THE PLOUGHBOY POET.
Mother Nature does not always, like other mothers, lay her pet children on downy pillows, and under silken canopies. She seems to delight in showing that money shall buy everythingbutbrains. At any rate, she not only opened our poet’s big, lustrous eyes, in a clay cottage, put roughly together by his father’s own hands, but, shortly after his birth, she blew it down over his head, and the mother and child were picked out from among the ruins, and carried to a neighbor’s for safe keeping—rather a rough welcome to a world which, in its own slow fashion, after the mold was on his breast, heaped over it honors, which seemed then such a mockery.
But the poor little baby and his mother, happy in their mutual love, knew little enough of all this.A good, loving mother she was, Agnes by name; keeping her house in order with a matron’s pride; chanting old songs and ballads to her baby-boy, as she glided cheerfully about; not discouraged when things went wrong on the farm, and the crops failed, and the table was scantily supplied with food—singing, hoping, trusting, loving still; a very woman, over whose head cottagesmighttumble, so that herheartwas but satisfied.
Robert’s father was a good man, who performed each day’s duty as carefully as though each day brought other reward than that of having done his duty. It is a brave, strong heart, my dear children, which can do this. All can labor when success follows; it is disaster, defeat, difficulties, which prove what a man’s soul is made of. It is just here that the ranks grow thin in life’s battle—just here that the faint-hearted perish by the wayside, or desert, like cowards, to the enemy. William Burns stood manfully to his duty, plodding on, year after year;—when one plan failed, trying another; never saying, when his day’s work was done, “Ah! but this is too discouraging! I’ll to the alehouse, to drown my griefs in strong drink!” Neither did he go homemoody and disconsolate, to drive his children into corners, and bring tears to the eyes of his toiling wife. But morning and evening the prayer went up, with unfailing trust in Heaven. Oh! but that was glorious! I love William Burns! Did he say at night, when so weary, “Now, at least, I’ll rest?” Not he: there were little bright eyes about him, out of which the eager soul was looking. So he gathered them about his armchair on those long winter evenings, and read to them, and taught them, and answered their simple yet deep questions. One of Robert’s sweetest poems, the Cotter’s Saturday Night, was written about this. Robert’s father told his children, too, of the history of their country; of skirmishes, sieges, and battles; old songs and ballads, too, he repeated to them, charming their young ears. Was not this a lovely home picture? Oh! how much were these peasant children to be envied above the children of richer parents, kept in the nursery, in the long intervals when their parents, forgetful of these sweet duties, were seeking their own pleasure and amusement. More blessed, surely, is the humblest roof, round whose evening hearth gather nightly, all its inmates, young and old.
Nor—poor as they were—did they lack books. Dainties they could forego, but not books; confusedly thrown about—soiled and thumbed; but—unlike our gilded, center-table ornaments—well selected, and well read. And so the years passed on, as does the life of so many human beings, quiet, but eventful.
Who sneers at “old women”? I should like to trace, for a jeering world, the influence of that important person in the Burns family. Old Jenny Wilson! Little she herself knew her power, when, with Robert Burns upon her knee, she poured into his listening ear her never-ending store of tales about fairies, and “brownies,” and witches, and giants, and dragons. So strong was the impression these supernatural stories made upon the mind of the boy, that he declared that, in later life, he could never go through a suspicious-looking place, without expecting to see some unearthly shape appear. Who shall determine how much this withered old woman had to do with making the boy a poet? And yet, poor humble soul—that is an idea which seldom enters the mind of his admirers. The bent figure, with wrinkle-seamed face, gliding noiselessly about your house,doing odds and ends of household labor, now singing a child to sleep, now cooking at the kitchen fire, now repairing a garment, or watching by a sickbed—always on hand, yet never in anybody’s way; silent, grateful, unobtrusive, yet beloved of Heaven—have you not known them?
Robert’s mother, the good Agnes, had a voice sweet as her name. The ballads she sang him were all of a serious cast. She had learned them, when a girl, fromhermother. Oh, these songs! Many a simple hymn, thus listened to by childhood’s ear, has been that soul’s last utterance this side the grave. All other childish impressions may have faded away, but “mother’s hymn” is never forgotten. That strain, heard by none else, will sometimes come, an unbidden, unwelcome guest; and neither in noise nor wine can that bearded man drown it—thismother’s hymn! Sing on, sing on, ye patient, toiling mothers! over the cradle—by the fireside. Angels smile as they listen. The lark whom the cloud covers, is not lost.
The father of Robert Burns did not consider, because he was a poor man, that it was an excuse for depriving his boys of any advantages of education within his reach, as many a farmer, similarlysituated, and intent only on gain, has thought it right to do. His good sense, in this respect, was well rewarded; for Robert’s first teacher said of him, that “he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teaching, that it was difficult to say which of the two was most zealous in the business.” It is such scholars as these who brighten the otherwisedrearylot of the teacher. Pupils who study, not because they must, and as little as possible at that, but because they have an appetite for it, and crave knowledge. Of course, a good teacher endeavors to be equally faithful to all the pupils who are intrusted to him—the stupid and wayward, as well as the studious. But there must be to him a peculiar pleasure in helping, guiding, and watching over a pupil so eager to acquire. The mother bird, who coaxes her fledglings to the edge of the nest, and, by circling flights overhead, invites them to follow, understands, of course, how the little, cowering thing, who sits crouched on a neighboring twig, may be too indolent, or too timid to go farther; but she looks with proud delight upon the bold little soarer, who, observing well her lesson, reaches the top of the tallest tree,and sits, swaying and singing, upon its topmost branch.
