READING FOR TRAVELLERS. BURNS. THOMAS CARLYLE. LONDON : CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PIOCADILLY. 1854. Price One Shilling.*' * JOUR E. TAYtOR, fBINTRE, 11TTHI Q.fi F H W RTUFKT. PERKINS LIBRARY Duke Unr Kare Docks BIOGRAPHICAL ESSAYS THOMAS CARLYLE. No. II.— BURNS. BURNS. THOMAS CARLYLE. LONDON : CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY 1854. [First printed in the Edinburgh Review, No. xcvi. (December, 1828), as a review of the Book entitled, The Life of Robert Bums : By J. G. Lockhart, LL.B. Edinburgh, 1828.— Keprinted here without alteration.] K;:*. BURNS In tlie modern arrangements of society, it is no uncommon thing that a man of genius must, like Butler, f ask for bread and receive a stone ;' for, in spite of our grand maxim of supply and demand, it is by no means the highest excellence that men are most forward to recognise. The inventor of a spinning-jenny is pretty sure of his reward in his own day; but the writer of a true poem, like the apostle of a true religion, is nearly as sure of the contrary. We do not know whether it is not an aggravation of the injustice, that there is generally a posthumous retribution. Robert Burns, in the course of Nature, might yet have been living ; but his short life was spent in toil and penury; and he died, in the prime of his manhood, miserable and neglected : and yet already a brave mausoleum shines over his dust, and more than one splendid monument has been reared in other places to his B A BURNS. fame ; the street -where he languished in poverty is called by his name ; the highest personages in our literature have been proud to appear as his commentators and admirers ; and here is the sixth narrative of his Life that has been given to the world ! Mr. Lockhart thinks it necessary to apologise for this new attempt on such a subject : but his readers, we believe, will readily acquit him; or, at worst, will censure only the performance of his task, not the choice of it. The character of Burns, indeed, is a theme that cannot easily become either trite or exhausted; and will probably gain rather than lose in its dimensions by the distance to which it is removed by Time. No man, it has been said, is a hero to his valet : and this is probably true ; but the fault is at least as likely to be the valet's as the hero's. For it is certain, that to the vulgar eye few things are wonderful that are not distant. It is difficult for men to believe that the man, the mere man whom they see, nay perhaps painfully feel, toiling at their side through the poor jostlings of existence, can be made of finer clay than them- selves. Suppose that some dining acquaintance of Sir Thomas Lucy's, and neighbour of John-a- Combe's, had snatched an hour or two from the preservation of his game, and written us a Life of Shakspeare ! What dissertations should we not have had, — not on Hamlet and The Tempest, but on the wool-trade, and deer-stealing, and the libel BURNS. 6 and vagrant laws ; and how the Poacher became a Player; and how Sir Thomas and Mr. John had Christian bowels, and did not push him to extremi- ties ! In like manner, we believe, with respect to Burns, that till the companions of his pilgrimage, the Honourable Excise Commissioners, and the Gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt, and the Dum- fries Aristocracy, and all the Squires and Earls, equally with the A,yr Writers, and the New and Old Light Clergy, whom he had to do with, shall have become invisible in the darkness of the Past, or visible only by light borrowed from his juxta- position, it will be difficult to measure him by any true standard, or to estimate what he really was and did, in the eighteenth century, for his country and the world. It will be difficult, we say; but still a fair problem for literary historians ; and re- peated attempts will give us repeated approxima- tions. His former Biographers have done something, no doubt, but by no means a great deal, to assist us. Dr. Currie and Mr. Walker, the principal of these writers, have both, as was not so unnatural at that point of time, mistaken one essentially important thing : Their own and the world's true relation to their author, and the style in which it became such men to think and to speak of such a man. Dr. Currie loved the poet truly; more per- haps than he avowed to his readers, or even to himself; yet he everywhere introduces him with a 4 BURNS. certain patronising, apologetic air ; as if the polite public might think it strange and half unwarrant- able that he, a man of science, a scholar and gen- tleman, should do such honour to a rustic. In all this, however, we readily admit that his fault was not want of love, but weakness of faith ; and regret that the first and kindest of all our poet's biogra- phers should not have seen further, or believed more boldly what he saw. Mr. Walker offends more deeply in the same kind : and both err alike in presenting us with a detached catalogue of his several supposed attributes, virtues, and vices, in- stead of a delineation of the resulting character as a living unity. This, however, is not painting a portrait; but gauging the length and breadth of the several features, and jotting down their dimen- sions in arithmetical ciphers. Nay, it is not so much as this : for we are yet to learn by what arts or instruments the mind could be so measured and gauged. Mr. Lockhart, we are happy to say, has avoided both these errors. He uniformly treats Burns as the high and remarkable man the public voice has now pronounced him to be : and in delineating him, he has avoided the method of separate generali- ties, and rather sought for characteristic incidents, habits, actions, sayings ; in a word, for aspects which exhibit the whole man, as he looked and lived among his fellows. The book accordingly, with all its deficiencies, gives more insight into the BURNS. true character of Burns, than any prior biography : though, being written on the very popular and con- densed scheme of an article for Constable's Miscel- lany, it has less depth than we could have wished and expected from a writer of such power; and contains rather more, and more multifarious, quo- tations, than belong of right to an original pro- duction. Indeed, Mr. Lockhart's own writing is generally so good, so clear, direct and nervous, that we seldom wish to see it making place for another man's. However, the spirit of the work is through- out candid, tolerant and anxiously conciliating ; compliments and praises are liberally distributed, on all hands, to great and small ; and, as Mr. Morris Birkbeck observes of the society in the backwoods of America, f the courtesies of polite life are never lost sight of for a moment/ But there are better things than these in the volume ; and we can safely testify, not only that it is easily and pleasantly read a first time, but may even be without difficulty read again. Nevertheless, we are far from thinking that the problem of Burns' s Biography has yet been ade- quately solved. We do not allude so much to de- ficiency of facts or documents, — though of these we are still every day receiving some fresh acces- sion, — as to the limited and imperfect application of them to the great end of Biography. Our notions upon this subject may perhaps appear extravagant ; but if an individual is really of con- 6 BURNS. sequence enough to have his life and character recorded for public remembrance, we have always been of opinion, that the public ought to be made acquainted with all the inward springs and relations of his character. How did the world and man's life, from his particular position, represent them- selves to his mind ? How did coexisting circum- stances modify him from without ; how did he mo- dify these from within? "With what endeavours and what efficacy rule over them ; with what re- sistance and what suffering sink under them ? In one word, what and how produced was the effect of society on him ; what and how produced was his effect on society ? He who should answer these questions, in regard to any individual, would, as we believe, furnish a model of perfection in Biography. Few individuals, indeed, can deserve such a study; and many lives will be written, and, for the gratification of innocent curiosity, ought to be written, and read and forgotten, which are not in this sense biographies. But Burns, if we mistake not, is one of these few individuals ; and such a study, at least with such a result, he has not yet obtained. Our own contributions to it, we are aware, can be but scanty and feeble ; but we offer them with good -will, and trust they may meet with acceptance from those they are intended for. Burns first came upon the world as a prodigy ; BURNS. 7 and was, in that character, entertained by it, in the usual fashion, with loud, vague, tumultuous won- der, speedily subsiding into censure and neglect ; till his early and most mournful death again awa- kened an enthusiasm for him, which, especially as there was now nothing to be done, and much to be spoken, has prolonged itself even to our own time. It is true, the ' nine days' have long since elapsed ; and the very continuance of this clamour proves that Burns was no vulgar wonder. Accord- ingly, even in sober judgments, where, as years passed by, he has come to rest more and more exclusively on his own intrinsic merits, and may now be wellnigh shorn of that casual radiance, he appears not only as a true British poet, but as one of the most considerable British men of the eighteenth century. Let it not be objected that he did little. He did much, if we consider where and how. If the work performed was small, we must remember that he had his very materials to discover ; for the metal he worked in lay hid under the desert moor, where no eye but his had guessed its existence; and we may almost say, that with his own hand he had to construct the tools for fashioning it. For he found himself in deepest obscurity, without help, without instruction, with- out model, or with models only of the meanest sort. An educated man stands, as it were, in the midst of a boundless arsenal and magazine, filled with all the weapons and engines which man's skill 8 BURNS. has been able to devise from the earliest time ; and he works, accordingly, with a strength borrowed from all past ages. How different is his state who stands on the outside of that storehouse, and feels that its gates must be stormed, or remain forever shut against him ! His means are the commonest and rudest; the mere work done is no measure of his strength. A dwarf behind his steam-engine may remove mountains; but no dwarf will hew them down with the pickaxe ; and he must be a Titan that hurls them abroad with his arms. It is in this last shape that Burns presents him- self. Born in an age the most prosaic that Britain had yet seen, and in a condition the most disadvan- tageous, where his mind, if it accomplished aught, must accomplish it under the pressure of continual bodily toil, nay of penury and desponding appre- hension of the worst evils, and with no furtherance but such knowledge as dwells in a poor man's hut, and the rhymes of a Ferguson or Ramsay for his standard of beauty, he sinks not under all these impediments : through the fogs and darkness of that obscure region, his lynx eye discerns the true relations of the world and human life ; he grows into intellectual strength, and trains himself into intellectual expertness. Impelled by the expansive movement of his own irrepressible soul, he struggles forward into the general view ; and with haughty modesty lays down before us, as the fruit of his labour, a gift, which Time has now pronounced im - BURNS. 9 perishable. Add to all this, that his darksome, drudging childhood and youth was by far the kind- liest era of his whole life ; and that he died in his thirty-seventh year: and then ask, If it be strange that his poems are imperfect, and of small extent, or that his genius attained no mastery in its art ? Alas, his Sun shone as through a tropical tornado; and the pale Shadow of Death eclipsed it at noon ! Shrouded in such baleful vapours, the genius of Burns was never seen in clear azure splendour, enlightening the world: but some beams from it did, by fits, pierce through; and it tinted those clouds with rainbow and orient colours, into a glory and stern grandeur, which men silently gazed on with wonder and tears ! We are anxious not to exaggerate ; for it is ex- position rather than admiration that our readers re- quire of us here ; and yet to avoid some tendency to that side is no easy matter. We love Burns, and we pity him ; and love and pity are prone to magnify. Criticism, it is sometimes thought, should be a cold business ; we are not so sure of this ; but, at all events, our concern with Burns is not exclusively that of critics. True and genial as his poetry must appear, it is not chiefly as a poet, but as a man, that he interests and affects us. He was often advised to write a tragedy : time and means were not lent him for this ; but through life he enacted a tragedy, and one of the deepest. We question whether the world has since witnessed 10 BURNS. so utterly sad a scene ; whether Napoleon himself, left to brawl with Sir Hudson Lowe, and perish on his rock, ' amid the melancholy main/ presented to the reflecting mind such a ' spectacle of pity and fear/ as did this intrinsically nobler, gentler and perhaps greater soul, wasting itself away in a hope- less struggle with base entanglements, which coiled closer and closer round him, till only death opened him an outlet. Conquerors are a class of men with whom, for most part, the world could well dis- pense; nor can the hard intellect, the unsympa- thising loftiness and high but selfish enthusiasm of such persons inspire us in general with any affection ; at best it may excite amazement ; and their fall, like that of a pyramid, will be beheld with a certain sadness and awe. But a true Poet, a man in whose heart resides some effluence of Wisdom, some tone of the ' Eternal Melodies/ is the most precious gift that can be bestowed on a generation : we see in him a freer, purer develop- ment of whatever is noblest in ourselves ; his life is a rich lesson to us ; and we mourn his death as that of a benefactor who loved and taught us. Such a gift had Nature, in her bounty, bestowed on us in Robert Burns ; but with queenlike indif- ference she cast it from her hand, like a thing of no moment ; and it was defaced and torn asunder as an idle bauble, before we recognised it. To the ill-starred Burns was given the power of ma- king man's life more venerable, but that of wisely BURNS. 