Part 33

With Burns, to be a man is the grand distinction. All other distinctions are but the clothes which wrap the figure--the figure itself is the real thing. To be a man, in his eye, was to be the most glorious thing that we have any conception of on this side of heaven; to be an honest man was to be "the noblest work of God!" That was the great sentiment which animated him, and made him come forth from between the stilts of his plow, from his barn or his byre, into the presence of wealth and title, with a calm dignity and a proud bearing which astonished the artificial creatures of society. Titles, carriages, gay garments, great houses, what are they but the things which _the man_ had gathered about him for his pride or his comfort? It was for _the man_ that they were created and gathered together. Without _the man_ they were nothing, had no value, could have no existence. Without that solid, and central, and sentient monarch, titles are but air, gay clothes but the furniture of a Jew's shop, great houses but empty, useless shells, carriages no better than wheel-barrows. From _the man_ they derived all they were or counted for; and Burns felt that he and his poorest brother of the spade, and poorest sister of the spindle, were as entirely and essentially that as the king upon his throne. The king upon his throne! He was set there and arrayed in all his pageantry, and armed with all his power, solely for _the man_ and by _the man_. In _the man_ and his inner life, the heart, the soul, and the sentiment--that wondrous mystery which, prisoned in flesh and chained by matter to one corner of the limitless universe, yet is endowed with power to range through eternity--to plunge down amid innumerable worlds and their swarming life--to soar up and worship at the foot-stool of the Framer and Upholder of suns and systems, the Father of all being--in him the poet recognized the only monarch of this nether world. For _him_, not for lords, or millionnaires, or mitered priests, but for him was this august world created. For him were its lands and waters spread abroad; for him the seasons set forward in the harmony of their progress; for him were empires and cities framed, and all the comforts of life, and the precious flowers of love and intellect breathed into the common air, and shed into the common heart. That was the feeling of Robert Burns, which made him tread down all other distinctions as he did the thistles of his own fields. That was the doctrine which he was as surely created and sent forth to preach, as Jesus Christ was to promulgate that glorious Gospel whose especial mission he declared was to the poor. Robert Burns was the apostle of the dignity of man--man, in his own proper nature, standing calmly and invincibly above every artful distinction which sought to thrust him from his place in God's heritage, and set over him the selfish and the base. When contemplating such delusive distinctions, the winged words,

"A man's a man for a' that!"

burst like a lightning flash from the poet's bosom, and became the eternal watchword of self-respecting humanity.

"The king can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea stamp, A man's a man for a' that!"

Brave words! glorious truth! The soul of poetry and the whole science of social philosophy compressed into a single stanza, to serve as the stay and comfort of millions of hearts in every moment when most needed.

The pre-eminent merit of Burns, independent of his beauties as a fine poet, is the vigorous inculcation of these sentiments of a just self-estimation into the people. To teach them to regard themselves as objects of worth from their own human nature and destiny, irrespective of the mere mode by which they live, is to confer on the million the noblest benefaction. It is to give them at once a shield against "the proud man's contumely" and the degradations of vice. It is to set their feet on the firm rock of an eternal truth, and to render them alike invulnerable to envy and despair. The man who breathes the soul of a rational dignity into the multitude is the greatest of possible patriots. He who respects virtue and purity in himself will respect those qualities in others; and a nation permeated with the philosophy of Burns would be the noblest nation that the sun ever yet shone upon.

But it is not merely that Robert Burns teaches his fellow-peasants and citizens to fling out of their bosoms the fiends of envy and self-depreciation; taught by those errors for which he has been so severely blamed, he has become, without question, the most efficient, wise, and tender counselor that they ever had. He knows all their troubles and temptations, for he has experienced them; and he gives them the soundest advice under all circumstances. He weeps with them, he rejoices with them, he worships with them, in such a brotherly, and occasionally such a fatherly sympathy, that his poems have become to the poor of Scotland, as they have told me, a sort of second Bible. How beautifully are blended in these stanzas the indignant sense of those oppressions which never crushed more directly the laboring poor than they do at this day in wealthy England, and the consoling truth of a divine retribution:

"Many and sharp the numerous ills Inwoven with our frame: More pointed still we make ourselves Regret, remorse, and shame! And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn.

