earliest. We have not youth and manhood; but only youth: for, to the end,
we discern no decisive change in the complexion of his character; in his
thirty-seventh year, he is still, as it were, in youth. With all that
resoluteness of judgment, that penetrating insight, and singular maturity
of intellectual power, exhibited in his writings, he never attains to any
clearness regarding himself; to the last he never ascertains his peculiar
aim, even with such distinctness as is common among ordinary men; and
therefore never can pursue it with that singleness of will, which insures
success and some contentment to such men. To the last, he wavers between
two purposes: glorying in his talent, like a true poet, he yet cannot
consent to make this his chief and sole glory, and to follow it as the
one thing needful, through poverty or riches, through good or evil report.
Another far meaner ambition still cleaves to him; he must dream and
struggle about a certain "Rock of Independence;" which, natural and even
admirable as it might be, was still but a warring with the world, on the
comparitively insignificant ground of his being more or less completely
supplied with money, than others; of his standing at a higher, or at a
lower altitude in general estimation, than others. For the world still
appears to him, as to the young, in borrowed colors; he expects from it
what it cannot give to any man; seeks for contentment, not within himself,
in action and wise effort, but from without, in the kindness of
circumstances, in love, friendship, honor, pecuniary ease. He would be
happy, not actively and in himself, but passively, and from some ideal
cornucopia of Enjoyments, not earned by his own labor, but showered on
him by the beneficence of Destiny. Thus, like a young man, he cannot
steady himself for any fixed or systematic pursuit, but swerves to and
fro, between passionate hope, and remorseful disappointment: rushing
onwards with a deep tempestuous force, he surmounts or breaks asunder many
a barrier; travels, nay, advances far, but advancing only under uncertain
guidance, is ever and anon turned from his path: and to the last, cannot
reach the only true happiness of a man, that of clear, decided Activity in
the sphere for which by nature and circumstances he has been fitted and
appointed.
We do not say these things in dispraise of Burns: nay, perhaps, they but
interest us the more in his favor. This blessing is not given soonest to
the best; but rather, it is often the greatest minds that are latest in
obtaining it; for where most is to be developed, most time may be
required to develope it. A complex condition had been assigned him from
without, as complex a condition from within: no "pre-established harmony"
existed between the clay soil of Mossgiel and the empyrean soul of Robert
Burns; it was not wonderful, therefore, that the adjustment between them
should have been long postponed, and his arm long cumbered, and his sight
confused, in so vast and discordant an economy, as he had been appointed
steward over. Byron was, at his death, but a year younger than Burns; and
through life, as it might have appeared, far more simply situated; yet in
him, too, we can trace no such adjustment, no such moral manhood; but at
best, and only a little before his end, the beginning of what seemed such.
By much the most striking incident in Burns's Life is his journey to
Edinburgh; but perhaps a still more important one is his residence at
Irvine, so early as in his twenty-third year. Hitherto his life had been
poor and toilworn; but otherwise not ungenial, and, with all its
distresses, by no means unhappy. In his parentage, deducting outward
circumstances, he had every reason to reckon himself fortunate: his father
was a man of thoughtful, intense, earnest character, as the best of our
peasants are; valuing knowledge, possessing some, and, what is far better
and rarer, open-minded for more; a man with a keen insight, and devout
heart; reverent towards God, friendly therefore at once, and fearless
towards all that God has made; in one word, though but a hard-handed
peasant, a complete and fully unfolded _Man_. Such a father is seldom
found in any rank in society; and was worth descending far in society to
seek. Unfortunately, he was very poor; had he been even a little richer,
almost ever so little, the whole might have issued far otherwise. Mighty
events turn on a straw; the crossing of a brook decides the conquest of
the world. Had this William Burns's small seven acres of nursery ground
anywise prospered, the boy Robert had been sent to school; had struggled
forward, as so many weaker men do, to some university; come forth not as a
rustic wonder, but as a regular well-trained intellectual workman, and
changed the whole course of British Literature,--for it lay in him to have
done this! But the nursery did not prosper; poverty sank his whole family
below the help of even our cheap school-system: Burns remained a
hard-worked plough-boy, and British literature took its own course.