11 guiding his own life was not given. Destiny, — for so in our ignorance we must speak, — his faults, the faults of others, proved too hard for him ; and that spirit, which might have soared could it but have walked, soon sank to the dust, its glorious faculties trodden under foot in the blossom ; and died, we may almost say, without ever having lived. And so kind and warm a soul ; so full of inborn riches, of love to all living and lifeless things ! How his heart flows out in sympathy over uni- versal Nature ; and in her bleakest provinces dis- cerns a beauty and a meaning ! The ' Daisy' falls not unheeded under his ploughshare; nor the ruined nest of that ' wee, cowering, timorous beastie/ cast forth, after all its provident pains, to f thole the sleety dribble, and cranreuch cauld/ The 'hoar visage' of Winter delights him; he dwells with a sad and oft-returning fondness in these scenes of solemn desolation; the voice of the tempest becomes an anthem to his ears ; he loves to walk in the sounding woods, for ( it raises * his thoughts to Him that walketh on the wings of ' the wind.' A true Poet-soul, for it needs but to be struck, and the sound it yields will be music ! But observe him chiefly as he mingles with his brother men. What warm, all- comprehending fellow-feeling; what trustful, boundless love ; what generous exaggeration of the object loved ! His rustic friend, his nut-brown maiden,, are no longer mean and homely, but a hero and a queen, whom 12 BURNS. he prizes as the paragons of Earth. The rough scenes of Scottish life, not seen by him in any- Arcadian illusion, but in the rude contradiction, in the smoke and soil of a too harsh reality, are still lovely to him : Poverty is indeed his companion, but Love also, and Courage ; the simple feelings, the worth, the nobleness, that dwell under the straw roof, are dear and venerable to his heart : and thus over the lowest provinces of man's exist- ence he pours the glory of his own soul ; and they rise, in shadow and sunshine, softened and bright- ened into a beauty which other eyes discern not in the highest. He has a just self- consciousness, which too often degenerates into pride ; yet it is a noble pride, for defence, not for offence ; no cold suspicious feeling, but a frank and social one. The Peasant Poet bears himself, we might say, like a King in exile : he is cast among the low, and feels himself equal to the highest ; yet he claims no rank, that none may be disputed to him. The for- ward he can repel, the supercilious he can subdue ; pretensions of wealth or ancestry are of no avail with him ; there is a fire in that dark eye, under which the ' insolence of condescension' cannot thrive. In his abasement, in his extreme need, he forgets not for a moment the majesty of Poetry and Manhood. And yet, far as he feels himself above common men, he wanders not apart from them, but mixes warmly in their interests ; nay, throws himself into their arms, and, as it were, BURNS. 13 entreats them to love him. It is moving to see how, in his darkest despondency, this proud being still seeks relief from friendship ; unbosoms him- self, often to the unworthy; and, amid tears, strains to his glowing heart a heart that knows only the name of friendship. And yet he was 'quick to learn ;' a man of keen vision, before whom com- mon disguises afforded no concealment. His un- derstanding saw through the hollo wness even of accomplished deceivers ; but there was a generous credulity in his heart. And so did. our Peasant shew himself among us ; ' a soul like an iEolian ' harp, in whose strings the vulgar wind, as it passed ' through them, changed itself into articulate me- f lody/ And this was he for whom the world found no fitter business than quarrelling with smugglers and vintners, computing excise-dues upon tallow, and gauging alebarrels ! In such toils was that mighty Spirit sorrowfully wasted : and a hun- dred years may pass on, before another such is given us to waste. All that remains of Burns, the Writings he has left, seem to us, as we hinted above, no more than a poor mutilated fraction of what was in him; brief, broken glimpses of a genius that could never shew itself complete; that wanted all things for completeness : culture, leisure, true effort, nay even length of life. His poems are, with scarcely any exception, mere occasional effusions ; poured forth 14 BURNS. with little premeditation; expressing, by snch means as offered, the passion, opinion, or humour of the hour. Never in one instance was it per- mitted him to grapple with any subject with the full collection of his strength, to fuse and mould it in the concentrated fire of his genius. To try by the strict rules of Art such imperfect fragments, would be at once unprofitable and unfair. Never- theless, there is something in these poems, marred and defective as they are, which forbids the most fastidious student of poetry to pass them by. Some sort of enduring quality they must have : for, after fifty years of the wildest vicissitudes in poetic taste, they still continue to be read; nay, are read more and more eagerly, more and more extensively ; and this not only by literary virtuosos, and that class upon whom transitory causes operate most strongly, but by all classes, down to the most hard, unlettered and truly natural class, who read little, and especially no poetry, except because they find pleasure in it. The grounds of so singular and wide a popularity, which extends, in a literal sense, from the palace to the hut, and over all regions where the English tongue is spoken, are well worth inquiring into. After every just deduc- tion, it seems to imply some rare excellence in these works. T\ T hat is that excellence ? To answer this question will not lead us far. The excellence of Burns is, indeed, among the rarest, whether in poetry or prose ; but, at the BURNS. 15 same time, it is plain and easily recognised : his Sincerity, his indisputable air of Truth. Here are no fabulous woes or joys ; no hollow fantastic sentimentalities ; no wiredrawn refinings, either in thought or feeling : the passion that is traced be- fore us has glowed in a living heart ; the opinion he utters has risen in his own understanding, and been a light to his own steps. He does not write from hearsay, but from sight and experience; it is the scenes that he has lived and laboured amidst, that he describes : those scenes, rude and humble as they are, have kindled beautiful emotions in his soul, noble thoughts, and definite resolves ; and he speaks forth what is in him, not from any outward call of vanity or interest, but because his heart is too full to be silent. He speaks it with such melody and modulation as he can; 'in homely rustic jingle/ but it is his own, and genuine. This is the grand secret for finding readers and retaining them : let him who would move and con- vince others, be first moved and convinced himself. Horace's rule, Si vis me flere, is applicable in a wider sense than the literal one. To every poet, to every writer, we might say : Be true, if you would be believed. Let a man but speak forth with genuine earnestness the thought, the emotion, the actual condition of his own heart ; and other men, so strangely are we all knit together by the tie of sympathy, must and will give heed to him. In culture, in extent of view, we may stand above 16 BURNS. the speaker, or below him ; but in either case, his words, if they are earnest and sincere, will find some response within us ; for in spite of all casual varieties in outward rank, or inward, as face an- swers to face, so does the heart of man to man. This may appear a very simple principle, and one which Burns had little merit in discovering. True, the discovery is easy enough : but the prac- tical appliance is not easy ; is indeed the funda- mental difficulty which all poets have to strive with, and which scarcely one in the hundred ever fairly surmounts. A head too dull to discrimi- nate the true from the false ; a heart too dull to love the one at all risks, and to hate the other in spite of all temptations, are alike fatal to a writer. With either, or, as more commonly happens, with both, of these deficiencies, combine a love of dis- tinction, a wish to be original, which is seldom wanting, and we have Affectation, the bane of li- terature, as Cant, its elder brother, is of morals. How often does the one and the other front us, in poetry, as in life ! Great poets themselves are not always free of this vice; nay, it is precisely on a certain sort and degree of greatness that it is most commonly ingrafted. A strong effort after ex- cellence will sometimes solace itself with a mere shadow of success; he who has much to unfold, will sometimes unfold it imperfectly. Bp'on, for instance, was no common man : yet if we exa- mine his poetry with this view, we shall find it far BURNS. 17 enough from faultless. Generally speaking, we should say that it is not true. He refreshes us, not with the divine fountain, but too often with vulgar strong waters, stimulating indeed to the taste, but soon ending in dislike, or even nausea. Are his Harolds and Giaours, we would ask, real men ; we mean, poetically consistent and conceiv- able men? Do not these characters, does not the character of their author, which more or less shines through them all, rather appear a thing put on for the occasion ; no natural or possible mode of being, but something intended to look much grander than nature? Surely, all these stormful agonies, this volcanic heroism, superhuman con- tempt and moody desperation, with so much scowl- ing, and teeth-gnashing, and other sulphurous humour, is more like the brawling of a player in some paltry tragedy, which is to last three hours, than the bearing of a man in the business of life, which is to last three score and ten years. To our minds, there is a taint of this sort, something which we should call theatrical, false, affected, in every one of these otherwise so powerful pieces. Perhaps Don Juan, especially the latter parts of it, is the only thing approaching to a sincere work, he ever wrote ; the only work where he shewed him- self, in any measure, as he was; and seemed so intent on his subject as, for moments, to forget himself. Yet Byron hated this vice ; we believe, heartily detested it : nay, he had declared formal 18 BURNS. war against it in words. So difficult is it even for the strongest to make this primary attainment, which might seem the simplest of all : to read its own co7isciousness without mistakes, without errors involuntary or wilful ! We recollect no poet of Burns' s susceptibility who comes before us from the first, and abides with us to the last, with such a total want of affectation. He is an honest man, and an honest writer. In his successes and his failures, in his greatness and his littleness, he is ever clear, simple, true, and glitters with no lustre but his own. "We reckon this to be a great virtue ; to be, in fact, the root of most other virtues, lite- rary as well as moral. Here, however, let us say, it is to the Poetry of Burns that we now allude; to those writings which he had time to meditate, and where no special reason existed to warp his critical feeling, or obstruct his endeavour to fulfil it. Certain of his Letters, and other fractions of prose compo- sition, by no means deserve this praise. Here, doubtless, there is not the same natural truth of style; but on the contrary, something not only stiff, but strained and twisted ; a certain high-flown inflated tone, the stilting emphasis of which con- trasts ill with the firmness and rugged simplicity of even his poorest verses. Thus no man, it would appear, is altogether unaffected. Does not Shaks- peare himself sometimes premeditate the sheerest bombast ! But even with regard to these Letters BURNS. 19 of Burns, it is but fair to state that he had two excuses. The first was his comparative deficiency in language. Burns, though for most part he writes with singular force, and even gracefulness, is not master of English prose, as he is of Scottish verse; not master of it, we mean, in proportion to the depth and vehemence of his matter. These Letters strike us as the effort of a man to express something which he has no organ fit for expressing. But a second and weightier excuse is to be found in the peculiarity of B urns' s social rank. His cor- respondents are often men whose relation to him he has never accurately ascertained j whom there- fore he is either forearming himself against, or else unconsciously flattering, by adopting the style he thinks will please them. At all events, we should remember that these faults, even in his Letters, are not the rule, but the exception. When- ever he writes, as one would ever wish to do, to trusted friends and on real interests, his style be- comes simple, vigorous, expressive, sometimes even beautiful. His letters to Mrs. Dunlop are uni- formly excellent. But we return to his Poetry. In addition to its Sincerity, it has another peculiar merit, which in- deed is but a mode, or perhaps a means, of the foregoing : this displays itself in his choice of sub- jects ; or rather in his indifference as to subjects, and the power he has of making all subjects inter- esting. The ordinary poet, like the ordinary man, 20 BURNS. is forever seeking in external circumstances the help which can be found only in himself. In what is familiar and near at hand, he discerns no form or comeliness : home is not poetical but prosaic ; it is in some past, distant, conventional heroic world, that poetry resides ; were he there and not here, were he thus and not so, it would be well with him. Hence our innumerable host of rose-coloured Novels and iron-mailed Epics, with their locality not on the earth, but somewhere nearer to the Moon. Hence our Virgins of the Sun, and our Knights of the Cross, malicious Saracens in tur- bans, and copper-coloured Chiefs in wampum, and so many other truculent figures from the heroic times or the heroic climates, who on all hands swarm in our poetry. Peace be with them ! But yet, as a great moralist proposed preaching to the men of this centmy, so would we fain preach to the poets, 'a sermon on the duty of staying at home/ Let them be sure that heroic ages and heroic climates can do little for them. That form of life has attraction for us, less because it is better or nobler than our own, than simply because it is dif- ferent; and even this attraction must be of the most transient sort. For will not our own age, one day, be an ancient one j and have as quaint a costume as the rest ; not contrasted with the rest, therefore, but ranked along with them, in respect of quaint- ness? Does Homer interest us now, because he wrote of what passed beyond his native Greece, and BURNS. 