Jeanie Burns
"Ah, human hearts are strangely cast,
Time softens grief and pain;
Like reeds that shiver in the blast,
They bend to rise again.
But she in silence bowed her head,
To none her sorrow would impart;
Earth's faithful arms enclose the dead,
And hide for aye her broken heart!"
S.M.
While the steamboat is leaving Cobourg in the distance, and, through the
hours of night and darkness, holds on her course to Toronto, I will
relate another true but mournful history from the romance of real life,
that was told to me during my residence in this part of the country.
One morning our man-servant, James N---, came to me to request the
loan of one of the horses to attend a funeral. M--- was absent on
business at Toronto, and the horses and the man's time were both greatly
needed to prepare the land for the full crop of wheat. I demurred; James
looked anxious and disappointed; and the loan of the horse was at length
granted, but not without a strict injunction that he should return to
his work directly the funeral was over. He did not come back until late
that evening.
I had just finished my tea, and was nursing my wrath at his staying out
the whole day, when the door of the room (we had but one, and that was
shared in common with the servants) opened, and the delinquent at last
appeared. He hung up the new English saddle, and sat down before the
blazing hearth without speaking a word.
"What detained you so long, James? You ought to have had half an acre of
land, at least, ploughed to-day."
"Verra true, mistress; it was nae fau't o' mine. I had mista'en the
hour; the funeral did na come in afore sundoon, an' I cam' awa' as sune
as it was owre."
"Was it any relation of yours?"
"Na', na', jest a freend, an auld acquaintance, but nane o' mine ain kin.
I never felt sae sad in a' my life as I ha'e dune this day. I ha'e seen
the clods piled on mony a heid, an' never felt the saut tear in my een.
But puir Jeanie! puir lass! it was a sair sight to see them thrown down
upon her."
My curiosity was excited; I pushed the tea-things from me, and told
Bell, my maid, to give James his supper.
"Naething for me the night, Bell. I canna' eat; my thoughts will a' run
on that puir lass. Sae young, sae bonnie, an' a few months ago as blythe
as a lark, an' noo a clod o' the airth. Hout! we maun a' dee when our ain
time comes; but, somehow, I canna think that Jeanie ought to ha'e gane
sae sune."
"Who is Jeanie Burns? Tell me, James, something about her?"
In compliance with my request, the man gave me the following story.
I wish I could convey it in his own words; but though I perfectly
understand the Scotch dialect when I hear it spoken, I could not write
it in its charming simplicity,--that honest, truthful brevity, which is
so characteristic of this noble people. The smooth tones of the blarney
may flatter our vanity, and please us for the moment, but who places
any confidence in those by whom it is employed? We know that it is only
uttered to cajole and deceive; and when the novelty wears off, the
repetition awakens indignation and disgust. But who mistrusts the blunt,
straightforward speech of the land of Burns? For good or ill, it strikes
home to the heart.
Jeanie Burns was the daughter of a respectable shoemaker, who gained a
comfortable living by his trade in a small town of Ayrshire. Her father,
like herself, was an only child, and followed the same vocation, and
wrought under the same roof that his father had done before him. The
elder Burns had met with many reverses, and now, helpless and blind,
was entirely dependent upon the charity of his son. Honest Jock had not
married until late in life, that he might more comfortably provide for
the wants of his aged parents. His mother had been dead for some years.
She was a good, pious woman, and Jock quaintly affirmed "that it had
pleased the Lord to provide a better inheritance for his dear auld
mither than his arm could win, proud an' happy as he wud ha'e been to
ha'e supported her, when she was nae langer able to work for him."
Jock's filial love was repaid at last. Chance threw in his way a cannie
young lass, baith gude an' bonnie, an' wi' a hantel o' siller. They were
united, and Jeanie was the sole fruit of the marriage. But Jeanie proved
a host in herself, and grew up the best-natured, the prettiest, and the
most industrious girl in the village, and was a general favourite with
young and old. She helped her mother in the house, bound shoes for her
father, and attended to all the wants of her dear old grandfather,
Saunders Burns, who was so much attached to his little handmaid, that
he was never happy when she was absent.
