our fellow man’s, but I have faith to think that all life is but a
portion of one great inclusive power, and that all is good and none is
bad. The true standard for judging Burns and all other men is given by
Carlyle, and I cannot refrain from borrowing and adopting what he says:
“The world is habitually unjust in its judgments of such men; unjust on
many grounds, of which this one may be stated as the substance: It
decides, like a court of law, by dead statutes; and not positively but
negatively, less on what is done right than on what is or is not done
wrong. Not the few inches of deflection from the mathematical orbit,
which are so easily measured, but the ratio of these to the whole
diameter, constitutes the real aberration. This orbit may be a planet’s,
its diameter the breadth of the solar system; or it may be a city
hippodrome; nay, the circle of a ginhorse, its diameter a score of feet
or paces. But the inches of deflection only are measured; and it is
assumed that the diameter of the ginhorse and that of the planet will
yield the same ratio when compared with them! Here lies the root of many
a blind, cruel condemnation of Burns, Swift, Rousseau, which one never
listens to with approval. Granted, the ship comes into harbor with
shrouds and tackle damaged; the pilot is blameworthy; he has not been
all-wise and all-powerful; but to know how blameworthy; tell us first
whether his voyage has been around the Globe, or only to Ramsgate and
the Isle of Dogs.”
Robert Burns has been dust for a hundred years, and yet the world knows
him better now than the neighbors that lived beside his door. I look
back upon the little village of Dumfries,—not the first or the last town
that entertained angels unawares. I see poor Robert Burns passing down
the street, and the pharisees and self-righteous walking on the other
side. The bill of indictment brought against him by the Dumfries
community was long and black; he was intemperate, immoral, irreligious,
and disloyal to the things that were. The first two would doubtless have
been forgiven, but the others could not be condoned. And so this
illustrious man walked an outcast through the town that to-day makes its
proudest boast that it holds the ashes of the mighty dead, who in life
was surrounded by such a halo of glory that his neighbors could not see
his face.
A hundred years ago Scotland was held tightly in the grasp of the
Presbyterian faith. Calvinism is not very attractive even now,
especially to us that live and expect to die outside its fold, but even
Calvinism has softened and changed in a hundred years. Burns was too
religious to believe in the Presbyterian faith, and to the Scotch
Covenanter there was no religion outside the Calvinistic creed. How any
man can read the poetry of Robert Burns and not feel the deep religious
spirit that animates its lines is more than I can see. True, he
ridicules the dogmas and the creeds that held the humanity and intellect
of Scotland in its paralyzing grasp; but creeds and dogmas are the work
of man; they come and go; are born and die; serve their time and pass
away; but the love of humanity, the instincts of charity and tenderness,
the deep reverence felt in the presence of the infinite mystery and
power that pervade the universe, these, the basis of all the religions
of the earth, remain forever, while creeds and dogmas crumble to the
dust.
Scotland of a hundred years ago measured Burns’ religion by “Holy
Willie’s Prayer,” “The Holy Fair,” and kindred songs. The world a
hundred years from now will not make these the only test. Dumfries and
all the Unco’ Guid of Scotland could not forgive Burns for writing:
O Thou wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel’,
Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,
A’ for thy glory,
And no for ony guid or ill
They’ve done afore thee!
I bless and praise thy matchless might,
When thousands thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore thy sight,
For gifts an, grace,
A burnin, an a shinin’ light,
To a’ this place.
Lord, hear my earnest cry an’ pray’r,
Against that presbt’ry o’ Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord make it bare
Upo’ their heads!
Lord, weigh it down, an’ dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
But, Lord, remember me and mine
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell’d by name;
And a the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen.
It was not enough that Robert Burns taught a religion as pure and gentle
and loving as that proclaimed by the Nazarene himself. Its meaning and
beauty and charity were lost on those who would not see. Long ago it was
written down that, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of
these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” If this is any test of a
religious life, then few men will stand as high in the great beyond as
Robert Burns. This poor poet has melted more hearts to pity and moved
more souls to mercy, and inclined more lives to charity than any other
poet that ever dreamed and sung. Not men and women and children alone
were the objects of his bounteous love and tender heart, but he felt the
pain of the bird, the hare, the mouse, and even the daisy whose roots
were upturned to the biting blast. Hear him sing of the poor bird for
whom he shudders at the winter’s cold:
Ilka hopping bird, we helpless thing
That in the merry month o’ spring
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o’ thee!
Where wilt thou cow’r thy chilling wing
And close thy ee?
Few men that ever lived would stop and lament with Burns, as he
shattered the poor clay home of the field mouse with his plough. No
matter what he did; no matter what he said; no matter what his creed;
the man that wrote these lines deserves a place with the best and purest
of this world or any other that the Universe may hold.
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie!
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickerin’ brattle;
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring prattle?
