Williams
to send to our house for it.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v05 - Bro to Cai
Indeed, M.
Du Bois was the only man of the party to
whom, voluntarily, I ever addressed myself. He is civil and
respectful, and I have found nobody else so since I left Howard
Grove. His English is very bad; but I prefer it to speaking
French myself, which I dare not venture to do. I converse with
him frequently, both to disengage myself from others and to
oblige Madame Duval, who is always pleased when he is at-
tended to.
As we were walking about the orchestra, I heard a bell ring;
and in a moment Mr. Smith, flying up to me, caught my hand,
and with a motion too quick to be resisted, ran away with me
many yards before I had breath to ask his meaning; though I
struggled as well as I could to get from him. At last, however,
I insisted upon stopping. “Stopping, ma'am! ” cried he, “why,
we must run on, or we shall lose the cascade ! »
And then again he hurried me away, mixing with a crowd
of people, all running with so much velocity that I could not
imagine what had raised such an alarm. We were soon followed
by the rest of the party; and my surprise and ignorance proved
a source of diversion to them all which was not exhausted the
whole evening. Young Branghton, in particular, laughed till he
could hardly stand.
The scene of the cascade I thought extremely pretty, and the
general effect striking and lively.
But this was not the only surprise which was to divert them
at my expense; for they led me about the garden purposely to
enjoy my first sight of various other deceptions.
About ten o'clock, Mr. Smith having chosen a box in a very
conspicuous place, we all went to supper. Much fault was found
with everything that was ordered, though not a morsel of any.
thing was left, and the dearness of the provisions, with conject-
ures upon what profit was made by them, supplied discourse
during the whole meal.
When wine and cyder were brought, Mr. Smith said, “Now
let's enjoy ourselves; now is the time, or never. Well, ma'am,
and how do you like Vauxhall ?
.
## p. 2822 (#394) ###########################################
2822
FRANCES BURNEY
"Like it! ” cried young Branghton; "why, how can she help
liking it? She has never seen such a place before, that I'll
answer for. ”
"For my part,” said Miss Branghton, “I like it because it is
not vulgar. "
« This must have been a fine treat for you, Miss,” said Mr.
Branghton; "why, I suppose you was never so happy in all your
life before ? "
I endeavored to express my satisfaction with some pleasure;
yet I believe they were much amazed at my coldness.
“Miss ought to stay in town till the last night,” said young
Branghton; "and then, it's my belief, she'd say something to it!
Why, Lord, it's the best night of any; there's always a riot, —
and there the folks run about,- and then there's such squealing
and squalling ! - and there, all the lamps are broke,- and the
women run skimper-scamper-I declare, I would not take five
guineas to miss the last night!
I was very glad when they all grew tired of sitting, and
called for the waiter to pay the bill. The Miss Branghtons said
they would walk on while the gentlemen settled the account, and
asked me to accompany them; which however I declined.
“You girls may do as you please,” said Madame Duval, “but
as to me, I promise you, I sha'n't go nowhere without the gen-
tlemen. ”
“No more, I suppose, will my cousin,” said Miss Branghton,
looking reproachfully towards Mr. Smith.
This reflection, which I feared would flatter his vanity, made
me most unfortunately request Madame Duval's permission to
attend them. She granted it; and away we went, having prom-
ised to meet in the room.
To the room, therefore, I would immediately have gone: but
the sisters agreed that they would first have a little pleasure;
and they tittered and talked so loud that they attracted universal
notice.
"Lord, Polly,” said the eldest, “suppose we were to take a
turn in the dark walks ? »
“Ay, do," answered she; "and then we'll hide ourselves, and
then Mr. Brown will think we are lost. ”
I remonstrated very warmly against this plan, telling them it
would endanger our missing the rest of the party all the even-
ing.
## p. 2823 (#395) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2823
were
were
« dear,” cried Miss Branghton, “I thought how uneasy Miss
would be, without a beau !
This impertinence I did not think worth answering; and quite
by compulsion I followed them down a long alley, in which
there was hardly any light.
By the time we came near the end, a large party of gentle-
inen, apparently very riotous, and who were hallooing, leaning
on one another, and laughing immoderately, seemed to rush sud-
denly from behind some trees, and meeting us face to face, put
their arms at their sides and formed a kind of circle, which first
stopped our proceeding and then our retreating, for we
presently entirely enclosed. The Miss Branghtons screamed
aloud, and I was frightened exceedingly; our screams
answered with bursts of laughter, and for some minutes we were
kept prisoners, till at last one of them, rudely seizing hold of
me, said I was a pretty little creature.
Terrified to death, I struggled with such vehemence to disen-
gage myself from him that I succeeded, in spite of his efforts
to detain me: and immediately, and with a swiftness which fear
only could have given me, I flew rather than ran up the walk,
hoping to secure my safety by returning to the lights and com-
pany we had so foolishly left; but before I could possibly accom-
plish my purpose, I was met by another party of men, one of
whom placed himself directly in my way, calling out, "Whither
so fast, my love ? ” — so that I could only have proceeded by
running into his arms.
In a moment both my hands, by different persons, were caught
hold of, and one of them, in a most familiar manner, desired
when I ran next to accompany me in a race; while the rest of
the party stood still and laughed. I was almost distracted with
terror, and so breathless with running that I could not speak;
till another, advancing, said I was as handsome as an angel,
and desired to be of the party. I then just articulated, For
Heaven's sake, gentlemen, let me pass! »
Another, then rushing suddenly forward, exclaimed, «Heaven
and earth! what voice is that ? »
« The voice of the prettiest little actress I have seen this age,”
answered one of my persecutors.
“No, no,- no,– ” I panted out, “I am no actress — pray let
pray let me pass — »
“By all that's sacred,” cried the same voice, which I then
knew for Sir Clement Willoughby's, «'tis herself! »
me go,
## p. 2824 (#396) ###########################################
2824
FRANCES BURNEY
A MAN OF THE TON
From Cecilia)
A"
(
Have you
T The door of the Pantheon they were joined by Mr. Arnott
and Sir Robert Floyer, whom Cecilia now saw with added
aversion; they entered the great room during the second
act of the concert, to which, as no one of the party but herself
had any desire to listen, no sort of attention was paid; the ladies
entertaining themselves as if no orchestra was in the room, and
the gentlemen, with an equal disregard to it, struggling for a
place by the fire, about which they continued hovering till the
music was over.
Soon after they were seated, Mr. Meadows, sauntering to-
wards them, whispered something to Mrs. Mears, who, immedi-
ately rising, introduced him to Cecilia; after which, the place
next to her being vacant, he cast himself upon it, and lolling as
much at his ease as his situation would permit, began something
like a conversation with her.
been long in town, ma'am ? ”
"No, sir. ”
« This is not your first winter ? »
« Of being in town, it is. ”
« Then you have something new to see; oh charming! how I
envy you! - Are you pleased with the Pantheon ? »
“Very much; I have seen no building at all equal to it. ”
“You have not been abroad. Traveling is the ruin of all
happiness! There's no looking at a building here after seeing
Italy. ”
“Does all happiness, then, depend upon sight of buildings? ”
said Cecilia, when, turning towards her companion, she perceived
him yawning, with such evident inattention to her answer that,
not choosing to interrupt his reverie, she turned her head another
way.
For some minutes he took no notice of this; and then, as if
suddenly recollecting himself, he called out hastily, “I beg your
pardon, ma'am, you were saying something? ”
“No, sir; nothing worth repeating. ”
“Oh, pray don't punish me so severely as not to let me hear
it ! »
Cecilia, though merely not to seem offended at his negli-
gence, was then beginning an answer, when looking at him as she
## p. 2825 (#397) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2825
spoke, she perceived that he was biting his nails with so absent
an air that he appeared not to know he had asked any question.
She therefore broke off, and left him to his cogitation.
Some time after, he addressed her again, saying, “Don't you
find this place extremely tiresome, ma'am ? »
“Yes, sir,” said she half laughing, it is indeed not very
entertaining! ”
"Nothing is entertaining,” answered he, «for two minutes
together. Things are so little different one from another, that
there is no making pleasure out of anything. We go the same
dull round forever; nothing new, no variety! all the same thing
over again! Are you fond of public places, ma'am ? ”
“Yes, sir, soberly, as Lady Grace says. "
“Then I envy you extremely, for you have some amusement
always in your own power.
How desirable that is! ”
“And have you not the same resources ? »
« Oh no!
I am tired to death! tired of everything! I would
give the universe for a disposition less difficult to please. Yet,
after all, what is there to give pleasure? When one has seen
one thing, one has seen everything. Oh, 'tis heavy work! Don't
you find it so, ma'am ? »
This speech was ended with so violent a fit of yawning that
Cecilia would not trouble herself to answer it: but her silence
as before passed unnoticed, exciting neither question nor com-
ment.
A long pause now succeeded, which he broke at last by say.
ing, as he writhed himself about upon his seat, “These forms
would be much more agreeable if there were backs to them.
'Tis intolerable to be forced to sit like a schoolboy. The first
study of life is ease. There is indeed no other study that pays
the trouble of attainment. Don't you think so, ma'am ? ”
"But may not even that,” said Cecilia, “by so much study
become labor ? »
"I am vastly happy you think so. ”
« Sir? ”
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I thought you said — I really
beg your pardon, but I was thinking of something else. ”
"You did very right, sir,” said Cecilia, laughing, “for what I
said by no means merited any attention. ”
"Will you do me the favor to repeat it ? ” cried he, taking out
his glass to examine some lady at a distance.
