In a claybuilt cottage, the work of his father's hands,
Robert Burns first saw the light, on the 25th of January, 1759. His
birth-place is about two miles south-west of the town of Ayr. A few days
afterwards the frail tenement gave way at midnight, and the infant with
his mother were forced to take shelter in neigbouring hovel from the
pitiless pelting of the storm. William Burns, his father although in very
humble circumstances, has been portrayed by his immorta1 son, in the
beautiful poem of "The Cotter's Saturday Night," in a manner equally honourable to the memory of both. As in the cases of, most distinguished
persons, his mother, whom in general address he greatly resembled, seems
to have exercised a great influence in the formation of his youthful mind,
and her inexhaustible and traditionary tales doubtless made a great
impression upon his infant imagination. In his boyish days, as Burns
himself tells us, he owed much to an old woman, who resided in the family,
remarkable for her ignorance, .credulity, and superstition. She had the
country of tailes and songs concerning denis, ghosts, feiries, brownies,
witches, warlocks, spiunkies, kelpies, elfceandles, dead-lights, wraiths,
apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, draaroas, and-other
telanpery.
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The earliest breathings: of Burn's muse were inspired by
the passion to which he, unfortunately for himself, was too often a
slave. His first ballad, "O, dnce loved a bonnie lass," was composed
when he was about fifteen, " This with me began and poetry;
which at times have been my only enjoyments." In his nineteenth,
year he spent the summer on a smuggling coast. "Scenes of swaggering riot said roaring dissipation were,
till this time, new to me; but I was no enemy On eoiall life." He contiaaued'to: labour and to study, but his new associates' probably
called forth the slumberings' of weaknesses and vices for which he was to
pay so des. |
"As his numerous connexions," his excellent brother Gilbert,"
were governed by the strictest rules of virtue and modesty, (from which he
never deviated till his twenty-third year,) he became anxious to be in a
situation to marry." But the shop in which he was learning his new trade
of flax-dressing caught fire, and he was obliged to give up the plan.
A
belle-Jille whom he adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet him in
the field of matrimony, jilted him with peculiar circumstances of
mortification. His letter, in reply to hers, in which she finally rejects
him, is extraordinary considering he was only in his twentieth year. " It
would be weak and unmanly to say that without you I never can be happy,
but sure I am that sharing life with you would have given it a relish,
that, wanting you, I never can taste." It was about this time that he
wrote to his father-" The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my
mind, that I dare neither review past wants, nor look forward into
futurity, for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most
unhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or
two my spirits are alightened, glimmer a little into futurity, but my
principal, and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is looking backwards
and forwards in a moral and religious way." It was also about this time
that he became a freemason, " his first introduction to the life of a boon
companion." Rhyme he had now given Up, but meeting with Jerffuson's
Scottish Poems, he strung anew his wildly sounding lyre with emulating
vigour.
His father died in the beginning of the year 1784, and thus
escaped the sorrow of seeing his son do penance, according to the Scotch
custom in village churches, before the congregation, in consequence of the
birth of an illegitimate child. Shortly before the death of their father,
the two brothers took the farm of Mossgiel together, and it was during the
four years that he lived on it, with yearly wages of seven pounds for his
labour, that his best poems were produced, and that the nobler and
generous feelings of this extraordinary man, with, alas! his great
failings, more fully developed themselves. The talents and genius of Burns
had now begun to attract attention in his neighbourhood, and an
acquaintance with some of the clergy induced him to take an active part in
the clerical disputes of the times. The Holy Fair, the Ordination, the
Holy Tuilzie) or Twa Herds, with Holy Villie's Prayer, and other poems,
while they proved the high and daring powers of the writer, displayed
occasionally a profaneness that gave legitimate cause of scandal to
others, who would have shown no mercy to their opponent, even if he had
kept within the bounds of fair discussion. The beautiful poem of
Hallowe'en was composed about the same time as the Holy Fair, and in
general the purest specimens of his genius were strangely mingled with
those productions in which he proclaimed himself a master of reckless
satire. Many of his smaller romances too were penned about this time, and
his fervent admiration of beauty called up many of his best songs, for
Burns was no Platonic admirer of imaginary heroines. One of these, Jean
Armour, who afterwards became his wife, he thus besings;
"Miss Miller is
fine, Miss Markland's divine,
Miss Smith she has
wit, and Miss Betty is braw;
There's beauty and
fortune to get wi' Miss Morton,
But Armour'g the
jewel for me o' them &'."
