were proceeding between him and Mr.
Wainwright concerning the company and his firm, and whilst they were at
their height Mr. Wainwright was unexpectedly summoned to London and
detained there. Now Mr. Burns was a man who greatly disliked delay, and
I was told to see him and, if he wished, discuss the business with him,
and, if possible, further its progress. It was the way in which Mr.
Burns received me, young and inexperienced as I was, the manner in which
he discussed the subject and encouraged me, and the respect with which he
listened to my arguments, that surprised and delighted me. I left him,
feeling an elation of spirit, a glow of pride, a confidence in myself, as
new as it was unexpected. It is a fine trait in Scotchmen that, deeply
respecting themselves, they respect others. Difference of class or
position does not count much with them in comparison with merit or
sterling worth--

"_The rank is but the guinea's stamp_,
_The man's the gowd for a' that_."

Mr. Burns was a striking personality; strong and vigorous, mentally and
physically. He had a good voice, and was clear, decided and emphatic in
speech. He was a doughty champion of the Glasgow and South-Western
Company, with which at this time, affairs, like the course of true love,
did not run smooth. The dividend was down and discontented shareholders
were up in arms. Bitter attacks were made on the directors and the
management. Not that anything was really wrong, for the business of the
line was skilfully and honestly conducted, but the times were bad, and
"empty stalls make biting steeds." The very same shareholders who, when
returns are satisfactory, are as gentle as cooing doves, should revenue
and expenditure alter their relations to the detriment of dividend,
become critical, carping and impossible to please, though the directors
and management may be as innocent as themselves, and as powerless to stem
the tide of adversity. At shareholders' meetings Mr. Burns was splendid.
He rose after the critics had expended their force, or if the storm grew
too violent, intervened at its height, and with facts and figures and
sound argument always succeeded in restoring order and serenity. An
excellent story of him appeared about this time in _Good Words_. He,
Anthony Trollope and Norman Macleod were once at a little inn in the
Highlands. After supper, stories were told and the laughter, which was
loud and long, lasted far into the night. In