by Robert Burns
He based the last two lines in his ‘Poem on Sensibility’ on this philosophy:
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
His ‘Parting Song to Clarinda’ reveals in the four lines, said by Sir Walter Scott ‘to contain the essence of a thousand love-tales,’ how deepest love may bring darkest sorrow:
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met — or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
In a letter to Crawford Tait, Esq., Edinburgh, 1790, requesting a sympathetic interest on behalf of a young man from Ayrshire, he says: ‘I shall give you my friend’s character in two words: as to his head, he has talents enough, and more than enough, for common life; as to his heart, when Nature had kneaded the kindly clay that composes it, she said, “I can no more.”
‘You, my good Sir, were born under kinder stars; but your fraternal sympathy, I well know, can enter into the feelings of the young man who goes into life with the laudable ambition to do something, and to be something among his fellow-creatures; but whom the consciousness of friendless obscurity presses to the earth, and wounds to the soul!
‘Even the fairest of his virtues are against him. That independent spirit, and that ingenuous modesty — qualities inseparable from a noble mind — are, with the million, circumstances not a little disqualifying. What pleasure is in the power of the fortunate and the happy, by their notice and patronage, to brighten the countenance and glad the heart of such depressed youth! I am not so angry with mankind for their deaf economy of the purse — the goods of this world cannot be divided without being lessened — but why be a niggard of that which bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes nothing from our own means of enjoyment? We wrap ourselves up in the cloak of our better-fortune and turn away our eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother-mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of our souls.’
Burns was a deep character student, and he was able to adjust the balance fairly when weighing the characteristics that count for success in public life, in business, and in private life. He always recommended honesty, and always admired that independent spirit and that ingenuous modesty inseparable from a noble mind. Much as he admired them, however, he clearly understood that these admirable qualities might prevent the perfect development of a soul if they made a man morbidly sensitive, or interfered in any way with his faith in himself.
Speaking of ‘independence and sensibility,’ the same qualities he discussed in the letter quoted (to Mr Crawford Tait), he says in a letter to Peter Hill, Edinburgh, 1791, addressing poverty: ‘By thee the man of sentiment, whose heart flows with independence, and melts with sensibility, inly pines under the neglect or writhes in bitterness of soul under the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth.’
Burns taught the just philosophy of gratitude to God.
In a letter to Dr Moore, of London, he wrote, 1791: ‘Whatsoever is not detrimental to society, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the Giver of all good things, and ought to be received and enjoyed by His creatures with thankful delight.’
We cannot yet estimate the philosophic vision of Burns. It will grow clearer as century follows century. Carlyle said of him: ‘We see that in this man was the gentleness, the trembling pity of a woman, with the deep earnestness, the force, and passionate ardour of a hero. Tears lie in him, and a consuming fire, as lightning lurks in the drop of the summer clouds.’
So much for his heart; what says Carlyle about his mind?
‘Burns never studied philosophy.... Nevertheless, sufficient indication, if no proof sufficient, remains for us in his works; we discern the brawny movements of a gigantic though untutored strength; and can understand how, in conversation, his quick, sure insight into men and things may, as aught else about him, have amazed the best thinkers of his time and country.
‘But, unless we mistake, the intellectual gift of Burns is fine as well as strong. The more delicate relations of things could not well have escaped his eye, for they were intimately present to his heart. The logic of the senate and the forum is indispensable, but not all-sufficient; nay, perhaps the highest truth is that which will most certainly elude it, for this logic works by words, and “the highest,” it has been said, “cannot be expressed in words.” We are not without tokens of an openness for this higher truth also, a keen though uncultivated sense for it having existed in Burns. Mr Stewart, it will be remembered, wondered that Burns had formed some distinct conception of the doctrine of Association. We rather think that far subtler things than the doctrine of Association had from of old been familiar to him.’