"See yonder poor o'erlabored wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm designed yon lordling's slave, By nature's law designed, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty and scorn? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet let not this too much, my son. Disturb thy youthful breast; This partial view of human kind Is surely not the last! The poor, oppressed, honest man, Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn!"

Robert Burns ran off the rail-road line of morality; but listen to the advice, warned by his own folly, which he gives to a Young Friend.

"The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, Luxuriantly indulge it, But never tempt the illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it, I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!

"To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by every wile That's justified by honor: Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train attendant, But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

"The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order, But where ye feel your honor grip, Let that aye be your border: Its slightest touches, instant pause-- Debar a' side pretenses, And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences.

"The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature, But still the preaching cant forbear, And e'en the rigid feature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended!

"When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded, Or if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest driven, A conscience but a canker-- A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven Is sure a noble anchor!"

These are golden words, worthy to be committed to memory by every young person; they are full of the deepest wisdom. But such wisdom, such golden lines, we might quote from almost every page of Burns. In his Epistle to Davie, how cordially does he enter into all the miseries of the poor, yet how eloquently does he also dwell on those blessings which God has given to all, and which no circumstances can take away!

"To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are crazed and bluid is thin, Is doubtless great distress!"

Yet there are other seasons when Nature, even to the most abject tramp, pours out royal pleasures.

"What though, like commoners of air, We wander out we know not where, But either house or hall? Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all. In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound To see the coming year. On braes when we please, then, We'll sit and sowth a tune; Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, And sing't when we hae done."

"It's no in titles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest: It's no in makin muckle mair; It's no in books; its no in lear; To make us truly blest; If happiness hae not her seat And center in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great. But never can be blest. Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang; The heart ay's the part ay, That makes us right or wrang."

So speaks the humble plowman of Ayrshire, the still humbler exciseman of Dumfries, but the greatest poet of his country, and one of the noblest and wisest men of any country or age, spite of all his practical errors. We must now make our pilgrimage to the spots which were his homes on earth.

The old town of Ayr, so intimately connected with the memory of Burns, by his birth near it, by his poem of the Twa Brigs, by the scene of Tam O'Shanter, by the place of his monument and the festival in his honor, and by other particulars, is a quiet and pleasant old town of some twenty thousand population. It lies on a level, sandy coast, on land which, in fact, appears to have been won from the sea. Though lying close on the sea, it has no good harbor, and therefore little commerce, and no manufacture of any account. These circumstances leave much of the town as it was in Burns's time, though there are also evidences of modern extension and improvement, in new streets and public buildings, especially of a county jail lying between the town and the shore. The moment you step out of the station of the Glasgow railway, which terminates here, you come upon the mouth of the River Ayr, and behold the Twa Brigs. That which was the New Brig in Burns's days, is the one over which you pass into the town. This bridge, whose guardian sprite is made to swagger over the Auld Brig, if it has not fulfilled the prophecy of the Auld Brig, and been swept away by a flood, has been in danger of demolition, having grown too narrow for the increase of traffic. It has been saved, however, no doubt by the saving power of Burns's poetry, which has made it sacred, and it was undergoing the process of widening at the time I was there, in July, 1845. The Auld Brig is some hundred yards or so higher up the stream, and seems retained really for little more than its antiquity and poetic classicality. It is now used only as a footpath, and, not being considered safe for carriages, has posts set up at the end to prevent every attempt with any carriage to pass it. One is irresistibly reminded, on going upon it, of the haughty query of the New Brig:

"Will your poor narrow footpath of a street, Where two wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruined, formless bulk o' stane an' lime, Compare wi' bonnie brigs o' modern time?"