Happiness, however, is not a flower of long growth in this world; it
requires the dew and sunlight of heaven to nourish it, and it soon
withers, removed from its native skies. The cholera visited the remote
village; it smote the strong man in the pride of his strength, and the
matron in the beauty of her prime, while it spared the helpless and the
aged, the infant of a few days, and the patriarch of many years. Both
Jeanie's parents fell victims to the fatal disease, and the old blind
Saunders and the young Jeanie were left to fight alone a hard battle
with poverty and grief.
The truly deserving are never entirely forsaken; God may afflict them
with many trials, but He watches over them still, and often provides
for their wants in a manner truly miraculous. Sympathizing friends
gathered round the orphan girl in her hour of need, and obtained for
her sufficient employment to enable her to support her old grandfather
and herself, and provide for them the common necessaries of life.
Jeanie was an excellent sempstress, and what between making waistcoats
and trousers for the tailors, and binding shoes for the shoemakers,--a
business that she thoroughly understood,--she soon had her little hired
room neatly furnished, and her grandfather as clean and spruce as ever.
When she led him into the kirk of a sabbath morning, all the neighbours
greeted the dutiful daughter with an approving smile, and the old man
looked so serene and happy that Jeanie was fully repaid for her labours
of love.
Her industry and piety often formed the theme of conversation to the
young lads of the village. "What a guid wife Jeanie Burns wull mak'!"
cried one.
"Aye," said another; "he need na complain of ill fortin who has the luck
to get the like o' her."
"An' she's sae bonnie," would Willie Robertson add, with a sigh; "I wud
na covet the wealth o' the hale world an' she were mine."
Willie Robertson was a fine active young man, who bore an excellent
character, and his comrades thought it very likely that Willie was
to be the fortunate man. Robertson was the son of a farmer in the
neighbourhood; he had no land of his own, and he was the youngest of a
very large family. From a boy he had assisted his father in working the
farm for their common maintenance; but after he took to looking at Jeanie
Burns at kirk, instead of minding his prayers, he began to wish that he
had a homestead of his own, which he could ask Jeanie and her
grandfather to share.
He made his wishes known to his father. The old man was prudent. A
marriage with Jeanie Burns offered no advantages in a pecuniary view;
but the girl was a good, honest girl, of whom any man might be proud. He
had himself married for love, and had enjoyed great comfort in his wife.
"Willie, my lad," he said, "I canna gi'e ye a share o' the farm. It is
owre sma' for the mony mouths it has to feed. I ha'e laid by a hantel o'
siller for a rainy day, an' this I maun gi'e ye to win a farm for
yoursel' in the woods of Canada. There is plenty o' room there, an'
industry brings its ain reward. If Jeanie Burns lo'es you as weel as
your dear mither did me, she will be fain to follow you there."
Willie grasped his father's hand, for he was too much elated to speak,
and he ran away to tell his tale of love to the girl of his heart.
Jeanie had long loved Robertson in secret, and they were not long in
settling the matter. They forgot, in their first moments of joy, that
old Saunders had to be consulted, for they had determined to take the
old man with them. But here an obstacle occurred, of which they had not
dreamed. Old age is selfish, and Saunders obstinately refused to comply
with their wishes. The grave that held the remains of his wife and son,
was dearer to him than all the comforts promised to him by the impatient
lovers in that far foreign land. Jeanie wept, but Saunders, deaf and
blind, neither heard nor saw her grief, and like a dutiful child she
breathed no complaint to him, but promised to remain with him until his
head rested on the same pillow with the dead.
This was a sore and great trial to Willie Robertson, but he consoled
himself for the disappointment with the reflection that Saunders, in the
course of nature, could not live long; and that he would go and prepare
a place for his Jean, and have everything ready for her reception
against the old man died.
