From Convivial Caledonia, Inns and Taverns of Scotland, and Some Famous People Who Have Frequented Them, by Robert Kempt, London: Chapman and Hall, LD., 1893; pp. 85-104.
CHAPTER V.
CONVIVIAL HAUNTS OF ROBERT BURNS.
Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair,
Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp as they’re creepin’ alang,
Wi’ a cog o’ guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
BURNS.
A FEW miles from Edinburgh we have Roslin, at whose comfortable little hostel has been entertained many a pilgrim to that classic region. Dr. Samuel Johnson was taken here by Boswell, who remarks, “I could by no means lose the pleasure of seeing my friend at Hawthornden — of seeing Sam Johnson at the very spot where Ben Jonson visited the learned and poetical Drummond.” Johnson and Boswell dined and drank tea at the inn on their return from the romantic Den. How many cups of his favourite beverage 86 Johnson drank on this occasion is not stated, but his extravagant fondness, as Northcote terms it, for tea did not fail to excite notice wherever he went. There is a story quoted by that painter, but which Boswell does not relate, that while at Dunvegan in Skye, the Dowager Lady Macleod having repeatedly helped the Doctor to tea, until she had poured out sixteen cups, asked him if a small basin would not save him trouble, and be more agreeable. “I wonder, madam,” grunted Johnson, “why all the ladies ask me such questions? It is to save yourselves trouble, madam, and not me.” The lady was silent, and resumed her task. We may be pretty sure that more toddy than tea would be drunk at Roslin, on the occasion of Robert Burns’s visit in company with Alexander Nasmyth, the painter. A long morning ramble, we are told, had sharpened the appetite of the poet to an uncommon degree, and caused him to enjoy his meal with such relish, that he honoured the landlady, Mrs. 87 Wilson, with the following grateful rhyme, scribbled on one of her pewter plates: —
My blessings on ye, honest wife!
I ne’er was here before;
You’ve wale o’ gear for spoon and knife,
Heart could not wish for more.
Heaven keep you clear o’ sturt and strife,
Till far ayont four score;
And by the powers of death and life,
I’ll ne’er gae by your door.
Of the inns and taverns which are celebrated through association with Burns, a whole volume of entertaining ana might be written. In his own counties of Ayr and Dumfries, the poet was the lion of every convivial gathering far and near, the only too welcome guest in every haunt where toast and song were the order of the evening — and next morning. When in 1787 he made his Highland tour, every village inn or roadside public at which he halted, became famous ever after. Wherever Burns went, he always left some interesting memento of his visit. This is after the manner of the sons of 88 song. At Taymouth, over the chimney-piece in the parlour of Kenmore inn, he penned the lines beginning —
Admiring nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace.
On the window pane of the inn at Cawdor he wrote a couple of sarcastic verses, to mark his sense of incivility. There is, too, his epigram on the innkeeper at Inverary. Burns, having gone to Inverary at a time when the Duke of Argyll “had company,” and finding himself and his companion entirely neglected by the innkeeper, whose whole thought and attention seemed to be occupied with the Duke’s visitors, he gave vent to his feeling in the bitter lines: —
Whoe’er he be that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he come to wait upon
The Lord their God, his Grace.
There’s naething here but Highland pride,
And Highland scab and hunger;
If Providence has sent me here,
’Twas surely in an anger.
One day when the poet was at the pretty 89 watering place of Moffat, two ladies rode past — one tall and portly, the other the “bonnie wee thing” of his muse. A friend asked him why God had made Davies so little, while her companion was so large, and he at once produced the epigram: —
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.
This impromptu Burns afterwards wrote with his diamond on a window pane of the “Black Bull” Inn, at Moffat. The song beginning “Sweet fa’s the eve on Craigieburn,” also connects Burns with Moffatdale. Craigieburn was the birthplace of Jean Lorimer, the heroine of eleven of the poet’s songs, though her own history was anything but a song. A cottage by the roadside was, in the poet’s time, a small wayside alehouse, where, it is said, he wrote “Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut.” Some years ago this “auld clay biggin’ ” had to be demolished, 90 and a handsome building, known as Burns’ Cottage, now occupies the site.
