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.
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.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v05 - Bro to Cai
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. He was reticent about his conquest, conceal-
ing it from his closest friends, and even from his dearest foe, the
Muse; but however reticent, his conquest was not to be concealed,
for Jean one day discovered that she was with child. What he felt
when this calamity was made known to him we know not, for he
kept his own counsel. What he wished his friends to feed, if they
could and would, we may divine from a poem which he wrote about
this time, an address to the rigidly righteous, into whose minds he
sought to instill the charity of which he and Jean were sorely in
need :-
« Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang
To step aside is human:
«One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it:
And just as lamely can ye mark
How far perhaps they rue it. ”
He wrote a paper which he gave Jean, in the belief that it con-
stituted a marriage between them, a belief which was perhaps just-
ifiable in the existing condition of Scottish laws of marriage. But
he counted without his host; for instead of accepting it as a manly
endeavor to shield the reputation of his daughter and divert scandal
from his family, the hot-headed father of Jean denounced it and
demanded its destruction, - a foolish proceeding to which his foolish
daughter consented. Whether its destruction could destroy his obli-
gation need not be curiously considered; it is enough to know that
he believed that it did, and that it was a proof of perfidy on the
part of Jean. But they should see! She had forsaken him, and he
would forsake her. So, the old love being off, he was straightway
on with a new one. Of this new love little is known, except that she
was, or had been, a servant in the family of one of his friends,
nurserymaid or something of the sort, - and that she was of High-
land parentage. Her name was Mary Campbell. He transferred his
affections from Jean to Mary, and his fascination was so strong that
a
## p. 2841 (#413) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
2841
she promised to become his wife. They met one Sunday in a
sequestered spot on the banks of the Ayr, where, standing on each
side of a little brook, they laved their hands in its limpid waters,
plighted their troth, and exchanged Bibles, -- she giving him her
copy, which was a small one, he giving her his copy, which was
a large one in two volumes, on the blank leaves of which he
had written his name and two quotations from the sacred text,
one being the solemn injunction to fidelity in Leviticus:
«And
ye shall not swear by my name falsely. I am the Lord. ” They
parted. She returned to her relatives, among whom she died a few
months afterward of a malignant fever; he returned to his troubles
at Mossgiel. They were not all of his own making. It was not his
fault that the farm was an unproductive one; he could not impart
fertility to barren acres nor compel the sun to ripen scanty crops.
In the hope of bettering his fortunes he resolved to expatriate him-
self, and entered into negotiations with a man who had an estate in
the West Indies, and who agreed to employ him as his factor. He
had no money and no means of getting any, except by the publi-
cation of his poems, none of which had yet appeared in print. He
issued a prospectus for their publication by subscription; and such
was the reputation they had made for him through their circulation
in manuscript, and the activity of his friends, that the necessary
number of subscribers was soon obtained. They were published at
Kilmarnock in the summer of 1786, and were read by all classes,
by the plowman as eagerly as by the laird, by the milkmaid in the
dairy as eagerly as by her mistress in the parlor,- and wherever
they were read they were admired. No poet was ever so quickly
recognized as Burns, who captivated his readers by his human
quality as well as his genius. They understood him at once. He
sung of things which concerned them,- of emotions which they felt,
the joys and sorrows of their homely lives, and, singing from his
heart, his songs went to their hearts. His fame as a poet spread
along the country and came to the knowledge of Dr. Blacklock,
a blind poet in Edinburgh, who after hearing Burns's poetry was
so impressed by it that he wrote or dictated a letter about it,
which he addressed to a correspondent in Kilmarnock, by whom
it was placed in the hands of Burns. He was still at Mossgiel, and
in a perturbed condition of mind, not knowing whether he could
remain there, or whether he would have to go to Jamaica. He
resolved at last to do neither, but to go to Edinburgh, which he
accordingly did, proceeding thither on
a pony borrowed from a
friend.