## p. 2826 (#398) ###########################################
2826
FRANCES BURNEY
“Oh no,” said Cecilia, “that would be trying your patience
too severely. ”
« These glasses shew one nothing but defects,” said he; "I am
sorry they were ever invented. They are the ruin of all beauty;
no complexion can stand them. I believe that solo will never be
over! I hate a solo; it sinks, it depresses me intolerably. ”
“You will presently, sir,” said Cecilia, looking at the bill of
the concert, “have a full piece; and that I hope will revive
you. ”
"A full piece! oh, insupportable! it stuns, it fatigues, it over-
powers me beyond endurance! no taste in it, no delicacy, no room
for the smallest feeling. ”
"Perhaps, then, you are only fond of singing ? ”
«I should be, if I could hear it; but we are now so miserably
off in voices, that I hardly ever attempt to listen to a song, with-
out fancying myself deaf from the feebleness of the performers.
I hate everything that requires attention. Nothing gives pleasure
that does not force its own way. ”
« You only, then, like loud voices, and great powers ? ”
“Oh, worse and worse! — no, nothing is so disgusting to me.
All my amazement is that these people think it worth while to
give concerts at all — one is sick to death of music. ”
Nay,” cried Cecilia, “if it gives no pleasure, at least it takes
none away; for, far from being any impediment to conversation,
I think everybody talks more during the performance than be-
tween the acts. And what is there better you could substitute
in its place ? "
Cecilia, receiving no answer to this question, again looked
round to see if she had been heard; when she observed her new
acquaintance, with a very thoughtful air, had turned from her to
fix his eyes upon the statue of Britannia.
Very soon after, he hastily arose, and seeming entirely to
forget that he had spoken to her, very abruptly walked away.
Mr. Gosport, who was advancing to Cecilia and had watched
part of this scene, stopped him as he was retreating, and said,
“Why, Meadows, how's this? are you caught at last ? ”
“Oh, worn to death! worn to a thread! » cried he, stretching
himself and yawning; "I have been talking with a young lady
to entertain her! oh, such heavy work! I would not go through
it again for millions ! »
“What, have you talked yourself out of breath ? »
## p. 2827 (#399) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2827
“No; but the effort! the effort! – Oh, it has unhinged me for
a fortnight! — Entertaining a young lady! - one had better be a
galley-slave at once! ”
“Well, but did she not pay your toils? She is surely a sweet
creature. ”
“Nothing can pay one for such insufferable exertion! though
she's well enough, too — better than the common run
- but shy,
quite too shy; no drawing her out. ”
"I thought that was to your taste. You commonly hate
much volubility. How have I heard you bemoan yourself when
attacked by Miss Larolles! ”
“Larolles! Oh, distraction! she talks me into a fever in two
minutes. But so it is for ever! nothing but extremes to be met
with! common girls are too forward, this lady is too reserved
always some fault! always some drawback! nothing ever perfect! ”
“Nay, nay,” cried Mr. Gosport, "you do not know her; she
is perfect enough, in all conscience. ”
“Better not know her then,” answered he, again yawning,
"for she cannot be pleasing. Nothing perfect is natural, - I hate
everything out of nature. ”
MISS BURNEY'S FRIENDS
From the Letters)
UT Dr. Johnson's approbation ! - it almost crazed me with
agreeable surprise - it gave me such a flight of spirits that
I danced a jig to Mr. Crisp, without any preparation,
music, or explanation — to his no small amazement and diversion.
I left him, however, to make his own comments upon my
friskiness, without affording him the smallest assistance.
Susan also writes me word that when my father went last to
Streatham, Dr. Johnson was not there, but Mrs. Thrale told him
that when he gave her the first volume of Evelina,' which she
had lent him, he said, “Why, madam, why, what a charming
book you lent me! ” and eagerly inquired for the rest.
He was
particularly pleased with the snow-hill scenes, and said that
Mr. Smith's vulgar gentility was admirably portrayed; and when
Sir Clement joins them, he said there was a shade of character
prodigiously well marked. Well may it be said, that the greatest
minds are ever the most candid to the inferior set! I think I
## p. 2828 (#400) ###########################################
2828
FRANCES BURNEY
should love Dr. Johnson for such lenity to a poor mere worm
in literature, even if I were not myself the identical grub he has
obliged.
Susan has sent me a little note which has really been less
pleasant to me, because it has alarmed me for my future conceal-
ment. It is from Mrs. Williams, an exceeding pretty poetess,
who has the misfortune to be blind, but who has, to make some
amends, the honor of residing in the house of Dr. Johnson; for
though he lives almost wholly at Streatham, he always keeps his
apartments in town, and this lady acts as mistress of his house.
JULY 25.
“Mrs. Williams sends compliments to Dr. Burney, and begs he
will intercede with Miss Burney to do her the favor to lend her the
reading of Evelina. ) »
Though I am frightened at this affair, I am by no means
insensible to the honor which I receive from the certainty that
Dr. Johnson must have spoken very well of the book, to have
induced Mrs.
Williams to send to our house for it.
I now
come to last Saturday evening, when my beloved
father came to Chesington, in full health, charming spirits, and
all kindness, openness, and entertainment.
In his way hither he had stopped at Streatham, and he settled
with Mrs. Thrale that he would call on her again in his way to
town, and carry me with him! and Mrs. Thrale said, “We all
long to know her. ”
I have been in a kind of twitter ever since, for there seems
something very formidable in the idea of appearing as an author-
ess! I ever dreaded it, as it is a title which must raise more
expectations than I have any chance of answering. Yet I am
highly flattered by her invitation, and highly delighted in the
prospect of being introduced to the Streatham society.
She sent me some very serious advice to write for the theatre,
as she says I so naturally run into conversations that Evelina'
absolutely and plainly points out that path to me; and she hinted
how much she should be pleased to be “honored with my con-
fidence. ”
My dear father communicated this intelligence, and a great
deal more, with a pleasure that almost surpassed that with which
I heard it, and he seems quite eager for me to make another
## p. 2829 (#401) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2829
attempt. He desired to take upon himself the communication
to my Daddy Crisp; and as it is now in so many hands that
it is possible accident might discover it to him, I readily con-
sented.
Sunday evening, as I was going into my father's room,
I heard him say, “The variety of characters — the variety of
scenes — and the language — why, she has had very little educa-
tion but what she has given herself — less than any of the others! ”
and Mr. Crisp exclaimed, «Wonderful! - it's wonderful! »
I now found what was going forward, and therefore deemed
it most fitting to decamp.
About an hour after, as I was passing through the hall, I met
my daddy [Crisp). His face was all animation and archness; he
doubled his fist at me and would have stopped me, but I ran
past him into the parlor.
Before supper, however, I again met him, and he would not
suffer me to escape; he caught both my hands and looked as if
he would have looked me through, and then exclaimed, “Why,
you little hussy - you young devil! - ain't you ashamed to look
me in the face, you Evelina, you! Why, what a dance have you
led me about it! Young friend, indeed! O you little hussy,
what tricks have you served me! ”
I was obliged to allow of his running on with these gentle
appellations for I know not how long, ere he could sufficiently
compose himself, after his great surprise, to ask or hear any par-
ticulars; and then he broke out every three instants with excla-
mations of astonishment at how I had found time to write so
much unsuspected, and how and where I had picked up such
various materials; and not a few times did he with me, as he
had with my father, exclaim Wonderful! ”
He has since made me read him all my letters upon this sub-
ject. He said Lowndes would have made an estate had he given
me £ 1000 for it, and that he ought not to have given less!
«You have nothing to do now," continued he, but to take your
pen in hand; for your fame and reputation are made, and any
bookseller will snap at what you write. ”
I then told him that I could not but really and unaffectedly
regret that the affair was spread to Mrs. Williams and her
friends
Pho,” said he: if those who are proper judges think it right
that it should be known, why should you trouble yourself about
## p. 2830 (#402) ###########################################
2830
FRANCES BURNEY
it? You have not spread it, there can no imputation of vanity
fall to your share, and it cannot come out more to your honor
than through such a channel as Mrs. Thrale. ”
LONDON, AUGUST. I have now to write an account of the
most consequential day I have spent since my birth; namely, my
Streatham visit.
Our journey to Streatham was the least pleasant part of the
day, for the roads were dreadfully dusty, and I was really in the
fidgets from thinking what my reception might be, and from
fearing they would expect a less awkward and backward kind of
person than I was sure they would find.
Mr. Thrale's house is white, and very pleasantly situated in a
fine paddock. Mrs. Thrale was strolling about, and came to us
as we got out of the chaise.
She then received me, taking both my hands, and with mixed
politeness and cordiality welcoming me to Streatham. She led
me into the house, and addressed herself almost wholly for a few
minutes to my father, as if to give me an assurance she did not
mean to regard me as a show, or to distress or frighten me by
drawing me out. Afterwards she took me up stairs, and showed
me the house, and said she had very much wished to see me at
Streatham; and should always think herself much obliged to Dr.
Burney for his goodness in bringing me, which she looked upon
as a very great favor.
But though we were some time together, and though she was
so very civil, she did not hint at my book, and I love her much
more than ever for her delicacy in avoiding a subject which she
could not but see would have greatly embarrassed me.
When we returned to the music-room, we found Miss Thrale
was with my father. Miss Thrale is a very fine girl, about four-
teen years of age, but cold and reserved, though full of knowl-
edge and intelligence.
Soon after, Mrs. Thrale took me to the library; she talked a
little while upon common topics, and then at last she mentioned
Evelina.
“Yesterday at supper,” said she, “we talked it all over, and
discussed all your characters; but Dr. Johnson's favorite is Mr.