Mr. Chambers says that the Auld Brig is reported to have been built in the reign of Alexander III. by two maiden sisters, whose effigies are still shown in a faded condition on a stone in the eastern parapet, near the south end of the bridge. There certainly is such a stone, and you may rather fancy than distinctly trace two outlines of heads. The whole bridge is, as described by Burns, very old and time-worn.

"Auld Brig appeared o' ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles Gothic in his face; He seemed as he wi' Time had warstled lang, Yet, teughly doure, he baide an unco bang."

There is a peculiar pleasure in standing on this old Brig, so exactly has Burns enabled you to place yourself in the very scene that he contemplated at the moment of conceiving his poem.

"A simple bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient burgh of Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply pressed wi' care, He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Simpson's wheeled the left about; The drowsy Dungeon clock had numbered two, And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was true; The tide-swollen Firth, wi' sullen sounding roar, Through the still night dashed hoarse along the shore. All else was hushed as Nature's closed e'e; The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree; The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream."

From this scene "the drowsy dungeon clock" is removed, the old jail having been pulled down; but Simpson's is still to be seen, a public house at the end of the bridge on the side most distant from the town; and Wallace Tower, I believe, however, almost wholly rebuilt since then, and presenting now a very modernized aspect, rears itself in a distant part of the town. Along the river side the "ancient burgh of Ayr" presents its antiquated houses, roofs, and gables, much as they did to the eye of Burns.

Ayr, though it stands on a flat, has still great charm of location, and this you perceive as you set out to visit the birth-place and monument of Burns, which lie about three miles south of Ayr. You may, if you please, take the way along the shore; and here you have the sea with its living billows, displaying at a distance opposite the craggy mountain heights of Arran, and the Mull of Cantire. Northward, Troon, with its new houses, may be seen standing on its naked promontory, and southward, the Tower of Dunbere is a bold but somber object on an elevated knoll on the margin of the ocean, and far out southwest, Ailsacraig is descried, towering amid the waters. It is a fine and animated scene. It was Sunday forenoon as I advanced over the very level ground near the shore, toward Alloway. People were walking on the beach enjoying the sunshine, breeze, and glittering world of waters; lovers were seated among the broomy hillocks, children were gathering flowers amid the crimson glare of the heather; all had an air of beauty and gladness. To my left lay a richly-wooded country, and before me, beyond Alloway and the Doon, stretched the airy range of the Carrick Hills. It was the direction which I was pursuing that Tam O'Shanter took from the town to Alloway, for the old road ran that way; but there is a new and more direct one now from Ayr, and into that, having been shown the cottage where Mrs. Begg, Burns's sister, still lives, I struck. This agreeable road I soon saw diverge into two, and asked a poor man which of the two led to Burns's monument. At the name of Burns, the poor man's face kindled with instant animation. "I am going part of the way, sir," he said, "and will be proud to show it you." I begged him not to put himself at all out of his way. "Oh," said he, "I am going to look at my potato plot which lies out here." We fell into conversation about Burns; the way again showed a fresh branch, which was the way to his potato field; but the poor fellow gave a hesitating look; he could not find it in his heart to give up talking about Burns, and begged that I would do him the honor to allow him to walk on with me. "But your potatoes, my friend?" "Oh! they'll tak no harm, sir. The weather's very growing weather; one feels a natural curiosity to see how they thrive, but that will do next Sunday, if you _would_ allow me to go on with you?"

I assured him that nothing would give me greater pleasure. I only feared that I might keep him out too long, for I must see all about Burns's birth-place, Kirk Alloway, the Brig of Doon, the monument, and every thing of the kind. It was now over noon, and must be his dinner hour. He said, "No; he never had dinner on a Sunday; for years he had accustomed himself to only two meals on that day, because he earned nothing on it, and had ten children! But he generally took a walk out into the country, and got a good mouthful of fresh air, and that did him a deal of good."

