Chronicle of Scottish Poetry," and it is most probable he was the writer of the review; at all events, Burns was sensible of his obligation to such an authority, and in a letter to him, February 3, 1787, dated from his lodgings, Lawn Market, Edinburgh, he writes: "...The warmth with which you have befriended an obscure man, and young author in your three last magazines-I can only say, sir, I feel the weight of the obligation, and wish I could express my sense of it." NASMYTH'S PORTRAIT OF BURNS. 66 WHEN Andrew Park, the Glasglow poet, was a bookseller in Queen Street, some of his warmest admirers therein, or "thereabout," lounged away many an idle hour. There was an attraction near the shop. A quiet "howff"-Anglice, "a canny tavern "-was situated in the immediate vicinity, George Square, and there they often sojourned to "Mak' themselves uncommon happy, Over the fireplace of this same "howff" (a place frequented, long before Park's time, by Alexander Nasmyth, the painter, George Thompson, the Edinburgh musical publisher, and Robert Burns, when these worthies were going to, or coming from Edinburgh to the West country,) there hung in those days a life-sized bust portrait of Burns, specially painted by Nasmyth, from his original oil-sketch, for the then proprietor of the house. It was finished shortly after the occasion of the Ploughman Bard's great reception at Edinburgh by the "Gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt" and other notables. Colonel Nicol Burns related to the writer, in reference to this portrait, that he remembered hearing his father say to a travelling artist, who badly wanted once more to take the bard's portrait in Dumfries, how well he recollected "the day when Nosey Nasmyth took aff my head on his canvas, and when I felt like a man that was about to be hanged; "adding_" I would not go through the like again for a king's ransom." Nasmyth was a landscape painter by profession, and took no great pains to elaborate the first sketch, made at a short sitting. But he made the completed and larger work worthy of his subject, Burns being then the literary hero of the day. The bard, in the finished "howff" picture, was represented in his high-collared coat and well-turnedover flap-collar vest, of a brown and white-striped material, and with an amply-knotted white neckerchief. The background was composed of one of Nasmyth's cool "grey skies," before which there rose a few trees, which exhibited the peculiar free touches of leaf-work that characterized the artist's "Italian style" in his larger pictures. The portrait was set in an oval (canvas) framework, garlanded with roses, convolvoluses, heartsease, and other flowers; to which fails to be added the ever-ubiquitous thistle. At the base of the framework, on a slab, were introduced a bagpipe, shepherd's reed, a reaping-hook, a rake, and some rolls of musical MS. AT DUMFRIES. WILLY WASTLE GANGS ON A PILGRIMAGE. From the Peoples Journal. LAST autumn Janet an' me resolved to hae a cheenge o' air, an' haein' a far awa' kind o' an acquaintance in the 66 Queen o' the Sooth," we eleckit to turn oor staps thitherward. It's a canty, couth, cosh bit toon is Dumfries, and weel worth a veesit at ony time o' the year, and sud be a kind o' a Mecca and Medina to a' wha love the name o' Robert Burns. Janet's clean skeir aboot the poet; it's perfectly amazin' to hear her on a forenicht rattle aff" The Cottar's Saturday Night," "Hallowe'en," or " Tam O'Shanter." She gangs at it like ten ell o' blue reek, scarce takin' time to draw a breath till she has feenished. I'll bet M'Gonagall couldna haud the can'le till her fan she gets the steam up. It's no to be wondered at, then, whan I tell you that before we had been fower an' twenty 'oors within soond o' the Mid-Steeple she wis fair aff the bane to see some o' the places conneckit wi' her favourite poet. It wis a high ockashun, and Janet dressed hersel' in her 66 robe o' state, a black silk goon, a present frae an auld auntie noo defunct, wha wis a fell bit cummer aboot the early years o' the century, and she in her turn had heired it frae a second cousin, so it wis nae bairn, but it was sacredly keepit by Janet, only to be donned on the maist solemn occasions. We set oot wi' a plentifu' use o' Wallace's wapons, ax and speir," an' got intill a crookit disjaskit back street, perfumed wi' the odours o' a tanyard. We could see neither hilt nor hair o' Burns, but hailin' a barfitt bit loonie, and gi'en' him a bawbee, he convoyed us to the front o' a plain-lookin' twa-storey hoose next door to the Industrial Schule in Burns Street. A wee sign aboon the door speecifees that here Burns lived for some years, and there he dee'd; admittance, threepence each. Janet demurred to payin' the siller, though she thoucht it wis nae mair than richt, for the fowk wad need a guid supply o' caum, black lead, saip, and besoms, to keep it snod for veesitors. Just beyond the hoose, and in a nick on the front o' the Industrial Schule, stands a life-sized bust o' Burns, which we duly honoured as we passed; I lifted my hat and Janet drapped a gracefu' curtchey. A frowsy, ill-washed hizzy snichered at oor guid menners, but conscious o' dooin' oor duty to the genius o' the poet we ne'er heedit, but sauntered on. A few meenits brocht us tae St. Michael's Kirkyard, whaur the poet is buried. We mountit the staps and stood within the city o' the dead. Judgin' by the headstanes they maun be sons o' Anak that are maistly buried in it. I can best describe them in the words o' Lady Anne in Patience," "Not handsome but massive." 