The visit of Burns to Edinburgh was a hazardous experiment from
which he might well have shrunk. He was ignorant of the manners
## p. 2842 (#414) ###########################################
2842
ROBERT BURNS
of its citizens, - the things which differentiated them as a class from
the only class he knew, — but his ignorance did not embarrass him.
He was self-possessed; manly in his bearing; modest, but not hum-
ble; courteous, but independent. He had no letters of introduction,
and needed none, for his poetry had prepared the way for him. It
was soon known among the best people in Edinburgh that he was
there, and they hastened to make his acquaintance; one of the first
to do so being a man of rank, Lord Glencairn. To know him was
to know other men of rank, and to be admitted to the brilliant
circles in which they moved. Burns's society was sought by the
nobility and gentry and by the literary lords of the period, pro-
fessors, historians, men of letters. They dined him and wined him
and listened to him, — listened to him eagerly, for here as elsewhere
he distinguished himself by his conversation, the charm of which
was so potent that the Duchess of Gordon declared that she was
taken off her feet by it. He increased his celebrity in Edinburgh by
the publication of a new and enlarged edition of his Poems, which
he dedicated to the noblemen and gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt
in a page of manly prose, the proud modesty and the worldly tact
of which must have delighted them. « The poetic genius of my
country found me,” he wrote, “as the prophetic bard Elijah did
Elisha, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing
the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native
soil in my native tongue. I tuned my wild, artless notes as she
inspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis of
Caledonia and lay my songs under your honored protection. I now
obey her dictates. » His mind was not active at this time, for
beyond a few trivial verses he wrote nothing worthy of him except
a short but characteristic Epistle to the Guidwife of Wauchope
House. ) He spent the winter of 1786 and the spring of 1787 in
Edinburgh; and summer being close at hand, he resolved to return
for a time to Mossgiel. There were strong reasons for his return,
some of which pertained to his impoverished family, whom he was
now in a condition to assist, for the new edition of his Poems had
proved profitable to himself, and others -- for before his departure
for Edinburgh, Jean had borne twins, a boy and a girl; and the girl
was being cared for at Mossgiel, He returned therefore to his
family and his child, and whether he purposed to do so or not, to
the mother of his child. It was not a wise thing to do, perhaps, but
a human thing, and very characteristic of the man, who,
whatever else he was not, was very human. And the Armours were
very human also, for old Armour/ received him into his house, and
Jean received him into her arms. She was not a prudent young
woman, but she was a fond and forgiving one.
it was
## p. 2843 (#415) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
2843
The life of Burns during the next twelve months may be briefly
described. He returned to Edinburgh, where in his most serious
moods he held sessions of thought. It may have been a silent one,
but it was not a sweet one; for while he summoned up remembrance
of things past, he summoned up apprehensions of things to come.
That he had won distinction as a poet was certain; what was not
certain was the duration of this distinction. He was famous to-day;
he might be forgotten to-morrow. But famous or forgotten, he and
those dependent on him must have bread; and since he saw no
reasonable prospect of earning it with his head, he must earn it
with his hands. They were strong and willing. So he leased a farm
at Ellisland in Dumfriesshire, and obtained an appointment from the
Board of Excise: then, poet, farmer, and exciseman, he went back to
Mauchline and was married to Jean. Leaving her and her child he
6 repaired to Ellisſand, where he was obliged to build a cottage for
himself. He dug the foundations, collected stone and sand, carted
lime, and generally assisted the masons and carpenters. Nor was
this all, for he directed at the same time whatever labor the careful
cultivation of a farm demanded from its tenant. He was happy at
Ellisland, — happier than he had been at Mount Oliphant, where his
family had been so sorely pinched by poverty, and much happier
than he had been at Mossgiel, where he had wrought so much
trouble for himself and others. A good son and a good brother, he
was a good husband and a good father. It was in no idle moment
that he wrote this stanza, which his conduct now illustrated:-
«To make a happy fireside chime
To weans and wife,
That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life. ”
His life was orderly; his wants were few and easily supplied; his
mind was active, and his poetical vein more productive than it had
been at Edinburgh. The best lyric that he wrote at Ellisland was
the one in praise of his wife (Of 'a' the airts the wind can blaw-');
the most important poem “Tam o' Shanter. ' Farmer and exciseman,
he was very busy,— busier, perhaps, as the last than the first, for
while his farming labors might be performed by others, his excise
labors could only be performed by himself; the district under his
charge covering ten parishes, the inspection of which required his
riding about two hundred miles a week. The nature of his duties,
and the spirit with which he went through them, may be inferred
from a bit of his doggerel :-
## p. 2844 (#416) ###########################################
2844
ROBERT BURNS
“ Searching auld wives' barrels,
Och, hone, the day!