21 two centuries before he was born; or because he wrote what passed in God's world, and in the heart of man, which is the same after thirty centuries ? Let our poets look to this : is their feeling really finer, truer, and their vision deeper than that of other men, — they have nothing to fear, even from the humblest subject; is it not so, — they have no- thing to hope, but an ephemeral favour, even from the highest. The poet, we imagine, can never have far to seek for a subject : the elements of his art are in him, and around him on every hand ; for him the Ideal world is not remote from the Actual, but under it and within it : nay, he is a poet, precisely because he can discern it there. Wherever there is a sky above him, and a world around him, the poet is in his place ; for there too is man's existence, with its infinite longings and small acquirings; its ever- thwarted, ever-renewed endeavours; its unspeak- able aspirations, its fears and hopes that wander through Eternity ; and all the mystery of bright- ness and of gloom that it was ever made of, in any age or climate, since man first began to live. Is there not the fifth act of a Tragedy in every death-bed, though it were a peasant's, and a bed of heath ? And are wooings and weddings obsolete, that there can be Comedy no longer ? Or are men suddenly grown wise, that Laughter must no longer shake his sides, but be cheated of his Farce ? Man's life and nature is, as it was, and as it will ever be. 22 BURNS. But the poet must have au eve to read these things, and a heart to understand them ; or they come and pass away before him in vain. He is a rates, a seer; a gift of vision has been given him. Has life no meanings for him, which another cannot equally decipher; then he is no poet, and Delphi itself will not make him one. In this respect, Burns, though not perhaps ab- solutely a great poet, better manifests his capabi- lity, better proves the truth of his genius, than if he had, by his own strength, kept the whole Minerva Press going, to the end of his literary course. He shews himself at least a poet of Na- ture's own making; and Nature, after all, is still the grand agent in making poets. TTe often hear of this and the other external condition being re- quisite for the existence of a poet. Sometimes it is a certain sort of training ; he must have studied certain things, studied for instance f the elder dra- matists/ and so learned a poetic language; as if poetry lay in the tongue, not in the heart. At other times, we are told, he must be bred in a certain rank, and must be on a confidential foot- ing with the higher classes ; because, above all things, he must see the world. As to seeing the world, we apprehend this will cause lnm little dif- ficulty, if he have but eyesight to see it with. TTithout eyesight, indeed, the task might be hard. The blind or the purblind man ( travels from Dan to Beersheba, and finds it all barren.' But hap- BURNS. 23 pily every poet is born in the world j and sees it, with or against his will, every day and every hour he lives. The mysterious workmanship of man's heart, the true light and the inscrutable darkness of man's destiny, reveal themselves not only in capital cities and crowded saloons, but in every hut and hamlet where men have their abode. Nay, do not the elements of all human virtues and all human vices; the passions at once of a Borgia and of a Luther, lie written, in stronger or fainter lines, in the consciousness of every individual bosom, that has practised honest self-examination? Truly, this same world may be seen in Mossgiel and Tarbol- ton, if we look well, as clearly as it ever came to light in Crockford's, or the Tuileries itself. But sometimes still harder requisitions are laid on the poor aspirant to poetry ; for it is hinted that he should have been born two centuries ago ; inas- much as poetry, about that date, vanished from the earth, and became no longer attainable by men ! Such cobweb speculations have, now and then, overhung the field of literature ; but they obstruct not the growth of any plant there : the Shakspeare or the Burns, unconsciously and merely as he walks onward, silently brushes them away. Is not every genius an impossibility till he appear? Why do we call him new and original, if we saw where his marble was lying, and what fabric he could rear from it? It is not the material but the work- man that is wanting. It is not the dark place that 24 BURNS. hinders, but the dim eye. X Scottish peasant's life was the meanest and rudest of all lives, till Burns became a poet in it, and a poet of it ; found it a man's life, and therefore significant to men. A thousand battle-fields remain unsung ; but the Wounded Hare has not perished without its me- morial ; a balm of mercy yet breathes on us from its dumb agonies, because a poet was there. Our Halloween had passed and repassed, in rude awe and laughter, since the era of the Druids ; but no Theocritus, till Burns, discerned in it the mate- rials of a Scottish Idyl : neither was the Holy Fair any Council of Trent, or Roman Jubilee; but never- theless, Superstition and Hypocrisy and Fun having been propitious to him, in this man's hand it be- came a poem, instinct with satire and genuine comic life. Let but the true poet be given us, we repeat it, place him where and how you will, and true poetry will not be wanting. Independently of the essential gift of poetic feeling, as we have now attempted to describe it, a certain rugged sterling worth pervades whatever Burns has written : a virtue, as of green fields and mountain breezes, dwells in his poetry ; it is redo- lent of natural life, and hardy natural men. There is a decisive strength in him, and yet a sweet native gracefulness : he is tender, he is vehement, yet without constraint or too visible effort; he melts the heart, or inflames it, with a power which seems habitual and familiar to him. We see that BURNS. 25 in this man there was the gentleness, the trem- bling pity of a woman, with the deep earnestness, the force and passionate ardour of a hero. Tears lie in him, and consuming fire ; as lightning lurks in the drops of the summer cloud. He has a resonance in his bosom for every note of human feeling; the high and the low, the sad, the ludi- crous, the joyful, are welcome in their turns to 1 his lightly-moved and all-conceiving spirit/ And observe with what a fierce prompt force he grasps his subject, be it what it may ! How he fixes, as it were, the full image of the matter in his eye ; full and clear in every lineament j and catches the real type and essence of it, amid a thousand accidents and superficial circumstances, no one of which misleads him ! Is it of reason ; some truth to be discovered? No sophistry, no vain surface-logic detains him ; quick, resolute, unerring, he pierces through into the marrow of the question; and speaks his verdict with an emphasis that cannot be forgotten. Is it of description ; some visual object to be represented ? No poet of any age or nation is more graphic than Burns : the characteristic features disclose themselves to him at a glance ; three lines from his hand, and we have a likeness. And, in that rough dialect, in that rude, often awkward metre, so clear and definite a likeness ! It seems a draughtsman working with a burnt stick ; and yet the burin of a Retzsch is not more expressive or exact. 26 BURNS. Of this last excellence, the plainest and most comprehensive of all, being indeed the root and foundation of every sort of talent, poetical or in- tellectual, we could produce innumerable instances from the wri tings of Burns. Take these glimpses of a snow-storm from his Winter Night (the italics are ours) : "When biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r, And Phcebus gies a short-livd gloicr Far south the lift, Dim-darFning thro' the flaky show' r Or whirling drift : Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd, Poor labour sweet in sleep was lock'd, While burns wi snowy wreeths upchoclcd, Wild-eddying whirl, Or thro' the mining outlet lock'd, Down headlong hurl. Are there not ' descriptive touches' here ? The describer saw this thing ; the essential feature and true likeness of every circumstance in it; saw, and not with the eye only. ' Poor labour locked in sweet sleep ;' the dead stillness of man, uncon- scious, vanquished, yet not unprotected, while such strife of the material elements rages, and seems to reign supreme in loneliness : this is of the heart as well as of the eye ! — Look also at his image of a thaw, and prophesied fall of the Aula 1 Brig : WTien heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; BURNS. 27 "When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpal* draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotting thowes, In mony a torrent dotvn his snaw-broo rowes ; Wliile crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, Sweeps dams and mills and brigs a to the gate ; And from Glenbuck down to the Eottonkey, Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea ; Then down ye '11 hurl, Deil nor ye never rise ! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. The last line is in itself a Poussin-pictnre of that Deluge ! The welkin has, as it were, bent down with its weight ; the ' gumlie jaups' and the ( pour- ing skies' are mingled together; it is a world of rain and. ruin. — In respect of mere clearness and minute fidelity, the Farmer's commendation of his Auld Mare, in plough or in cart, may vie with Homer's Smithy of the Cyclops, or yoking of Priam's Chariot. Nor have we forgotten stout Burn-the-wind and his brawny customers, inspired by Scotch Drink : but it is needless to multiply examples. One other trait of a much finer sort we select from multitudes of such among his Songs. It gives, in a single line, to the saddest feeling the saddest environment and local habitation : The pale Moon is setting beyond the white wave, And Time is setting wi me, O ; Farewell, false friends ! false lover, farewell ! I'll nae mair trouble them nor thee, O. * Fabulosus Hydaspes ! 28 BURNS. This clearness of sight we have called the foun - dation of all talent j for in fact, unless we see our object, how shall we know how to place or prize it, in our understanding, our imagination, our affec- tions ? Yet it is not in itself, perhaps, a very high ex- cellence ; but capable of being united indifferently with the strongest, or with ordinary powers. Homer surpasses all men in this quality : but strangely enough, at no great distance below him are Richard- son and Defoe. It belongs, in truth, to what is called a lively mind; and gives no sure indi- cation of the higher endowments that may exist along with it. In all the three cases we have men- tioned, it is combined with great garrulity ; their descriptions are detailed, ample and lovingly exact ; Homer's fire bursts through, from time to time, as if by accident ; but Defoe and Richardson have no fire. Burns, again, is not more distinguished by the clearness than by the impetuous force of his conceptions. Of the strength, the piercing emphasis with which he thought, his emphasis of expression may give a humble but the readiest proof. Who ever uttered sharper sayings than his ; words more memorable, now by their burning vehemence, now by their cool vigour and laconic pith ? A single phrase depicts a whole subject, a whole scene. We hear of ' a gentleman that de- i rived his patent of nobility direct from Almighty ' God/ Our Scottish forefathers in the battle- field struggled forward ' red-wat-shod :' in this one BURNS. 29 word, a full vision of horror and carriage, perhaps too frightfully accurate for Art ! In fact, one of the leading features in the mind of Burns is this vigour of his strictly intellectual perceptions. A resolute force is ever visible in his judgments, and in his feelings and volitions. Pro- fessor Stewart says of him, with some surprise : ' All the faculties of Burns' s mind were, as far as 1 1 could judge, equally vigorous; and his predilec- ' tion for poetry was rather the result of his own ' enthusiastic and impassioned temper, than of a 1 genius exclusively adapted to that species of com- 1 position. From his conversation I should have 1 pronounced him to be fitted to excel in whatever 1 walk of ambition he had chosen to exert his abi- 1 lities/ But this, if we mistake not, is at all times the very essence of a truly poetical endowment. Poetry, except in such cases as that of Keats, where the whole consists in a weak-eyed maudlin sensibility, and a certain random tunefulness of nature, is no separate faculty, no organ which can be superadded to the rest, or disjoined from them ; but rather the result of their general harmony and completion. The feelings, the gifts that exist in the Poet, are those that exist, with more or less development, in every human soul : the imagina- tion, which shudders at the Hell of Dante, is the same faculty, weaker in degree, which called that picture into being. How does the Poet speak to men, with power, but by being still more a man 30 BURNS. than they ? Shakspeare, it has been well observed, in the planning and completing of his tragedies, has shewn an Understanding, were it nothing more, which might have governed states, or indited a Novum Organum. What B urns' s force of under- standing may have been, we have less means of judging: it had to dwell among the humblest objects; never saw Philosophy; never rose, except by natural effort and for short intervals, into the region of great ideas. Nevertheless, sufficient in- dication, if no proof sufficient, remains for us in his works : we discern the brawny movements of a gigantic though untutored strength; and can understand how, in conversation, his quick sure insight into men and things may, as much as aught else about him, have amazed the best thinkers of his time and country. But, unless we mistake, the intellectual gift of Burns is fine as well as strong. The more delicate relations of things could not well have escaped his eye, for they were intimately present to his heart. The logic of the senate and the forum is indis- pensable, but not all-sufficient; nay, perhaps the highest Truth is that which will the most certainly elude it. For this logic works by words, and f the highest/ it has been said, ' cannot be expressed in words/ We are not without tokens of an open- ness for this higher truth also, of a keen though uncultivated sense for it, having existed in Burns. Mr. Stewart, it will be remembered, ' wonders/ in BURNS. 