All places have their gods. In Irvine, Ayr,
And grey Kilmarnock you will surely find,
On wall and signboard proudly pictured there,
The mighty master of the songful kind,
The ploughman poet Burns.
Thou too, the little Mauchline, art named great
In Scotland’s story. As the bright-faced gold
Gives precious value to the dull clay mould,
So two great souls exalt thy lowly state,
PROFESSOR BLACKIE.
The quaintly pleasant town of Mauchline, situated about a mile from Mossgiel, the farm of the poet and his brother Gilbert — it is worth noting, by-the-way, that Shakespeare had a brother of this not very common name — is full of associations of Burns. There was Poosie Nansie’s house, the scene of “The Jolly Beggars,” a tavern of the lowest description, where vagrants and beggars, the “randie gangrel bodies,” as the poet describes them, resorted for food and lodging, and to quaff their “dear Kilbagie.” Kilbagie, in Clackmannanshire, is said to have been 91 the greatest distillery of spirituous liquors in Burns’s time in Scotland. The usqueba was not of the best quality, but it was the cheapest to be had. It was sold as low as one penny per gill, so that it was quite possible to get fou for the sum of fourpence. That, no doubt, was a sufficient reason for it being a favourite tipple with Poosie Nansie’s customers. The portrait left us of that lady herself is sufficiently graphic and comprehensive — “an old bearded dame.” Her real name was Agnes Gibson. According to Mr. Robert Chambers, she was known to have expressed, amusingly enough, her surprise at the style in which she found her name celebrated in the Kilmarnock edition of the poems, saying, “that Robert Burns might be a very clever lad, but he certainly was regardless, as, to the best of her belief, he had never drunk three half-mutchkins under her roof in all his life.” Poosie Nansies’s till exists as a house of call, a very different place, however, from the howf of Burns’s day. Instead of 92 having gangs of “Jolly Beggars” for its guests, the members of different Burns’ Clubs, with multitudes more of his admirers from all parts, now make yearly pilgrimages to Nansie’s in order to toast the poet’s memory. The churchyard of Mauchline was the scene of “The Holy Fair.” Auld Nanse Tinnoch’s house, with the date 1744 over the door, is another Mauchline relic, also the “Cross Keys,” formerly the “Whitefoord Arms Inn,” where the poet wrote on a pane of glass the amusing epitaph on the landlord, John Dow. Close at hand is the house in which that staunch friend of Burns, Gavin Hamilton, lived. The house is chiefly interesting from the circumstance that in one of the rooms Burns was married to Jean Armour, one of the six belles of Mauchline.
But Armour’s the jewel for me o’ them a’.
“Tam O’Shanter,” the title of the poet’s masterpiece, was adopted as the sign of a well-known hostelrie in High Street, Ayr. It was the rendezvous of 93 Tam and his ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie, Souter Johnnie, and where they got fou and unco happy on that memorable market night as set forth in the tale, as doubtless they had done on many another occasion. For —
Tam lo’ed him like a very brither,
They had been fou for weeks thegither;
The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better,
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi’ favours, secret, sweet, and precious;
The Souter tald his queerest stories,
The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rain and rustle,
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.
. . . . . .
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious
O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious.
Who was the original of Souter Johnnie? Biographers of Burns are agreed that the original of Tam himself was a certain jovial character named Douglas Graham. Who was the prototype of his friend the Souter has, however, been a subject of controversy. On the one hand, the honour has been claimed for one John Davidson, other editors and commentators incline to think that the veritable Souter 94 was John Laughton, whose remains rest under the shade of the scene of the matchless tale, Alloway’s auld haunted Kirk.
This inn boasts, or did boast some years ago, of the possession of the original Tam O’Shanter chairs and caup, and the landlord at the date of our visit rejoiced in the appropriate enough name of Glass. This temple of Bacchus and shrine of John Barleycorn changed hands not long since (November, 1892), the property, having been put up to auction, was purchased by Councillor Fraser of Ayr for 3190l., or 610l. beyond the upset price. The crown, it would seem, had refused to make a gift of it to the Town Council. At the Auld Brigend of the same town stood Simpson’s tavern, mentioned in the poem of “The Brigs of Ayr,” and a noted public in the last century.
