Читать книгу The Wonder of All the Gay World - James William Barke - Страница 9

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From early morning the Landmarket clattered with life—hummed, jostled, throbbed and hog-shouldered.

The wynds and closes emptied their life onto it in the morning even as they emptied their excrement onto it in the night.

In his shut-away narrow segment of Edinburgh the Bard was conscious of its jundying and hog-shouldering ... and the interminable scliff-scliffing of feet in Lady Stair’s Close...

He emerged rather late in the morning from Baxters’ Close, almost colliding with a bleary-eyed bawd at the close-head. He grued; for he was not feeling well. The unaccustomed alcohol still played havoc with his stomach.

The Landmarket was cold and grey and bitterly wind-swept for it lay high on the ridge of the Rock. The booths and stalls that were put up close to the side-walk were bare and hungry and Decemberish enough for this time of the year. But they had potatoes and kail and a few turnips and plenty of leeks and some roots fresh dug that morning from the Portobello sandpits...

Had he been an unlettered rustic he would have stood and stared in wonder and awe. But he was a much-lettered rustic and his wonder and awe were of a higher order.

He had read much about Edinburgh—and even about London and Paris. Many things did not surprise him. But he thrilled to the active physical contact of Edinburgh; its cobbled causeways; its high tenement lands piled stone on stone to dizzy heights; its noises and stinks and smells. And above all: its humanity.

The citizenry of Auld Reekie were an amazingly diverse yet homogeneous lot. All classes intermingled and jostled and yet did not quite mix. There was every variety of dress and clothes imaginable. Many clung to the styles (and perhaps to the actual garments) of half a century ago. Some were in the latest fashion. And so many of the very poor were clad in the patched cast-offs of the wealthier class...

Such Landmarket (and Gosford’s Close) personalities as James Brodie, the surgeon, John Caw, the grocer, and John Anderson, the wig-maker, could and did exchange pleasantries whenever and wherever they met. Even James Home Rigg, Esquire, of Morton, having a chat with General John Houston, would bow to Mrs. MacPherson who, though a landlady, described herself as a setter of elegant-rooms and who was considered a distinct cut above Mrs. MacLeod who let rooms in the same close. Nor was it thought amiss that Robert Middlemist, the dancing master, stood laughing and joking with Mrs. Robertson who kept “the best ales.” They were more than citizens: they were all inhabitants of the vertical street that was called Gosford’s Close, emptying on to the Landmarket. Stephen Clarke, the organist of the Episcopal Church, might not care very much for James Leishman, the bookbinder; but both were very civil to Mrs. Harvey, the writer’s wife.

The Bard, as he slowly sauntered down the Landmarket, could not tell General John Houston from organist Stephen Clarke, nor had he any means of knowing that they both lived in the same dark smelly turnpike-staired vertical street, with slum-dwellers on the ground and slum-dwellers in the attics and with various grades of gentry in between.

But he was aware of a close familiarity between many of the folks who jostled about the narrow side-walks or who exchanged greetings or conversed on the causeway: conscious of the fact that pools of human friendship or neighbourliness gathered on the edge of the general stream of human indifference.

He sauntered slowly down to the Luckenbooths—that long rectangular block of narrow buildings (the locked booths of the merchants) that almost blocked the street in front of the four kirks that huddled beneath the crown spire of Saint Giles’s...

In front of the Luckenbooths (and attached to them) stood the Tolbooth—the grim prison where so many famous and infamous Scots had dreed their weirds, and where, even as the Bard passed it, languished many debtors and felons in incredible dirt darkness and pestilential foulness. Yet such was the thickness of its walls that nothing of the human misery and suffering seeped through to the passers-by. In the stillness of the night weird and pitiful shrieks and groans sometimes emerged half-strangled from the narrow slits of windows...

But the Bard was conscious of outlines and façades in a generalised way: the scene was too variegated and diversified for him to note (and relate) the details.

He went down through the Buthraw between the booths and the close-mouths on the left side of the High Street. He now emerged onto the broadened High Street at its greatest breadth. Here faced the east gable-end (and entrance) to Creech’s Land and, in the Saint Giles’s corner, the main entrance to the Parliament Close. Though Creech’s Land dated back to the year 1600 the wretched Luckenbooths to which it was attached dated back to the year 1400.

A couple of hundred yards from Creech’s Land and a little to the right side stood the Mercat Cross, the centre of Edinburgh and hence, in a very true sense, the centre of Scotland.

Already, for the morning was wearing on, there was a great crowd of people, apart from the ebb and flow of traffic, gathered round the Cross. It was an extraordinary crowd of people; but then it was rather extraordinary that here (unless the weather were too inclement) the business and gossip of the Edinburgh morning was done. Almost anybody of even the least consequence could be found about the Cross between eleven and twelve o’clock on every working day. At twelve o’clock there was a general break-up and men moved off to their respective howffs to enjoy their meridians!