Poor in the extreme, and alarmed for the consequences of
this new connexion, he now formed the idea of going to Jamaica, in hopes
of bettering his broken fortunes; but in a last interview with his
mistress, he gave her a written acknowledgment of marriage, which is in
Scotland legal evidence, although such marriages are irregular. Her
father, who had but an unfavourable opinion of Burns's character,
persuaded her to burn this paper, a proceeding the more strange as it was
the only means of restoring her reputation. It is evident that this part
of the poet's history is yet but partially known. A short time afterwards
Jean Armour bore him twins; his situation was now truly deplorable. The
farm had proved a failure, he had offered to provide for his wife and
children as a day labourer; his wife's relations refused to acknowledge
him, and such was his poverty that he could not find sufficient security
for the paltry parish maintenance of his children.
He now resumed his intention of going to Jamaica; after
trying in vain to raise his passage-money, his friends encouraged him in
the idea of trying a subscription edition of his poems. His spirits rose
with the prospect of success, and he composed some other pieces, amongst
others the Twa Dogs, during the progress of publication. "I had been
skulking," says he, "from covert to covert, under all the terrors of a
jail; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the
law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my friends; my chest was
on the way to Greenock; I had composed the last song I should ever measure
in Caledonia, The gloomy night is gathering fast, when a letter from Dn
Blacklock, to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening new
prospects to my poetic ambition." The poems fixed the public attention
immediately. Old and young, high and low, grave and gay, learned or
ignorant, were alike delighted, agitated, transported. Even ploughboys and
maid-servants would gladly have given the wages they earned most hardly,
and which they wanted to purchase necessary clothing, if they might but
procure the works of Burns. His society was courted by the most celebrated
of his countrymen. His manners were then, as they continued ever
afterwards, simple, manly, and independent; strongly expressive of
conscious genius and worth; but without anything that indicated
forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. If there had been a little more of
gentleness and accommodation in his temper, says anacute observer, he
would, I think, have been still more interesting; but he had been
accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance; and his
dread of anything approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his
manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable
among his various attainments, than the fluency, precision, and
originality of his language, when he spoke in company, and avoided more
successfully than most Scotchmen, the peculiarities of Scottish
phraseology. Mackenzie in the Lounger gave him his full meed of praise,
and pointed out to his countrymen "with what uncommon penetration and
sagacity this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered
condition, had looked on men, and manners." . . "To repair the wrongs of
suffering or neglected merit, to call forth genius from the obscurity in
which it had pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or delight
the world- these are exertions which give to wealth an enviable
superiority, to greatness and to patronage a laudable prize." Sir Walter
Scott says of him, "There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness
in all his lineaments; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical
character and temperament. It was large and of a dark cast, which glowed
(I say literally glowed) when he spoke with feeling or interest. I never
saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most
distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect
self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who were
the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himself with
perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness, and when he
differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at the
same time with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conversation
distinctly enough to be quoted, nor did I ever see him again, except in
the street) where he did not recognize me, as I could not expect he
should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what literary
emoluments have been since his day) the efforts made for his relief were
extremely trifling."
The unfortunate Heron, who spoke from sad experience,
confirms the testimonies that in Edinburgh he yielded to temptations,
which, notwithstanding his noble and generous impulses, he had not
sufficient strength to withstand. " The enticements of pleasure too often
unman our virtuous resolution, even while we wear the air of rejecting
them with a stern brow. We resist and resist, and resist; but at last
suddenly turn, and passionately embrace the enchantress. The bucks of
Edinburgh accomplished, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of
Ayrshire had failed. After residing some months in Edinburgh, he began to
estrange himself, not altogether, but in some measure, from his graver
friends. Too many of his hours were now spent at the tables of persons who
delighted to urge conviviality to drunkenness, in the tavern, and in the
brothel."