Smith. He declares the fine gentleman manqué was never better
drawn, and he acted him all the evening, saying he was all for
the ladies! ' He repeated whole scenes by heart. I declare I
## p. 2831 (#403) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2831
was astonished at him. Oh, you can't imagine how much he
is pleased with the book; he could not get rid of the rogue,'
he told me. But was it not droll,” said she, that I should
recommend it to Dr. Burney? and tease him so innocently to
read it ? »
I now prevailed upon Mrs. Thrale to let me amuse myself,
and she went to dress. I then prowled about to choose some
book, and I saw upon the reading-table Evelina. '
I had just
fixed upon a new translation of Cicero's Lælius, when the library
door was opened, and Mr. Seward entered. I instantly put away
my book because I dreaded being thought studious and affected.
He offered his services to find anything for me, and then in the
same breath ran on to speak of the book with which I had my-
self “favored the world !
The exact words he began with I cannot recollect, for I was
actually confounded by the attack; and his abrupt manner of
letting me know he was au fait equally astonished and provoked
me. How different from the delicacy of Mr. and Mrs. Thrale!
When we were summoned to dinner, Mrs. Thrale made my
father and me sit on each side of her. I said that I hoped I
did not take Dr. Johnson's place; — for he had not yet appeared.
"No," answered Mrs. Thrale, “he will sit by you, which I am
sure will give him great pleasure. ”
Soon after we were seated, this great man entered. I have
so true a veneration for him, that the very sight of him inspires
me with delight and reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirm-
ities to which he is subject; for he has almost perpetual convul-
sive movements, either of his hands, lips, feet, or knees, and
sometimes of all together.
Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him, and he took his place.
We had a noble dinner, and a most elegant dessert. Dr. John-
son, in the middle of dinner, asked Mrs. Thrale what was in
some little pies that were near him.
“Mutton,” answered she, “so I don't ask you to eat any,
because I know you despise it ! »
"No, madam, no, cried he; "I despise nothing that is good
of its sort; but I am too proud now to eat of it. Sitting by
Miss Burney makes me very proud to-day! ”
"Miss Burney,” said Mrs. Thrale, laughing, you must take
great care of your heart if Dr. Johnson attacks it; for I assure
you he is not often successless. ”
## p. 2832 (#404) ###########################################
2832
FRANCES BURNEY
“What's that you say, madam ? ” cried he; "are you making
mischief between the young lady and me already ? ”
A little while after he drank Miss Thrale's health and mine,
and then added:
« 'Tis a terrible thing that we cannot wish young ladies well
without wishing them to become old women! ”
“But some people,” said Mr. Seward, are old and young at
the same time, for they wear so well that they never look old. ”
“No, sir, no,” cried the doctor, laughing; "that never yet
was: you might as well say they are at the same time tall and
short. ”
## p. 2833 (#405) ###########################################
2833
ROBERT BURNS
(1759-1796)
BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
HERE have been, there are, and there always will be, poets
concerning whose lives it is not necessary that the world
should know anything in order to understand their poetry;
and there have been, there are, and there always will be, other poets
concerning whose lives it is necessary that the world should know all
there is to be known, before it can begin to understand their poetry.
The difference between these two classes of poets is the difference
between a company of accomplished actors, who by virtue of their
training and practice are able to project themselves into imaginary
characters on the public stage, and the originals of these characters
in private personal life; or to put it in other words, the difference
between art and nature. It is the privilege of art to dispense with
explanations and extenuations; for if it be true to itself it is suffi-
cient in itself, and anything added to it or taken from it is an imper-
tinence or a deformity. When we read (Hamlet' and Lear,' or
(As You Like It' and Much Ado About Nothing, we do not ask
ourselves what Shakespeare meant by them,- why some scenes were
written in verse and other scenes in prose, – for it is not of Shake-
speare that we are thinking as we read, but of his characters, for
whom we feel that he is no more responsible than we are, since they
move, live, and have their being in a world of their own, above the
smoke and stir of this dim spot which men call Earth,—the world of
pure, perfect, poetic art. If Shakespeare was conscious of himself
when he wrote, he succeeded in concealing himself so thoroughly
that it is impossible to discover him in his writing, - as impossible
as it is not to discover other poets in their writings; for whatever
is absent from the choir of British song, the note of personality is
always present there. ' A low laugh in the gracious mouth of Chau-
cer, a harsh rebuke on the stern lips of Milton, a modish sneer in
the smile of Pope,- it was now a stiffed complaint, now an amorous
ditty, and now a riotous shout with Burns, who was as much a poet
through his personality as through his genius. He put his life into
his song; and not to know what his life was, is not to know what his
song is, — why it was a consolation to him while he lived, and why
after his death it made his —
V-178
## p. 2834 (#406) ###########################################
2834
ROBERT BURNS
« One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die. )
Early in the last half of the eighteenth century a staid and
worthy man, named William Burness (as the name Burns was then
spelled), a native of Kincardineshire, emigrated
emigrated to Ayrshire in
pursuit of a livelihood. He hired himself as a gardener to the laird
of Fairlie, and later to a Mr. Crawford of Doonside, and at length
took a lease of seven acres of land on his own account at Alloway
on the banks of the Doon. He built a clay cottage there with his
own hands, and to this little cottage, in December 1757, he brought a
wife, the eldest daughter of a farmer of Carrick.
There was
a dis-
parity in their ages, for he was about thirty-six and she some eight
or nine years younger; and a disparity in their education, for he was
an intelligent reader and lover of books, while she, though she had
been taught as a child to read 'the Bible and to repeat the Psalms,
was not able to write her name. She had a great respect for her
husband, whose occupation was now that of a nurseryman. A little
more than a year after their marriage, on the 25th of January, 1759,
she bore him a son who was christened Robert, who was followed, as
time went on, by brothers and sisters; and before many years were
over, what with the guidman, the guidwife, and the bonny bairns,
there was not much spare room in the little clay biggin at Alloway.
Poor as they were, the social condition of this Scottish family was
superior to the social condition of most English families in the same
walk of rustic life; this superiority resulting from certain virtues
inherent in the national character, - the virtues of simple appetites
and frugal habits, of patience and courage in adversity, and best of all,
in affectionate hearts, reverential minds, and a thirst for knowledge
which only books could supply, William Burness inherited respect
for education from his father, who in his young manhood was instru-
mental in building a schoolhouse on his farm at Clockenhill. Accord-
ingly, when his son Robert was in his sixth year he sent him to a
little school at Alloway Mill, about a mile from his cottage; and not
long after he took the lead in hiring a young teacher named Mur-
doch to instruct him and his younger brother Gilbert at some place
near at hand. Their school-books consisted of the Shorter Catechism,
the Bible, the spelling-book, and Fisher's English Grammar. Robert
a better scholar than Gilbert, especially in grammar, in which
he acquired some proficiency. The only book which he is known to
have read outside of his primitive curriculum was a 'Life of Hanni-
bal,' which was loaned him by his teacher. When he was seven the
family removed to a small upland farm called Mount Oliphant, about
two miles from Alloway, to and from which the boys plodded daily
was
## p. 2835 (#407) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
2835
in pursuit of learning. At the end of two years the teacher obtained
a better situation in Carrick; the school was broken up, and from
that time onward William Burness took upon himself the education
of his lads and lassies, whom he treated as if they were men and
women, conversing with them on serious topics as they accompanied
him in his labors on the farm, and borrowing for their edification,
from a Book Society in Ayr, solid works like Derham's Physico- and
Astro-Theology and Ray's Wisdom of God in the Creation. This
course of heavy reading was lightened by the History of Sir William
Wallace,' which was loaned to Robert by a blacksmith named Kil-
patrick, and which forced a hot flood of Scottish feeling through his
boyish veins. His next literary benefactor was a brother of his
mother, who while living for a time with the family had learned
some arithmetic by their winter evening's candle. He went one day
into a bookseller's shop in Ayr to purchase a Ready Reckoner and a
Complete Letter-Writer, but procured by mistake in place of the
latter a small collection of Letters by Eminent Wits, which proved
of more advantage (or disadvantage) to his nephew than to himself,
for it inspired the lad with a desire to excel in epistolary writing.
Not long after this Robert's early tutor Murdoch returned to Ayr,
and lent him Pope's Works; a bookish friend of his father's obtained
for him the reading of two volumes of Richardson's Pamela,' and
another friendly soul the reading of Smollett's Ferdinand Count
Fathom,' and Peregrine Pickle. ' The book which most delighted
him, however, was a collection of English songs called “The Lark. '
Mount Oliphant taxed the industry and endurance of William
Burness to the utmost; and what with the sterility of the soil, which
was the poorest in the parish, and the loss of cattle by accidents
and disease, it was with great difficulty that he managed to support
his family. They lived so sparingly that butcher's meat was for
years a stranger in the house, and they labored, children and all,
from morning to night. Robert, at the age of thirteen, assisted in
threshing the crop of corn, and at fifteen he was the principal
laborer on the farm, for they could not afford a hired hand. That
he was constantly afflicted with a dull headache in the evenings was
not to be wondered at; nor that the sight and thought of his gray-
haired father, who was turned fifty, should depress his spirits and
impart a tinge of gloom to his musings. It was under circumstances
like these that he composed his first song, the inspiration of which
was a daughter of the blacksmith who had loaned him the History
of Sir William Wallace. It was the custom of the country to couple
a man and woman together in the labors of harvest; and on this
occasion his partner was Nelly Kilpatrick, with whom, boy-like,-- for
he was in his seventeenth year and she a year younger,- he liked
## p. 2836 (#408) ###########################################
2836
ROBERT BURNS
saw
no
to lurk behind the rest of the hands when they returned from their
labors in the evening, and who made his pulse beat furiously when
he fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings
and thistles. She sang sweetly, and among her songs there was
one which was said to be composed by a small laird's son about
one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love; and Robert
reason why he should not rhyme as well as he, for the
author had no more school-craft than himself. Writing of this song
a lew years later, he called it puerile and silly; and his verdict as
a poetical one was correct. Still, considered as a song, this artless
effusion possessed one merit of which he himself was probably not
conscious: it was inspired by his feeling and not by his reading, by
the warmth and purity of his love of Nelly Kilpatrick, and not by
his admiration of any amorous ditty in his collection of English
songs. It a poor thing, but it was certainly his own, and
nowhere more so than in its recognition of the womanly personality
of its heroine :
was
“And then there's something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel. ”
This touch of nature, which no modish artist would have attempted,
marked the hand of one who painted from the life.