Nevertheless, even in this rugged scene, there is much to nourish him. If
he drudges, it is with his brother, and for his father and mother, whom he
loves, and would fain shield from want. Wisdom is not banished from their
poor hearth, nor the balm of natural feeling: the solemn words, _Let us
Worship God_, are heard there from a "priest-like father;" if threatenings
of unjust men throw mother and children into tears, these are tears not of
grief only, but of holiest affection; every heart in that humble group
feels itself the closer knit to every other; in their hard warfare they
are there together, a "little band of brethren." Neither are such tears,
and the deep beauty that dwells in them, their only portion. Light visits
the hearts as it does the eyes of all living: there is a force, too, in
this youth, that enables him to trample on misfortune; nay, to bind it
under his feet to make him sport. For a bold, warm, buoyant humor of
character has been given him; and so the thick-coming shapes of evil are
welcomed with a gay, friendly irony, and in their closest pressure he
bates no jot of heart or hope. Vague yearnings of ambition fail not, as
he grows up; dreamy fancies hang like cloud-cities around him; the curtain
of Existence is slowly rising, in many-colored splendor and gloom: and the
auroral light of first love is gilding his horizon, and the music of song
is on his path; and so he walks
"----in glory and in joy,
Behind his plough, upon the mountain side!"
We know, from the best evidence, that up to this date, Burns was happy;
nay, that he was the gayest, brightest, most fantastic, fascinating being
to be found in the world; more so even than he ever afterwards appeared.
But now at this early age, he quits the paternal roof; goes forth into
looser, louder, more exciting society; and becomes initiated in those
dissipations, those vices, which a certain class of philosophers have
asserted to be a natural preparative for entering on active life; a kind
of mud-bath, in which the youth is, as it were, necessitated to steep,
and, we suppose, cleanse himself, before the real toga of Manhood can be
laid on him. We shall not dispute much with this class of philosophers; we
hope they are mistaken; for Sin and Remorse so easily beset us at all
stages of life, and are always such indifferent company, that it seems
hard we should, at any stage, be forced and fated not only to meet, but to
yield to them; and even serve for a term in their leprous armada. We hope
it is not so. Clear we are, at all events, it cannot be the training one
receives in this service, but only our determining to desert from it, that
fits for true manly Action. We become men, not after we have been
dissipated, and disappointed in the chase of false pleasure; but after we
have ascertained, in any way, what impassable barriers hem us in through
this life; how mad it is to hope for contentment to our infinite soul from
the _gifts_ of this extremely finite world! that a man must be sufficient
for himself; and that "for suffering and enduring there is no remedy but
striving and doing." Manhood begins when we have in any way made truce
with Necessity; begins, at all events, when we have surrendered to
Necessity, as the most part only do; but begins joyfully and hopefully
only when we have reconciled ourselves to Necessity; and thus, in reality,
triumphed over it, and felt that in Necessity we are free. Surely, such
lessons as this last, which, in one shape or other, is the grand lesson
for every mortal man, are better learned from the lips of a devout mother,
in the looks and actions of a devout father, while the heart is yet soft
and pliant, than in collision with the sharp adamant of Fate, attracting
us to shipwreck us, when the heart is grown hard, and may be broken
before it will become contrite! Had Burns continued to learn this, as he
was already learning it, in his father's cottage, he would have learned it
fully, which he never did,--and been saved many a lasting aberration, many
a bitter hour and year of remorseful sorrow.
It seems to us another circumstance of fatal import in Burns's history,
that at this time too he became involved in the religious quarrels of his
district; that he was enlisted and feasted, as the fighting man of the
New-Light Priesthood, in their highly unprofitable warfare. At the tables
of these free-minded clergy, he learned much more than was needful for
him. Such liberal ridicule of fanaticism awakened in his mind scruples
about Religion itself; and a whole world of Doubts, which it required
quite another set of conjurors than these men to exorcise. We do not say
that such an intellect as his could have escaped similar doubts, at some
period of his history; or even that he could, at a later period, have come
through them altogether victorious and unharmed: but it seems peculiarly
unfortunate that this time, above all others, should have been fixed for
the encounter. For now, with principles assailed by evil example from
without, by "passions raging like demons" from within, he had little need
of skeptical misgivings to whisper treason in the heat of the battle, or
to cut off his retreat if he were already defeated. He loses his feeling
of innocence; his mind is at variance with itself; the old divinity no
longer presides there; but wild Desires and wild Repentance alternately
oppress him. Ere long, too, he has committed himself before the world; his
character for sobriety, dear to a Scottish peasant, as few corrupted
worldings can even conceive, is destroyed in the eyes of men; and his
only refuge consists in trying to disbelieve his guiltiness, and is but a
refuge of lies. The blackest desperation now gathers over him, broken only
by the red lightnings of remorse. The whole fabric of his life is blasted
asunder; for now not only his character, but his personal liberty, is to
be lost; men and Fortune are leagued for his hurt; "hungry Ruin has him in
the wind." He sees no escape but the saddest of all: exile from his loved
country, to a country in every sense inhospitable and abhorrent to him.
While the "gloomy night is gathering fast," in mental storm and solitude,
as well as in physical, he sings his wild farewell to Scotland:
"Farewell, my friends, farewell my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those:
The bursting tears my heart declare;
Adieu, my native banks of Ayr!"