That clarty barm should stain my laurels:
But- what'll ye say —
These movin' things ca'd wives and weans
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes! »
A model exciseman, he was neither a model nor a prosperous farmer,
for here as elsewhere, mother earth was an unkind stepmother to
him. He struggled on, hoping against hope, from June 1788 to
December 1791; then, beaten, worn out, exhausted, he gave up his
farm and removed to Dumfries, exchanging his cozy cottage wi
its
outlook of woods and waters for a mean little house in the Wee
Vennel, with its inlook of narrow dirty streets and alleys. His life
in Dumfries was not what one could wish it might have been for his
sake; for though it was not without its hours of happiness, its un-
happy days were many, and of a darker kind than he had hitherto
encountered. They were monotonous, they were wearisome, they
were humiliating. They could not be other than humiliating to a
man of his proud, impulsive spirit, who, schooling himself to prudence
on account of his wife and children, was not always prudent in his
speech.
Who indeed could be, unless he were a mean, cowardly
creature, in the storm and stress of the great Revolution with which
France was then convulsed ? His utterances, whatever they may have
been, were magnified to his official and social disadvantage, and he
was greatly troubled. He felt his disfavor with the people of Dum-
fries, as he could not help showing to one of his friends, who, riding
into the town on a fine summer evening to attend a county ball, saw
him walking alone on the shady side of the principal street, while
the other side was crowded with ladies and gentlemen who seemed
unwilling to recognize him. This friend dismounted, and joining
him, proposed that they should cross the street. “Nay, nay, my
young friend,” said the poet, “that's all over now. ” Then, after a
pause, he quoted two stanzas from a pathetic ballad by Lady Grizel
Bailie:
“His bonnet stood then fu' fair on his brow,
His auld ane looked better than mony ane's new;
But now he lets 't wear ony way it will hing,
And casts himself doure upon the corn bing.
“O were we young now as we ance hae been,
We should hae been galloping down on yon green,
And linking it owre the lily-white lea –
And werena my heart light I wad die. )
The light heart of Burns failed him at last, — failed him because,
enfeebled by disease and incapacitated from performing his excise
## p. 2845 (#417) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
2845
duties, his salary, which had never exceeded seventy pounds a year,
was reduced to half that beggarly sum; because he was so distressed
for money that he was obliged to solicit a loan of a one-pound note
from a friend: failed him, poor heart, because it was broken! He
took to his bed for the last time on July 21st, 1796, and two days
later, surrounded by his little family, he passed away in the thirty-
eighth year of his age.
Such was the life of Robert Burns, — the hard, struggling, erring,
suffering, manly life, of which his poetry is the imperishable record.
He was what his birth, his temperament, his circumstances, his
genius made him. He owed but little to books, and the books to
which he owed anything were written in his mother tongue. His
English reading, which was not extensive, harmed him rather than
helped himn. No English author taught or could teach him anything.
He was not English, but Scottish,- Scottish in his nature and genius,
Scottish to his heart's core,— the singer of the Scottish people, their
greatest poet, and the greatest poet of his time.
R. it stoodud
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT
M'
Y LOVED, my honored, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end;
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh';
The shortening winter day is near a close:
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The blackening trains o' craws to their repose
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes;
This night his weekly moil is at an end;
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend.
Sough.
## p. 2846 (#418) ###########################################
2846
ROBERT BURNS
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher' through
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily,
His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.