Carlyle’s last statement is correct. He admits the great essential truth that Burns was a subtle philosopher. What a pity that such a man as Carlyle should have thought it necessary to say that Burns ‘never studied philosophy.’ The statement is incorrect, but, if it had been correct, why make it? and why call his mental strength ‘untutored,’ and his ‘keen sense of the highest philosophy’ ‘uncultivated’?
Did any other philosopher of the time of Burns in the universities reveal a more profound philosophy of human life, and make so many applications of it, as Robert Burns revealed in the quotations in this chapter, and in the chapters on Democracy, Brotherhood, and Love?
Burns was a philosopher, an independent thinker, whose thought is more highly appreciated now than it was in the time of Carlyle.
In a letter to Mrs Graham, 1791, he wrote: ‘I was born a poor dog; and however I may occasionally pick a better bone than I used to do, I know I must live and die poor. But I will indulge the flattering faith that my poetry will considerably outlive my poverty; and without any fustian affectation of spirit, I can promise and affirm that it must be no ordinary craving of the latter that shall ever make me do anything injurious to the honest fame of the former. Whatever may be my failings — for failings are a part of human nature — may they ever be those of a generous heart and an independent mind.’
Speaking of the moral character of Burns, Carlyle is wise and just. He says: ‘We are far from regarding him as guilty before the world, as guiltier than the average; nay, from doubting that he is less guilty than one of ten thousand tried at a tribunal far more rigid than that where the Plebiscite of common civic reputations are pronounced, he has seemed to us less worthy of blame than of pity and wonder. But the world is habitually unjust in its judgments of such men; unjust on many grounds, of which this one may be stated as the substance; it decides, like a court of law, by dead statutes; and not positively, but negatively, less on what is done right than on what is or is not done wrong.... What Burns did under his circumstances, and what he forbore to do, alike fill us with astonishment at the natural strength and worth of his character.’
Burns was naturally a student gifted with a great mind. His splendid mind was trained to act logically by his remarkable father, and quickened and illuminated by his great teacher John Murdoch. He was a great philosopher, not merely because he read Locke’s ‘Essay on the Human Understanding’ when a boy, but because during his short life he read with joyous interest many books of a philosophical character, and what is of infinitely greater importance, he interpreted all he read with an independent mind, and related all truth as he understood it to human life. He could discuss even the principles of Spinoza, and ‘venture into the daring path Spinoza trod.’ Yet, as he told Dr Candlish, of Edinburgh, he merely ‘ventured in’ to test Spinoza’s philosophy, which he soon found to be inadequate to the true development of the human soul, and therefore he ‘was glad to grasp revealed religion.’ Not merely as a great poetic genius, but as a profound philosophic teacher of religion, democracy, and brotherhood — the most essentially vital elements related to the highest development of the souls of men and women — will the real Robert Burns become known as he is more justly and more deeply studied.
CHAPTER IX. The Development of Burns.
BORN 1759 —
DIED 1796.
6 Years Old.
At six years of age he was sent to a school in a little home near Alloway Mill for a few months. Then the school was closed, and William Burns, his father, and a few neighbours engaged a remarkably fine teacher named John Murdoch to teach their children.
7 Years Old.
When Burns was seven years old his father moved to Mount Oliphant farm, about two miles from Alloway. Robert continued to attend Murdoch’s school.
8 Years Old.
He continued to attend Murdoch’s school.
9 Years Old.
Murdoch, his beloved teacher, left Alloway. He had not only been the teacher of Burns, but had lent the boy books, among them being The Life of Hannibal. Burns said this book ‘was the earliest I recollect taking any pleasure in.’ Murdoch presented him with an English grammar and a book translated from the French, named The School for Love. His imagination during this period was kindled by many legends, ghost stories, tales, and songs told and sung by an old lady, Betty Davidson, who lived in the family home.
10 Years Old.
Read and studied with his father, discussing freely the merits of the books read.