I looked more closely at my new companion. He was apparently sixty, and looked like a man accustomed to dine on air. He was of a thin and grasshopper build; his face was thin and pale, his hair grizzled; yet there was an intelligence in his large gray eyes, but it was a sad intelligence, one which had long kept fellowship with patience and suffering. His gray coat, and hat well worn, and his clean but coarse shirt-collar, turned down over a narrow band of a blue cotton tie neckerchief, with its long ends dangling over his waistcoat, all denoted a poor, but a careful and superior man. I can not tell what a feeling of sympathy came over me; how my heart warmed toward the poor fellow. We went on; gay groups of people met us, and seemed to cast looks of wonder at the stranger and his poor associate; but I asked myself whether, if we could know, as God knows, the hearts and merits of every individual of those well-dressed and laughing walkers, we should find among them one so heroic as to renounce his Sunday dinner as a perpetual practice, because he "earned nothing on that day, and had ten children?" Was there a man or a woman among them who, if they knew this heroic man as I now knew him, would not desire to give him, for that one day at least, a good dinner, and as much pleasure as they could?

"My friend," said I, "I fear you have had more than your share of hardship in this life?"

"Nay," he replied, "he could not say that. He had had to work hard, but what poor man had not? But he had had many comforts; and the greatest comfort in life had been, that all his children had taken good ways; if I don't except," and the old man sighed, "one lad, who has gone for a soldier; and I think it a little ungrateful that he has never written to us since he went, three years ago. Yet I hear that he is alive and well, in Jamaica. I can not but think that rather ungrateful," he added; "but of a' Robin Burns's poems, there's none, to my thinking, that comes up to that one--Man was made to Mourn."

I could not help again glancing at the thin, pale figure, which went as softly at my side as if it were a ghost, and could not wonder that Burns was the idol of the poor throughout Scotland, and that the Sunday wanderer of his native place had clung so fondly to the southern visitor of the same sacred spot.

"Can you explain to me," I asked, "what it is that makes Burns such a favorite with you all in Scotland? Other poets you have, and great ones; out of the same class, too, you had Hogg, but I do not perceive the same instant flash, as it were, of an electric feeling when any name is named but that of Burns."

"I can tell," said he, "why it is. It is because he had the heart of a man in him. He was all heart and all man; and there's nothing, at least in a poor man's experience, either bitter or sweet, which can happen to him, but a line of Burns springs into his mouth, and gives him courage and comfort if he needs it. It is like a second Bible."

I was struck with the admirable criticism of the poor artisan. What acuteness of genius is like the acuteness of a sharp experience, after all? I found that, had I picked the whole county of Ayr, I could not have hit on a man more clearly aware of the real genius of Burns, nor a more excellent guide to all that related to him hereabouts. He now stopped me. We were on the very track of Tam O'Shanter.

"Kirk Alloway was drawing nigh, Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Where in the snaw the chapman smoored: And past the birks and meikle stane Where drunken Charley brak 's neck-bane. And through the whins, and by the cairn Where hunters found the murdered bairn; And near the thorn aboon the well Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel."

The whins, the birks were gone: all was now one scene of richest cultivation; but in the midst of a cottager's garden still projected the "meikle stane" from the ground, in a potato bed. To this, by permission of the cottager, we advanced, and from this spot my guide pointed out the traditionary course of Tam on that awful night when

"Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doublin' storm roars through the woods, And lightnings flash from pole to pole."

Some of these scenes lay yet far before us; as the well

"Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel,"

which is just on the banks of the Doon itself. Anon we reached the cottage in which Burns was born. This stands on the right-hand side of the road, about a quarter of a mile from Kirk Alloway and the Brig o' Doon. It is a genuine Scotch cottage of two rooms on the ground floor, thatched and whitewashed. It is now, and has been long, a little public house. It stands close up to the road, and over the door is a portrait of Burns, an evident copy from the portrait by Nasmyth, and under it, in large and noticeable letters, "ROBERT BURNS, THE AYRSHIRE POET, WAS BORN UNDER THIS ROOF, THE 25TH JAN., A.D. 1759. DIED A.D. 1796, AGED 37-1/2 YEARS."