Light breaks suddenly in on him in floods; but still a false transitory
light, and no real sunshine. He is invited to Edinburgh; hastens thither
with anticipating heart; is welcomed as in triumph, and with universal
blandishment and acclamation; whatever is wisest, whatever is greatest, or
loveliest there, gathers round him, to gaze on his face, to show him
honor, sympathy, affection. Burns's appearance among the sages and nobles
of Edinburgh, must be regarded as one of the most singular phenomena in
modern Literature; almost like the appearance of some Napoleon among the
crowned sovereigns of modern Politics. For it is nowise as a "mockery
king," set there by favor, transiently, and for a purpose, that he will
let himself be treated; still less is he a mad Rienzi, whose sudden
elevation turns his too weak head; but he stands there on his own basis;
cool, unastonished, holding his equal rank from Nature herself; putting
forth no claim which there is not strength _in_ him, as well as about him,
to vindicate. Mr. Lockhart has some forcible observations on this point:
"It needs no effort of imagination," says he, "to conceive what the
sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all either clergymen or
professors) must have been, in the presence of this big-boned,
black-browed, brawny stranger, with his great flashing eyes, who, having
forced his way among them from the plough-tail, at a single stride,
manifested in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most
thorough conviction, that in the society of the most eminent men of his
nation, he was exactly where he was entitled to be; hardly deigned to
flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered
by their notice; by turns calmly measured himself against the most
cultivated understandings of his time in discussion; overpowered the _bon
mots_ of the most celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment,
impregnated with all the burning life of genius; astounded bosoms
habitually enveloped in the thrice-piled folds of social reserve, by
compelling them to tremble,--nay, to tremble visibly,--beneath the
fearless touch of natural pathos; and all this without indicating the
smallest willingness to be ranked among those professional ministers of
excitement, who are content to be paid in money and smiles for doing what
the spectators and auditors would be ashamed of doing in their own
persons, even if they had the power of doing it; and last, and probably
worst of all, who was known to be in the habit of enlivening societies
which they would have scorned to approach, still more frequently than
their own, with eloquence no less magnificent; with wit, in all
likelihood still more daring; often enough as the superiors whom he
fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had, ere
long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves."
The farther we remove from this scene, the more singular will it seem to
us: details of the exterior aspect of it are already full of interest.
Most readers recollect Mr. Walker's personal interviews with Burns as
among the best passages of his Narrative; a time will come when this
reminiscence of Sir Walter Scott's, slight though it is, will also be
precious.
"As for Burns," writes Sir Walter, "I may truly say _Vergilium vidi
tantum_. I was a lad of fifteen in 1786-7, when he came first to
Edinburgh, but had sense and feeling enough to be much interested in his
poetry, and would have given the world to know him: but I had very little
acquaintance with any literary people; and still less with the gentry of
the west country, the two sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas
Grierson was at that time a clerk of my father's. He knew Burns, and
promised to ask him to his lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to
keep his word; otherwise I might have seen more of this distinguished man.
As it was, I saw him one day at the late venerable Professor Ferguson's,
where there were several gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I
remember the celebrated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course, we youngsters sat
silent, looked and listened. The only thing I remember, which was
remarkable in Burns's manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print
of Bunbury's, representing a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog
sitting in misery on one side,--on the other, his widow, with a child in
her arms. These lines were written beneath:
"Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain,
Perhaps that mother wept her soldier slain:
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew
Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The child of misery baptized in tears."
"Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather by the ideas which it
suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the lines
were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they occur in
a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising title of
"The Justice of Peace." I whispered my information to a friend present, he
mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a word, which,
though of mere civility, I then received and still recollect with very
great pleasure.
"His person was strong and robust; his manners rustic, not clownish; a
sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its
effect perhaps from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His
features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture: but to me it conveys
the idea that they are diminished, as if seen in perspective. I think his
countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I
should have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very
sagacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, _i. e._ none of your
modern agriculturists who keep laborers for their drudgery, but the _douce
gudeman_ who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense
and shrewdness in all his lineaments; the eye alone, I think, indicated
the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast,
which glowed (I say literally _glowed_) when he spoke with feeling or
interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen
the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect
self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who were
the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himself with
perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness; and when he
differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at the
same time with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conversation
distinctly enough to be quoted; nor did I ever see him again, except in
the street, where he did not recognize me, as I could not expect he
should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh: but (considering what literary
emoluments have been since his day) the efforts made for his relief were
extremely trifling.
"I remember, on this occasion, I mention, I thought Burns's acquaintance
with English poetry was rather limited; and also, that having twenty times
the abilities of Allan Ramsay and of Ferguson, he talked of them with too
much humility as his models: there was doubtless national predilection in
his estimate.