In a world which still enjoys the brutal chase, where even clergymen
find pleasure in inflicting pain with the inhuman gun and rod, these
lines written a hundred years ago, on seeing a wounded hare limp by,
should place Burns amongst the blessed of the earth:
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb’rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity sooth thee with a sight,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!
* * * * * *
Oft, as by winding Nith I musing wait.
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian’s aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
This was Robert Burns,—and yet Dumfries, which held this gentle soul
within its walls, and the Protestant world of a hundred years ago,
looked at John Calvin piling the faggots around Servetus’ form, and
knelt before him as a patron, religious saint, while they cast into
outer darkness poor Robert Burns with his heart bowed down at the
suffering of a wounded hare.
Will the world ever learn what true religion is? Will it ever learn that
mercy and pity and charity are more in the sight of the Infinite than
all the creeds and dogmas of the earth? Will it ever learn to believe
this beautiful verse of Robert Burns:
But deep this truth impressed my mind,
Through all his works abroad;
The heart benevolent and kind,
The most resembles God.
Will the world ever learn when it prays to pray with Robert Burns, as
man has seldom spoken to the Infinite, in whose unknown hands, we are as
bubbles on the sea; to the great power, which sends us forth into the
darkness to stagger through a tangled maze for a little time and then
calls us back to sleep within its all-embracing heart.
O thou, unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!
If I have wandered in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;—
As something loudly in my breast
Remonstrates I have done;—
Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me
With passion wild and strong;
And list’ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.
Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty step aside,
Do thou, All Good?—for such thou art
In shades of darkness hide.
Where with intention I have err’d,
No other plea I have
But, Thou art good! and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive!
Dear Robert Burns, to place one flower upon your grave, or add one
garland to your fame is a privilege indeed. A noble man you were,
knighted not by King or Queen, but titled by the Infinite Maker of us
all. You loved the world; you loved all life; you were gentle, kind and
true. Your works, your words, your deeds, will live and shine to teach
the brotherhood of man, the kinship of all breathing things, and make
the world a brighter, gentler, kindlier place because you lived and
loved and sung.
[Illustration]
REALISM
IN · LITERATURE
AND · ART
[Illustration]
REALISM IN LITERATURE AND ART
Man is nature’s last and most perfect work, but, however high his
development or great his achievements, he is yet a child of the earth
and the rude forces that have formed all the life that exists thereon.
He cannot separate himself from the environment that gave him birth, and
a thousand ties of nature bind him back to the long forgotten past and
prove his kinship to all the lower forms of life that have sprung from
that great universal mother, Earth.
As there is a common law of being, which controls all living things,
from the aimless motions of the mollusk in the sea to the most perfect
conduct of the best developed man, so all the activities of human life,
from the movements of the savage digging roots, to the work of the
greatest artist with his brush, are controlled by universal law, and are
good or bad, perfect or imperfect, as they conform to the highest
condition nature has imposed.
The early savage dwelt in caves and cliffs and spent his life in seeking
food and providing a rude shelter from the cold. He looked upon the
earth, the sun, the sea, the sky, the mountain peak, the forest and the
plain, and all he saw and heard formed an impression on his brain and
aided in his growth. Like a child he marveled at the storm and flood; he
stood in awe as he looked upon disease and death; and to explain the
things he could not understand, he peopled earth and air and sea with
gods and demons, and a thousand other weird creations of his brain. All
these mysterious creatures were made in the image of the natural objects
that came within his view. The gods were men grown large and endowed
with marvelous powers, while tree and bird and beast alike were used as
models for a being greater far than any nature ever formed.
An angry god it was that made the rivers overrun their banks and leave
destruction in their path; an offended god it was that hurled his
thunderbolts upon a wicked world, or sent disease and famine to the
sinning children of the earth: and to coax these rulers to be merciful
to man, the weak and trembling children of the ancient world turned
their minds to sacrifice and prayer. And the first clouded thoughts of
these rude men that were transcribed on monument and stone, or carved in
wood, or painted with the colors borrowed from the sun and earth and
sky; in short, the first rude art was born to sing the praise, and tell
the fame, and paint the greatness of the gods. But all of this was
natural to the time and place; the graven images, the chiseled
hieroglyphics, and all this rude beginning of literature and art were
formed upon what men saw and heard and felt, enlarged and magnified to
fit the stature of the gods.
