Читать книгу The Wonder of All the Gay World - James William Barke - Страница 13

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Richmond and the Bard had much to talk about in the evenings before they snuffed the candle and turned into the chaff bed.

He had been nine days in the Town. What he had accomplished in those nine days astounded Richmond more than the Bard. Apart from his leisurely stroll round the Town with Peter Hill the previous Sunday, he had spent his time meeting one person after another and being introduced on all hands as the celebrated Ayrshire Bard. He had already made firm friends with Willie Smellie, Peter Hill and Willie Scott...

And to-day he had attended a sale in the Exchange Coffee House (by order of the Lords of the Session) of the lands that had but recently belonged to David MacLure of Shawood and his partners Campbell and MacCree.

It had been a historic occasion for the Bard and it had evoked many bitter and ironic memories. But Richmond was the only friend in Edinburgh who understood something of its import.

“Little did I think, Jock, as I posted between my father’s death-bed and Bob Aiken in Ayr that I would ever see the day when I would stand in Edinburgh and watch MacLure’s land come under the hammer.”

“Aye—if only your father had lived to see this day.”

“It was MacLure—as much as any physical illness—that killed him... But I suppose I’d better write to Gavin Hamilton before it’s ony later: I promised to send him details of the sale.”

“There’s no hurry: the mail doesna go till Thursday. But how are you feeling?”

“No’ a damned bit better, Jock. I’d some greasy titbits in Dawney Douglas’s in the Anchor Close with Willie Smellie the printer. My stomach’s been in rebellion ever since. The fact is, Jock, I’ve never fully recovered from that night’s debauch in Biggar on my journey here. Either that or the whisky must have been rank bad. Sometimes it’s my stomach, sometimes my head—sometimes both.”

“Maybe it’s the change o’ air and food and water. I don’t think the water’s ony too good in Edinburgh. Or maybe you’re missing the open air and the exercise.”

“Aye ... and too much excitement. I’ve only been a week here and I’ve eaten more strange meals with strange folk than I’ve done in the whole of my life.”

“By God, you havena been idle since you arrived. Are you sure Creech is for printing your book?”

“I’m as sure as I can be: the subscription bills may come out to-morrow.”

“Has he given you onything in writing?”

“No ... but does that matter?”

“It would matter wi’ me. I wouldna trust ony o’ them—Mr. Creech least of all.”

“The strange thing, Jock, is that nobody seems to like Creech though everybody thinks highly of his ability.”

“Creech is about as clever a man as you could find in the High Street—too clever to be trusted.”

“Well, I find him honest enough for my wants. I’ve a lot to be grateful for... Where’s Saint John Street: I’ve to sup wi’ Lord Monboddo to-morrow night?”

“Lord Monboddo? Who next? It’s aboot half-way down the Canongate on your right going down. Let me see. Aboot a dozen closes past Saint Mary’s Wynd: you canna miss it.”

“Do you know Lord Monboddo?”

“I ken who he is fine. He’s one o’ thae auld humbugs o’ law lords that would be better retired out o’ the road to make room for some o’ the younger and more up-to-date men. You’ll need to come round to the Court o’ Session some day. You’ll see and hear some of the greatest oddities on the face o’ the earth—and Monboddo’s as odd as any o’ them.”

“I met him at Craig’s Close. He’s odd without a doubt—but he’s no fool for all that.”

“No ... no fool for himself—like the rest o’ them. Oh, they ken what side o’ their bannock’s best toasted.”

“There doesna seem to be any fools in Edinburgh?”

“Plenty—but you’re meeting only the privileged ones that are fooling the public—and robbing them at the same time.”

The Bard laughed. “By heavens, Jock, but you’ve become sour: there’ll soon be no living wi’ you.”

“There’ll soon be no living wi’ you, you mean! The next thing is you’ll be taking up rooms wi’ some lord, duke, earl or countess. I can see you marrying into the nobility a’ richt—and going hame to Machlin wi’ a crest on your carriage.”

“Aye—and the beggar’s benison written underneath it for a’bodies to see half a mile away.”

He drew his chair into the table and wrote to Gavin Hamilton in Machlin:

“7th December 1786

“Honoured Sir,

“I have paid every attention to your command, but can only say that Adamhill and Shawood were bought for Oswald’s folks...

“For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Bunyan; and you may expect henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events, in the Poor Robin’s and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with Black Monday and the Battle of Bothwell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn & the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing; and by all probability I shall soon be the tenth Worthy, and the eighth Wise Man, of the world. Through my Lord’s influence it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian Hunt, that they universally, one & all, subscribe for the 2nd Edition. My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of them next Post. I have met in Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield what Solomon emphatically calls “a friend that sticketh closer than a Brother.” The warmth with which he interests himself in my affairs is of the same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aiken, and the few Patrons that took notice of my earlier poetic days, showed for the poor unlucky devil of a Poet.

“I always remember Mrs. Hamilton & Miss Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in prose & verse.

“May Cauld ne’er catch you but a hap,

“Nor Hunger but in Plenty’s lap!

“Amen!”

He read the letter over. Aye: that would make Gavin open his eyes a bit wider. The tenth worthy, no less. But true enough if he was a fit and proper judge of all the signs and omens.

Maybe—maybe his luck was about to take a turn for the better. Maybe he was on the high road to success.

But deep within him there was doubt. Maybe he should write to his brother Gilbert—or to Robert Muir in Kilmarnock. To Gilbert he could express some of his fondest hopes.

But no: he would wait until he had his subscription bills in his hand. No doubt Gavin Hamilton would be so taken with his letter that he would show it to Gilbert.

And no doubt, if he knew Gavin, he would add his own comments—and Gibby would have a double message to take home to Mossgiel...