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. He was reticent about his conquest, conceal-
ing it from his closest friends, and even from his dearest foe, the
Muse; but however reticent, his conquest was not to be concealed,
for Jean one day discovered that she was with child. What he felt
when this calamity was made known to him we know not, for he
kept his own counsel. What he wished his friends to feed, if they
could and would, we may divine from a poem which he wrote about
this time, an address to the rigidly righteous, into whose minds he
sought to instill the charity of which he and Jean were sorely in
need :-
« Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang
To step aside is human:
«One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it:
And just as lamely can ye mark
How far perhaps they rue it. ”
He wrote a paper which he gave Jean, in the belief that it con-
stituted a marriage between them, a belief which was perhaps just-
ifiable in the existing condition of Scottish laws of marriage. But
he counted without his host; for instead of accepting it as a manly
endeavor to shield the reputation of his daughter and divert scandal
from his family, the hot-headed father of Jean denounced it and
demanded its destruction, - a foolish proceeding to which his foolish
daughter consented. Whether its destruction could destroy his obli-
gation need not be curiously considered; it is enough to know that
he believed that it did, and that it was a proof of perfidy on the
part of Jean. But they should see! She had forsaken him, and he
would forsake her. So, the old love being off, he was straightway
on with a new one. Of this new love little is known, except that she
was, or had been, a servant in the family of one of his friends,
nurserymaid or something of the sort, - and that she was of High-
land parentage. Her name was Mary Campbell. He transferred his
affections from Jean to Mary, and his fascination was so strong that
a
## p. 2841 (#413) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
2841
she promised to become his wife. They met one Sunday in a
sequestered spot on the banks of the Ayr, where, standing on each
side of a little brook, they laved their hands in its limpid waters,
plighted their troth, and exchanged Bibles, -- she giving him her
copy, which was a small one, he giving her his copy, which was
a large one in two volumes, on the blank leaves of which he
had written his name and two quotations from the sacred text,
one being the solemn injunction to fidelity in Leviticus:
«And
ye shall not swear by my name falsely. I am the Lord. ” They
parted. She returned to her relatives, among whom she died a few
months afterward of a malignant fever; he returned to his troubles
at Mossgiel. They were not all of his own making. It was not his
fault that the farm was an unproductive one; he could not impart
fertility to barren acres nor compel the sun to ripen scanty crops.
In the hope of bettering his fortunes he resolved to expatriate him-
self, and entered into negotiations with a man who had an estate in
the West Indies, and who agreed to employ him as his factor. He
had no money and no means of getting any, except by the publi-
cation of his poems, none of which had yet appeared in print. He
issued a prospectus for their publication by subscription; and such
was the reputation they had made for him through their circulation
in manuscript, and the activity of his friends, that the necessary
number of subscribers was soon obtained. They were published at
Kilmarnock in the summer of 1786, and were read by all classes,
by the plowman as eagerly as by the laird, by the milkmaid in the
dairy as eagerly as by her mistress in the parlor,- and wherever
they were read they were admired. No poet was ever so quickly
recognized as Burns, who captivated his readers by his human
quality as well as his genius. They understood him at once. He
sung of things which concerned them,- of emotions which they felt,
the joys and sorrows of their homely lives, and, singing from his
heart, his songs went to their hearts. His fame as a poet spread
along the country and came to the knowledge of Dr. Blacklock,
a blind poet in Edinburgh, who after hearing Burns's poetry was
so impressed by it that he wrote or dictated a letter about it,
which he addressed to a correspondent in Kilmarnock, by whom
it was placed in the hands of Burns. He was still at Mossgiel, and
in a perturbed condition of mind, not knowing whether he could
remain there, or whether he would have to go to Jamaica. He
resolved at last to do neither, but to go to Edinburgh, which he
accordingly did, proceeding thither on
a pony borrowed from a
friend.
The visit of Burns to Edinburgh was a hazardous experiment from
which he might well have shrunk. He was ignorant of the manners
## p. 2842 (#414) ###########################################
2842
ROBERT BURNS
of its citizens, - the things which differentiated them as a class from
the only class he knew, — but his ignorance did not embarrass him.