William Burness struggled along for twelve years at Mount Oli-
phant, and then removed to Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton.
Here he rented a larger farm, the soil of which promised a surer
maintenance for himself and the hostages he had given to Fortune.
And there these loving hostages began to put away childish things,
and to become men and women. They were cheerful, in spite of the
frugality which their poverty imposed upon them; and were merry
in their simple homely way, singing and dancing among themselves
and among their friendly neighbors. Their hearts expanded in the
healthy air about them, particularly the heart of Robert, which
turned to thoughts of love,- not lightly, as in his boyish fancy for
Nelly Kilpatrick, but seriously, as beseemed a man; for he was now
in his nineteenth year, and as conscious of what he was to woman as
of what woman was to him. A born lover, and a born poet, he dis-
covered himself and his song at Tarbolton. The custom of the coun-
try and the time sanctioned a freedom of manners, and a frequency
of meeting on the part of rustic amorists, of which he was not slow
to avail himself. The love affairs of the Scottish peasantry are thus
described by one of his biographers:—“The young farmer or: plow-
man, after his day of exhausting toil, would proceed to the home
of his mistress, one, two, three, or more miles distant, there signal
her to the door, and then the pair would seat themselves in the
1
## p. 2837 (#409) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
2837
barn for an hour or two's conversation. ” Burns practiced this mode
of courtship, which was the only one open to him, and among the
only women whom he knew at Tarbolton. “He made no distinction
between the farmer's own daughters and those who acted as his
servants, the fact after all being that the servants were often them-
selves the daughters of farmers, and only sent to be the hirelings of
others because their services were not needed at home. ” We should
remember this habit of the Scottish peasantry if we wish to under-
stand the early songs of Burns; for they were suggested by it, and
vitalized by it, as much as by his impassioned genius. He painted
what he saw; he sang what he felt. We have a glimpse of him in
one of his winter courtships in My Nanie, O'; another and warmer
glimpse of him in one of his summer courtships in “The Rigs o' Bar-
ley'; and another and livelier glimpse of him in one of his mocking
moods in “Tibbie, I hae seen the day. But he was more than the
lover which these songs revealed: he was a man of sound under-
standing and fine, active intelligence, gifted with ready humor and
a keen sense of wit. If he had been other than he was, he might
and probably would have been elated by his poetic powers, of which
he must have been aware; but being what he was, he was content
to enjoy them and to exercise them modestly, and at such scanty
intervals as his daily duties afforded. He composed his songs as he
went about his work, plowing, sowing, reaping; crooning them as
he strode along the fields, and correcting them in his head as the
hours dragged on, until night came, and he could write them down
in his little room by the light of his solitary candle. He had no illus-
ions about himself: he was the son of a poor farmer, who, do what
he might, was never prosperous; and poverty was his portion. His
apprehension, which was justified by the misfortunes of the family
at Mount Oliphant, was confirmed by their dark continuance at Tar-
bolton, where he saw his honored father, bowed with years of toil,
grow older and feebler day by day, dying of consumption before
The end came on February 13th, 1784; and a day or two
afterwards the humble coffin of William Burness, arranged between
two leading horses placed after each other, and followed by relations
and neighbors on horseback, was borne to Alloway and buried in
the old kirkyard.
The funeral over, the family removed to Mossgiel, in the parish
of Mauchline, where, at Martinmas, Robert and Gilbert had rented
another farm. Having no means of their own, they and their sisters
were obliged to rank as creditors of their dead father for the arrears
of wages due them as laborers at Lochlea; and it was with these
arrears, which they succeeded in wresting from their old landlord or
his factor, that they stocked the new farm. The change was a i
his eyes.
## p. 2838 (#410) ###########################################
2838
ROBERT BURNS
beneficial one for all the family, who were now for the first time in
their lives provided with a comfortable dwelling; and everything con-
sidered, especially so for their head, — which Robert, who was now
in his twenty-sixth year, virtually became. He realized the gravity of
the responsibility which rested upon him, and rightly judging that
industry alone would not enable him to support it, resolved to work
with the brains of others as well as his own hard hands. He read
farming books, he calculated crops, he attended markets, but all to
no purpose; for like his father before him, however much he may
have deserved success, he could not command it. What he could and
did command however was the admiration of his fellows, who were
quick to perceive and ready to acknowledge his superiority. There
was that about him which impressed them,- something in his tem-
perament or talent, in his personality or character, which removed
him from the roll of common men. What seemed to distinguish him
most was the charm of his conversation, which, remarkable as it was
for fluency and force, for originality and brilliancy, was quite as
remarkable for good sense and good feeling. Grave or gay, as the
occasion suggested and the spirit moved him, he spoke as with
authority and was listened to with rapt attention. His company was
sought, and go where he would he was everywhere welcomed as a
good fellow. He had the art of making friends; and though they
were not always of the kind that his well-wishers could have desired,
they were the best of their kind in and about Mauchline. What he
saw in some of them, other than the pleasure they felt in his society,
it is hard to say; but whatever it was, he liked it and the conviv-
iality to which it led, - which, occasionally coarsened by stories that
set the table in a roar, was ever and anon refined by songs that
filled his eyes with tears. His life was a hard one, - a succession of
dull, monotonous, laborious days, haunted by anxiety and harassed
by petty, irritating cares, -- but he faced it cheerfully, manfully,
and wrestled with it triumphantly, for he compelled it to forge
the weapons with which he conquered it. He sang like a boy at
Lochlea; he wrote like a man at Mossgiel. The first poetical note
that he struck there was a personal one, and commemorative of his
regard for two rustic rhymers, David Sillar and John Lapraik, to
whom he addressed several Epistles,- a form of composition which
he found in Ferguson and Ramsay, and of which he was enamored.
That he thoroughly enjoyed the impulse which suggested and dic-
tated these Epistles was evident from the spirit with which they
were written. In the first of the two, which he addressed to Sillar,
he discovered and disclosed for the first time the distinctive individ-
uality of his genius. It was a charming and touching piece of writ-
ing; charming as a delineation of his character, and touching as a
## p. 2839 (#411) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
3
2839
confession of his creed, - the patient philosophy of the poor. As his
social horizon was enlarged, his mental vision was sharpened; and
before long, other interests than those which concerned himself and
his poetical friends excited his sympathies and stimulated his powers.
It was a period of theological squabbles, and he plunged into them
at once, partly no doubt because there was a theological strain in his
blood, but largely because they furnished opportunities for the riotous
exercise of his wit. He paid his disrespects to the fomenters of this
holy brawl in “The Twa Herds, and he pilloried an old person who
was obnoxious to him, in that savage satire on sanctimonious hy-
pocrisy, Holy Willy's Prayer. ' Always a poet, he was more, much
more than a poet. He was a student of man,- of all sorts of men;
caring much, as a student, for the baser sort which reveled in Poosie
Nansie's dram-shop, and which he celebrated in “The Jolly Beggars);
but caring more, as a man, for the better sort which languished
in huts where poor men lodged, and of which he was the voice of
lamentation in Man was Made to Mourn. '
He was
a student of
manners, which he painted with a sure hand, his masterpiece being
that reverential reproduction of the family life at Lochlea, — 'The
Cotter's Saturday Night. H was a student of nature, - his love of
which was conspicuous in his poetry, Aushing his words with pictur-
esque phrases and flooding his lines with the feeling of outdoor life.
He was
a student of animal life,- a lover of horses and dogs,
observant of their habits and careful of their comfort. He felt for
the little mouse which his plowshare turned out of its nest, and he
pitied the poor hare which the unskillful fowler could only wound.
The commoners of earth and air were dear to him; and the flower
beside his path, the gowan wet with dew, was precious in his eyes.
His heart was large, his mind was comprehensive, and his temper
singularly sweet and sunny. ,
Such was Robert Burns at Mossgiel, and a very likable person he
was. But all the while there was another Robert Burns at Mossgiel,
and he was not quite so likable.
1
He had a strange fascination for
women, and a strange disregard of the consequences of this fascina-
tion. | This curious combination of contradictory traits was an unfor-
tunate one, as a young woman of Mauchline was destined to learn.
She was the daughter of a mason, and her name was Jean Armour.
He met her on a race day at a house of entertainment which must
have been popular, since it contained a dancing-hall, admission to
which was free, any man being privileged to invite to it any woman
whom he fancied and for whose diversion he was willing to disburse
a penny to the fiddler. He was accompanied on this occasion by his
dog, who insisted on following him into the hall and persisted in
keeping at his heels while he danced, - a proof of its fidelity which
## p. 2840 (#412) ###########################################
2840
ROBERT BURNS
created considerable amusement, and which its master turned to his
personal account by saying he wished he could get any of the lasses
to like him as well as his dog. Jean heard his remark, and not long
afterwards, as he was passing through the washing-green where she
was bleaching clothes (from which she begged him to call off his
troublesome follower), she reminded him of it by asking him if he
had yet got any of the lasses to like him as well as did his dog?
