"His is that language of the heart
In which the answering heart would speak--
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,
Or the smile light up the cheek;
And his that music to whose tone
The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cot or castle's mirth or moan,
In cold or sunny clime."--_American poet._
The love of literature, when once thoroughly awakened in a reflective
mind, can never after cease to influence it. It first assimilates our
intellectual part to those fine intellects which live in the world of
books, and then renders our connection with them indispensable, by
laying hold of that social principle of our nature which ever leads us
to the society of our fellows as our proper sphere of enjoyment. My
early habits, by heightening my tone of thought and feeling, had tended
considerably to narrow my circle of companionship. My profession, too,
had led me to be much alone; and now that I had been several years the
master of an Indiaman, I was quite as fond of reading, and felt as deep
an interest in whatever took place in the literary world, as when a
student at St. Andrew's. There was much in the literature of the period
to gratify my pride as a Scotchman. The despotism, both political and
religious, which had overlaid the energies of our country for more than
a century, had long been removed, and the national mind had swelled and
expanded under a better system of things, till its influence had become
co-extensive with civilized man. Hume had produced his inimitable
history, and Adam Smith his wonderful work, which was to revolutionise
and new-model the economy of all the governments of the earth. And
there, in my little library, were the histories of Henry and Robertson,
the philosophy of Kaimes and Reid, the novels of Smollett and Mackenzie,
and the poetry of Beattie and Home. But, if there was no lack of
Scottish intellect in the literature of the time, there was a decided
lack of Scottish manners; and I knew too much of my humble countrymen
not to regret it. True, I had before me the writings of Ramsay and my
unfortunate friend Ferguson; but there was a radical meanness in the
first that lowered the tone of his colouring far beneath the freshness
of truth, and the second, whom I had seen perish--too soon, alas! for
literature and his country--had given us but a few specimens of his
power when his hand was arrested for ever.
My vessel, after a profitable, though somewhat tedious voyage, had again
arrived in Liverpool. It was late in December, 1786, and I was passing
the long evening in my cabin, engaged with a whole sheaf of pamphlets
and magazines which had been sent me from the shore. _The Lounger_ was,
at this time, in course of publication. I had ever been an admirer of
the quiet elegance and exquisite tenderness of Mackenzie; and, though I
might not be quite disposed to think, with Johnson, that "the chief
glory of every people arises from its authors," I certainly felt all
the prouder of my country, from the circumstance that so accomplished
a writer was one of my countrymen. I had read this evening some of the
more recent numbers, half disposed to regret, however, amid all the
pleasure they afforded me, that the Addison of Scotland had not done for
the manners of his country what his illustrious prototype had done for
those of England, when my eye fell on the ninety-seventh number. I read
the introductory sentences, and admired their truth and elegance. I had
felt, in the contemplation of supereminent genius, the pleasure which
the writer describes, and my thoughts reverted to my two friends--the
dead and the living. "In the view of highly superior talents, as in
that of great and stupendous objects," says the essayist, "there is a
sublimity which fills the soul with wonder and delight--which expands
it, as it were, beyond its usual bounds, and which, investing our nature
with extraordinary powers and extraordinary honours, interests our
curiosity and flatters our pride."
I read on with increasing interest. It was evident, from the tone of the
introduction, that some new luminary had arisen in the literary horizon,
and I felt somewhat like a schoolboy when, at his first play, he waits
for the drawing up of the curtain. And the curtain at length rose. "The
person," continues the essayist, "to whom I allude"--and he alludes to
him as a genius of no ordinary class--"is Robert Burns, an Ayrshire
ploughman." The effect on my nerves seemed electrical; I clapped my
hands, and sprung from my seat: "Was I not certain of it! Did I not
foresee it!" I exclaimed. "My noble-minded friend, Robert Burns!" I ran
hastily over the warm-hearted and generous critique, so unlike the cold,
timid, equivocal notices with which the professional critic has greeted,
on their first appearance, so many works destined to immortality. It was
Mackenzie, the discriminating, the classical, the elegant, who assured
me that the productions of this "heaven-taught ploughman were fraught
with the high-toned feeling and the power and energy of expression
characteristic of the mind and voice of the poet"--with the solemn, the
tender, the sublime; that they contained images of pastoral beauty which
no other writer had ever surpassed, and strains of wild humour which
only the higher masters of the lyre had ever equalled; and that the
genius displayed in them seemed not less admirable in tracing the
manners than in painting the passions, or in drawing the scenery of
nature. I flung down the essay, ascended to the deck in three huge
strides, leaped ashore, and reached my bookseller's as he was shutting
up for the night.