Why do we extract these remarks ? Certainly not with the
wish to detract from the fame due to a great man. We are of opinion that
much that has been given to the world respecting Burns ought to have been
withheld, for if all the biographies of celebrated men had been placed in
the same transparent light, in which this ill-fated son of genius and of
passion has been exhibited, how few would come out of the furnace
unscathed! Instead of treating his faults with delicacy, or leaving his
vices unrecorded, for which the poet paid the severe but just penalty, in
years of mental misery, even his brother .Gilbert, and his first
biographer, Dr. Currie, set the pernicious example of revealing to the
public failings for which his sufferings should have been considered a
sufficient expiation, without " damning him to everlasting fame." But as
these memoirs have now become known to all, the chronicler has no choice
left him but in some measure to show the faults of his predecessors. The
failings of such a man as Burns inculcate a great moral lesson, that the
most admirable genius, the most generous and noble impulses are but a poor
substitute for active principle, which alone can form and confirm real
strength of character. We may, and we ought to draw the inference for
ourselves, far be it from us to sit in judgment upon one whose finely
gifted and sensitive mind exposed him to temptations which others feel
less acutely, and therefore overcome without merit to themselves. " Take a
being of our kind," says he, in a short sketch of himself which throws
great light on his character, " give him a stronger imagination and more
delicate sensibility, which between them will ever engender a more
ungovernable set of passions than are the usual lot of man; implant in him
an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary, such as arranging wild
flowers in fantastic nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his haunt, by
his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows in the sunny
pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies; in short, send him
adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from the paths
of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man living for
the pleasures that lucre can bestow; lastly, fill up the measure of his
woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity, and you have
created a wight nearly as miserable as the poet."
The profits of a subsequent edition of his poems amounted
to between five hundred and six hundred pounds, but it soon dwindled away.
He married Miss Armour, took a farm, which, as might be expected, did not
succeed; his friends procured for him-what seems to us almost a satire-a
place in the excise, with a salary of fifty pound a year, afterwards
raised to seventy, and even this paltry pittance he was in danger of
losing, owing to some observations upon the French Revolution, which some
vile informer had reported against him. It was in allusion to this
appointment that Coleridge invites his friend Charles Lamb to gather a
wreath of henbane, nettles, and nightshade, "The illustrious brow of
Scotch nobility to twine."
He closed his life in great misery on the 21st of July,
1796, in his thirty-seventh year, with all the horrors of a jail before
him. His proud spirit, which had refused to receive from Thomson the
remuneration for his songs, in a publication which owed to them its chief
value, was forced, in the last days of his existence, to write a pressing
letter for the loan of five pounds. His remains enjoyed the empty honours
of a public funeral, at which persons of all ranks volunteered in crowds
to do honour to the memory of the national poet of Scotland.
The poetry of Bums at once reaches the heart. Dealing with
subjects and images that are familiar to all, he wants no interpreter, for
all feel instinctively the truth and beauty with which the genius of the
poet has invested them. However humble the scene, it is never vulgar, he
looks upon nature with the eye of a poet, there is a mingled tenderness
and passion in his verse that carry his reader irresistibly with him.
Unlike most poets of all ranks and almost all poets from the lower ranks
of life, he never writes for the sake of writing, but from the fullness of
a heart overflowing with genial passion. If his verse has little grandeur
or imagination, it is because the subjects on which he felt himself
impelled to write afforded little room for the development of these
qualities.
Sir Walter Scott has expressed his regret that Burns confined his genius to lyrical effusions, and that he
did not attempt a greater poem. We maybe allowed, with all diffidence, to
suggest a doubt, whether the poet would have been equally successful in
the attempt. The fire and energy of Burns's style are eminently suited for
shorter pieces, in longer poems, they might fatigue the reader, or have
tempted the poet to artificial excitement, to the loss of those exquisite
touches of natural feeling in which he so greatly excelled. The weaknesses
of the poet's character are manifest in the events of his life, he that
runs may read them;-its strength is to be seen in his poems, these
represent him erring indeed, but full of generous and noble emotions, of
gushing tenderness, in some poems, of childlike purity of sentiment.
Labouring under the disadvantages of being written in dialect, they will
doubtless last as long as the English language shall endure. |