"I was a cousin of Willie's," continued James, "by the mither's side,
an' her persuaded me to go wi' him to Canada. We set sail the first o'
May, an' were here in time to chop a sma' fallow for our fall crop.
Willie had more o' the warld's gear than I, for his father had provided
him wi' sufficient funds to purchase a good lot o' wild land, which he
did in the township of M---, an' I was to wark wi' him on shares. We
were amang the first settlers in that place, an' we found the wark
before us rough an' hard to our heart's content. Willie, however, had
a strong motive for exertion, an' neever did man wark harder than he
did that first year on his bush-farm, for the love o' Jeanie Burns. We
built a comfortable log-house, in which we were assisted by the few
nieighbours we had, who likewise lent a han' in clearing ten acres we
had chopped for fall crop.
"All this time Willie kept up a correspondence wi' Jeanie; an' he used
to talk to me o' her comin' out, an' his future plans, every night when
our wark was dune. If I had na lovit and respected the girl mysel', I
sud ha'e got unco tired o' the subject.
"We had jest put in our first crop o' wheat, when a letter cam' frae
Jeanie bringin' us the news o' her grandfather's death. Weel I ken the
word that Willie spak' to me when he closed the letter,--'Jamie, the
auld man's gane at last; an' God forgi'e me, I feel too gladsome to
greet. Jeanie is willin' to come whenever I ha'e the means to bring her
out; an' hout, man, I'm jest thinkin' that she winna ha'e to wait lang.'
"Guid workmen were gettin' very high wages jest then, an' Willie left
the care o' the place to me, an' hired for three months wi' auld squire
Jones, in the next township. Willie was an unco guid teamster, an' could
put his han' to ony kind o' wark; an' when his term o' service expired,
he sent Jeanie forty dollars to pay her passage out, which he hoped she
would not delay longer than the spring.
"He got an answer frae Jeanie full o' love an' gratitude; but she
thought that her voyage might be delayed until the fall. The guid
woman with whom she had lodged sin' her parents died had jest lost her
husband, an' was in a bad state o' health, an' she begged Jeanie to bide
wi' her until her daughter could leave her service in Edinburgh, an' come
to tak' charge o' the house. This person had been a kind an' steadfast
frin' to Jeanie in a' her troubles, an' had helped her to nurse the auld
man in his dyin' illness. I am sure it was jest like Jeanie to act as
she did; she had all her life looked more to the comforts of others than
to her ain. Robertson was an angry man when he got that letter, an' he
said,--'If that was a' the lo'e that Jeanie Burns had for him, to prefer
an auld wife's comfort, wha was naething to her, to her betrothed
husband, she might bide awa' as lang as she pleased; he would never fash
himsel' to mak' screed o' a pen to her agen.'
"I could na think that the man was in earnest, an' I remonstrated wi'
him on his folly an' injustice. This ended in a sharp quarrel atween us,
and I left him to gang his ain gate, an' went to live with my uncle, who
kept the smithy in the village.
"After a while, we heard that Willie Robertson was married to a
Canadian woman, neither young nor good-looking, an' varra much his
inferior every way; but she had a guid lot o' land in the rear o'
his farm. Of course I thought it was a' broken aff wi' puir Jean, an'
I wondered what she wud spier at the marriage.
"It was early in June, an' the Canadian woods were in their first
flush o' green,--an' how green an' lightsome they be in their spring
dress!--when Jeanie Burns landed in Canada. She travelled her lane up
the country, wonderin' why Willie was not at Montreal to meet her, as
he had promised in the last letter he sent her. It was late in the
afternoon when the steamboat brought her to Cobourg, an' without waitin'
to ask any questions respectin' him, she hired a man an' cart to take
her an' her luggage to M---. The road through the bush was varra heavy,
an' it was night before they reached Robertson's clearin'. Wi' some
difficulty the driver fund his way among the charred logs to the cabin
door.
"Hearin' the sound o' wheels, the wife--a coarse, ill-dressed
slattern--cam' out to spier wha' could bring strangers to sic' an
out-o'-the-way place at that late hour. Puir Jeanie! I can weel imagin'
the flutterin' o' her heart, when she spiered o' the coarse wife 'if
her ain Willie Robertson was at hame?'