He was self-possessed; manly in his bearing; modest, but not hum-
ble; courteous, but independent. He had no letters of introduction,
and needed none, for his poetry had prepared the way for him. It
was soon known among the best people in Edinburgh that he was
there, and they hastened to make his acquaintance; one of the first
to do so being a man of rank, Lord Glencairn. To know him was
to know other men of rank, and to be admitted to the brilliant
circles in which they moved. Burns's society was sought by the
nobility and gentry and by the literary lords of the period, pro-
fessors, historians, men of letters. They dined him and wined him
and listened to him, — listened to him eagerly, for here as elsewhere
he distinguished himself by his conversation, the charm of which
was so potent that the Duchess of Gordon declared that she was
taken off her feet by it. He increased his celebrity in Edinburgh by
the publication of a new and enlarged edition of his Poems, which
he dedicated to the noblemen and gentlemen of the Caledonian Hunt
in a page of manly prose, the proud modesty and the worldly tact
of which must have delighted them. « The poetic genius of my
country found me,” he wrote, “as the prophetic bard Elijah did
Elisha, and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing
the loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native
soil in my native tongue. I tuned my wild, artless notes as she
inspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis of
Caledonia and lay my songs under your honored protection. I now
obey her dictates. » His mind was not active at this time, for
beyond a few trivial verses he wrote nothing worthy of him except
a short but characteristic Epistle to the Guidwife of Wauchope
House. ) He spent the winter of 1786 and the spring of 1787 in
Edinburgh; and summer being close at hand, he resolved to return
for a time to Mossgiel. There were strong reasons for his return,
some of which pertained to his impoverished family, whom he was
now in a condition to assist, for the new edition of his Poems had
proved profitable to himself, and others -- for before his departure
for Edinburgh, Jean had borne twins, a boy and a girl; and the girl
was being cared for at Mossgiel, He returned therefore to his
family and his child, and whether he purposed to do so or not, to
the mother of his child. It was not a wise thing to do, perhaps, but
a human thing, and very characteristic of the man, who,
whatever else he was not, was very human. And the Armours were
very human also, for old Armour/ received him into his house, and
Jean received him into her arms. She was not a prudent young
woman, but she was a fond and forgiving one.
it was
## p. 2843 (#415) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
2843
The life of Burns during the next twelve months may be briefly
described. He returned to Edinburgh, where in his most serious
moods he held sessions of thought. It may have been a silent one,
but it was not a sweet one; for while he summoned up remembrance
of things past, he summoned up apprehensions of things to come.
That he had won distinction as a poet was certain; what was not
certain was the duration of this distinction. He was famous to-day;
he might be forgotten to-morrow. But famous or forgotten, he and
those dependent on him must have bread; and since he saw no
reasonable prospect of earning it with his head, he must earn it
with his hands. They were strong and willing. So he leased a farm
at Ellisland in Dumfriesshire, and obtained an appointment from the
Board of Excise: then, poet, farmer, and exciseman, he went back to
Mauchline and was married to Jean. Leaving her and her child he
6 repaired to Ellisſand, where he was obliged to build a cottage for
himself. He dug the foundations, collected stone and sand, carted
lime, and generally assisted the masons and carpenters. Nor was
this all, for he directed at the same time whatever labor the careful
cultivation of a farm demanded from its tenant. He was happy at
Ellisland, — happier than he had been at Mount Oliphant, where his
family had been so sorely pinched by poverty, and much happier
than he had been at Mossgiel, where he had wrought so much
trouble for himself and others. A good son and a good brother, he
was a good husband and a good father. It was in no idle moment
that he wrote this stanza, which his conduct now illustrated:-
«To make a happy fireside chime
To weans and wife,
That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life. ”
His life was orderly; his wants were few and easily supplied; his
mind was active, and his poetical vein more productive than it had
been at Edinburgh. The best lyric that he wrote at Ellisland was
the one in praise of his wife (Of 'a' the airts the wind can blaw-');
the most important poem “Tam o' Shanter. ' Farmer and exciseman,
he was very busy,— busier, perhaps, as the last than the first, for
while his farming labors might be performed by others, his excise
labors could only be performed by himself; the district under his
charge covering ten parishes, the inspection of which required his
riding about two hundred miles a week. The nature of his duties,
and the spirit with which he went through them, may be inferred
from a bit of his doggerel :-
## p. 2844 (#416) ###########################################
2844
ROBERT BURNS
“ Searching auld wives' barrels,
Och, hone, the day!
