CHAPTER VII. ELLISLAND—JUNE 1788-DECEMBER 1791. AGE, 29-32. In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself tolerably secure: I have good hopes of my farm; but should they fail, I have an Excise commission, which, on my simple petition, will at any time procure me bread. There is a certain stigma affixed to the character of an Excise officer, but I do not pretend to borrow honour from my profession; and though the salary be comparatively small, it is luxury to anything that the first twenty-five years of my life taught me to expect.-Letter to Bishop Geddes. To make a happy fireside clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Epistle to Dr. Blacklock. HOWEVER disappointed and chagrined Burns may have felt over his second winter in Edinburgh, with his fresh farming project in view he left the city and returned to Mauchline as happy as "a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed earth after the long-expected shower." In June 1788, he entered into residence and duty at Ellisland, by far the most picturesque and romantic for situation of all his farm homes. The lands of Ellisland lie on the western side of the Nith, which here flows through a vale of richlyvaried loveliness. Up and down the river the views are scarcely surpassed in Scottish lowland scenery, while on the opposite bank the meads and forests of old Dalswinton spread themselves out in majestic beauty. The farmhouse stands close by the river-side, on the brow of a steep bank clad with trees and whins, among which there winds the secluded path where the Poet loved to stray and muse in leisure hours. It had been open to him to become tenant of a more fertile farm on the Dalswinton side of the Nith. His fixing upon Ellisland is said to have called forth the remark of the Dalswinton land-steward: "Mr. Burns, you have made a poet's, not a farmer's, choice;" and the result of his three years' tenancy fully bore out Mr. Cunningham's experienced observation. To Ellisland, however, Burns repaired, with inadequate capital indeed,-less than £300,but with more peace of mind and better hopes than he had known for many a day. The farm was in wretched condition, and, in accordance with his bargain, the Poet had also to begin the laborious task of erecting a new dwelling-house and offices. Meantime, he took up his residence in an outlying hovel on the farm, in which miserable tumble- down abode he describes himself to Mrs. Dunlop as "A solitary inmate of an old smoky spence, far from every object I love or by whom I am beloved, nor any acquaintance older than yesterday, except Jenny Geddes the old mare I ride on-while uncouth cares and novel plans hourly insult my awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience." And again, in his "Epistle to Hugh Parker," Kilmarnock : Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, Hid in an atmosphere of reek, I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, I hear it for in vain I leuk. Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, Dowie she saunters doon Nithside; And ay a westlin' leuk1 she throws, While tears hap ower her auld broon nose. In fact, he had so many cares and drudgeries to face at the very outset, that it need occasion no surprise to find 1 Towards Mossgiel and Mauchline. such a nature as his fretting under weary feelings of loneliness and misgiving. He was, for a time, literally a solitary stranger in a strange country-side. His suffering, however, in this lonely situation proved great gain to the realm of song. His "Bonnie Jean" could not yet find a home at Ellisland, and to her his thoughts oft turned with ardent longings, to which he gave undying voice in the well-known song, "O' a' the airts the wind can blaw," and in that other glowing lyric, "Oh, were I on Parnassus' Hill," which, we fancy, is not so widely known and admired as it deserves to be:: Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill! To sing how dear I love thee ! And write how dear I love thee. Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay! I couldna sing, I couldna say, How much, how dear I love thee. By night, by day, a-field, at hame, Though I were doomed to wander on, Till then-and then I'd love thee. During this busy summer he frequently traversed the five-and-forty miles which separated him from his wife and from the family circle at Mossgiel, only to hasten, after a brief visit, back again to his farming and building 1 Corsincon Hill, standing at the head of Nithsdale, on the way to Mauchline, where dwelt the absent idol of his love. H toils and cares. Jean's absence in Ayrshire, it is true, called forth from the wearying husband those two grand songs; but, apart from this, it would have been better in many ways for Burns if the dwelling-house at Ellisland had been ready to at once receive him and his household into quiet, settled home life. His solitary worries caused him to fret a good deal, and separation from his muchloved and devoted wife made him more than usually restless in his movements: "He was," says Mr. Cunningham, ever on the move, on foot or on horseback. In the course of a single day he might be seen holding the plough, angling in the river, sauntering, with his hands behind his back, on the banks, looking at the running water, of which he was very fond, walking round his buildings or over his fields; and if you lost sight of him for an hour, perhaps you might see him returning from Friar's Carse, or spurring his horse through the hills to spend an evening with such friends as chance threw in his way." His journeyings to and from Mauchline made further serious demands on his time and energy; and, worst of all, dragged him into company and indulgencies which greatly interfered with his resolutions of this time towards industry and self-control. How worthy and sincere these resolutions were may be gathered from a letter to Robert Ainslie, dated 30th June 1788: There is a great degree of folly in talking unnecessarily of one's private affairs. I have just now been interrupted by one of my new neighbours, who has made himself absolutely contemptible in my eyes by his silly, garrulous pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my own too; but from this moment I abjure it as I would the service of hell! Your poets, spendthrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence; but 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. Still, imprudence respecting money matters is much more pardonable than imprudence respecting character. I have no objection to prefer prodigality to avarice in some few instances; but I appeal to your observation if you have not met, and often met, with the same disingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insincerity and disintegrative depravity of principle, in the hackneyed victims of profusion as in the unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every possible reverence for the much-talked-of world beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety believes and virtue deserves may be all matter of fact. But in things belonging to and terminating in this present scene of existence, man has serious and interesting business on hand. Whether a man shall shake hands with welcome in the distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of insignificance; whether he shall wanton under the tropic of plenty—at least enjoy himself in the comfortable latitudes of easy convenience—or starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty; whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a galling load of regret and remorse-these are alternatives of the last moment. Mention has above been made of Friar's Carse, a picturesque little estate, owned by Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, a man of genial temperament and literary tastes, with whom the Poet now formed a pleasant and interesting intimacy. In the romantic grounds adjoining the fields of Ellisland, Captain Riddel had formed a shady retreat known as "The Hermitage," and there Burns was privileged to wander and muse amid a scene of great natural beauty and suggestive solitude. In his "Lines written in Friar's Carse Hermitage," under the assumed character of the hermit or bedesman of the place, we again discover his mind running in a rich strain of prudent and pious reflection. Burns subsequently revised and extended this poem : Thou whom chance may hither lead, Be thou deckt 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. As youth and love, with sprightly dance, May delude the thoughtless pair; As thy day grows warm and high, |