31 the passage above quoted, that Burns had formed some distinct conception of the ' doctrine of asso- ciation/ We rather think that far subtler things than the doctrine of association had from of old been familiar to him. Here for instance : 1 We know nothing,' thus writes he, ' or next to nothing, of the structure of our souls, so we cannot account for those seeming caprices in them, that one should be parti- cularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- pression. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the mountaiu-daisy, the harebell, the foxglove, the wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the hoary haw- thorn, that I view and hang over with particular delight. I never hear the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover in an autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the JEolianharp, pas- sive, takes the impression of the passing accident ; or do these workings argue something within us above the trod- den clod ? I own myself partial to such proofs of those awful and important realities : a God that made all things, man's immaterial and immortal nature, and a world of weal or wo beyond death and the grave.' Force and fineness of understanding are often spoken of as something different from general force and fineness of nature, as something partly inde- pendent of them. The necessities of language so require it ; but in truth these qualities are not dis- tinct and independent : except in special cases, and 32 BURNS. from special causes, they ever go together. A man of strong understanding is generally a man of strong character; neither is delicacy in the one kind often divided from delicacy in the other. No one, at all events, is ignorant that in the Poetry of Burns, keenness of insight keeps pace with keen- ness of feeling; that his light is not more per- vading than his warmth. He is a man of the most impassioned temper ; with passions not strong only, but noble, and of the sort in which great virtues and great poems take their rise. It is re- verence, it is love towards all Nature that inspires him, that opens his eyes to its beauty, and makes heart and voice eloquent in its praise. There is a true old saying, that c Love furthers knowledge :' but above all, it is the living essence of that know- ledge which makes poets ; the first principle of its existence, increase, activity. Of Bums' s fervid af- fection, his generous all-embracing Love, we have spoken already, as of the grand distinction of his nature, seen equally in word and deed, in his Life and in his Writings. It were easy to multiply examples. Not man only, but all that environs man in the material and moral universe, is lovely in his sight : ' the hoary hawthorn/ the ' troop of grey plover/ the ' solitary curlew/ all are dear to him ; all live in this Earth along with him, and to all he is knit as in mysterious brotherhood. How touching is it, for instance, that, amidst the gloom of personal misery, brooding over the wintry *deso- BURNS. 33 lation without him and within him, he thinks of the ' ourie cattle' and ' silly sheep/ and their suf- ferings in the pitiless storm ! I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O' wintry war ; Or thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle, Beneath a scaur. Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing, That in the merry months o' spring Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee ? Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, And close thy e'e ? The tenant of the mean hut, with its ' ragged roof and clunky wall/ has a heart to pity even these ! This is worth several homilies on Mercy ; for it is the voice of Mercy herself. Burns, indeed, lives in sympathy ; his soul rushes forth into all realms of being ; nothing that has existence can be indif- ferent to him. The very Devil he cannot hate with right orthodoxy : But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ; O wad ye tak a thought and men' \ Ye aiblins might, — I dinna ken, — Still hae a stake ; I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Even for your sake ! '■" He is the father of curses and lies," said Dr. Slop ; " and is cursed and damned already." — " I am sorry for it," quoth my uncle Toby ! — A Poet 34 BURNS. -without Love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility. But has it not been said in contradiction to this principle, that c Indignation makes verses V It has been so said, and is true enough : but the contra- diction is apparent, not real. The Indignation which makes verses is, properly speaking, an in- verted Love ; the love of some right, some worth, some goodness, belonging to ourselves or others, which has been injured, and which this tempes- tuous feeling issues forth to defend and avenge. No selfish fury of heart, existing there as a pri- mary feeling, and without its opposite, ever pro- duced much Poetry : otherwise, we suppose, the Tiger. were the most musical of all our choristers. Johnson said, he loved a good hater ; by which he must have meant, not so much one that hated violently, as one that hated wisely; hated base- ness from love of nobleness. However, in spite of Johnson's paradox, tolerable enough for once in speech, but which need not have been so often adopted in print since then, we rather believe that good men deal sparingly in hatred, either Avise or unwise : nay that a ' good' hater is still a deside- ratum in this world. The Devil, at least, who passes for the chief and best of that class, is said to be nowise an amiable character. Of the verses which Indignation makes, Burns has also given us specimens : and among the best that were ever given. Who will forget his ' Dweller BURNS. 35 in yon Dungeon dark;' a piece that might have been chaunted by the Furies of iEschylus ? The secrets of the infernal Pit are laid bare ; a bound- less baleful ' darkness visible ;' and streaks of hell- fire quivering madly in its black haggard bosom ! Dweller in yon Dungeon, dark, Hangman of Creation, mark ! Who in widow's weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse ? Why should we speak of Scots wha hae wV Wallace bled; since all know of it, from the king to the meanest of his subjects ? This dithyrambic was composed on horseback; in riding in the middle of tempests, over the wildest Galloway moor, in company with a Mr. Syme, who, observ- ing the poet's looks, forbore to speak, — judiciously enough, for a man composing Brace's Address might be unsafe to trifle with. Doubtless this stern hymn was singing itself, as he formed it, through the soul of Burns : but to the external ear, it should be sung with the throat of the whirl- wind. So long as there is warm blood in the heart of Scotchman or man, it will move in fierce thrills under this war-ode; the best, we believe, that was ever written by any pen. Another wild stormful Song, that dwells in our ear and mind with a strange tenacity, is Macpher- son's Farewell. Perhaps there is something in the 36 BURNS. tradition itself that cooperates. For was not this grim Celt, this shaggy Northland Cacus, that ( lived a life of sturt and strife, and died by treacherie/ was not he too one of the Nimrods and Napoleons of the earth, in the arena of his own remote misty glens, for want of a clearer and wider one? Nay, was there not a touch of grace given him ? A fibre of love and softness, of poetry itself, must have lived in his savage heart : for he composed that air the night before his execution; on the wings of that poor melody, his better soul would soar away above obli- vion, pain and all the ignominy and despair which, like an avalanche, was hurling him to the abyss ! Here also, as at Thebes, and in Pelops' line, was material Fate matched against man's Freewill ; matched in bitterest though obscure duel ; and the ethereal soul sank not, even in its blindness, with- out a cry which has survived it. But who, except Burns, could have given words to such a soul ; words that we never listen to without a strange half-barbarous, half-poetic fellow-feeling ? Sae rantingly, sae icantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed lie ; He play d a spring, and danced it round, Below the gallows tree. Under a lighter disguise, the same principle of Love, which we have recognised as the great cha- racteristic of Burns, and of all true poets, occa- sionally manifests itself in the shape of Humour. Everywhere, indeed, in his sunny moods, a full BURNS. 37 buoyant flood of mirth rolls through the mind of Burns ; he rises to the high, and stoops to the low, and is brother and playmate to all Nature. We speak not of his bold and often irresistible faculty of caricature ; for this is Drollery rather than Hu- mour : but a much tenderer sportfulness dwells in him ; and comes forth here and there, in evanes- cent and beautiful touches; as in his Address to the Mouse, or the Farmer's Mare, or in his Elegy on poor Mailie, which last may be reckoned his hap- piest effort of this kind. In these pieces there arc traits of a Humour as fine as that of Sterne ; yet altogether different, original, peculiar, — the Hu- mour of Burns. Of the tenderness, the playful pathos, and many other kindred qualities of Burns' s Poetry, much more might be said ; but now, with these poor out- lines of a sketch, we must prepare to quit this part of our subject. To speak of his individual Wri- tings adequately and with any detail, would lead us far beyond our limits. As already hinted, we can look on but few of these pieces as, in strict critical language, deserving the name of Poems : they are rhymed eloquence, rhymed pathos, rhymed sense ; yet seldom essentially melodious, aerial, poetical. Tarn o' Shanter itself, which enjoys so high a favour, does not appear to us, at all decisively, to come under this last category. It is not so much a poem, as a piece of sparkling rhetoric ; the heart and body of the story still lies hard and dead. 38 BURNS. He has not gone back, mnch less carried ns back, into that dark, earnest, wondering age, when the tradition was believed, and when it took its rise ; he does not attempt, by any new-modelling of his supernatural ware, to strike anew that deep my- sterious chord of human nature, which once re- sponded to such things ; and which lives in us too, and will forever live, though silent now, or vibra- ting with far other notes, and to far different issues. Our German readers will understand us, when we say, that he is not the Tieck but the Musaus of this tale. Externally it is all green and living; yet look closer, it is no firm growth, but only ivy on a rock. The piece does not properly cohere : the strange chasm which yawns in our incredulous imaginations between the Ayr public- house and the gate of Tophet, is nowhere bridged over, nay the idea of such a bridge is laughed at ; and thus the Tragedy of the adventure becomes a mere drunken phantasmagoria, or many-coloured spectrum painted on ale -vapours, and the Farce alone has any reality. We do not say that Burns should have made much more of this tradition; we rather think that, for strictly poetical purposes, not much was to be made of it. Neither are we blind to the deep, varied, genial power displayed in what he has actually accomplished ; but we find far more ' Shakspearean' qualities, as these of Tarn o'Shanter have been fondly named, in many of his other pieces ; nay, we incline to believe, that this latter BURNS. 39 might have been written, all but quite as well, by a man who, in place of genius, had only possessed talent. Perhaps we may venture to say, that the most strictly poetical of all his ' poems' is one which does not appear in Currie's Edition ; but has been often printed before and since, under the humble title of The Jolly Beggars. The subject truly is among the lowest in Nature ; but it only the more shews our Poet's gift in raising it into the domain of Art. To our minds, this piece seems thoroughly compacted; melted together, refined; and poured forth in one flood of true liquid harmony. It is light, airy, soft of movement; yet sharp and pre* cise in its details ; every face is a portrait : that raucle carlin, that wee Apollo, that Son of Mars, are Scottish, yet ideal; the scene is at once a dream, and the very Ragcastle of ' Poosie-Nansie.' Farther, it seems in a considerable degree com- plete, a real self-supporting Whole, which is the highest merit in a poem. The blanket of the Night is drawn asunder for a moment; in full, ruddy, flaming light, these rough tatterdemalions are seen in their boisterous revel; for the strong pulse of Life vindicates its right to gladness even here; and when the curtain closes, we prolong the action, without effort ; the next day as the last, our Caird and our Balladmonger, are singing and soldering their c brats and cal lets' are hawking, begging cheating ; and some other night, in new combina- 40 BURNS. tions, they will wring from Fate another hour of wassail and good cheer. Apart from the universal sympathy with man which this again bespeaks in Burns, a genuine inspiration and no inconsider- able technical talent are manifested here. There is the fidelity, humour, warm life and accurate paint- ing and grouping of some Teniers, for whom host- lers and carousing peasants are not without signi- ficance. It would be strange, doubtless, to call this the best of Burns' s writings : we mean to say only, that it seems to us the most perfect of its kind, as a piece of poetical composition, strictly so called. In the Beggars' Opera, in the Beggar's Bush] as other critics have already remarked, there is nothing which, in real poetic vigour, equals this Cantata ; nothing, as we think, which comes within many degrees of it. But by far the most finished, complete and truly inspired pieces of Burns are, without dispute, to be found among his Songs. It is here that, although through a small aperture, his light shines with least obstruction ; in its highest beauty, and pure sunny clearness. The reason may be, that Song is a brief simple species of composition; and requires no- thing so much for its perfection, as genuine poetic feeling, genuine music of heart. Yet the Song has its rules equally with the Tragedy; rules which in most cases are poorly fulfilled, in many cases are not so much as felt. We might write a long essay on the Songs of Burns ; which we reckon by BURNS. 