As the world grew older art was used to celebrate the greatness and
achievements of kings and rulers as well as gods, and their tombs were
ornamented with such decorations as these early ages could create; and
yet all literature and art were only for the gods and the rulers of the
world. Then, even more than now, wealth and power brought intellect to
do its will, and all its force was spent to sing the praises of the
rulers of the earth and air. The basis of all this art of pen and brush
was the reality of the world, but this was so magnified and distorted
for the base use of kings and priests that realism, in the true sense,
could not exist. It would not do to paint a picture of a king resembling
a man of flesh and blood, and of course a god must be far greater than a
king. It would not do to write a tale in which kings and princes, lords
and ladies, should act like men and women, else what difference between
the ruler and the ruled? The marvelous powers that romance and myth had
given to gods and angels were transferred to those of royal blood. The
wonderful achievements of these kings and princes could be equaled only
by the gods, and the poor dependents of the world, who lived for the
glory of the great, were fed with legends and with tales that sung the
praises of the strong.
Literature, sculpture, painting, music, and architecture, indeed all
forms of art, were the exclusive property of the great, and the artist
then, like most of those to-day, was retained to serve the strong and
maintain the status of the weak. No one dreamed that there was any
beauty in a common human life or any romance in a fact. The greatest of
the earth had not yet learned to know that every life is a mystery and
every death a tragedy; that the spark of the infinite, which alone
transforms clay to life, animates alike the breast of the peasant and
the soul of the prince. The world had not yet learned that the ant-hill
is as great as Mont Blanc, and the blade of grass as mysterious as the
oak. It is only now that the world is growing so delicate and refined
that it can see the beauty of a fact; that it is developing a taste so
rare as to distinguish between the false and true; that it can be moved
by the gentle breeze as well as by the winter’s gale; that it can see
greater beauty in a statement true to life, than in the inflated tales,
which children read.
Most of the art and literature the world has known has been untrue. The
pictures of the past have been painted from the distorted minds of
visionists, and the pliant brains of tools. They have represented
impossible gods and unthinkable saints; angels and cherubs and demons;
everything but men and women. Saints may be all right in their place,
but a saint with a halo around his head was born of myth and not of art.
Angels may be well enough, but all rational men prefer an angel with
arms to an angel with wings. When these artists were not drawing saints
and madonnas, they were spending their time in painting kings and royal
knaves; and the pictures of the rulers were as unlike the men and women
that they were said to represent as the servile spirit of the painter
was unlike that of the true artist of to-day. Of course an artist would
not paint the poor; they had no clothes that would adorn a work of art,
and no money nor favors that could remunerate the toil. An ancient
artist could no more afford to serve the poor than a modern lawyer could
defend the weak.
After literature had so far advanced as to concern other beings than
gods and kings, the authors of these ancient days told of wondrous
characters endowed with marvelous powers; knights with giant strength
and magic swords; princes with wondrous palaces and heaps of gold;
travelers that met marvelous beasts and slew them in extraordinary ways;
giants with forms like mountains, and strength like oxen, who could
vanquish all but little dwarfs. Railroads were not invented in those
early days, but travel was facilitated by the use of seven league boots.
Balloons and telescopes were not yet known, but this did not keep
favored heroes from peering at the stars or looking down from on high
upon the earth; they had but to plant a magic bean before they went to
bed at night, and in the morning it had grown so tall that it reached up
to the sky; and the hero, although not skilled in climbing, needed
simply to grasp the stalk and say, “Hitchety, hatchety, up I go.
Hitchety, hatchety, up I go,” and by this means soon vanish in the
clouds. Tales of this sort used once to delight the world, and the
readers half believed them true. We give them to children now, and the
best of these view them with a half contempt.
The modern man does not enjoy these myths. He relishes a lie, but it
must not be too big; it must be so small that, although he knows in his
inmost soul that it is not true, he can yet half make himself believe it
is not false. Most of us have cherished a pleasing, waking dream, and
have fondly clung to the sweet delusion while we really knew it was not
life. The modern literary stomach is becoming so healthy that it wants a
story at least half true; should the falsehood be too strong, it acts as
an emetic instead of food. These old fairy tales have lost their power
to charm, as the stories of the gods and kings went down before. They
have lost their charm, for as we read them now, they wake no answering
chord born of the experiences that make up what we know of human life.
When the beauty of realism shall be truly known, we shall read the book,
or look upon the work of art, and in the light of all we know of life,
shall ask our beings whether the picture that the author or the painter
creates for us is like the image that is born of the consciousness that
moves our soul, and the experiences that have made us know.
Realism worships at the shrine of nature; it does not say that there may
not be a sphere in which beings higher than man can live, or that some
time an eye may not rest upon a fairer sunset than was ever born behind
the clouds and sea, but it knows that through countless ages nature has
slowly fitted the brain and eye of man to the earth on which we live and
the objects that we see: and the perfect earthly eye must harmonize with
the perfect earthly scene.