"'Yes,' answered the woman, gruffly; 'but he is not in frae the fallow
yet. You maun ken him up yonder, tending the blazing logs.'
"Whiles Jeanie was strivin' to look in the direction which the woman
pointed out, an' could na see through the tears that blinded her e'e,
the driver jumped down frae the cart, an' asked the puir lass whar he
sud leave her trunks, as it was getting late, and he must be aff.
"'You need na bring thae big kists in here,' quoth Mistress Robertson;
'I ha'e na room in my house for strangers an' their luggage.'
"'Your house!' gasped Jeanie, catchin' her arm. 'Did ye na tell me that
_he_ lived here?--an' wherever Willie Robertson bides, Jeanie Burns sud
be a welcome guest. Tell him,' she continued, tremblin' all owre,--for
she telt me afterwards that there was somethin' in the woman's look an'
tone that made the cold chills run to her heart, 'that an auld frind
frae Scotland has jest come aff a lang, wearisome journey, to see him.'
"'You may spier for yoursel',' said the woman, angrily. 'My husband is
noo comin' dune the clearin'.'
"The word husband was scarcely out o' her mouth, than puir Jeanie fell
as ane dead across the door-stair. The driver lifted up the unfortunat'
girl, carried her into the cabin, an' placed her in a chair, regardless
o' the opposition of Mistress Robertson, whose jealousy was now fairly
aroused, an' she declared that the bold hizzie sud not enter her doors.
"It was a long time afore the driver succeeded in bringin' Jeanie to
hersel'; an' she had only jest unclosed her een, when Willie cam' in.
"'Wife,' he said, 'whose cart is this standin' at the door? an' what do
these people want here?'
"'You ken best,' cried the angry woman. 'That creater is nae
acquaintance o' mine; an' if she is suffered to remain here, I will
quit the house.'
"'Forgi'e me, gude woman, for having unwittingly offended you,' said
Jeanie, rising; 'but mercifu' Father! how sud I ken that Willie
Robertson--my ain Willie--had a wife? Oh, Willie!' she cried, coverin'
her face in her hands, to hide a' the agony that was in her heart, 'I
ha'e come a lang way, an' a weary, to see ye, an' ye might ha'e spared
me the grief, the burnin' shame o' this. Fareweel, Willie Robertson! I
will never mair trouble ye nor her wi' my presence; but this cruel deed
o' yours has broken my heart!'
"She went her lane weepin'; an' he had na the courage to detain her, or
speak ae word o' comfort in her sair distress, or attempt to gi'e ony
account o' his strange conduct. Yet, if I ken him right, that must ha'e
been the most sorrowfu' moment in his life.
"Jeanie was a distant connexion o' my aunt's; an' she found us out that
night, on her return to the village, an' tould us a' her grief. My aunt
was a kind, guid woman, an' was indignant at the treatment she had
received, an' loved and cherished her as if she had been her ain bairn.
For two whole weeks she kept her bed, an' was sae ill that the doctor
despaired o' her life; and when she did come amang us agen, the rose
had faded aff her cheek, an' the light frae her sweet blue e'e, an' she
spak' in a low, subdued voice; but she never accused him o' being the
cause o' her grief. One day she called me aside and said--
"'Jamie, you ken'd how I lo'ed an' trusted him, an' obeyed his ain wish
in comin' out to this wearisome country to be his wife. But 'tis a' owre
now.' An' she passed her sma' hands tightly owre her breast, to keep
doon the swellin' o' her heart. 'Jamie, I ken that this is a' for the
best; I lo'ed him too weel,--mair than ony creature sud lo'e a perishin'
thing o' earth. But I thought that he wud be sae glad an' sae proud to
see his ain Jeanie sae sune. But, oh! ah, weel; I maun na think o' that.