He got one there and then; for from that hour Jean was attached to
him and he to Jean.
whom, voluntarily, I ever addressed myself. He is civil and
respectful, and I have found nobody else so since I left Howard
Grove. His English is very bad; but I prefer it to speaking
French myself, which I dare not venture to do. I converse with
him frequently, both to disengage myself from others and to
oblige Madame Duval, who is always pleased when he is at-
tended to.
As we were walking about the orchestra, I heard a bell ring;
and in a moment Mr. Smith, flying up to me, caught my hand,
and with a motion too quick to be resisted, ran away with me
many yards before I had breath to ask his meaning; though I
struggled as well as I could to get from him. At last, however,
I insisted upon stopping. “Stopping, ma'am! ” cried he, “why,
we must run on, or we shall lose the cascade ! »
And then again he hurried me away, mixing with a crowd
of people, all running with so much velocity that I could not
imagine what had raised such an alarm. We were soon followed
by the rest of the party; and my surprise and ignorance proved
a source of diversion to them all which was not exhausted the
whole evening. Young Branghton, in particular, laughed till he
could hardly stand.
The scene of the cascade I thought extremely pretty, and the
general effect striking and lively.
But this was not the only surprise which was to divert them
at my expense; for they led me about the garden purposely to
enjoy my first sight of various other deceptions.
About ten o'clock, Mr. Smith having chosen a box in a very
conspicuous place, we all went to supper. Much fault was found
with everything that was ordered, though not a morsel of any.
thing was left, and the dearness of the provisions, with conject-
ures upon what profit was made by them, supplied discourse
during the whole meal.
When wine and cyder were brought, Mr. Smith said, “Now
let's enjoy ourselves; now is the time, or never. Well, ma'am,
and how do you like Vauxhall ?
.
## p. 2822 (#394) ###########################################
2822
FRANCES BURNEY
"Like it! ” cried young Branghton; "why, how can she help
liking it? She has never seen such a place before, that I'll
answer for. ”
"For my part,” said Miss Branghton, “I like it because it is
not vulgar. "
« This must have been a fine treat for you, Miss,” said Mr.
Branghton; "why, I suppose you was never so happy in all your
life before ? "
I endeavored to express my satisfaction with some pleasure;
yet I believe they were much amazed at my coldness.
“Miss ought to stay in town till the last night,” said young
Branghton; "and then, it's my belief, she'd say something to it!
Why, Lord, it's the best night of any; there's always a riot, —
and there the folks run about,- and then there's such squealing
and squalling ! - and there, all the lamps are broke,- and the
women run skimper-scamper-I declare, I would not take five
guineas to miss the last night!
I was very glad when they all grew tired of sitting, and
called for the waiter to pay the bill. The Miss Branghtons said
they would walk on while the gentlemen settled the account, and
asked me to accompany them; which however I declined.
“You girls may do as you please,” said Madame Duval, “but
as to me, I promise you, I sha'n't go nowhere without the gen-
tlemen. ”
“No more, I suppose, will my cousin,” said Miss Branghton,
looking reproachfully towards Mr. Smith.
This reflection, which I feared would flatter his vanity, made
me most unfortunately request Madame Duval's permission to
attend them. She granted it; and away we went, having prom-
ised to meet in the room.
To the room, therefore, I would immediately have gone: but
the sisters agreed that they would first have a little pleasure;
and they tittered and talked so loud that they attracted universal
notice.
"Lord, Polly,” said the eldest, “suppose we were to take a
turn in the dark walks ? »
“Ay, do," answered she; "and then we'll hide ourselves, and
then Mr. Brown will think we are lost. ”
I remonstrated very warmly against this plan, telling them it
would endanger our missing the rest of the party all the even-
ing.
## p. 2823 (#395) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2823
were
were
« dear,” cried Miss Branghton, “I thought how uneasy Miss
would be, without a beau !
This impertinence I did not think worth answering; and quite
by compulsion I followed them down a long alley, in which
there was hardly any light.
By the time we came near the end, a large party of gentle-
inen, apparently very riotous, and who were hallooing, leaning
on one another, and laughing immoderately, seemed to rush sud-
denly from behind some trees, and meeting us face to face, put
their arms at their sides and formed a kind of circle, which first
stopped our proceeding and then our retreating, for we
presently entirely enclosed. The Miss Branghtons screamed
aloud, and I was frightened exceedingly; our screams
answered with bursts of laughter, and for some minutes we were
kept prisoners, till at last one of them, rudely seizing hold of
me, said I was a pretty little creature.
Terrified to death, I struggled with such vehemence to disen-
gage myself from him that I succeeded, in spite of his efforts
to detain me: and immediately, and with a swiftness which fear
only could have given me, I flew rather than ran up the walk,
hoping to secure my safety by returning to the lights and com-
pany we had so foolishly left; but before I could possibly accom-
plish my purpose, I was met by another party of men, one of
whom placed himself directly in my way, calling out, "Whither
so fast, my love ? ” — so that I could only have proceeded by
running into his arms.
In a moment both my hands, by different persons, were caught
hold of, and one of them, in a most familiar manner, desired
when I ran next to accompany me in a race; while the rest of
the party stood still and laughed. I was almost distracted with
terror, and so breathless with running that I could not speak;
till another, advancing, said I was as handsome as an angel,
and desired to be of the party. I then just articulated, For
Heaven's sake, gentlemen, let me pass! »
Another, then rushing suddenly forward, exclaimed, «Heaven
and earth! what voice is that ? »
« The voice of the prettiest little actress I have seen this age,”
answered one of my persecutors.
“No, no,- no,– ” I panted out, “I am no actress — pray let
pray let me pass — »
“By all that's sacred,” cried the same voice, which I then
knew for Sir Clement Willoughby's, «'tis herself! »
me go,
## p. 2824 (#396) ###########################################
2824
FRANCES BURNEY
A MAN OF THE TON
From Cecilia)
A"
(
Have you
T The door of the Pantheon they were joined by Mr. Arnott
and Sir Robert Floyer, whom Cecilia now saw with added
aversion; they entered the great room during the second
act of the concert, to which, as no one of the party but herself
had any desire to listen, no sort of attention was paid; the ladies
entertaining themselves as if no orchestra was in the room, and
the gentlemen, with an equal disregard to it, struggling for a
place by the fire, about which they continued hovering till the
music was over.
Soon after they were seated, Mr. Meadows, sauntering to-
wards them, whispered something to Mrs. Mears, who, immedi-
ately rising, introduced him to Cecilia; after which, the place
next to her being vacant, he cast himself upon it, and lolling as
much at his ease as his situation would permit, began something
like a conversation with her.
been long in town, ma'am ? ”
"No, sir. ”
« This is not your first winter ? »
« Of being in town, it is. ”
« Then you have something new to see; oh charming! how I
envy you! - Are you pleased with the Pantheon ? »
“Very much; I have seen no building at all equal to it. ”
“You have not been abroad. Traveling is the ruin of all
happiness! There's no looking at a building here after seeing
Italy. ”
“Does all happiness, then, depend upon sight of buildings? ”
said Cecilia, when, turning towards her companion, she perceived
him yawning, with such evident inattention to her answer that,
not choosing to interrupt his reverie, she turned her head another
way.
For some minutes he took no notice of this; and then, as if
suddenly recollecting himself, he called out hastily, “I beg your
pardon, ma'am, you were saying something? ”
“No, sir; nothing worth repeating. ”
“Oh, pray don't punish me so severely as not to let me hear
it ! »
Cecilia, though merely not to seem offended at his negli-
gence, was then beginning an answer, when looking at him as she
## p. 2825 (#397) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2825
spoke, she perceived that he was biting his nails with so absent
an air that he appeared not to know he had asked any question.
She therefore broke off, and left him to his cogitation.
Some time after, he addressed her again, saying, “Don't you
find this place extremely tiresome, ma'am ? »
“Yes, sir,” said she half laughing, it is indeed not very
entertaining! ”
"Nothing is entertaining,” answered he, «for two minutes
together. Things are so little different one from another, that
there is no making pleasure out of anything. We go the same
dull round forever; nothing new, no variety! all the same thing
over again! Are you fond of public places, ma'am ? ”
“Yes, sir, soberly, as Lady Grace says. "
“Then I envy you extremely, for you have some amusement
always in your own power.
How desirable that is! ”
“And have you not the same resources ? »
« Oh no!
I am tired to death! tired of everything! I would
give the universe for a disposition less difficult to please. Yet,
after all, what is there to give pleasure? When one has seen
one thing, one has seen everything. Oh, 'tis heavy work! Don't
you find it so, ma'am ? »
This speech was ended with so violent a fit of yawning that
Cecilia would not trouble herself to answer it: but her silence
as before passed unnoticed, exciting neither question nor com-
ment.
A long pause now succeeded, which he broke at last by say.
ing, as he writhed himself about upon his seat, “These forms
would be much more agreeable if there were backs to them.
'Tis intolerable to be forced to sit like a schoolboy. The first
study of life is ease. There is indeed no other study that pays
the trouble of attainment. Don't you think so, ma'am ? ”
"But may not even that,” said Cecilia, “by so much study
become labor ? »
"I am vastly happy you think so. ”
« Sir? ”
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I thought you said — I really
beg your pardon, but I was thinking of something else. ”
"You did very right, sir,” said Cecilia, laughing, “for what I
said by no means merited any attention. ”
"Will you do me the favor to repeat it ? ” cried he, taking out
his glass to examine some lady at a distance.