"Can you furnish me with a copy of Burns' Poems," I said, "either for
love or money?"
"I have but one copy left," replied the man, "and here it is."
I flung down a guinea. "The change," I said, "I shall get when I am less
in a hurry."
'Twas late that evening ere I remembered that 'tis customary to spend at
least part of the night in bed. I read on and on with a still increasing
astonishment and delight, laughing and crying by turns. I was quite in a
new world; all was fresh and unsoiled--the thoughts, the descriptions,
the images--as if the volume I read was the first that had ever been
written; and yet all was easy and natural, and appealed, with a truth
and force irresistible, to the recollections I cherished most fondly.
Nature and Scotland met me at every turn. I had admired the polished
compositions of Pope, and Gray, and Collins, though I could not
sometimes help feeling that, with all the exquisite art they displayed,
there was a little additional art wanting still. In most cases the
scaffolding seemed incorporated with the structure which it had served
to rear; and, though certainly no scaffolding could be raised on surer
principles, I could have wished that the ingenuity which had been tasked
to erect it, had been exerted a little further in taking it down. But
the work before me was evidently the production of a greater artist; not
a fragment of the scaffolding remained--not so much as a mark to show
how it had been constructed. The whole seemed to have risen like an
exhalation, and, in this respect, reminded me of the structures of
Shakspeare alone. I read the inimitable "Twa Dogs." Here, I said, is the
full and perfect realization of what Swift and Dryden were hardy enough
to attempt, but lacked genius to accomplish. Here are dogs--_bona fide_
dogs--endowed indeed with more than human sense and observation, but
true to character, as the most honest and attached of quadrupeds, in
every line. And then those exquisite touches which the poor man, inured
to a life of toil and poverty, can alone rightly understand! and those
deeply-based remarks on character, which only the philosopher can justly
appreciate! This is the true catholic poetry, which addresses itself not
to any little circle, walled in from the rest of the species by some
peculiarity of thought, prejudice, or condition, but to the whole human
family. I read on:--"The Holy Fair," "Hallow E'en," "The Vision," the
"Address to the Deil," engaged me by turns; and then the strange,
uproarious, unequalled "Death and Dr. Hornbook." This, I said, is
something new in the literature of the world. Shakspeare possessed above
all men the power of instant and yet natural transition, from the
lightly gay to the deeply pathetic--from the wild to the humorous; but
the opposite states of feeling which he induces, however close the
neighbourhood, are ever distinct and separate; the oil and the water,
though contained in the same vessel, remain apart. Here, however, for
the first time, they mix and incorporate, and yet each retains its whole
nature and full effect. I need hardly remind the reader that the feat
has been repeated, and even with more completeness, in the wonderful,
"Tam o' Shanter." I read on. "The Cotter's Saturday Night" filled my
whole soul--my heart throbbed and my eyes moistened; and never before
did I feel half so proud of my country, or know half so well on what
score it was I did best in feeling proud. I had perused the entire
volume from beginning to end, ere I remembered I had not taken supper,
and that it was more than time to go to bed.
But it is no part of my plan to furnish a critique on the poems of my
friend. I merely strive to recall the thoughts and feelings which my
first perusal of them awakened, and thus only as a piece of mental
history. Several months elapsed from this evening ere I could hold them
out from me sufficiently at arms' length, as it were, to judge of their
more striking characteristics. At times the amazing amount of thought,
feeling, and imagery which they contained--their wonderful continuity of
idea, without gap or interstice--seemed to me most to distinguish them.
At times they reminded me, compared with the writings of smoother poets,
of a collection of medals which, unlike the thin polished coin of the
kingdom, retained all the significant and pictorial roughness of the
original die. But when, after the lapse of weeks, months, years, I found
them rising up in my heart on every occasion, as naturally as if they
had been the original language of all my feelings and emotions--when I
felt that, instead of remaining outside my mind, as it were, like the
writings of other poets, they had so amalgamated themselves with my
passions, my sentiments, my ideas, that they seemed to have become
portions of my very self--I was led to a final conclusion regarding
them. Their grand distinguishing characteristic is their unswerving and
perfect truth. The poetry of Shakspeare is the mirror of life--that of
Burns the expressive and richly modulated voice of human nature.