That clarty barm should stain my laurels:
But- what'll ye say —
These movin' things ca'd wives and weans
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes! »
A model exciseman, he was neither a model nor a prosperous farmer,
for here as elsewhere, mother earth was an unkind stepmother to
him. He struggled on, hoping against hope, from June 1788 to
December 1791; then, beaten, worn out, exhausted, he gave up his
farm and removed to Dumfries, exchanging his cozy cottage wi
its
outlook of woods and waters for a mean little house in the Wee
Vennel, with its inlook of narrow dirty streets and alleys. His life
in Dumfries was not what one could wish it might have been for his
sake; for though it was not without its hours of happiness, its un-
happy days were many, and of a darker kind than he had hitherto
encountered. They were monotonous, they were wearisome, they
were humiliating. They could not be other than humiliating to a
man of his proud, impulsive spirit, who, schooling himself to prudence
on account of his wife and children, was not always prudent in his
speech.
Who indeed could be, unless he were a mean, cowardly
creature, in the storm and stress of the great Revolution with which
France was then convulsed ? His utterances, whatever they may have
been, were magnified to his official and social disadvantage, and he
was greatly troubled. He felt his disfavor with the people of Dum-
fries, as he could not help showing to one of his friends, who, riding
into the town on a fine summer evening to attend a county ball, saw
him walking alone on the shady side of the principal street, while
the other side was crowded with ladies and gentlemen who seemed
unwilling to recognize him. This friend dismounted, and joining
him, proposed that they should cross the street. “Nay, nay, my
young friend,” said the poet, “that's all over now. ” Then, after a
pause, he quoted two stanzas from a pathetic ballad by Lady Grizel
Bailie:
“His bonnet stood then fu' fair on his brow,
His auld ane looked better than mony ane's new;
But now he lets 't wear ony way it will hing,
And casts himself doure upon the corn bing.
“O were we young now as we ance hae been,
We should hae been galloping down on yon green,
And linking it owre the lily-white lea –
And werena my heart light I wad die. )
The light heart of Burns failed him at last, — failed him because,
enfeebled by disease and incapacitated from performing his excise
## p. 2845 (#417) ###########################################
ROBERT BURNS
2845
duties, his salary, which had never exceeded seventy pounds a year,
was reduced to half that beggarly sum; because he was so distressed
for money that he was obliged to solicit a loan of a one-pound note
from a friend: failed him, poor heart, because it was broken! He
took to his bed for the last time on July 21st, 1796, and two days
later, surrounded by his little family, he passed away in the thirty-
eighth year of his age.
Such was the life of Robert Burns, — the hard, struggling, erring,
suffering, manly life, of which his poetry is the imperishable record.
He was what his birth, his temperament, his circumstances, his
genius made him. He owed but little to books, and the books to
which he owed anything were written in his mother tongue. His
English reading, which was not extensive, harmed him rather than
helped himn. No English author taught or could teach him anything.
He was not English, but Scottish,- Scottish in his nature and genius,
Scottish to his heart's core,— the singer of the Scottish people, their
greatest poet, and the greatest poet of his time.
R. it stoodud
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT
M'
Y LOVED, my honored, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end;
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh';
The shortening winter day is near a close:
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The blackening trains o' craws to their repose
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes;
This night his weekly moil is at an end;
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend.
Sough.
## p. 2846 (#418) ###########################################
2846
ROBERT BURNS
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher' through
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily,
His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.
