Burns: Some of them. And there have been consolations even beyond that. The old man, and the boy, and you. But the others—you heard. Why should I? Where does it lead me?
Mrs. Stewart: Success at the Barley Sheaf is more gratifying?
Burns: I know, madam, I know. But I shall never learn discipline.
Mrs. Stewart: Not even for the sake of your friends?
Burns: In a few weeks I shall have passed out of all this—back from it, if you will. My friends, who will they be then? I do not expect remembrance.
Mrs. Stewart: That is not kind.
Burns: It is generous of you to think it. O, I am not ungrateful, believe me. I have been fortunate in opinions that I shall cherish. But those—with their vineyards, and preachments over me, and Akensides, and Wilson’s bookshop—did you hear that? My time may come, but it is not now, in Edinburgh.
Mrs. Stewart: And so birthright may be wasted, at the Barley Sheaf?
Burns: Do not let me deceive you, madam. Like my songs—yes, I pray you will do that. But they thrive in that company—I am at home there. I am not proud of it, and it will settle my account early, likely enough. But I know my condition. Virtue was born a caprice in me, madam, and fortune has not husbanded her for me. I sing sometimes, and for the rest I have no talent, perhaps, but a little to know myself.
Mrs. Stewart: I understand. And you will be yourself.