"This is all I can tell you about Burns. I have only to add, that his
dress corresponded with his manner. He was like a farmer dressed in his
best to dine with the laird. I do not speak in _malam partem_, when I say,
I never saw a man in company with his superiors in station or information
more perfectly free from either the reality or the affectation of
embarrassment. I was told, but did not observe it, that his address to
females was extremely deferential, and always with a turn either to the
pathetic or humorous, which engaged their attention particularly. I have
heard the late Duchess of Gordon remark this. I do not know any thing I
can add to these recollections of forty years since."
The conduct of Burns under this dazzling blaze of favor; the calm,
unaffected, manly manner, in which he not only bore it, but estimated its
value, has justly been regarded as the best proof that could be given of
his real vigor and integrity of mind. A little natural vanity, some
touches of hypocritical modesty, some glimmerings of affectation, at least
some fear of being thought affected, we could have pardoned in almost any
man; but no such indication is to be traced here. In his unexampled
situation the young peasant is not a moment perplexed; so many strange
lights do not confuse him, do not lead him astray. Nevertheless, we cannot
but perceive that this winter did him great and lasting injury. A somewhat
clearer knowledge of men's affairs, scarcely of their characters, it did
afford him: but a sharper feeling of Fortune's unequal arrangements in
their social destiny it also left with him. He had seen the gay and
gorgeous arena, in which the powerful are born to play their parts; nay,
had himself stood in the midst of it; and he felt more bitterly than ever,
that here he was but a looker-on, and had no part or lot in that splendid
game. From this time a jealous, indignant fear of social degradation takes
possession of him; and perverts, so far as aught could pervert, his
private contentment, and his feelings towards his richer fellows. It was
clear enough to Burns that he had talent enough to make a fortune, or a
hundred fortunes, could he but have rightly willed this; it was clear also
that he willed something far different, and therefore could not make one.
Unhappy it was that he had not power to choose the one, and reject the
other; but must halt forever between two opinions, two objects; making
hampered advancement towards either. But so is it with many men: we "long
for the merchandise, yet would fain keep the price;" and so stand
chaffering with Fate in vexatious altercation, till the Night come, and
our fair is over!
The Edinburgh learned of that period were in general more noted for
clearness of head than for warmth of heart: with the exception of the good
old Blacklock, whose help was too ineffectual, scarcely one among them
seems to have looked at Burns with any true sympathy, or indeed much
otherwise than as at a highly curious _thing_. By the great, also, he is
treated in the customary fashion; entertained at their tables, and
dismissed: certain modica of pudding and praise are, from time to time,
gladly exchanged for the fascination of his presence; which exchange once
effected, the bargain is finished, and each party goes his several way.
At the end of this strange season, Burns gloomily sums up his gains and
losses, and meditates on the chaotic future. In money he is somewhat
richer; in fame and the show of happiness, infinitely richer; but in the
substance of it, as poor as ever. Nay, poorer, for his heart is now
maddened still more with the fever of mere worldly Ambition: and through
long years the disease will rack him with unprofitable sufferings, and
weaken his strength for all true and nobler aims.
What Burns was next to do or avoid; how a man so circumstanced was now to
guide himself towards his true advantage, might at this point of time have
been a question for the wisest: and it was a question which he was left
altogether to answer for himself: of his learned or rich patrons it had
not struck any individual to turn a thought on this so trivial matter.
Without claiming for Burns the praise of perfect sagacity, we must say,
that his Excise and Farm scheme does not seem to us a very unreasonable
one; and that we should be at a loss, even now, to suggest one decidedly
better. Some of his admirers, indeed, are scandalized at his ever
resolving to _gauge_; and would have had him apparently lie still at the
pool, till the spirit of Patronage should stir the waters, and then heal
with one plunge all his worldly sorrows! We fear such counsellors knew but
little of Burns; and did not consider that happiness might in all cases be
cheaply had by waiting for the fulfilment of golden dreams, were it not
that in the interim the dreamer must die of hunger. It reflects credit on
the manliness and sound sense of Burns, that he felt so early on what
ground he was standing; and preferred self-help, on the humblest scale,
to dependence and inaction, though with hope of far more splendid
possibilities. But even these possibilities were not rejected in his
scheme: he might expect, if it chanced that he _had_ any friend, to rise,
in no long period, into something even like opulence and leisure; while
again, if it chanced that he had no friend, he could still live in
security; and for the rest, he "did not intend to borrow honor from any
profession." We think, then, that his plan was honest and well calculated:
all turned on the execution of it. Doubtless it failed; yet not, we
believe, from any vice inherent in itself. Nay, after all, it was no
failure of external means, but of internal, that overtook Burns. His was
no bankruptcy of the purse, but of the soul; to his last day, he owed no
man any thing.