What I wud jest say is this'--and she tuk a sma' packet frae her breast,
while the saut tears streamed doon her pale cheeks--'he sent me forty
dollars to bring me owre the sea to him. God bless him for that! I ken
he worked hard to earn it, for he lo'ed me then. I was na idle during
his absence; I had saved enough to bury my dear auld grandfather, an'
to pay my expenses out; an' I thought, like the guid servant in the
parable, I wud return Willie his ain wi' interest, an' I hoped to see
him smile at my diligence, an' ca' me his dear, bonnie lassie. Jamie,
I canna keep his siller; it lies like a weight o' lead on my heart.
Tak' it back to him, an' tell him frae me, that I forgi'e him a' his
cruel deceit, an' pray God to grant him prosperity, an' restore to him
that peace o' mind o' which he has robbed me for ever.'
"I did as she bade me. Willie Robertson looked stupified when I
delivered her message. The only remark he made when I gied him back
the siller was, 'I maun be gratefu' man, that she did na curse me.'
The wife cam' in, an' he hid awa' the packet and slunk aff. The man
looked degraded in his ain sight, an' sae wretched, that I pitied him
frae my heart.
"When I cam' home, Jeanie met me at the yet. 'Tell me,' she said, in a
dowie, anxious voice,--'tell me, cousin Jamie, what passed atween ye.
Had Willie nae word for me?'
"'Naething, Jeanie. The man is lost to himsel'--to a' who ance wished
him weel. He is na worth a decent body's thought.'
"She sighed sairly; an' I saw that her heart craved after some word or
token frae him. She said nae mair; but pale an' sorrowfu', the verra
ghaist o' her former sel', went back into the house.
"Frae that hour she never breathed his name to ony o' us; but we all
ken'd that it was her lo'e for him that was wearin' out her life. The
grief that has nae voice, like the canker-worm, lies ne'est the heart.
Puir Jean, she held out durin' the simmer, but when the fa' cam', she
jest withered awa', like a flower nipped by the early frost; an' this
day we laid her in the earth.
"After the funeral was owre, an' the mourners a' gane, I stood beside
her grave, thinking owre the days o' my boyhood, when she an' I were
happy weans, an' used to pu' the gowans together, on the heathery hills
o' dear auld Scotland. An' I tried in vain to understan' the mysterious
providence o' God that had stricken her, who seemed sae guid an' pure, an
spared the like o' me, who was mair deservin' o' his wrath, when I heard
a deep groan, an' I saw Willie Robertson standin' near me, beside the
grave.
"'You may as weel spare your grief noo,' said I, for I felt hard towards
him, 'an' rejoice that the weary is at rest.'
"'It was I killed her,' said he; 'an' the thought will haunt me to my
last day. Did she remember me on her death-bed?'
"'Her thoughts were only ken'd by Him, Willie, wha reads the secrets of
a' hearts. Her end was peace; and her Saviour's blessed name was the
last sound on her lips. If ever woman died o' a broken heart, there she
lies.'
"'Ah, Jeanie!' he cried, 'my ain darlin' Jeanie! my blessed lammie! I was
na worthy o' yer luve. My heart, too, is breakin'. To bring ye back ance
mair, I would gladly lay me doon an' dee.'
"An' he flung himsel' upon the fresh piled sods, an' greeted like
a child.
"When he grew more calm, we had a long conversation about the past; an'
truly I think that the man was na in his right senses, when he married
yon wife. At ony rate, he is nae lang for this world; he has fretted the
flesh aff his banes, an' afore mony months are owre, his heid wul lie as
low as puir Jeanie Burns."
My Native Land.
"My native land, my native land!
How many tender ties,
Connected with thy distant strand,
Call forth my heavy sighs!
"The rugged rock, the mountain stream,
The hoary pine-tree's shade,
Where often in the noon-tide beam,
A happy child I played.
"I think of thee, when early light
Is trembling on the hill;
I think of thee at dead of night,
When all is dark and still.
"I think of those whom I shall see
On this fair earth no more;
And wish in vain for wings to flee
Back to thy much-loved shore."