Page:EB1911 - Volume 04.djvu/882

 inspirations of which have passed into them. But in gathering from his ancestors Burns has exalted their work by asserting a new dignity for their simplest themes. He is the heir of Barbour, distilling the spirit of the old poet’s epic into a battle chant, and of Dunbar, reproducing the various humours of a half-sceptical, half-religious philosophy of life. He is the pupil of Ramsay, but he leaves his master, to make a social protest and to lead a literary revolt. The Gentle Shepherd, still largely a court pastoral, in which “a man’s a man” if born a gentleman, may be contrasted with “The Jolly Beggars”—the one is like a minuet of the ladies of Versailles on the sward of the Swiss village near the Trianon, the other like the march of the maenads with Theroigne de Mericourt. Ramsay adds to the rough tunes and words of the ballads the refinement of the wits who in the “Easy” and “Johnstone” clubs talked over their cups of Prior and Pope, Addison and Gay. Burns inspires them with a fervour that thrills the most wooden of his race. We may clench the contrast by a representative example. This is from Ramsay’s version of perhaps the best-known of Scottish songs,—

Compare the verses in Burns—

Burns as a poet of the inanimate world doubtless derived hints from Thomson of The Seasons, but in his power of tuning its manifestation to the moods of the mind he is more properly ranked as a forerunner of Wordsworth. He never follows the fashions of his century, except in his failures—in his efforts at set panegyric or fine letter-writing. His highest work knows nothing of “Damon” or “Musidora.” He leaves the atmosphere of drawing-rooms for the ingle or the ale-house or the mountain breeze.

The affectations of his style are insignificant and rare. His prevailing characteristic is an absolute sincerity. A love for the lower forms of social life was his besetting sin; Nature was his healing power. Burns compares himself to an Aeolian harp, strung to every wind of heaven. His genius flows over all living and lifeless things with a sympathy that finds nothing mean or insignificant. An uprooted daisy becomes in his pages an enduring emblem of the fate of artless maid and simple bard. He disturbs a mouse’s nest and finds in the “tim’rous beastie” a fellow-mortal doomed like himself to “thole the winter’s sleety dribble,” and draws his oft-repeated moral. He walks abroad and, in a verse that glints with the light of its own rising sun before the fierce sarcasm of “The Holy Fair,” describes the melodies of a “simmer Sunday morn.” He loiters by Afton Water and “murmurs by the running brook a music sweeter than its own.” He stands by a roofless tower, where “the howlet mourns in her dewy bower,” and “sets the wild echoes flying,” and adds to a perfect picture of the scene his famous vision of “Libertie.” In a single stanza he concentrates the sentiment of many Night Thoughts—

For other examples of the same graphic power we may refer to the course of his stream—

or to “The Birks of Aberfeldy” or the “spate” in the dialogue of “The Brigs of Ayr.” The poet is as much at home in the presence of this flood as by his “trottin’ burn’s meander.” Familiar with all the seasons he represents the phases of a northern winter with a frequency characteristic of his clime and of his fortunes; her tempests became anthems in his verse, and the sounding woods “raise his thoughts to Him that walketh on the wings of the wind”; full of pity for the shelterless poor, the “ourie cattle,” the “silly sheep,” and the “helpless birds,” he yet reflects that the bitter blast is not “so unkind as man’s ingratitude.” This constant tendency to ascend above the fair or wild features of outward things, or to penetrate beneath them, to make them symbols, to endow them with a voice to speak for humanity, distinguishes Burns as a descriptive poet from the rest of his countrymen. As a painter he is rivalled by Dunbar and James I., more rarely by Thomson and Ramsay. The “lilt” of Tannahill’s finest verse is even more charming. But these writers rest in their art; their main care is for their own genius. The same is true in a minor degree of some of his great English successors. Keats has a palette of richer colours, but he seldom condescends to “human nature’s daily food.” Shelley floats in a thin air to stars and mountain tops, and vanishes from our gaze like his skylark. Byron, in the midst of his revolutionary fervour, never forgets that he himself belongs to the “caste of Vere de Vere.” Wordsworth’s placid affection and magnanimity stretch beyond mankind, and, as in “Hart-leap-well” and the “Cuckoo,” extend to bird and beast; he moralizes grandly on the vicissitudes of common life, but he does not enter into, because by right of superior virtue he places himself above them. “From the Lyrical Ballads,” it has been said, “it does not appear that men eat or drink, marry or are given in marriage.” We revere the monitor who, consciously good and great, gives us the dry light of truth, but we love the bard, nostrae deliciae, who is all fire—fire from heaven and Ayrshire earth mingling in the outburst of passion and of power, which is his poetry and the inheritance of his race. He had certainly neither culture nor philosophy enough to have written the “Ode on the Recollections of Childhood,” but to appreciate that ode requires an education. The sympathies of Burns, as broad as Wordsworth’s, are more intense; in turning his pages we feel ourselves more decidedly in the presence of one who joys with those who rejoice and mourns with those who mourn. He is never shallow, ever plain, and the expression of his feeling is so terse that it is always memorable. Of the people he speaks more directly for the people than any of our more considerable poets. Chaucer has a perfect hold of the homeliest phases of life, but he wants the lyric element, and the charm of his language has largely faded from untutored ears. Shakespeare, indeed, has at once a loftier vision and a wider grasp; for he sings of “Thebes and Pelops line,” of Agincourt and Philippi, as of Falstaff, and Snug the joiner, and the “meanest flower that blows.” But not even Shakespeare has put more thought into poetry which the most prosaic must appreciate than Burns has done. The latter moves in a narrower sphere and wants the strictly dramatic faculty, but its place is partly supplied by the vividness of his narrative. His realization of incident and character is manifested in the sketches in which the manners and prevailing fancies of his countrymen are immortalized in connexion with local scenery. Among those almost every variety of disposition finds its favourite. The quiet households of the kingdom have received a sort of apotheosis in the “Cottar’s Saturday Night.” It has been objected that the subject does not afford scope for the more daring forms of the author’s genius; but had he written no other poem, this heartful rendering of a good week’s close in a God-fearing home, sincerely devout, and yet relieved from all suspicion of sermonizing by its humorous touches, would have secured a permanent place in literature. It transcends Thomson and Beattie at their best, and will smell sweet like the actions of the just for generations to come.

Lovers of rustic festivity may hold that the poet’s greatest performance is his narrative of “Halloween,” which for easy vigour, fulness of rollicking life, blended truth and fancy, is unsurpassed in its kind. Campbell, Wilson, Hazlitt, Montgomery, Burns himself, and the majority of his critics, have