41 far the best that Britain has yet produced : for, in- deed, since the era of Queen Elizabeth, we know not that, by any other hand, aught truly worth at- tention has been accomplished in this department. True, we have songs enough ' by persons of quality ;' we have tawdry, hollow, wine-bred madrigals; many a rhymed speech c in the flowing and watery vein of Ossorius the Portugal Bishop/ rich in so- norous words, and, for moral, dashed perhaps with some tint of a sentimental sensuality j all which many persous cease not from endeavouring to sing; though for most part, we fear, the music is but from the throat outwards, or at best from some region far enough short of the Soul ; not in which, but in a certain inane Limbo of the Fancy, or even in some vaporous debateable-land on the outskirts of the Nervous System, most of such madrigals and rhymed speeches seem to have originated. With the Songs of Burns we must not name these things. Independently of the clear, manly, heart- felt sentiment that ever pervades his poetry, his Songs are honest in another point of view : in form, as well as in spirit. They do not affect to be set to music, but they actually and in themselves are music ; they have received their life, and fashioned themselves together, in the medium of Harmony, as Venus rose from the bosom of the sea. The story, the feeling, is not detailed, but suggested ; not said, or spouted, in rhetorical completeness and coherence; but sung, in fitful gushes, in glowing 42 BURNS. hints, in fantastic breaks, in warbling s not of the voice only, but of the whole mind. TTe consider this to be the essence of a song \ and that no songs since the little careless catches, and, as it were, drops of song, which Shakspeare has here and there sprinkled over his Plays, fulfil this condition in nearly the same degree as most of B urns' s do. Such grace and truth of external movement, too, presupposes in general a corresponding force and truth of sentiment and inward meaning. The Songs of Burns are not more perfect in the former quality than in the latter. "With what tenderness he sings, yet with what vehemence and entireness ! There is a piercing wail in his sorrow, the purest rapture in his joy ; he burns with the sternest ire, or laughs with the loudest or sliest mirth ; and yet he is sweet and soft, ' sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, and soft as their parting tear ! ' If we further take into account the immense variety of his subjects; how, from the loud flowing revel in Willie breio'd a Peck o' Maut, to the still, rapt enthusiasm of sadness for Mary in Heaven ; from the glad kind greeting of Auld Langsyne, or the comic archness of Duncan Gray, to the fire-eyed fury of Scots wha hae wi } Wallace bled, he has found a tone and words for every mood of man's heart, — it will seem a small praise if we rank him as the first of all our Song -writers; for we know not where to find one worthy of being second to him. It is on his Songs, as we believe, that Burns's BURNS. 43 chief influence as an author will ultimately be found to depend : nor, if our Fletcher's aphorism is true, shall we account this a small influence. ' Let me make the songs of a people/ said he, ' and you shall make its laws/ Surely, if ever any Poet might have equalled himself with Legislators on this ground, it was Burns. His Songs are already part of the mother-tongue, not of Scot- land only but of Britain, and of the millions that in all ends of the earth speak a British language. In hut and hall, as the heart unfolds itself in many-coloured joy and woe of existence, the name, the voice of that joy and that woe, is the name and voice which Burns has given them. Strictly speaking, perhaps no British man has so deeply af- fected the thoughts and feelings of so many men, as this solitary and altogether private individual, with means apparently the humblest. In another point of view, moreover, we incline to think that Burns's influence may have been considerable : we mean, as exerted specially on the Literature of his country, at least on the Litera- ture of Scotland. Among the great changes which British, particularly Scottish literature, has un- dergone since that period, one of the greatest will be found to consist in its remarkable increase of nationality. Even the English writers, most po- pular in Burns's time, were little distinguished for their literary patriotism, in this its best sense. A certain attenuated cosmopolitanism had, in good 44 BURNS. measure, taken place of the old insular home-feel- ing; literature was, as it were, without any local environment j was not nourished by the affections which spring from a native soil. Our Grays and Glovers seemed to write almost as if in vacuo ; the thing written bears no mark of place; it is not written so much for Englishmen, as for men ; or rather, which is the inevitable result of this, for certain Generalisations which philosophy termed men. Goldsmith is an exception : not so Johnson ; the scene of his Rambler is little more English than that of his Rasselas. But if such was, in some degree, the case with England, it was, in the highest degree, the case with Scotland. In fact, our Scottish literature had, at that period, a very singular aspect; unexampled, so far as we know, except perhaps at Geneva, where the same state of matters appears still to continue. Eor a long period after Scotland became British, we had no literature: at the date when Addison and Steele were writing their Spectators, our good John Bos- ton was writing, with the noblest intent, but alike in defiance of grammar and philosophy, his Four- fold State of Man. Then came the schisms in our National Church, and the fiercer schisms in our Body Politic : Theologic ink, and Jacobite blood, with gall enough in both cases, seemed to have blotted out the intellect of the country ; however, it was only obscured, not obliterated. Lord Karnes made nearly the first attempt at writing English ; BURNS. 45 and ere long, Hume, Robertson, Smith, and a whole host of followers, attracted hither the eyes of all Europe. And yet in this brilliant resuscita- tion of our ( fervid genius/ there was nothing truly Scottish, nothing indigenous ; except, perhaps, the natural impetuosity of intellect, which we some- times claim, and are sometimes upbraided with, as a characteristic of our nation. It is curious to remark that Scotland, so full of writers, had no Scottish culture, nor indeed any English ; our cul- ture was almost exclusively French. It was by studying Racine and Voltaire, Batteux and Boi- leau, that Karnes had trained himself to be a critic and philosopher; it was the light of Mon- tesquieu and Mably that guided Robertson in his political speculations ; Quesnay's lamp that kindled the lamp of Adam Smith. Hume was too rich a man to borrow; and perhaps he reacted on the French more than he was acted on by them : but neither had he aught to do with Scotland ; Edin- burgh, equally with La Fleche, was but the lodging and laboratory, in which he not so much morally lived, as metaphysically investigated. Never, per- haps, was there a class of writers, so clear and well-ordered, yet so totally destitute, to all appear- ance, of any patriotic affection, nay of any human affection Avhatever. The French wits of the period were as unpatriotic : but their general deficiency in moral principle, not to say their avowed sensu- ality and unbelief in all virtue, strictly so called, 46 BURNS. render this accountable enough. We hope, there is a patriotism founded on something better than prejudice; that our country may be dear to us, without injury to our philosophy ; that in loving and justly prizing all other lands, we may prize justly, and yet love before all others, our own stern Motherland, and the venerable Structure of social and moral Life, which Mind has through long ages been building up for us there. Surely there is nourishment for the better part of man's heart in all this : surely the roots, that have fixed themselves in the very core of man's being, may be so cultivated as to grow up not into briers, but into roses, in the field of his life ! Our Scottish sages have no such propensities : the field of their life shews neither briers nor roses ; but only a flat, continuous thrashing-floor for Logic, whereon, all questions, from the ' Doctrine of Rent' to the 'Natural History of Religion/ are thrashed and sifted with the same mechanical impartiality ! With Sir Walter Scott at the head of our lite- rature, it cannot be denied that much of this evil is past, or rapidly passing away : our chief lite- rary men, whatever other faults they may have, no longer live among us like a French Colony, or some knot of Propaganda Missionaries; but like natural-born subjects of the soil, partaking and sympathising in all our attachments, humours and habits. Our literature no longer grows in water but in mould, and with the true racy virtues of the BURNS. 47 soil and climate. How much of this change may be due to Burns, or to any other individual, it might be difficult to estimate. Direct literary imitation of Burns was not to be looked for. But his ex- ample, in the fearless adoption of domestic subjects, could not but operate from afar j and certainly in no heart did the love of country ever burn with a warmer glow than in that of Burns : ' a tide of Scottish prejudice/ as he modestly calls this deep and generous feeling, ' had been poured along his ' veins ; and he felt that it would boil there till ' the flood-gates shut in eternal rest/ It seemed to him, as if he could do so little for his country, and yet would so gladly have done all. One small province stood open for him, — that of Scottish Song; and how eagerly he entered on it, how devotedly he laboured there ! In his toilsome journeyings, this object never quits him ; it is the little happy- valley of his careworn heart. In the gloom of his own affliction, he eagerly searches after some lonely brother of the muse, and rejoices to snatch one other name from the oblivion that was covering it ! These were early feelings, and they abode with him to the end : A wish (I mind its power), A wish, that to my latest hour "Will strongly heave my breast ; That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some useful plan or book could make, Or sing a sang at least. 48 BURNS. The rough bur Thistle spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd my weeding-clips aside, And spared the symbol dear. But to leave the mere literary character of Burns, which has already detained us too long. Far more interesting than any of his written works, as it appears to us, are his acted ones : the Life he willed, and was fated, to lead among his fellow men. These Poems are but little rhymed frag- ments scattered here and there in the grand un- rhymed Romance of his earthly existence ; and it is only when intercalated in this at their proper places, that they attain their full measure of signi- ficance. And this too, alas, was but a fragment ! The plan of a mighty edifice had been sketched; some columns, porticos, firm masses of building, stand completed; the rest more or less clearly indicated; with many a far-stretching tendency, which only studious and friendly eyes can now trace towards the purposed termination. For the work is broken off in the middle, almost in the beginning ; and rises among us, beautiful and sad, at once unfinished and a ruin ! If charitable judg- ment was necessary in estimating his Poems, and justice required that the aim and the manifest power to fulfil it must often be accepted for the fulfilment ; much more is this the case in regard to his Life, the sum and result of all his endeavours, where his difficulties came upon him not in detail BURNS. 49 only, but in mass ; and so much has been left un- accomplished, nay was mistaken, and altogether marred. Properly speaking, there is but one era in the life of Burns, and that the earliest. We have not youth and manhood, but only youth : for, to the end, we discern no decisive change in the com- plexion of his character ; in his thirty-seventh year, he is still, as it were, in youth. With all that re- soluteness of judgment, that penetrating insight, and singular maturity of intellectual power, exhi- bited in his writings, he never attains to any clear- ness regarding himself; to the last, he never ascer- tains his peculiar aim, even with such distinctness as is common among ordinary men; and there- fore 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 need- ful, through poverty or riches, through good or evil report. Another far meaner ambition still cleaves to him ; he must dream and struggle about a cer- tain ' Rock of Independence ;' which, natural and even admirable as it might be, was still but a war- ring with the world, on the comparatively insigni- ficant ground of his being more completely or less completely supplied with money, than others; of his standing at a higher or at a lower altitude in E 50 BURNS. general estimation than others. For the world still appears to him, as to the young, in borrowed colours : he expects from it what it cannot give to any man ; seeks for contentment, not within him- self, in action and wise effort, but from without, in the kindness of circumstances, in love, friendship, honour, 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 labour, but showered on him by the be- neficence of Destiny. Thus, like a young man, he cannot gird himself up for any worthy well-cal- culated goal, but swerves to and fro, between pas- sionate hope and remorseful disappointment : rush- ing onwards with a deep tempestuous force, he sur- mounts or breaks asunder many a barrier ; tra- vels, 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 Ac- tivity in the sphere for which, by nature and cir- cumstances, 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 favour. 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 develop it. A complex condition had been assigned him from without ; as complex a condition from within : BURNS. 