As the Bard emerged from the narrow Buthraw the morning session of gabble and gossip was at its height.

Some chatted gaily and some discoursed gravely and many listened with an anxious and attentive ear cocked over two or three twists of knitted cravat. It was a raw morning and hats were well pulled down where wigs allowed. And what a variety of hats there were: cocked hats, three-cornered hats, beaver hats, hats trimmed with lace, slouch hats, hats with brims that drooped and hats with brims that curled—and some blue-bonnets. All, except the blue-bonnets, sitting or perched on as wide a variety of wigs.

Since the day was raw everybody was wrapped to the chin and clad in great-coats with frilled and embroidered skirts, sporting shoulder capes plain or scalloped. Some huddled in capes with arm-hole slits... Many men wore mittens and some went to the extravagance of gloves...

An occasional sedan-chair, carried fore and aft by Highland porters, steered an uneven course through the crowd carrying a fair damsel to an appointment for tea, or with the hairdresser—or maybe to get fitted with the latest outsize in artificial bums from London.

And on the fringe of the crowd passed up and down the tradesfolk of the Town—working women in their shuffling wooden pattens and striped petticoats and servant-lassies in bare legs and shawls. And occasionally came a fisher-wife or lass from Newhaven, bent forwards, creel on back, making for the closes and wynds of their choice with the early morning’s catch from the Forth.

This heterogenous press of humanity almost bewildered the Bard. For a brief moment he wanted to turn and seek an escape from it. But the moment passed. He had come to Edinburgh in order to win a measure of success for himself. And if the Earl of Glencairn could interest himself in his affairs why should he fear a crowd that neither knew him nor cared for him?

He smacked his riding-crop sharply on his booted leg and turned on his heel.

Creech’s shop faced him in the gable-end with his name painted in distinct lettering above his entrance door.

He approached the building slowly. It was difficult to believe that his fate might be contained between those two windows and behind that narrow doorway. And what was the knot of folks doing round the door? What were they talking about and what were their interests? But he must not allow his fears to overcome his resolve. There could surely be no harm in a rustic bard taking an interest in a bookshop or making enquiries about Allan Ramsay’s library.

He plucked up courage and mounted the three semi-circular steps to the doorway. Inside there were groups of people talking and laughing. He was conscious that they eyed him with some curiosity. He looked around him; but there was little evidence of books. He had imagined that the shop would be full of them. Instead there were some small tables with a number of volumes laid out on them—much as if they were samples not to be handled.

While he looked about him with a growing sense of confusion, a small dapper fellow in shiny black silk breeches detached himself from a group and approached him with a somewhat supercilious air.

“You wish to make a purchase: a Bible perhaps?”

“Not at the moment, sir. I wished to know if I stood on the floor of Allan Ramsay’s celebrated library?”

“My dear fellow, Allan Ramsay is dead this long time. His library was above this: premises now occupied by me.”

William Creech was long used to summing up his customers at a glance. He prided himself that he could anticipate their wants almost before they had given expression to them. He had assumed that the Bard belonged to that nondescript class whose sole interest in entering his bookshop was to make the common purchase of a Bible. He was somewhat discomfited to find that he was mistaken. But the look in the stranger’s eyes and the quality of his voice also discomfited him. Both were remarkable. This stranger to the Town was no less a stranger to his wonted method of classification. Mr. Creech was puzzled; and he did not like to be puzzled.

“Perhaps there is some other volume you would care to purchase?”

“Had I money, sir, there is scarce a volume I would not care to purchase.”

“Well, well, now! You may look around you: something may strike your fancy.” And with that Mr. Creech returned to his companions and the Bard walked out of his shop.

When he returned a few days later in the company of the Earl of Glencairn, his reception was vastly different.

Creech had spied them from his inner office, and came tripping down the wooden stairs to meet them. He made a low bow to Glencairn, who then extended his hand.

“Willie: I hae come to introduce to you a countryman of mine—the justly-celebrated ploughman-poet: Robert Burns. Burns: mak’ the acquaintance of my good friend William Creech.”

A shifty look crept into the corner of Creech’s cunning eye. He had just finished reading the proof of Henry MacKenzie’s review of the Kilmarnock Poems for The Lounger which he published. The meeting could not have been more opportune.

“You do me a great honour, my Lord. But indeed, if I am not mistaken, Mr. Burns and I have already met. Did you not ask me a question the other day about Allan Ramsay’s library? But do me the honour, my Lord, to step with me into my inner sanctum where we will enjoy some privacy.”

When they were seated, James Cunningham came to the point.

“Willie: I want you to bring out an edition of Burns’s poetry. The Kilmarnock edition is sold out and yet everybody is clamouring for a copy; and richtly so. Burns, I believe, has some excellent pieces by him that have not yet appeared. Mak’ it an elegant edition, Willie. I’m arranging for the Caledonian Hunt to subscribe in a body at half a guinea. That’ll more than ensure the success o’ the volume.”