## p. 2826 (#398) ###########################################
2826
FRANCES BURNEY
“Oh no,” said Cecilia, “that would be trying your patience
too severely. ”
« These glasses shew one nothing but defects,” said he; "I am
sorry they were ever invented. They are the ruin of all beauty;
no complexion can stand them. I believe that solo will never be
over! I hate a solo; it sinks, it depresses me intolerably. ”
“You will presently, sir,” said Cecilia, looking at the bill of
the concert, “have a full piece; and that I hope will revive
you. ”
"A full piece! oh, insupportable! it stuns, it fatigues, it over-
powers me beyond endurance! no taste in it, no delicacy, no room
for the smallest feeling. ”
"Perhaps, then, you are only fond of singing ? ”
«I should be, if I could hear it; but we are now so miserably
off in voices, that I hardly ever attempt to listen to a song, with-
out fancying myself deaf from the feebleness of the performers.
I hate everything that requires attention. Nothing gives pleasure
that does not force its own way. ”
« You only, then, like loud voices, and great powers ? ”
“Oh, worse and worse! — no, nothing is so disgusting to me.
All my amazement is that these people think it worth while to
give concerts at all — one is sick to death of music. ”
Nay,” cried Cecilia, “if it gives no pleasure, at least it takes
none away; for, far from being any impediment to conversation,
I think everybody talks more during the performance than be-
tween the acts. And what is there better you could substitute
in its place ? "
Cecilia, receiving no answer to this question, again looked
round to see if she had been heard; when she observed her new
acquaintance, with a very thoughtful air, had turned from her to
fix his eyes upon the statue of Britannia.
Very soon after, he hastily arose, and seeming entirely to
forget that he had spoken to her, very abruptly walked away.
Mr. Gosport, who was advancing to Cecilia and had watched
part of this scene, stopped him as he was retreating, and said,
“Why, Meadows, how's this? are you caught at last ? ”
“Oh, worn to death! worn to a thread! » cried he, stretching
himself and yawning; "I have been talking with a young lady
to entertain her! oh, such heavy work! I would not go through
it again for millions ! »
“What, have you talked yourself out of breath ? »
## p. 2827 (#399) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2827
“No; but the effort! the effort! – Oh, it has unhinged me for
a fortnight! — Entertaining a young lady! - one had better be a
galley-slave at once! ”
“Well, but did she not pay your toils? She is surely a sweet
creature. ”
“Nothing can pay one for such insufferable exertion! though
she's well enough, too — better than the common run
- but shy,
quite too shy; no drawing her out. ”
"I thought that was to your taste. You commonly hate
much volubility. How have I heard you bemoan yourself when
attacked by Miss Larolles! ”
“Larolles! Oh, distraction! she talks me into a fever in two
minutes. But so it is for ever! nothing but extremes to be met
with! common girls are too forward, this lady is too reserved
always some fault! always some drawback! nothing ever perfect! ”
“Nay, nay,” cried Mr. Gosport, "you do not know her; she
is perfect enough, in all conscience. ”
“Better not know her then,” answered he, again yawning,
"for she cannot be pleasing. Nothing perfect is natural, - I hate
everything out of nature. ”
MISS BURNEY'S FRIENDS
From the Letters)
UT Dr. Johnson's approbation ! - it almost crazed me with
agreeable surprise - it gave me such a flight of spirits that
I danced a jig to Mr. Crisp, without any preparation,
music, or explanation — to his no small amazement and diversion.
I left him, however, to make his own comments upon my
friskiness, without affording him the smallest assistance.
Susan also writes me word that when my father went last to
Streatham, Dr. Johnson was not there, but Mrs. Thrale told him
that when he gave her the first volume of Evelina,' which she
had lent him, he said, “Why, madam, why, what a charming
book you lent me! ” and eagerly inquired for the rest.
He was
particularly pleased with the snow-hill scenes, and said that
Mr. Smith's vulgar gentility was admirably portrayed; and when
Sir Clement joins them, he said there was a shade of character
prodigiously well marked. Well may it be said, that the greatest
minds are ever the most candid to the inferior set! I think I
## p. 2828 (#400) ###########################################
2828
FRANCES BURNEY
should love Dr. Johnson for such lenity to a poor mere worm
in literature, even if I were not myself the identical grub he has
obliged.
Susan has sent me a little note which has really been less
pleasant to me, because it has alarmed me for my future conceal-
ment. It is from Mrs. Williams, an exceeding pretty poetess,
who has the misfortune to be blind, but who has, to make some
amends, the honor of residing in the house of Dr. Johnson; for
though he lives almost wholly at Streatham, he always keeps his
apartments in town, and this lady acts as mistress of his house.
JULY 25.
“Mrs. Williams sends compliments to Dr. Burney, and begs he
will intercede with Miss Burney to do her the favor to lend her the
reading of Evelina. ) »
Though I am frightened at this affair, I am by no means
insensible to the honor which I receive from the certainty that
Dr. Johnson must have spoken very well of the book, to have
induced Mrs.
Williams to send to our house for it.
I now
come to last Saturday evening, when my beloved
father came to Chesington, in full health, charming spirits, and
all kindness, openness, and entertainment.
In his way hither he had stopped at Streatham, and he settled
with Mrs. Thrale that he would call on her again in his way to
town, and carry me with him! and Mrs. Thrale said, “We all
long to know her. ”
I have been in a kind of twitter ever since, for there seems
something very formidable in the idea of appearing as an author-
ess! I ever dreaded it, as it is a title which must raise more
expectations than I have any chance of answering. Yet I am
highly flattered by her invitation, and highly delighted in the
prospect of being introduced to the Streatham society.
She sent me some very serious advice to write for the theatre,
as she says I so naturally run into conversations that Evelina'
absolutely and plainly points out that path to me; and she hinted
how much she should be pleased to be “honored with my con-
fidence. ”
My dear father communicated this intelligence, and a great
deal more, with a pleasure that almost surpassed that with which
I heard it, and he seems quite eager for me to make another
## p. 2829 (#401) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2829
attempt. He desired to take upon himself the communication
to my Daddy Crisp; and as it is now in so many hands that
it is possible accident might discover it to him, I readily con-
sented.
Sunday evening, as I was going into my father's room,
I heard him say, “The variety of characters — the variety of
scenes — and the language — why, she has had very little educa-
tion but what she has given herself — less than any of the others! ”
and Mr. Crisp exclaimed, «Wonderful! - it's wonderful! »
I now found what was going forward, and therefore deemed
it most fitting to decamp.
About an hour after, as I was passing through the hall, I met
my daddy [Crisp). His face was all animation and archness; he
doubled his fist at me and would have stopped me, but I ran
past him into the parlor.
Before supper, however, I again met him, and he would not
suffer me to escape; he caught both my hands and looked as if
he would have looked me through, and then exclaimed, “Why,
you little hussy - you young devil! - ain't you ashamed to look
me in the face, you Evelina, you! Why, what a dance have you
led me about it! Young friend, indeed! O you little hussy,
what tricks have you served me! ”
I was obliged to allow of his running on with these gentle
appellations for I know not how long, ere he could sufficiently
compose himself, after his great surprise, to ask or hear any par-
ticulars; and then he broke out every three instants with excla-
mations of astonishment at how I had found time to write so
much unsuspected, and how and where I had picked up such
various materials; and not a few times did he with me, as he
had with my father, exclaim Wonderful! ”
He has since made me read him all my letters upon this sub-
ject. He said Lowndes would have made an estate had he given
me £ 1000 for it, and that he ought not to have given less!
«You have nothing to do now," continued he, but to take your
pen in hand; for your fame and reputation are made, and any
bookseller will snap at what you write. ”
I then told him that I could not but really and unaffectedly
regret that the affair was spread to Mrs. Williams and her
friends
Pho,” said he: if those who are proper judges think it right
that it should be known, why should you trouble yourself about
## p. 2830 (#402) ###########################################
2830
FRANCES BURNEY
it? You have not spread it, there can no imputation of vanity
fall to your share, and it cannot come out more to your honor
than through such a channel as Mrs. Thrale. ”
LONDON, AUGUST. I have now to write an account of the
most consequential day I have spent since my birth; namely, my
Streatham visit.
Our journey to Streatham was the least pleasant part of the
day, for the roads were dreadfully dusty, and I was really in the
fidgets from thinking what my reception might be, and from
fearing they would expect a less awkward and backward kind of
person than I was sure they would find.
Mr. Thrale's house is white, and very pleasantly situated in a
fine paddock. Mrs. Thrale was strolling about, and came to us
as we got out of the chaise.
She then received me, taking both my hands, and with mixed
politeness and cordiality welcoming me to Streatham. She led
me into the house, and addressed herself almost wholly for a few
minutes to my father, as if to give me an assurance she did not
mean to regard me as a show, or to distress or frighten me by
drawing me out. Afterwards she took me up stairs, and showed
me the house, and said she had very much wished to see me at
Streatham; and should always think herself much obliged to Dr.
Burney for his goodness in bringing me, which she looked upon
as a very great favor.
But though we were some time together, and though she was
so very civil, she did not hint at my book, and I love her much
more than ever for her delicacy in avoiding a subject which she
could not but see would have greatly embarrassed me.
When we returned to the music-room, we found Miss Thrale
was with my father. Miss Thrale is a very fine girl, about four-
teen years of age, but cold and reserved, though full of knowl-
edge and intelligence.
Soon after, Mrs. Thrale took me to the library; she talked a
little while upon common topics, and then at last she mentioned
Evelina.
“Yesterday at supper,” said she, “we talked it all over, and
discussed all your characters; but Dr. Johnson's favorite is Mr.