51 no c pre- established harmony' existed between the clay soil of Mossgiel and the empyrean soul of Robert Burns ; it was not wonderful that the ad- justment between them should have been long post- poned, 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 j 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 begin- ning 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 toil worn ; 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 him- self fortunate. His father was a man of thought- ful, 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 04 BURNS. 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 never 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 uni- versity ; 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. Wis- dom is not banished from their poor hearth, nor the balm of natural feeling : the solemn words, Let us ivorship 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 BURNS. 53 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 humour 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-coloured splen- dour 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 ourselves know, from the best evidence, that up to this date Burns was happy j nay, that he was the gayest, brightest, most fantastic, fascina- ting 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 ; 54 BURNS. 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 mis- taken : for Sin and Kemorse 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. TYe hope it is not so. Clear we are, at all events, it cannot be the training one re- ceives in this Devil's-service, but only our deter- mining to desert from it, that fits us for true manly Action. TVe 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 re- medy but striving and doing. Manhood begins when we have in any way made truce with Necessity ; be- gins even 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 BURNS. 55 other, is the grand lesson for every mortal man, are better learned from the lips of a devont 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 ns to ship- wreck 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 B urns' 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 fana- ticism awakened in his mind scruples about Reli- gion 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 in- tellect 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 alto- gether victorious and unharmed : but it seems pe- culiarly unfortunate that this time, above all others, should have been fixed for the encounter. For now, 56 BURNS. with principles assailed by evil example from with- out, by c passions raging like demons' from within, he had little need of sceptical misgivings to whis- per 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 alter- nately oppress him. Ere long, too, he has com- mitted himself before the world ; his character for sobriety, dear to a Scottish peasant as few cor- rupted worldlings 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 ga- thers over him, broken only by 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 ! BURNS. 57 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 a 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 shew him honour, sympathy, affection. Burns' s appearance among the sages and nobles of Edin- burgh must be regarded as one of the most sin- gular 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 favour, transiently and for a purpose, that he will let him- self 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; put- ting 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 bis way among them from the plongh-tail at a single stride, mani- fested in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation a most thorough conviction, that in the society of the most 58 BURNS. eminent men of his nation, lie was exactly where he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned to natter them by exhi- biting 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 convivial- ists 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, — be- neath 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 supe- riors 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 further we remove from this scene, the more singular will it seem to us : details of the ex- terior 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 Nar- rative : 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, BURNS. 59 YirgiUum vidi tantum. I was a lad of fifteen in 1786-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and feel- ing 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 Gricrson 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 re- member 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 man- ner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bun- bury'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 baptised 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 unpro- mising 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 60 BURNS. 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 know- ledge of his extraordinary talents. His features are re- presented in Mr. Xasmyth'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 labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gudeman who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his linea- ments ; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical cha- racter 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 recognise me, as I could not expect he should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh : but (considering what lite- rary 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 li- BURNS. 61 mited ; and also that, having twenty times the abilities of Allan Ramsay and of Fergusson, 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 rnalam partem, when I say, I never saw a man in company with his superiors in station or infor- mation more perfectly free from cither the reality or the affectation of embarrassment. I was told, but did not ob- serve it, that his address to females was extremely defe- rential, 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 anything I can add to these recollections of forty years since.' The conduct of Burns under this dazzling blaze of favour ; 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 vigour and integrity of mind. A little natural vanity, some touches of hy- pocritical modesty, some glimmerings of affecta- tion, 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. Neverthe- less, we cannot but perceive that this winter did him great and lasting injury. A somewhat clearer 62 BURNS. knowledge of men's affairs, scarcely of their cha- racters, 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 degra- dation 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 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 l long for the mer- chandise, 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 BURNS. 63 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 worldly Ambition ; and through long years the disease will rack him with unprofitable suffer- ings, and weaken his strength for all true and nobler aims. What Burns was next to do or to 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. It was a question too, which apparently he was left alto- gether 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 ; that we should be at a loss, even now, to suggest one de- 64 BURNS. cidedly better. Certain of his admirers have felt scandalised at his ever resolving to gauge; and would have had him lie at the pool, till the spirit of Patronage stirred the waters, that so, with one friendly plunge, all his sorrows might be healed. Unwise counsellors ! They know not the manner of this spirit ; and how, in the lap of most golden dreams, a man might have happiness, were it not that in the interim he 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 stand- ing ; 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 secu- rity ; and for the rest, he ( did not intend to bor- row honour from any profession/ We reckon 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 ot the purse, but of the soul; to his last day, he owed no man anything. Meanwhile he begins well : with two good and wise actions. His donation to his mother, muni- BURNS. 65 ficent from a man whose income had lately been seven pounds a-year, was worthy of him, and not more than worthy. Generous also, and worthy of him, was the treatment of the woman whose life's welfare now depended on his pleasure. A friendly observer might have hoped serene days for him : his mind is on the true road to peace with itself: what clearness he still wants will be given as he proceeds ; for the best teacher of duties, that still lie dim to us, is the Practice of those we see, and have at hand. Had the ' patrons of genius/ who could give him nothing, but taken nothing from him, at least nothing more ! The wounds of his heart would have healed, vulgar ambition would have died away. Toil and Frugality would have been welcome, since Virtue dwelt with them ; and Poetry would have shone through them as of old : and in her clear ethereal light, which was his own by birthright, he might have looked down on his earthly destiny, and all its obstructions, not with patience only, but with love. But the patrons of genius would not have it so. Picturesque tourists,* all manner of fashionable * There is one little sketch by certain ' English gentlemen' of this class, which, though adopted in Currie's Narrative, and since then repeated in most others, we have all along felt an invincible disposition to regard as imaginary : ' On a rock that projected 1 into the stream, they saw a man employed in angling, of a sin- ' gular appearance. He had a cap made of fox-skin on his head, 1 a loose greatcoat fixed round lu'm by a belt, from which de- ' pended an enormous Highland broad-sword. It was Burns.' F 66 BURNS. danglers after literature, and, far worse, all man- ner of convivial Maecenases, hovered round him in his retreat ; and his good as well as his weak qua- lities secured them influence over him. He was flattered by their notice ; and his warm social nature made it impossible for him to shake them off, and hold on his way apart from them. These men, as we believe, were proximately the means of his ruin. Not that they meant him any ill ; they only meant themselves a little good ; if he suffered harm, let Mm look to it ! But they wasted his precious time and his precious talent; they dis- turbed his composure, broke down his returning habits of temperance and assiduous contented ex- ertion. Their pampering was baneful to him; their cruelty, which soon followed, was equally baneful. The old grudge against Fortune's in- equality awoke with new bitterness in their neigh- bourhood ; and Burns had no retreat but to the s Bock of Independence/ which is but an air-castle, after all, that looks well at a distance, but will screen no one from real wind and wet. Flushed !N~ow, we rather think, it was not Burns. For, to say nothing of the fox-skin cap, the loose and quite Hibernian watchcoat with the belt, what are we to make of this ' enormous Highland broad- sword ' depending from him ? More especially, as there is no word of parish constables on the outlook to see whether, as Dennis phrases it, he had an eye to his own midriff or that of the public ! Burns, of all men, had the least need, and the least tendency, to seek for distinction, either in his own eyes, or those of others, by such poor mummeries. BURNS. 67 with irregular excitement, exasperated alternately by contempt of others, and contempt of himself, Burns was no longer regaining his peace of mind, but fast losing it forever. There was a hollowness at the heart of his life, for his conscience did not now approve what he was doing. Amid the vapours of unwise enjoyment, of boot- less remorse, and angry discontent with Fate, his true loadstar, a life of Poetry, with Poverty, nay with Famine if it must be so, was too often alto- gether hidden from his eyes. And yet he sailed a sea, where without some such loadstar there was no right steering. Meteors of French Politics rise before him, but these were not his stars. An accident this, which hastened, but did not origi- nate, his worst distresses. In the mad contentions of that time, he comes in collision with certain official Superiors; is wounded by them; cruelly lacerated, we should say, could a dead mechanical implement, in any case, be called cruel : and shrinks, in indignant pain, into deeper self-seclusion, into gloomier moodiness than ever. His life has now lost its unity : it is a life of fragments • led with little aim, beyond the melancholy one of securing its own continuance, — in fits of wild false joy when such offered, and of black despondency when they passed away. His character before the world be- /gins to suffer : calumny is busy with him ; for a miserable man makes more enemies than friends. Some faults he has fallen into, and a thousand 68 BURNS. misfortunes; but deep criminality is what he stands accused of, and they that are not without sin cast the first stone at him ! For is he not a well-wisher of the French Revolution, a Jacobin, and therefore in that one act guilty of all ? These accusations, political and moral, it has since ap- peared, were false enough : but the world hesitated little to credit them. Nay, his convivial Msece- nases themselves were not the last to do it. There is reason to believe that, in his later years, the Dumfries Aristocracy had partly withdrawn them- selves from Burns, as from a tainted person, no longer worthy of their acquaintance. That pain- ful class, stationed, in all provincial cities, behind the outmost breastwork of Gentility, there to stand siege and do battle against the intrusions of Gro- cerdom and Grazierdom, had actually seen dis- honour in the society of Burns, and branded him with their veto ; had, as we vulgarly say, cut him ! "We find one passage in this Work of Mr. Lock- hart's, which will not out of our thoughts : ' A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once had occasion to refer to, has often told me that he was seldom more grieved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer evening about this time to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone, on the shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn together for the festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognise him. The horseman dismounted, and joined Burns, who on his BURNS. 