“A new edition? My Lord can be assured that I’ll give the matter my earnest consideration.”

“Damn your consideration, Willie. You’ll bring out the edition wi’ all the speed you can command; and that’s an end to it. I want a parcel o’ subscription bills within the week.”

“My Lord kens that I will treat his merest request as it were a royal command. But my Lord well understands there are business matters that’ll require some consideration.”

“I’ll leave such to Burns and you. And I want Burns treated with every consideration. He’s a worthy and excellent fellow. See that he meets all the literati here—introduce him into the best circles. Let me know if at any time I can be of use in furthering his interests. When you hae settled all the details, bring him out wi’ you to Coates House and we’ll hae a party. My kinsman Orangefield, Sir John Whitefoord and Harry Erskine have all taken him by the hand: so you needna think I’m imposing some upstart on you.”

“Indeed, my Lord, the thought never crossed my mind. Mr. Burns’s fame has already reached me. I had a letter about him from Mr. Aiken in Ayr. The next copy of The Lounger will contain a most enthusiastic review of the Kilmarnock volume from the distinguished pen of Henry MacKenzie.”

“And why shouldna he be enthusiastic? I’d like to see him write half as well as our young friend here.”

“Still, my Lord, Henry MacKenzie’s seal of approval means a great deal in the literary world. Indeed, I would not be exaggerating to say that he settles the question for all time.”

“These are literary matters, Willie; and I don’t give a hoot for them. I can settle my own judgments without any assistance from Henry MacKenzie. Now, I’ll leave you twa to settle matters atween you to your mutual satisfaction. But remember that Burns is my verra special concern. Don’t allow Willie Creech to overawe you, Burns. He is a canny business man; but for all that he’s a sterling good fellow and will do his best for you...”

When Glencairn had gone, Creech thought for a few moments. What worried him was how Burns had managed to secure Glencairn’s patronage. But the Bard had nothing to hide.

“I first made the acquaintanceship of Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield through one of my Ayr patrons—Robert Aiken.”

“Ah, worthy Robert Aiken! He is, of course, sib to the Dalrymple family through marriage. And Orangefield introduced you to my Lord Glencairn?”

“Yes; but the Earl’s factor at Finlayson, Mr. Alexander Dalziel, also introduced my Kilmarnock volume to him; and then a worthy friend of my father, and of mine, Mr. Tennant in Glenconner brought the volume to the notice of the Earl’s mother, the Dowager; and my Lord tells me that he had brought a copy here with a view to making its merits known among the first people of the Town.”

“Indeed, indeed! Most interesting, Mr. Burns! You are fortunate in having so liberal and distinguished a patron. The Earl and myself once travelled together a great deal on the Continent. I am much attached to the Glencairn interests.”

“That I can well understand, Mr. Creech. I cannot imagine a more worthy man or a more noble Lord. His taking me by the hand in the manner he has done: the fact that he has shared with me the honour of his table at Coates House, has more than endeared him to me. I shall ever be in his debt and shall ever remember him with the deepest gratitude and affection.”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Burns: yes, indeed... ! I gather, Mr. Burns, that you are an unlettered ploughman? You will not misunderstand me when I say that you dinna speak like one. It is patent, sir, that you’ve been more than ordinarily educated.”

“My education is nothing. I owe a great debt to an early childhood dominie: I owe more to my worthy parent who was a man of very singular parts. The rest I owe to my ability, such as it is, to read books and profit from them.”

“And you’ve read widely and well, Mr. Burns. D’you intend to embark upon literature as a career?”

“I hadn’t aimed so high, Mr. Creech. I’m not at all confirmed in myself that my abilities would in any way be equal to the support of such an ambition.”

“Very commendable, Mr. Burns. In a pecuniary sense there is little profit in poetry. Indeed, I know of no other branch of literary commerce so attended with disappointment. That, I am afraid, is what my Lord Glencairn does not so readily understand. I will, of course, assist you with all my powers. But I’m afraid I couldna bind myself to the loss that such a project might well entail. Still: I should be more than delighted to act as your agent in this matter. I could, for example, undertake to arrange the printing, binding and sale of the volume: provided that you paid for these expenses out of the proceeds of the sale of the volume! The profit—less a small percentage to cover my own expenses of the sale—would accrue to yourself.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Creech, I’ve no funds at my disposal to finance any such venture.”

“I understand that, Mr. Burns. Suppose we get Mr. Smellie to print and Mr. Scott to bind? I think they might, like myself, be prepared to stand out their money until the returns from the sales come in. Of course, we would require to put out a prospectus to gauge the pulse of the public. If the subscription was well taken up, I fancy that would be enough guarantee with Smellie and Scott. Would you care to step across with me to the Anchor Close where we could have a word with Mr. Smellie? ’Tis but a step. Smellie is a very shrewd man: it would be well to have his observations and advice...”