Smith. He declares the fine gentleman manqué was never better
drawn, and he acted him all the evening, saying he was all for
the ladies! ' He repeated whole scenes by heart. I declare I
## p. 2831 (#403) ###########################################
FRANCES BURNEY
2831
was astonished at him. Oh, you can't imagine how much he
is pleased with the book; he could not get rid of the rogue,'
he told me. But was it not droll,” said she, that I should
recommend it to Dr. Burney? and tease him so innocently to
read it ? »
I now prevailed upon Mrs. Thrale to let me amuse myself,
and she went to dress. I then prowled about to choose some
book, and I saw upon the reading-table Evelina. '
I had just
fixed upon a new translation of Cicero's Lælius, when the library
door was opened, and Mr. Seward entered. I instantly put away
my book because I dreaded being thought studious and affected.
He offered his services to find anything for me, and then in the
same breath ran on to speak of the book with which I had my-
self “favored the world !
The exact words he began with I cannot recollect, for I was
actually confounded by the attack; and his abrupt manner of
letting me know he was au fait equally astonished and provoked
me. How different from the delicacy of Mr. and Mrs. Thrale!
When we were summoned to dinner, Mrs. Thrale made my
father and me sit on each side of her. I said that I hoped I
did not take Dr. Johnson's place; — for he had not yet appeared.
"No," answered Mrs. Thrale, “he will sit by you, which I am
sure will give him great pleasure. ”
Soon after we were seated, this great man entered. I have
so true a veneration for him, that the very sight of him inspires
me with delight and reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirm-
ities to which he is subject; for he has almost perpetual convul-
sive movements, either of his hands, lips, feet, or knees, and
sometimes of all together.
Mrs. Thrale introduced me to him, and he took his place.
We had a noble dinner, and a most elegant dessert. Dr. John-
son, in the middle of dinner, asked Mrs. Thrale what was in
some little pies that were near him.
“Mutton,” answered she, “so I don't ask you to eat any,
because I know you despise it ! »
"No, madam, no, cried he; "I despise nothing that is good
of its sort; but I am too proud now to eat of it. Sitting by
Miss Burney makes me very proud to-day! ”
"Miss Burney,” said Mrs. Thrale, laughing, you must take
great care of your heart if Dr. Johnson attacks it; for I assure
you he is not often successless. ”
## p. 2832 (#404) ###########################################
2832
FRANCES BURNEY
“What's that you say, madam ? ” cried he; "are you making
mischief between the young lady and me already ? ”
A little while after he drank Miss Thrale's health and mine,
and then added:
« 'Tis a terrible thing that we cannot wish young ladies well
without wishing them to become old women! ”
“But some people,” said Mr. Seward, are old and young at
the same time, for they wear so well that they never look old. ”
“No, sir, no,” cried the doctor, laughing; "that never yet
was: you might as well say they are at the same time tall and
short. ”
## p. 2833 (#405) ###########################################
2833
ROBERT BURNS
(1759-1796)
BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
HERE have been, there are, and there always will be, poets
concerning whose lives it is not necessary that the world
should know anything in order to understand their poetry;
and there have been, there are, and there always will be, other poets
concerning whose lives it is necessary that the world should know all
there is to be known, before it can begin to understand their poetry.
The difference between these two classes of poets is the difference
between a company of accomplished actors, who by virtue of their
training and practice are able to project themselves into imaginary
characters on the public stage, and the originals of these characters
in private personal life; or to put it in other words, the difference
between art and nature. It is the privilege of art to dispense with
explanations and extenuations; for if it be true to itself it is suffi-
cient in itself, and anything added to it or taken from it is an imper-
tinence or a deformity. When we read (Hamlet' and Lear,' or
(As You Like It' and Much Ado About Nothing, we do not ask
ourselves what Shakespeare meant by them,- why some scenes were
written in verse and other scenes in prose, – for it is not of Shake-
speare that we are thinking as we read, but of his characters, for
whom we feel that he is no more responsible than we are, since they
move, live, and have their being in a world of their own, above the
smoke and stir of this dim spot which men call Earth,—the world of
pure, perfect, poetic art. If Shakespeare was conscious of himself
when he wrote, he succeeded in concealing himself so thoroughly
that it is impossible to discover him in his writing, - as impossible
as it is not to discover other poets in their writings; for whatever
is absent from the choir of British song, the note of personality is
always present there. ' A low laugh in the gracious mouth of Chau-
cer, a harsh rebuke on the stern lips of Milton, a modish sneer in
the smile of Pope,- it was now a stiffed complaint, now an amorous
ditty, and now a riotous shout with Burns, who was as much a poet
through his personality as through his genius. He put his life into
his song; and not to know what his life was, is not to know what his
song is, — why it was a consolation to him while he lived, and why
after his death it made his —
V-178
## p. 2834 (#406) ###########################################
2834
ROBERT BURNS
« One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die. )
Early in the last half of the eighteenth century a staid and
worthy man, named William Burness (as the name Burns was then
spelled), a native of Kincardineshire, emigrated
emigrated to Ayrshire in
pursuit of a livelihood. He hired himself as a gardener to the laird
of Fairlie, and later to a Mr. Crawford of Doonside, and at length
took a lease of seven acres of land on his own account at Alloway
on the banks of the Doon. He built a clay cottage there with his
own hands, and to this little cottage, in December 1757, he brought a
wife, the eldest daughter of a farmer of Carrick.
There was
a dis-
parity in their ages, for he was about thirty-six and she some eight
or nine years younger; and a disparity in their education, for he was
an intelligent reader and lover of books, while she, though she had
been taught as a child to read 'the Bible and to repeat the Psalms,
was not able to write her name. She had a great respect for her
husband, whose occupation was now that of a nurseryman. A little
more than a year after their marriage, on the 25th of January, 1759,
she bore him a son who was christened Robert, who was followed, as
time went on, by brothers and sisters; and before many years were
over, what with the guidman, the guidwife, and the bonny bairns,
there was not much spare room in the little clay biggin at Alloway.
Poor as they were, the social condition of this Scottish family was
superior to the social condition of most English families in the same
walk of rustic life; this superiority resulting from certain virtues
inherent in the national character, - the virtues of simple appetites
and frugal habits, of patience and courage in adversity, and best of all,
in affectionate hearts, reverential minds, and a thirst for knowledge
which only books could supply, William Burness inherited respect
for education from his father, who in his young manhood was instru-
mental in building a schoolhouse on his farm at Clockenhill. Accord-
ingly, when his son Robert was in his sixth year he sent him to a
little school at Alloway Mill, about a mile from his cottage; and not
long after he took the lead in hiring a young teacher named Mur-
doch to instruct him and his younger brother Gilbert at some place
near at hand. Their school-books consisted of the Shorter Catechism,
the Bible, the spelling-book, and Fisher's English Grammar. Robert
a better scholar than Gilbert, especially in grammar, in which
he acquired some proficiency. The only book which he is known to
have read outside of his primitive curriculum was a 'Life of Hanni-
bal,' which was loaned him by his teacher. When he was seven the
family removed to a small upland farm called Mount Oliphant, about
two miles from Alloway, to and from which the boys plodded daily
was
## p. 2835 (#407) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
2835
in pursuit of learning. At the end of two years the teacher obtained
a better situation in Carrick; the school was broken up, and from
that time onward William Burness took upon himself the education
of his lads and lassies, whom he treated as if they were men and
women, conversing with them on serious topics as they accompanied
him in his labors on the farm, and borrowing for their edification,
from a Book Society in Ayr, solid works like Derham's Physico- and
Astro-Theology and Ray's Wisdom of God in the Creation. This
course of heavy reading was lightened by the History of Sir William
Wallace,' which was loaned to Robert by a blacksmith named Kil-
patrick, and which forced a hot flood of Scottish feeling through his
boyish veins. His next literary benefactor was a brother of his
mother, who while living for a time with the family had learned
some arithmetic by their winter evening's candle. He went one day
into a bookseller's shop in Ayr to purchase a Ready Reckoner and a
Complete Letter-Writer, but procured by mistake in place of the
latter a small collection of Letters by Eminent Wits, which proved
of more advantage (or disadvantage) to his nephew than to himself,
for it inspired the lad with a desire to excel in epistolary writing.
Not long after this Robert's early tutor Murdoch returned to Ayr,
and lent him Pope's Works; a bookish friend of his father's obtained
for him the reading of two volumes of Richardson's Pamela,' and
another friendly soul the reading of Smollett's Ferdinand Count
Fathom,' and Peregrine Pickle. ' The book which most delighted
him, however, was a collection of English songs called “The Lark. '
Mount Oliphant taxed the industry and endurance of William
Burness to the utmost; and what with the sterility of the soil, which
was the poorest in the parish, and the loss of cattle by accidents
and disease, it was with great difficulty that he managed to support
his family. They lived so sparingly that butcher's meat was for
years a stranger in the house, and they labored, children and all,
from morning to night. Robert, at the age of thirteen, assisted in
threshing the crop of corn, and at fifteen he was the principal
laborer on the farm, for they could not afford a hired hand. That
he was constantly afflicted with a dull headache in the evenings was
not to be wondered at; nor that the sight and thought of his gray-
haired father, who was turned fifty, should depress his spirits and
impart a tinge of gloom to his musings. It was under circumstances
like these that he composed his first song, the inspiration of which
was a daughter of the blacksmith who had loaned him the History
of Sir William Wallace. It was the custom of the country to couple
a man and woman together in the labors of harvest; and on this
occasion his partner was Nelly Kilpatrick, with whom, boy-like,-- for
he was in his seventeenth year and she a year younger,- he liked
## p. 2836 (#408) ###########################################
2836
ROBERT BURNS
saw
no
to lurk behind the rest of the hands when they returned from their
labors in the evening, and who made his pulse beat furiously when
he fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle-stings
and thistles. She sang sweetly, and among her songs there was
one which was said to be composed by a small laird's son about
one of his father's maids, with whom he was in love; and Robert
reason why he should not rhyme as well as he, for the
author had no more school-craft than himself. Writing of this song
a lew years later, he called it puerile and silly; and his verdict as
a poetical one was correct. Still, considered as a song, this artless
effusion possessed one merit of which he himself was probably not
conscious: it was inspired by his feeling and not by his reading, by
the warmth and purity of his love of Nelly Kilpatrick, and not by
his admiration of any amorous ditty in his collection of English
songs. It a poor thing, but it was certainly his own, and
nowhere more so than in its recognition of the womanly personality
of its heroine :
was
“And then there's something in her gait
Gars ony dress look weel. ”
This touch of nature, which no modish artist would have attempted,
marked the hand of one who painted from the life.
