te of wrath and indignation at, what he
considered, Burns's neglect, and no apologies could soften his mood.
He had already ordered horses, and was venting his anger on the (p. 069)
postillion for the slowness with which he obeyed his commands. The
poet, finding that he must choose between the ducal circle and his
irascible associate, at once chose the latter alternative. Nicol and
he, in silence and mutual displeasure, seated themselves in the
post-chaise, and turned their backs on Gordon Castle, where the poet
had promised himself some happy days. This incident may serve to
suggest some of the annoyances to which persons moving, like our poet,
on the debatable land between two different ranks of society must ever
be subjected." "To play the lion under such circumstances must," as
the knowing Lockhart observes, "be difficult at the best; but a
delicate business indeed, when the jackals are presumptuous. The
pedant could not stomach the superior success of his friend, and
yet--alas for poor human nature!--he certainly was one of the most
enthusiastic of his admirers, and one of the most affectionate of all
his intimates." It seems that the Duchess of Gordon had some hope that
her friend, Mr. Addington, afterwards Lord Sidmouth and the future
premier, would have visited at Gordon Castle while Burns was there.
Mr. Addington was, Allan Cunningham tells us, an enthusiastic admirer
of Burns's poetry, and took pleasure in quoting it to Pitt and
Melville. On that occasion he was unfortunately not able to accept the
invitation of the Duchess, but he forwarded to her "these memorable
lines--memorable as the first indication of that deep love which
England now entertains for the genius of Burns:"--

Yes! pride of Scotia's favoured plains, 'tis thine
The warmest feelings of the heart to move;
To bid it throb with sympathy divine,
To glow with friendship, or to melt with love.

What though each morning sees thee rise to toil, (p. 070)
Though Plenty on thy cot no blessing showers,
Yet Independence cheers thee with her smile,
And Fancy strews thy moorland with her flowers!

And dost thou blame the impartial will of Heaven,
Untaught of life the good and ill to scan?
To thee the Muse's choicest wreath is given--
To thee the genuine dignity of man!

Then to the want of