An eccentric character, such as is now rare in London, used till his death, a very few years ago, to frequent the well-known dinner house and tavern, called the Blue Posts, in Cork Street, a favourite resort, by-the-by, of Old Ebony when he visited town, and the haunt of the literati connected with “ma Mag” as well as of others, who contributed to the press in all directions. He was, it may be guessed, an Octogenarian, and his table and seat were invariably kept for him in a corner of the room, and he as invariably occupied them, summer and winter, as the clock struck his hour of seven. He was pointed out to me as a person who had been acquainted with Burns in his early days, when he came to Edinburgh with his first volume. This was very exciting news, and many an effort did I make to get introduced, so that I might hear something from a living witness of the glorious ploughman. At last I succeeded, and lost no time in popping the question about the poet’s appearance, his looks, his habits, and the most minute particulars my venerable friend could remember. Upon which he looked at me with a sort of wondering look, and answered:
| APPENDIX. | 211 |
“I mind (remember) Burns perfectly; but what more would you wish to know? He was a gauger (an exciseman) and it cost me a Guinea to subscribe to his nonsensical book, which might have been much better bestowed.”
I turned from my late respected informant with horror; and never would speak to him again as long as he lasted at the Blue Posts.
| ≪ PREV | NEXT ≫ |