During his residence in upper Nithsdale, a favourite haunt of Burns was the “Brownhill Inn,” not far from Dumfries, and its landlord, John Bacon, became a boon companion and fast friend of the poet. 95 Bacon survived Burns twenty-nine years, dying in 1825. Among his effects, which were sold by auction, was a little snuff-box. A shilling had been bid for the box, when the auctioneer paused, examined the lid, and in a loud voice, read the inscription, “Robert Burns, Officer of Excise.” Needless to say, the bidding now rapidly advanced, and at length the relic was knocked down for 5l. The box was made of the tip of a horn, turned after the fashion of old “snuff-mulls,” the lid, mounted with silver, bearing the inscription. It is supposed to have been given on some convivial occasion by Burns to his friend the landlord. And the inference is that Burns followed the nearly universal practice observed by both sexes in his day, of snuff-taking. “Brownhill Inn” contained a more precious relic, to wit, the bedstead on which the poet himself was born, on that ever-to-be-remembered day in the year 1759, when “a blast o’ Janwar’ win’ blew hansel in on Robin.”
96 At Tarbolton, the brethren of the St. James’s Lodge of Freemasons held their meetings, and Burns frequently presided over their deliberations. In one of his songs he reminds the “dear brothers of the mystic tie,” —
Oft have I met your social band,
And spent the cheerful festive night;
Oft, honour’d with supreme command,
Presided o’er the sons of light.
And by that hieroglyphic bright,
Which none but craftsmen ever saw,
Strong memory on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa’.
Imagine the sort of meeting with Robert Burns in the chair, — the author of “Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut;” the man who had the finest pair of eyes Sir Walter Scott ever saw, and whose conversation was the theme of all who ever heard him! Fancy, we say, spending a “nicht wi’ Burns” at the St. James’s festive board, or in the parlour of the “Globe Inn,” Dumfries. “All kinds of gifts,” remarks Carlyle, “from the gracefullest utterances of courtesy to the highest fire of passionate 97 speech; loud floods of mirth, soft wailings of affection, laconic emphasis, clear piercing insight; all was in him. Witty duchesses celebrate him as a man whose speech ‘led them off their feet.’ This is beautiful, but still more beautiful that which Mr. Lockhart has recorded. How the waiters and ostlers at inns would get out of bed and come crowding to hear this man speak!” Burns passed the last eight years of his life in Dumfries — from 1788 to 1796, and during that period the “Globe Inn” was what, in a letter to a friend, he calls “my howf, and where our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze.” It has undergone little change, this commonplace-looking, but profoundly interesting, building, since it was his favourite rendezvous. The pilgrim to this shrine finds himself in a small apartment, measuring fourteen feet by twelve, on the ground floor. One of the neuks is labelled “Burns’s Corner,” and contains his arm-chair (a like relic of Dr. Johnson with his corner existed in 98 the old Mitre Tavern, Fleet Street, London, thirty years ago), while an engraving representing Coila, the poetic genius of his country, throwing her inspiring mantle over her favourite son, hangs over the fireplace. This snuggery, which is entered through the kitchen, is the howf proper. In other parts of the house are displayed various relics — the capacious china punch-bowl which did duty at festive seasons in the poet’s family; a work-box belonging to Mrs. Burns; an antique jug of pottery ware, and a wineglass having an engraved portrait of Prince Charles Edward, with the motto “Audentior Ibo,” and the symbolical white rose of the House of Stuart. These relics, we learn, were originally gifted by Mrs. Burns to a nurse who waited upon her during her last illness. But more important are the memorials direct from the hand of the immortal bard himself, such as the verse traced by the diamond, which he always carried, on a window pane in the parlour, celebrating the charms of 99 “lovely Polly Stewart”; and a second inscription giving a new rendering of part of an old song: —
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the grain;
Gin a body kiss a body,
The things a body’s ain.
A number of similar graven panes at the “Globe” and other taverns were afterwards removed, and are now in the possession of different persons. One pane we remember is treasured by a gentleman in Dumfries; it is inscribed with four lines of the charming lyric, “Sae flaxen were her ringlets,” addressed to Miss Lorimer:
Hers are the willing chains of love,
By conquering beauty’s sovereign law,
But still my Chloris’ dearest charm,
She says she lo’es me best of a’.
