Glenriddle, and commemorates some
holy friar whose name and qualifications are alike forgotten. The little
building contains a chair and small table, and is supplied with two
windows and a fireplace. The glass of one window bears the following in
fac-simile of the poet’s handwriting:--
“To Riddle, much lamented man,
This ivied cot was dear;
Reader, dost value matchless worth?
This ivied cot revere.”
The glass of the other is inscribed in like manner, and
bears the following lines:--
“Thous whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou decked in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lower.
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide,
Quod the bedesman of Nithside.’”
Ellisland is a couple of fields distant from the
Hermitage, and the instant I took leave of my obliging guide, I hastened
towards it by way of the river bank, for it is close by, and accessible by
scaling a low stone wall which appears to be as old as the wood it
encloses. The Nith winds along its shallow pebbly shore, and the wide
swelling verdant uplans which rise from its brink looked so fresh that
they appeared like a portion of a newly-created world. Despite a sense of
loneliness I felt happy--happy as the bird in the brake, and why? Because
Burns traversed the same ground, and enjoyed the same scenery. Holding
along a beaten path running through the grass I crossed a purling burnie
by a rustic bridge, and passed along the margin of the river. The
difficulties of the way were many, but in spite of trailing bramble bushes
which seized by legs and laid hold of my clothes, and of branches which
brushed my face, I succeeded in reaching a steep tree-shaded path.
Ascending it I entered the farmyard of Ellisland, and looked curiously
around.
These pictures show part of the New Cumnock flood
plain which was once a vast loch holding Patrick Dunbar’s Cumnock
Castle.
Castlemains Farm sits on a hill next to the River
Afton, New Cumnock. There is a track, shown by the line of young trees,
which crosses the river on its way to Cumnock Castle behind the farm.
The second section just shows the Python on the left, rising up into the
hills behind Pathead, New Cumnock. The middle picture shows a new hill
made from earth taken from opencast workings on the horizon behind farm
cottages. The penultimate picture shows Craigdullyeart Hill on the left
and Corsencon (Parnasus Hill) on the right, where the Python begins its
journey. The final picture shows the Nith valley, Dalhanna Hill and the
eastern start of New Cumnock.
Our
thanks to Geoff Crolley for the above pictures and notes. |