66 Followin' the path we were sune in the presence o' Burns's Masoleum, built ower the family grave. It's a'thing but bonnie, I can tell you, accordin' to my taste. I hae read o' some grand biggins describet as poems in stane, but I wad ca' this a pepper-box in stane. It needs sma' imagination to fancy the dome fou' o'sma' holes for the lid, and the shape o' the buildin' wi' its dull gless sides guarded wi' girdirons, will finish the fancy. The door is safely lockit, and to mak' still mair siccar an iron railin' and a wee yett still further keeps aff the intruders. A notice board is kindly provided to notifee whaur the keys are keepit. Lat's be thankfu' for that. Janet maun be inside, and orders me to gang and get the key. I had nae need to dae that, for I had noticed a chield wi' a bunch o' keys keepin' weel in sicht frae the time we entered the kirkyaird. I gied him a wink, and in a jiffey baith yett and door stood open, and we walked in. It wis the auld story, business combined wi' the worship o' genius. There was the usual case wi' its books and fottygraffs. The headstane is laid upon the flure that covers the family vault, and abune that, and fillin' ae side o' the biggan, is what they ca' a bass relief, dune by Turnerelli, o' gowden wreath fame. Its a grand show. Burns is stan'in' beside a pleugh graspin' his braid blue bonnet wi' baith hands to his breist an' lookin' up at a lithesome swank hizzie fleein' i' the air, wallopin' a sheet abune the poet's heid as if she was singing "Here comes the Bogie Man." You can easily see by the 66 man-was-made-to-mourn " look o' his face that he disna approve o' sic like cantrips, but is sayin' "Come, come, ma woman, ye maunna frivel." Janet was in thrang confab wi' the doorkeeper, gettin' a full and parteekler account o' the poet's family, whase names are in tablet on the wa's. Efter signin' oor names in a muckle beuk we stappit oot o' the sacred spot and the hoose and its surroundings were aince mair made public proof. The chappie lookit wi' a peculiar glint in his e'e that ga'ed hame to my heart, and I speired if I had onything to pey. "There wis nae chairge," he said, "just what you like." I gied that trifle wi' a grudge. No that I blame the man. He was but a servant. I consider it naething less than a national disgrace that the grave o' Scotia's bard should be locked up, and the admirers of the poet admitted only by the " open sesame o' backsheesh. When it dawned upon Janet that I wis gien the man bawbees she wis neither to haud nor bind. Certes me, she gied that man his kail through the reek. I tried to act as a buffer and meeneemeese the collision, but no ae fit wid she move till she had toomed the vials o' her wrath on his heid. If siller be needit to keep up the fabric there are hearts warm eneuch and purses lang eneuch in braid Scotland to subscribe the sun for a' time to come. Why sud there be a tax on the worship o' genius? Why should the grave o' Burns not be as free as his name is an honour to the nation? It is a national disgrace that Scotia's sons and dochters when they visit the grave o' him "wha sang to them the auld Scotch sangs " should hae to seek keys, or bestow backsheesh, before they are allooed to stand by the poet's grave wha sae bountifully got his heart's wish. That I, for puir auld Scotland's sake, BURNS AND "WEE DAVOCK." An incident in the life of Burns during the period of his residence at Mossgiel, which shows the character of the poet in a light everywhere reflected in his writings, has reference to the fortunes of" Wee Davock," an incidental mention of whom, in his poem "The Inventory," has been passed over by every editor of the life and works of Burns. In May, 1785, with a view to liquidate ten millions of unfunded debt, Mr. Pitt made a large addition to the number of taxed articles, and amongst these were female servants. It became the duty of his friend and patron Mr. Robert Aitken, as surveyor for the district in which Burns lived, to serve the usual notice on the poet, who on receipt of it made his return in the amusing poem called "The Inventory," in which he gives. A faithfu' list O' gudes an' gear an' a' my graith, He goes on to say : For men, I've three mischievous boys, I on the "Questions" targe them tightly |