William Burness struggled along for twelve years at Mount Oli-
phant, and then removed to Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton.
Here he rented a larger farm, the soil of which promised a surer
maintenance for himself and the hostages he had given to Fortune.
And there these loving hostages began to put away childish things,
and to become men and women. They were cheerful, in spite of the
frugality which their poverty imposed upon them; and were merry
in their simple homely way, singing and dancing among themselves
and among their friendly neighbors. Their hearts expanded in the
healthy air about them, particularly the heart of Robert, which
turned to thoughts of love,- not lightly, as in his boyish fancy for
Nelly Kilpatrick, but seriously, as beseemed a man; for he was now
in his nineteenth year, and as conscious of what he was to woman as
of what woman was to him. A born lover, and a born poet, he dis-
covered himself and his song at Tarbolton. The custom of the coun-
try and the time sanctioned a freedom of manners, and a frequency
of meeting on the part of rustic amorists, of which he was not slow
to avail himself. The love affairs of the Scottish peasantry are thus
described by one of his biographers:—“The young farmer or: plow-
man, after his day of exhausting toil, would proceed to the home
of his mistress, one, two, three, or more miles distant, there signal
her to the door, and then the pair would seat themselves in the
1
## p. 2837 (#409) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
2837
barn for an hour or two's conversation. ” Burns practiced this mode
of courtship, which was the only one open to him, and among the
only women whom he knew at Tarbolton. “He made no distinction
between the farmer's own daughters and those who acted as his
servants, the fact after all being that the servants were often them-
selves the daughters of farmers, and only sent to be the hirelings of
others because their services were not needed at home. ” We should
remember this habit of the Scottish peasantry if we wish to under-
stand the early songs of Burns; for they were suggested by it, and
vitalized by it, as much as by his impassioned genius. He painted
what he saw; he sang what he felt. We have a glimpse of him in
one of his winter courtships in My Nanie, O'; another and warmer
glimpse of him in one of his summer courtships in “The Rigs o' Bar-
ley'; and another and livelier glimpse of him in one of his mocking
moods in “Tibbie, I hae seen the day. But he was more than the
lover which these songs revealed: he was a man of sound under-
standing and fine, active intelligence, gifted with ready humor and
a keen sense of wit. If he had been other than he was, he might
and probably would have been elated by his poetic powers, of which
he must have been aware; but being what he was, he was content
to enjoy them and to exercise them modestly, and at such scanty
intervals as his daily duties afforded. He composed his songs as he
went about his work, plowing, sowing, reaping; crooning them as
he strode along the fields, and correcting them in his head as the
hours dragged on, until night came, and he could write them down
in his little room by the light of his solitary candle. He had no illus-
ions about himself: he was the son of a poor farmer, who, do what
he might, was never prosperous; and poverty was his portion. His
apprehension, which was justified by the misfortunes of the family
at Mount Oliphant, was confirmed by their dark continuance at Tar-
bolton, where he saw his honored father, bowed with years of toil,
grow older and feebler day by day, dying of consumption before
The end came on February 13th, 1784; and a day or two
afterwards the humble coffin of William Burness, arranged between
two leading horses placed after each other, and followed by relations
and neighbors on horseback, was borne to Alloway and buried in
the old kirkyard.
The funeral over, the family removed to Mossgiel, in the parish
of Mauchline, where, at Martinmas, Robert and Gilbert had rented
another farm. Having no means of their own, they and their sisters
were obliged to rank as creditors of their dead father for the arrears
of wages due them as laborers at Lochlea; and it was with these
arrears, which they succeeded in wresting from their old landlord or
his factor, that they stocked the new farm. The change was a i
his eyes.
## p. 2838 (#410) ###########################################
2838
ROBERT BURNS
beneficial one for all the family, who were now for the first time in
their lives provided with a comfortable dwelling; and everything con-
sidered, especially so for their head, — which Robert, who was now
in his twenty-sixth year, virtually became. He realized the gravity of
the responsibility which rested upon him, and rightly judging that
industry alone would not enable him to support it, resolved to work
with the brains of others as well as his own hard hands. He read
farming books, he calculated crops, he attended markets, but all to
no purpose; for like his father before him, however much he may
have deserved success, he could not command it. What he could and
did command however was the admiration of his fellows, who were
quick to perceive and ready to acknowledge his superiority. There
was that about him which impressed them,- something in his tem-
perament or talent, in his personality or character, which removed
him from the roll of common men. What seemed to distinguish him
most was the charm of his conversation, which, remarkable as it was
for fluency and force, for originality and brilliancy, was quite as
remarkable for good sense and good feeling. Grave or gay, as the
occasion suggested and the spirit moved him, he spoke as with
authority and was listened to with rapt attention. His company was
sought, and go where he would he was everywhere welcomed as a
good fellow. He had the art of making friends; and though they
were not always of the kind that his well-wishers could have desired,
they were the best of their kind in and about Mauchline. What he
saw in some of them, other than the pleasure they felt in his society,
it is hard to say; but whatever it was, he liked it and the conviv-
iality to which it led, - which, occasionally coarsened by stories that
set the table in a roar, was ever and anon refined by songs that
filled his eyes with tears. His life was a hard one, - a succession of
dull, monotonous, laborious days, haunted by anxiety and harassed
by petty, irritating cares, -- but he faced it cheerfully, manfully,
and wrestled with it triumphantly, for he compelled it to forge
the weapons with which he conquered it. He sang like a boy at
Lochlea; he wrote like a man at Mossgiel. The first poetical note
that he struck there was a personal one, and commemorative of his
regard for two rustic rhymers, David Sillar and John Lapraik, to
whom he addressed several Epistles,- a form of composition which
he found in Ferguson and Ramsay, and of which he was enamored.
That he thoroughly enjoyed the impulse which suggested and dic-
tated these Epistles was evident from the spirit with which they
were written. In the first of the two, which he addressed to Sillar,
he discovered and disclosed for the first time the distinctive individ-
uality of his genius. It was a charming and touching piece of writ-
ing; charming as a delineation of his character, and touching as a
## p. 2839 (#411) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
3
2839
confession of his creed, - the patient philosophy of the poor. As his
social horizon was enlarged, his mental vision was sharpened; and
before long, other interests than those which concerned himself and
his poetical friends excited his sympathies and stimulated his powers.
It was a period of theological squabbles, and he plunged into them
at once, partly no doubt because there was a theological strain in his
blood, but largely because they furnished opportunities for the riotous
exercise of his wit. He paid his disrespects to the fomenters of this
holy brawl in “The Twa Herds, and he pilloried an old person who
was obnoxious to him, in that savage satire on sanctimonious hy-
pocrisy, Holy Willy's Prayer. ' Always a poet, he was more, much
more than a poet. He was a student of man,- of all sorts of men;
caring much, as a student, for the baser sort which reveled in Poosie
Nansie's dram-shop, and which he celebrated in “The Jolly Beggars);
but caring more, as a man, for the better sort which languished
in huts where poor men lodged, and of which he was the voice of
lamentation in Man was Made to Mourn. '
He was
a student of
manners, which he painted with a sure hand, his masterpiece being
that reverential reproduction of the family life at Lochlea, — 'The
Cotter's Saturday Night. H was a student of nature, - his love of
which was conspicuous in his poetry, Aushing his words with pictur-
esque phrases and flooding his lines with the feeling of outdoor life.
He was
a student of animal life,- a lover of horses and dogs,
observant of their habits and careful of their comfort. He felt for
the little mouse which his plowshare turned out of its nest, and he
pitied the poor hare which the unskillful fowler could only wound.
The commoners of earth and air were dear to him; and the flower
beside his path, the gowan wet with dew, was precious in his eyes.
His heart was large, his mind was comprehensive, and his temper
singularly sweet and sunny. ,
Such was Robert Burns at Mossgiel, and a very likable person he
was. But all the while there was another Robert Burns at Mossgiel,
and he was not quite so likable.
1
He had a strange fascination for
women, and a strange disregard of the consequences of this fascina-
tion. | This curious combination of contradictory traits was an unfor-
tunate one, as a young woman of Mauchline was destined to learn.
She was the daughter of a mason, and her name was Jean Armour.
He met her on a race day at a house of entertainment which must
have been popular, since it contained a dancing-hall, admission to
which was free, any man being privileged to invite to it any woman
whom he fancied and for whose diversion he was willing to disburse
a penny to the fiddler. He was accompanied on this occasion by his
dog, who insisted on following him into the hall and persisted in
keeping at his heels while he danced, - a proof of its fidelity which
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2840
ROBERT BURNS
created considerable amusement, and which its master turned to his
personal account by saying he wished he could get any of the lasses
to like him as well as his dog. Jean heard his remark, and not long
afterwards, as he was passing through the washing-green where she
was bleaching clothes (from which she begged him to call off his
troublesome follower), she reminded him of it by asking him if he
had yet got any of the lasses to like him as well as did his dog?
He got one there and then; for from that hour Jean was attached to
him and he to Jean.