To say that realism is coarse and vulgar is to declare against nature
and her works, and to assert that the man she made may dream of things
higher and grander than nature could unfold. The eye of the great
sculptor reveals to him the lines that make the most perfect human form,
and he chisels out the marble block until it resembles this image so
completely that it almost seems to live. Nature, through ages of
experiment and development, has made this almost faultless form. It is
perfect because every part is best fitted for the separate work it has
to do. The artist knows that he could not improve a single organ if he
would, for all the rest of nature must be adjusted to the change. He has
the skill to reproduce this shape in lasting stone, and the human brain
could not conceive a form more beautiful and fair. Here is a perfect
image of the highest work that countless centuries of nature’s toil has
made, and yet some would seek to beautify and sanctify this work by
dressing it in the garb that shifting fashion and changing fancy makes
for man.
Only the vulgar superstition of the past ever suggested that the
reproduction of human forms in stone was an unholy work. Through long
dark centuries religion taught that the flesh was vile and bad, and that
the soul of man was imprisoned in a charnel house, unfit for human
sight. The early Christians wounded, bruised, and maimed their house of
clay; they covered it with skins, which under no circumstances could be
removed, and many ancient saints lived and died without ever having
looked upon the bodies nature gave. The images of saints and martyrs,
which in the name of religion were scattered through Europe, were
covered with paint and clothes, and were nearly as hideous as the monks
that placed them there. When the condition of Europe and its religious
thought are clearly understood, it is not difficult to imagine the
reception that greeted the first dawn of modern realistic art. Sculpture
and painting deified the material. They told of beauty in the human form
which hundreds of years of religious fanaticism had taught was bad and
vile. If the flesh was beautiful, what of the monks and priests, who had
hidden it from sight, who had kept it covered night and day through all
their foolish lives, who maimed and bruised, cut and lacerated, for the
glory of the spirit, which they thought was chained within. The church
had taught that the death of the flesh was the birth of the soul, and
they therefore believed that the artist’s resurrection of the flesh was
the death of the soul.
This old religious prejudice, born of a misty, superstitious past, has
slowly faded from the minds of men, but we find its traces even yet. The
origin of the feeling against realistic art has well nigh been forgot,
but much of the feeling still remains. No one would now pretend to say
that all the body was unholy or unfit for sight, and yet years of custom
and inherited belief have made us think that a part is good and the rest
is bad: that nature, in her work of building up the human form, has made
one part sacred and another vile. It is easy to mistake custom for
nature, and inherited prejudice for morality. There is scarcely a single
portion of the human body but that some people have thought it holy, and
scarcely a single portion but that some have believed it vile. It was
not shame that made clothing, but clothing that made shame. If we would
eradicate from our beliefs all that inheritance and environment have
given, it would be hard for us to guess how much should still remain.
Custom has made most things good and most things bad, according to the
whim of time and place. To find solid ground we must turn to nature and
ask her what it is that conduces to the highest happiness and the
longest life.
The realistic artist cannot accept the popular belief, whatever that may
be, as to just where the dead line on the human body should be drawn
that separates the sacred and profane. There are realists that look at
all the beauty and loveliness of the world, and all its maladjustments
too, and do not seek to answer the old, old question whether back of
this is any all-controlling and designing power; they do not answer, for
they cannot know; but they strive to touch the subtle chord that makes
their individual lives vibrate in harmony with the great heart of that
nature, which they love; and they cannot think but that all parts of
life are good, and that while men may differ, nature must know best.
Other realists there are that believe they see in nature the work of a
divine maker, who created man in his own image as the last and highest
triumph of his skill; that the minutest portion of the universe exists
because he wished it thus. To the realist that accepts this
all-controlling power, any imputation against a portion of his master’s
work must reach back to the author that designed it all.
We need not say that the human body might not be better than it is; we
need only know that it is the best that man can have, and that its
wondrous mechanism has been constructed with infinitely more than human
skill; that every portion is adapted for its work, and through the
harmony of every part the highest good is reached; and that all is
beautiful, for it makes the being best adapted to the earth. Those who
denounce realistic art deny that knowledge is power and that wisdom only
can make harmony, and they insist instead that there are some things
vital to life and happiness that we should not know, but that if we must
know these things, we should at all events pretend that we do not. One
day the world will learn that all things are good or bad according to
the service they perform. One day it ought to learn that the power to
create immortality, through infinite succeeding links of human life, is
the finest and most terrible that nature ever gave to man, and that to
ignore this power or call it bad, or fail to realize the great
responsibility of this tremendous fact, is to cry out against the power
that gave us life, and commit the greatest human sin, for it may be one
that never dies.
The true artist does not find all beauty in the human face or form. He
looks upon the sunset, painting all the clouds with rosy hue, and his
highest wish is to create another scene like this. He never dreams that
he could paint a sunset fairer than the one which lights the fading
world. A fairer sunset would be something else. He sees beauty in the
quiet lake, the grassy field, and running brook; he sees majesty in the
cataract and mountain peak. He knows that he can paint no streams and
mountain peaks more perfect than the ones that nature made.