69 proposing to cross the street said : " Nay, nay, my young friend, that's all over now;" and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's pathetic ballad : " His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, His auld ane look'd better than mony ane's new ; But now he lets't wear ony way it will hing, And casts himsell dowie upon the corn-bing. O were we young, as we ance hae been, We sud hae been galloping down on yon green, And linking it ower the lily-white lea ! And werena my heart light I wad die" It was little in Burns's character to let his feelings on certain subjects escape in this fashion. He, immediately after reciting these verses, assumed the sprightliness of his most pleasing manner ; and taking his young friend home with him, entertained him very agreeably till the hour of the ball arrived.' Alas ! when we think that Burns now sleeps c where bitter indignation can no longer lacerate his heart/ * and that most of those fair dames and frizzled gentlemen already lie at his side, — where the breastwork of gentility is quite thrown down, — who would not sigh over the thin delusions and foolish toys that divide heart from heart, and make man unmerciful to his brother ! It was not now to be hoped that the genius of Burns would ever reach maturity, or accomplish aught worthy of itself. His spirit was jarred in * Ubi scBva indignatio cor ulterius lacerare nequit. — Swift's Epitaph. 70 BURNS. its melody ; not the soft breath of natural feeling, but the rude hand of Fate, was now sweeping over the strings. And yet what harmony was in him, what music even in his discords ! How the wild tones had a charm for the simplest and the wisest ; and all men felt and knew that here also was one of the Gifted ! ' If he entered an inn at midnight, ' after all the inmates were in bed, the news of his ' arrival circulated from the cellar to the garret ; 1 and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the landlord and c all his guests were assembled V Some brief pure moments of poetic life were yet appointed him, in the composition of his Songs. We can understand how he grasped at this employment ; and how too, he spurned all other reward for it but what the labour itself brought him. For the soul of Burns, though scathed and marred, was yet living in its full moral strength, though sharply conscious of its errors and abasement : and here, in his destitution and degradation, was one act of seeming nobleness and self-devotedness left even for him to perform. He felt too, that with all the ' thoughtless follies' that had ' laid him low,' the world was unjust and cruel to him ; and he silently appealed to another and calmer time. Not as a hired soldier, but as a patriot, would he strive for the glory of his coun- try : so he cast from him the poor sixpence a-day, and served zealously as a volunteer. Let us not grudge him this last luxury of his existence; let him not have appealed to us in vain ! The money BURNS. 71 was not necessary to him j lie struggled through without it : long since, these guineas would have been gone, and now the high-mindedness of re- fusing them will plead for him in all hearts for- ever. We are here arrived at the crisis of Burns' s life ; for matters had now taken such a shape with him as could not long continue. If improvement was not to be looked for, Nature could only for a limited time maintain this dark and maddening warfare against the world and itself. We are not medically informed whether any continuance of years was, at this period, probable for Burns ; whether his death is to be, looked on as in some sense an accidental event, or only as the natural consequence of the long series of events that had preceded. The lat- ter seems to be the likelier opinion ; and yet it is by no means a certain one. At all events, as we have said, some change could not be very distant. Three gates of deliverance, it seems to us, were open for Burns : clear poetical activity ; madness ; or death. The first, with longer life, was still pos- sible, though not probable ; for physical causes were beginning to be concerned in it : and yet Burns had an iron resolution ; could he but have seen and felt, that not only his highest glory, but his first duty, and the true medicine for all his woes, lay here. The second was still less proba- ble ; for his mind was ever among the clearest and firmest. So the milder third gate was opened for 72 BURNS. him : and he passed, not softly, yet speedily, into that still country, -where the hail-storms and fire- showers do not reach, and the heaviest-laden ■way- farer at length lays down his load ! Contemplating this sad end of Burns, and how he sank unaided by any real help, uncheered by any wise sympathy, generous minds have sometimes figured to themselves, with a reproachful sorrow, that much might have been done for him ; that by counsel, true affection and friendly ministrations, he might have been saved to himself and the world. We question whether there is not more tenderness of heart than soundness of judgment in these suggestions. It seems dubious to us whether the richest, wisest, most benevolent individual could have lent Burns any effectual help. Counsel, which seldom profits any one, he did not need; in his understanding, he knew the right from the wrong, as well perhaps as any man ever did ; but the per- suasion, which would have availed him, lies not so much in the head as in the heart-, where no argu- ment or expostulation could have assisted much to implant it. As to money again, we do not believe that this was his essential want ; or well see how any private man could, even presupposing Burns' s consent, have bestowed on him an independent for- tune, with much prospect of decisive advantage. It is a mortifying truth, that two men in any rank of society could hardly be found virtuous enough BURNS. 73 to give money, and to take it as a necessary gift, without injury to the moral entireness of one or both. But so stands the fact : Friendship, in the old heroic sense of that term, no longer exists; except in the cases of kindred or other legal affinity, it is in reality no longer expected, or recognised as a virtue among men. A close observer of man- ners has pronounced ' Patronage/ that is, pecu- niary or other economic furtherance, to be ' twice cursed ;' cursing him that gives, and him that takes ! And thus, in regard to outward matters also, it has become the rule, as in regard to inward it always was and must be the rule, that no one shall look for effectual help to another \ but that each shall rest contented with what help he can afford himself. Such, we say, is the principle of modern Honour ; naturally enough growing out of that sentiment of Pride, which we inculcate and encourage as the basis of our whole social morality. Many a poet has been poorer than Burns ; but no one was ever prouder : we may question whether, without great precautions, even a pension from Royalty would not have galled and encumbered, more than actually assisted him. Still less, therefore, are we disposed to join with another class of Burns' s admirers, who accuse the higher ranks among us of having ruined Burns by their selfish neglect of him. We have already stated our doubts whether direct pecuniary help, had it been offered, would have been accepted, or 74 BURNS. could have proved very effectual. We shall rea- dily admit, however, that much was to be done for Burns; that many a poisoned arrow might have been warded from his bosom j many an entangle- ment in his path cut asunder by the hand of the powerful; and light and heat, shed on him from high places, would have made his humble atmo- sphere more genial; and the softest heart then breathing might have lived and died with some fewer pangs. Nay, we shall grant further, and for Bums it is granting much, that, with all his pride, he would have thanked, even with exaggerated gratitude, any one who had cordially befriended him : patronage, unless once cursed, needed not to have been twice so. At all events, the poor pro- motion he desired in his calling might have been granted : it was his own scheme, therefore likelier than any other to be of service. All this it might have been a luxury, nay it was a duty, for our nobility to have done. No part of all this, how- ever, did any of them do ; or apparently attempt, or wish to do : so much is granted against them. But what then is the amount of their blame? Simply that they were men of the world, and walked by the principles of such men; that they treated Bums, as other nobles and other com- moners had done other poets ; as the English did Shakspeare ; as King Charles and his Cavaliers did Butler, as King Philip and his Grandees did Cervantes. Do men gather grapes of thorns; or BURNS. 75 shall we cut clown our thorns for yielding only a fence and haws ? How, indeed, could the ' nobility and gentry of his native land' hold out any help to this l Scottish Bard, proud of his name and coun- try V Were the nobility and gentry so much as able rightly to help themselves? Had they not their game to preserve ; their borough interests to strengthen ; dinners, therefore, of various kinds to eat and give ? Were their means more than ade- quate to all this business, or less than adequate? Less than adequate in general; few of them in reality were richer than Burns; many of them were poorer; for sometimes they had to wring their supplies, as with thumbscrews, from the hard hand; and, in their need of guineas, to forget their duty of mercy ; which Burns was never re- duced to do. Let us pity and forgive them. The game they preserved and shot, the dinners they ate and gave, the borough interests they strengthened, the little Babylons they severally builded by the glory of their might, are all melted or melting back into the primeval Chaos, as man's merely selfish endeavours are fated to do : and here was an action, extending, in virtue of its worldly influ- ence, we may say, through all time; in virtue of its moral nature, beyond all time, being immortal as the Spirit of Goodness itself; this action was offered them to do, and light was not given them to do it. Let us pity and forgive them. But better than pity, let us go and do otherwise. Human 76 BURNS. suffering did not end with the life of Burns ; nei- ther was the solemn mandate, ' Love one another, bear one another's burdens/ given to the rich only, but to all men. True, we shall find no Burns to relieve, to assuage by our aid or our pity ; but celestial natures, groaning under the fardels of a weary life, we shall still find ; and that wretched- ness which Fate has rendered voiceless and timeless is not the least wretched, but the most. Still, we do not think that the blame of Buras's failure lies chiefly with the world. The world, it seems to us, treated him with more, rather than with less kindness than it usually shews to such men. It has ever, we fear, shewn but small favour to its Teachers : hunger and nakedness, perils and reviling, the prison, the cross, the poison- chalice have, in most times and countries, been the market-price it has offered for Wisdom, the wel- come with which it has greeted those who have come to enlighten and purify it. Homer and So- crates, and the Christian Apostles, belong to old days ; but the world's Martyrology was not com- pleted with these. Roger Bacon and Galileo lan- guish in priestly dungeons ; Tasso pines in the cell of a madhouse; Camoens dies begging on the streets of Lisbon. So neglected, so ' persecuted they the Prophets/ not in Judea only, but in all places where men have been. We reckon that every poet of Burns' s order is, or should be, a pro- phet and teacher to his age ; that he has no right BURNS. 77 to expect great kindness from it, bnt rather is bound to do it great kindness ; that Burns, in par- ticular, experienced fully the usual proportion of the world's goodness; and that the blame of his failure, as we have said, lies not chiefly with the world. Where then does it lie? We are forced to an- swer: With himself; it is his inward, not his outward misfortunes that bring him to the dust. Seldom, indeed, is it otherwise; seldom is a life morally wrecked but the grand cause lies in some internal mal-arrangement, some want less of good fortune than of good guidance. Nature fashions no creature without implanting in it the strength needful for its action and duration; least of all does she so neglect her masterpiece and darling, the poetic soul. Neither can we believe that it is in the power of any external circumstances utterly to ruin the mind of a man ; nay, if proper wisdom be given him, even so much as to affect its essen- tial health and beauty. The sternest sum-total of all worldly misfortunes is Death; nothing more can lie in the cup of human woe : yet many men, in all ages, have triumphed over Death, and led it captive; converting its physical victory into a moral victory for themselves, into a seal and im- mortal consecration for all that their past life had achieved. What has been done, may be done again : nay, it is but the degree and not the kind of such heroism that differs in different seasons; 78 BURNS. for without some portion of this spirit, not of bois- terous daring, but of silent fearlessness, of Self- denial in all its forms, no good man, in any scene or time, has ever attained to be good. We have already stated the error of Burns; and mourned over it, rather than blamed it. It was the want of unity in his purposes, of consis- tency in his aims ; the hapless attempt to mingle in friendly union the common spirit of the world with the spirit of poetry, which is of a far different and altogether irreconcilable nature. Burns was nothing wholly; and Burns could be nothing, no man formed as he was can be anything, by halves. The heart, not of a mere hot-blooded, popular Verse-monger, or poetical Restaurateur, but of a true Poet and Singer, worthy of the old religious heroic times, had been given him : and he fell in an age, not of heroism and religion, but of scepti- cism, selfishness and triviality, when true Noble- ness was little understood, and its place supplied by a hollow, dissocial, altogether barren and un- fruitful principle of Pride. The influences of that age, his open, kind, susceptible nature, to say nothing of his highly untoward situation, made it more than usually difficult for him to cast aside, or rightly subordinate ; the better spirit that was within him ever sternly demanded its rights, its supremacy : he spent his life in endeavouring to reconcile these two ; and lost it, as he must lose it, without reconciling them. BURNS. 