The barmaid at the “Globe,” a niece of Mrs. Hyslop, the landlady, was Burns’ “Anna wi’ the gowden locks,” in whose honour he wrote the song beginning, “Yestreen I had a pint of wine.” She was Anne Park, the mother of the second 100 of the poet’s two illegitimate daughters. The unfortunate young mother is supposed to have died in childbed, and Mrs. Burns, with a forgiveness and an affection unparalleled, nursed the infant along with her own.
While no one can visit without emotion this famous tavern, which has so often rang with his laughter, and been vocal with his song, his warmest admirers must admit that it had been well for Burns if his presence in that old arm-chair had been less familiar and less frequent. That last visit to the favourite haunt, early in January, 1796, a visit protracted as usual far into the morning, and resulting, as it did, in the last scene of all, has it not been described times innumerable?
In justice to the memory of the immortal bard, however, we must quote a statement affecting his personal character, made public so recently as November, 1892. Writing in the Scots’ Magazine of that date, Mr. James Innes-Ker Mackenzie, 101 mentions that his father, who was one of the founders of the Royal Scottish Academy, painted Burns’s “Bonnie Jean” when nearing her seventieth year. “He found her to be a woman of much originality, and of rare open-heartedness and benevolence. And yet he thought it likely enough that Burns may have been captivated more by her personal than her mental attractions; because it was evident that she must have been, if not beautiful, certainly very comely of feature, and her form must have been superb. Her figure was admirable, even in old age. Mrs. Burns once told Mackenzie that Allan Cunningham was wrong in stating that Burns incurred his last illness by being inebriated and falling asleep in the open air. “In all her knowledge of him, she emphatically stated, either before marriage or after, she never once saw him intoxicated. Never once did she know him to be ‘seen hame,’ or in the least difficulty as to disposal of himself when he arrived.”
Burns, in his capacity of officer of 102 Excise, always tempered justice with mercy to farmers and poor cotters, who sometimes set the excise at defiance. Of the many stories told of his leniency in this respect it will suffice to quote two. At Thornhill, on a fair day, he was seen to call at the door of a poor woman, who for the day, was doing a little illicit business on her own account. A nod and a movement of the forefinger brought the woman to the doorway.
“Kate, are you mad? Don’t you know that the supervisor and I will be in upon you in forty minutes?” Burns at once disappeared among the crowd, and the poor woman was saved a heavy fine.
Again a woman who had been brewing, on seeing Burns coming with another exciseman, slipped out by the back door, leaving a servant and a girl in the house.
“Has there been any brewing for the fair here the day?”
“Oh, no, sir; we ha’e nae license for that,” answered the servant-maid.
“That’s no’ true,” exclaimed the child, 103 “the muckle black kist is fou o’ the bottles of yill tha my mither sat up a’ nicht brewing for the fair.”
“We are in a hurry just now,” said Burns, “but when we return from the fair, we’ll examine the muckle black kist.”
Such condonation might naturally be expected on the part of the author of “The Deil’s awa’ wi’ the Exciseman”: —
; We’ll mak’ our maut, and brew our drink,
We’ll dance and sing, and rejoice, man;
And mony thanks to the muckle black deil
That danced awa’ wi’ the exciseman.
Apropos of deceiving the excise, we are reminded of an amusing incident which happened in the north of Scotland. The heroine, in this instance, certainly proved herself a match for the revenue officer. The good lady in question was noted for selling whisky on the sly. Her house was a few miles from the town, and the officers had tried in vain to get her convicted. So may attempts had failed that they had given up the task as impossible. A young officer was appointed to the 104 place, who said, on being told about her, that he would soon secure her conviction. Early one morning he left the town and arrived at the old woman’s house. Walking in, he saw no one, but, noticing a bell on the table, he rang it. The old woman appeared. He asked for a glass of milk, which was set down before him. After a little he rang again, and the old woman appeared. He asked if she had any whisky.
“Ay, sir,” said she; “we aye have some in the bottle” — setting it down before him.
He thanked her and laid down a sovereign, which she took and walked out. After helping himself, he rang again, and asked for his change.
“Change, sir?” said the old woman. “There’s nae change. We ha’e nae licence. Fat we gi’e we gi’e in presents; fat we get we take in presents; so good-day, sir.”
The exciseman left the house a poorer but a wiser man.