11 Years Old.
He studied, and continued to study with enthusiasm, English grammar, and had become an unusually excellent scholar for his age in English. His father regularly taught his family after Murdoch left Alloway. A deep and lasting impression was made on Robert’s mind during this year by a Collection of Letters, written by the leading authors of Queen Anne’s reign.
12 Years Old.
Worked on the farm, and read with his father at night. Wrote many letters to imaginary correspondents.
13 Years Old.
He was sent for a few weeks to a school in Dalrymple to learn penmanship. John Murdoch was appointed teacher in the High School at Ayr. He became again a visitor to the Burns’ home, in which he was a most welcome guest. He presented Pope’s works to Robert. During this year Burns continued an imaginary correspondence with many people, and began to form a style moulded by the Letters of the great prose-writers of Queen Anne’s time.
14 Years Old.
Boarded with Murdoch in Ayr for a few weeks, to devote himself to a deeper study of English. Studied French a little, and gave a little attention to Latin. The best influence of his brief period with Murdoch was the kindling of his vision with higher ideals of life, his relationship to his fellow-men, and his duty to God.
15 Years Old.
Began to take his place as an independent thinker with men, and surprised them by his wide knowledge and his unusual powers of expression and impression. Took his share in reaping the grain on the farm, and fell in love with his harvest mate, Nellie Kirkpatrick, who bound and shocked, or stooked, what he reaped. She was a good-looking girl of fourteen, who sang well. Burns said her love made him a poet. He composed his first poem, ‘Handsome Nell,’ as a tribute to her. His love for her undoubtedly kindled him at the centre of his power, as a true love that is respectfully treated by parents always does for a youth during the adolescent period.
16 Years Old.
He laboured hard on the farm, but was worried by his father’s poverty, by the poorness of the soil of Mount Oliphant farm, and especially by the harsh and over-bearing manner in which his father was treated by the landlord’s agent. Hard labour and possibly insufficient nourishment for a youth growing rapidly, coupled with his humiliation at the conduct of the agent, and his sorrowful sympathy, affected his health. He became depressed and moody, and suffered from headaches and palpitation of the heart. He had become acquainted with a few respectable women in Ayr, one of whom lent him the Spectator and Pope’s Homer. These he read and digested with a growing interest, and used with rapidly developing power.
17 Years Old.
Was sent to the school of Hugh Rodger at Kirkoswald to learn mathematics, especially mensuration and surveying. He enjoyed the work and made rapid progress. He formed a friendship with William Niven, who went to the same school; and in order to develop his powers as an independent thinker and a public speaker, he and Willie organised a debating society of two, which met in formal debate once a week. This developed his intellectual powers more than the study of mathematics. His school-days in Kirkoswald came to a sudden ending when he met Peggy Thomson, who lived next to the school. His second adolescent love came unexpectedly, and with great force. He says Peggy Thomson’s charms ‘Overset his trigonometry, and set him off at a tangent from his studies.’ He tried to study, but at the end of the week gave it all up and went home.
His schoolmaster learned about the debates between him and Willie Niven, and determined to put an end to such waste of time from the study of mathematics. He charged Niven one day with the crime of debating, and demanded the subject for the next debate. Willie told him the subject for to-morrow was, ‘Resolved that a great general is of more use to the world than a good merchant.’ ‘Nonsense,’ thundered the teacher; ‘everybody ought to know that a general is of far more importance to the world than a merchant.’ Burns promptly said to the teacher, ‘You take the general’s side, and I will take the merchant’s side, and let us see.’
Burns spoke with such wide information, such fine reasoning and such splendid eloquence, that he soon had the boys cheering him wildly. This annoyed the master, and he became so angry that he dismissed the school for the day.
Even at the early age of seventeen he had few rivals as a public speaker and debater. He took lessons in a dancing-school at Tarbolton, when he returned from Kirkoswald, to improve his social manners. During this year he read Thomson’s works, Shenstone’s works, a Select Collection of English Songs, Allan Ramsay’s works, Hervey’s Meditations, and some of Shakespeare’s plays.