79 Burns was born poor ; and born also to continue poor, for he would not endeavour to be otherwise : this it had been well could he have once for all admitted, and considered as finally settled. He was poor, truly; but hundreds even of his own class and order of minds have been poorer, yet have suffered nothing deadly from it : nay, his own Father had a far sorer battle with ungrateful des- tiny than his was ; and he did not yield to it, but died courageously warring, and to all moral in- tents prevailing, against it. True, Burns had little means, had even little time for poetry, his only real pursuit and vocation ; but so much the more precious was what little he had. In all these ex- ternal respects his case was hard; but very far from the hardest. Poverty, incessant drudgery and much worse evils, it has often been the lot of Poets and wise men to strive with, and their glory to conquer. Locke was banished as a traitor ; and wrote his Essay on the Human Understanding shel- tering himself in a Dutch garret. Was Milton rich or at his ease when he composed Paradise Lost? Not only low, but fallen from a height; not only poor, but impoverished ; in darkness and with dangers compassed round, he sang his im- mortal song, and found fit audience, though few. Did not Cervantes finish his work, a maimed sol- dier and in prison ? Nay, was not the Araucana, which Spain acknowledges as its Epic, written with- out even the aid of paper; on scraps of leather, 80 BURNS. as the stout fighter and voyager snatched any mo- ment from that wild warfare ? And what then had these men, which Burns wanted ? Two things ; both which, it seems to us, are indispensable for such men. They had a true, religious principle of morals ; and a single not a double aim in their activity. They were not self- seekers and self-worshippers ; but seekers and wor- shippers of something far better than Self. Not personal enjoyment was their object; but a high, heroic idea of Religion, of Patriotism, of hea- venly Wisdom in one or the other form, ever ho- vered before them; in which cause, they neither shrank from suffering, nor called on the earth to witness it as something wonderful; but patiently endured, counting it blessedness enough so to spend and be spent. Thus the c golden-calf of Self-love/ however curiously carved, was not their Deity; but the Invisible Goodness, which alone is man's reasonable service. This feeling was as a celestial fountain, whose streams refreshed into gladness and beauty all the provinces of their otherwise too desolate existence. In a word, they willed one thing, to which all other things were subordinated and made subservient ; and therefore they accom- plished it. The wedge will rend rocks; but its edge must be sharp and single : if it be double, the wedge is bruised in pieces and will rend nothing. Part of this superiority these men owed to their age ; in which heroism and devotedness were still BURNS. 81 practised, or at least not yet disbelieved in : but much of it likewise they owed to themselves. With Burns again it was different. His morality, in most of its practical points, is that of a mere worldly man; enjoyment, in a finer or coarser shape, is the only thing he longs and strives for. A noble instinct sometimes raises him above this ; but an instinct only, and acting only for moments. He has no Religion; in the shallow age, where his days were cast, Religion was not discriminated from the New and Old Light forms of Religion ; and was, with these, becoming obsolete in the minds of men. His heart, indeed, is alive with a trembling adoration, but there is no temple in his understanding. He lives in darkness and in the shadow of doubt. His religion, at best, is an anxious wish ; like that of Rabelais, c a great Perhaps/ He loved Poetry warmly, and in his heart ; could he but have loved it purely, and with his whole undivided heart, it had been well. For Poetry, as Burns could have followed it, is but another form of Wisdom, of Religion ; is itself Wisdom and Religion. But this also was denied him. His poetry is a stray vagrant gleam, which will not be extinguished within him, yet rises not to be the true light of his path, but is often a wildfire that misleads him. It was not necessary for Burns to be rich, to be, or to seem, ' independent ; ' but it was necessary for him to be at one with his own heart ; to G 82 BURNS. place what was highest in his nature highest also in his life ; ' to seek within himself for that consistency I and sequence, which external events would forever ' refuse him/ He was born a poet ; poetry was the celestial element of his being, and should have been the soul of his whole endeavours. Lifted into that serene aether, whither he had wings given him to mount, he would have needed no other elevation : poverty, neglect and all evil, save the desecration of himself and his Art, were a small matter to him ; the pride and the passions of the world lay far be- neath his feet ; and he looked down alike on noble and slave, on prince and beggar, and all that wore the^stamp of man, with clear recognition, with bro- therly affection, with sympathy, with pity. Nay, we question whether for his culture as a Poet, poverty and much suffering for a season were not absolutely advantageous. Great men, in looking back over their lives, have testified to that effect. I I woidd not for much/ says Jean Paul, ' that I f had been born richer/ And yet Paul's birth was poor enough ; for, in another place, he adds : l The { prisoner's allowance is bread and water ; and I ' had often only the latter.' But the gold that is refined in the hottest furnace comes out the purest ; or, as he has himself expressed it, ' the canary-bird ' sings sweeter the longer it has been trained in a ' darkened cage.' A man like Burns might have divided his hours between poetry and virtuous industry; industry BURNS. 83 which all true feeling sanctions, nay prescribes, and which has a beauty, for that cause, beyond the pomp of thrones : but to divide his hours between poetry and rich men's banquets was an ill-starred and inauspicious attempt. How could he be at ease at such banquets ? What had he to do there, mingling his music with the coarse roar of alto- gether earthly voices \ brightening the thick smoke of intoxication with fire lent him from heaven ? Was it his aim to enjoy life ? To-morrow he must go drudge as an Exciseman ! We wonder not that Burns became moody, indignant, and at times an offender against certain rules of society ; but rather that he did not grow utterly frantic, and run amuck against them all. How could a man, so falsely placed, by his own or others' fault, ever know contentment or peaceable diligence for an hour? What he did, under such perverse guidance, and what he forbore to do, alike fill us with astonish- ment at the natural strength and worth of his character. Doubtless there was a remedy for this perverse- ness : but not in others ; only in himself; least of all in simple increase of wealth and worldly ' re- spectability/ We hope we have now heard enough about the efficacy of wealth for poetry, and to make poets happy. Nay, have we not seen another instance of it in these very days ? Byron, a man of an endowment considerably less ethereal than that of Burns, is born in the rank not of a Scottish 84 BURNS. ploughman, but of an English peer : the highest worldly honours, the fairest worldly career, are his by inheritance; the richest harvest of fame he soon reaps, in another province, by his own hand. And what does all this avail him ? Is he happy, is he good, is he true ? Alas, he has a poet's soul, and strives towards the Infinite and the Eternal; and soon feels that all this is but mounting to the house-top to reach the stars ! Like Burns, he is only a proud man; might/ like him, have 'purchased a pocket-copy of Milton to study the character of Satan ;' for Satan also is Byron's grand exemplar, the hero of his poetry, and the model apparently of his conduct. As in Burns's case too, the celestial element will not mingle with the clay of earth ; both poet and man of the world he must not be; vulgar Ambition will not live kindly with poetic Adoration ; he can- not serve God and Mammon. Byron, like Burns, is not happy ; nay, he is the most wretched of all men. His life is falsely arranged : the fire that is in him is not a strong, still, central fire, warming into beauty the products of a world ; but it is the mad fire of a volcano ; and now, — we look sadly into the ashes of a crater, which erelong will fill its4 If with snow ! Byron and Bums were sent forth as missionaries to their generation, to teach it a higher Doctrine, a purer Truth ; they had a message to deliver, which left them no rest till it was accomplished ; in dim BURNS. 85 throes of pain, this divine behest lay smouldering within them; for they knew not what it meant, and felt it only in mysterious anticipation, and they had to die without articulately uttering it. They are in the camp of the Unconverted ; yet not as high messengers of rigorous though benignant truth, but as soft nattering singers, and in pleasant fellowship, will they live there : they are first adu- lated, then persecuted; they accomplish little for others ; they find no peace for themselves, but only death and the peace of the grave. We confess, it is not without a certain mournful awe that we view the fate of these noble souls, so richly gifted, yet ruined to so little purpose with all their gifts. It seems to us there is a stern moral taught in this piece of history, — twice told us in our own time ! Surely to men of like genius, if there be any suck, it carries with it a lesson of deep impres- sive significance. Surely it would become such a man, furnished for the highest of all enter- prises, that of being the Poet of his Age, to con- sider well what it is that he attempts, and in what spirit he attempts it. For the words of Milton are true in all times, and were never truer than in this : ' He, who would write heroic poems, must make his whole life a heroic poem/ If he cannot first so make his life, then let him hasten from this arena ; for neither its lofty glories, nor its fearful perils, are fit for him. Let him dwindle into a modish balladmonger ; let him worship and 86 BURNS. besing the idols of the time, and the time will not fail to reward him. If, indeed, he can endure to live in that capacity ! Byron and Burns could not live as idol-priests, but the fire of their own hearts consumed them; and better it was for them that they could not. For it is not in the favour of the great or of the small, but in a life of truth, and in the inexpugnable citadel of his own soul, that a Byron's or a Burns's strength must lie. Let the great stand aloof from him, or know how to reverence him. Beautiful is the union of wealth with favour and furtherance for literature; like the costliest flower-jar enclosing the loveliest amaranth. Yet let not the relation be mistaken. A true poet is not one whom they can hire by money or flattery to be a minister of their pleasures, their writer of occasional verses, their purveyor of table-wit ; he cannot be their menial, he cannot even be their partisan. At the peril of both parties, let no such union be attempted ! Will a Courser of the Sun work softly in the harness of a Dray-horse ? His hoofs are of fire, and his path is through the heavens, bringing light to all lands ; -will he lumber on mud highways, dragging ale for earthly appe- tites from door to door? But we must stop short in these considerations, which would lead us to boundless lengths. We had something to say on the public moral cha- racter of Burns; but this also we must forbear. We are far from regarding him as guilty before BURNS. 87 the world, as guiltier than the average ; nay from doubting that he is less guilty than one of ten thousand. Tried at a tribunal far more rigid than that where the Plebiscite/, of common civic repu- tations are pronounced, he has seemed to us even there less worthy of blame than of pity and won- der. But 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 mathe- matical 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 gin- horse, 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 Burnses, Swifts, Bousseaus, which one never listens to with ap- proval. Granted, the ship comes into harbour with shrouds and tackle damaged; the pilot is blame- worthy ; he has not been all-wise and all-powerful : but to know how blameworthy, tell us first whether his voyage has been round the Globe, or only to Bamsgate and the Isle of Dogs. 88 BURNS. With our readers in general, with men of right feeling anywhere, we are not required to plead for Bums. In pitying admiration he lies enshrined in all our hearts, in a far nobler mausoleum than that one of marble ; neither will his Works, even as they are, pass away from the memory of men. While the Shakspeares and Miltons roll on like mighty livers through the country of Thought, bearing fleets of traffickers and assiduous pearl- fishers on their waves ; this little Yalclusa Foun- tain will also arrest our eye: for this also is of Nature's own and most cunning workmanship, bursts from the depths of the earth, with a full gushing current, into the light of day ; and often will the traveller turn aside to drink of its clear waters, and muse among its rocks and pines ! THE END. JOHN EDWAKD TAYLOR, PBINTEB, LITTLE QUEEN STBEET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. J J^abing for ©ra&tlks. A NEW LIBRARY OF RAILWAY LITERATURE. Printed in a clear and legible type, and expressly adapted to the convenience of Bailway Travellers. WORKS PUBLISHED. OLD EOADS AND NEW ROADS. By W. B. Donne, Esq. Is. MAGIC AND WTTCHCEAET. 1*. EEANEXIN'S FOOTSTEPS. By 0. E. Makkhaw, Esq. 1*. 6d. THE VILLAGE DOOTOE. Translated by Lady Dufp GOEDON. Is. MONTENEGEO, AND THE SLAVONIANS OF TUEKEY. By Cbunt Y. Keasinski. Is. Qd. CHAEACTEE AND ANECDOTES OP CHARLES THE SECOND. By the late Charles Babkee, M.A. 1*. SAMUEL JOHNSON. By Thomas Caelyle, Esq. 1*. ELOEIAN AND CEESCENZ. By Beethold Atteebach. 1*. THE HUNGARIAN EMIGEATION INTO TUEKEY. 1*. SIE PHILIP SIDNEY AND THE AECADIA. 1*. A VISIT TO BELGEADE. Is. BUENS. By Thomas Caelyle, Esq. 1* * * Other Essays by Mr. Carlyle will appear in this Series.