18 Years Old.
The family moved to Lochlea farm, about four miles from Mauchline. Up to this time he had been an awkward and bashful youth. He began now to be more at ease with the opposite sex after he had been introduced to them. He had no real lover, however, between 17 and 21.
19 Years Old.
About this time he made a plan for a tragedy. He never finished it, and preserved only a fragment, beginning, ‘All devil as I am.’
20 Years Old.
A year of work, reading, and visions that were but the bases of higher visions yet to come.
21 Years Old.
He, with his brother Gilbert and five other young men, founded a debating club in an upstairs room of a private house in Tarbolton. He read persistently; held a book in his left hand at meals; and usually carried a book with him while walking. About this time he began to be known as a critic of the preaching and practices of the ‘Auld Licht’ preachers, and enjoyed shocking those who were, in his judgment, not vital, but only professing, Christians, who did nothing to prove the genuineness of their religion. In this year his heart was kindled by the first love of his manhood.
22 Years Old.
He read Sterne’s works, Macpherson’s Ossian, and Mackenzie’s The Man of the World and Man of Feeling. He said ‘he valued the last book more than any other book, except the Bible.’ His mind turned to religious subjects very definitely at this period. He developed a deep and reverent affection for Alison Begbie, who was a servant on a farm not far from Lochlea farm. The farm was on Cessnock Water. He wrote three poems to her: ‘The Lass of Cessnock Banks,’ ‘Peggy Alison,’ and ‘Mary Morrison.’ His letters to her reveal the two great dominant elements in his mind and heart at that time: a deep and respectful love, and some of the highest ideals of vital religion.
In this year love again stirred him to write poetry. He said it became ‘a darling walk for his mind.’ ‘Winter — a Dirge’ belongs to this period.
23 Years Old.
This was an eventful year. Alison Begbie had declined his offer of marriage. Had she married him and lived he would have had but one love after maturity. He ventured into business in Irvine. He says his partner ‘was a scoundrel of the first water, who made money by the mystery of thievin
g.’ Their shop was burned, and he found himself not worth a sixpence. He read two novels, Pamela, and Ferdinand, Count Fathom, and Fergusson’s Poems, which filled him with a deeper determination to write poetry. He wrote several religious poems this year.
24 Years Old.
He became a Freemason in Tarbolton, and devoted a good deal of time to the order. He did not write much poetry. His mind was occupied by religious matters, and he had an impression that his life was not going to last very long. This idea haunted him for two or three years after his maturity. He contemplated death as a rest, but he continued to store his mind and think independently. Dr Mackenzie, who attended his father on his death-bed towards the end of the year, wrote, ‘that on his first visit he found Gilbert and his father friendly and cordial, but Robert silent and uncompanionable, till he began discussing a medical subject, when Robert promptly joined in the discussion, and showed an unexpected and remarkable understanding of the subject.’ During this year he wrote ‘My Father was a Farmer’ and ‘The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie.’
25 Years Old.
His father died in February, leaving the family very poor. Robert and Gilbert rented Mossgiel farm, about two miles from Mauchline, and the family moved there. Robert determined to be a scientific farmer. He read the best books he could get on agriculture; but bad seed, bad weather, and late harvest left the brothers only half an average crop. He continued to work on the farm, but evidently began to realise more clearly the kindling call to poetry as the special work of his life. During the next twelve years he produced a continuous out-pouring of wonderful poems, although about half of the twelve years he worked as a farmer on Mossgiel and Ellisland farms, and most of the rest of the time worked hard as a gauger, riding two hundred miles each week in the performance of his duties. In this year he wrote ‘The Rigs of Barley,’ composed in August; ‘My Nannie O,’ ‘Green Grow the Rashes,’ ‘Man was Made to Mourn,’ ‘The Twa Herds,’ and the ‘Epitaph on My Ever Honoured Father.’ In this year he met Jean Armour, and soon loved her.