Robert, however, had not always the good luck to have, as in this case, an intelligent, appreciative teacher. I suppose it is not treason to admit, even in a child’s book, which, by some, is considered a place for tremendous fibbing, that a teacher may occasionally err, as well as his pupil. That teachers have been known to mistake their vocation, when they have judged themselves qualified, after trying and failing in every other employment, to fill such a difficult and honorable position.
It seems there was a certain Hugh Rodgers, to whose school Robert was sent. It was the very bad custom of those times, when pupils of his age first entered a school, to take the master to a tavern, and treat him to some liquor. This Robert did, in company with another boy, named Willie, who entered at the same time. Do you suppose that schoolmaster ever thought remorsefully about this in after years, when he heard what a wreck strong drink had made of poor Robert? Well, the boy Willie and Robert became great friends from that day; often staying at eachother’s houses, and always spending the intervals between morning and afternoon school, in each other’s company. When the other boys were playing ball, they would talk together on subjects to improve their minds. Now, as theywalkedwhile they talked, their omitting to play ball was not of so much consequence as it would otherwise have been—at least, according to my motto, which is,chests first, brains afterward. But to go on. These disputatious youngsters sharpened their wits on all sorts of knotty subjects, and also invited several of their companions to join their debating society—whether to improve them, or to have an audience to approve their skill, I can’t say; perhaps a little of both.
By and by the master heard of it. He didn’t like it. He had an idea boys should have no ideas that the master didn’t put into their heads for them. So one day, when the school was all assembled, he walked up to the desks of Robert and Willie, and began, very unwisely, to taunt them about it before all the scholars—something in this style: “So, boys, I understand that you consider yourselves qualified to decide upon matters of importance, which wiser heads usually letalone. I trust, from debating, you won’t come to blows, young gentlemen,” &c., &c. Now, the boys who had not joined their debating society, set up a laugh, like little rascals, at the rebuked Robert and Willie. This, of course, as the teacher should have known, stung them to the quick; and Robert, with a flushed face, resolved to “speak up” to the master. I find no fault with his reply, which was this; that both he and Willie rather thought that he (the master) would be pleased, instead of displeased, at this effort to improve their minds. At this, Hugh Rodgers laughed contemptuously, and said he should be glad to know what these mighty nonsensical discussions might be about. Willie replied that they had a new subject every day; that he could not recollect all; but that the question of that day had been, whether is a great general, or respectable merchant, the more valuable member of society. At this, Hugh Rodgers laughed more uproariously and provokingly than before, saying, that it was a very silly question, since there could be no doubt for a moment about it. “Very well,” said Robert Burns, now thoroughly roused, “ifyou think so, I will take any side you please, if you will allow me to discuss it with you.”
The unfortunate schoolmaster consented. He commenced the argument with a pompous flourish in favor of the general. Burns took the other side, and soon had the upper hand of the schoolmaster, who made a very lame reply. Soon the schoolmaster’s hand was observed to shake, his voice to tremble, and, in a state of pitiable vexation, he dismissed the school.
Poor man! he understood mathematics better than human nature; and himself least of all. This was an unfortunate victory, for two reasons. It was an unnecessary degradation of a man who had his estimable qualities, and it increased the self-sufficiency of young Burns, who was born with his arms sufficiently a-kimbo. Alexander-fashion, he soon sighed for another conquest. His bedfellow, John Nevins, was a great wrestler. Nothing would do, but he must floor John Nevins. Strutting up to John, he challenged him to the combat. John soon took that nonsense out of him, by laying him low. Vanquished, he sprang to his feet, and challenged him to a discussion.There he had him!—John having moremuscle than brain. Burns’s pride was comforted, and he retreated, a satisfied youth. This is all I know about Robert’schildhood.
Silver hairs were now gathering thickly on his good father’s temples, as he toiled on, to little use, while children grew up fast about his knees, to be fed, schooled, and clothed by his labor. Robert and his brother looked sadly on, as his health declined. Robert had little inclination for his father’s work, and yet, somebody must take his place; for consumption was even then making rapid and fearful havoc with his constitution. The good old man ceased from his labors at last, and went where the weary rest. For a while, Robert strove to fill his place—strove well, strove earnestly. But the farmer who stops to write poems over his plough, seldom reaps a harvest to satisfy hungry mouths. And so, poverty came, instead of potatoes, and Robert Burns, although the troubled eyes of his wife looked into his, and his little children were growing up fast about him, and needed a good father, to teach them how to live in this world, and to earn bread for them till they became big enough to earn it for themselves, it came about that, instead of doingthis, he drank whisky to help him forget that he ought to keep on ploughing, if poetry did not bring him bread, and so made poverty a great deal worse. His wife was very, very sorrowful about it, and his little children became tired of waiting for him to love them, and care for them. Perhaps you say, Oh, howcouldhe do so? My dear children, how cananybodyever do wrong? How canyouever vex your dear mother, who is so good to you, and go pouting to bed, and never tell her that you are “sorry”? and still, while you are sleeping, that dear, good, forgiving mother stoops over your little bed, and kisses your forehead, and looks to see if you are warm and comfortable, before she can sleep, the same as if you had been a good child, instead of a bad one. I hope you will think of this before that good mother dies, and tell her that you are very sorry for grieving her; and I hope, too, that Robert Burns, before it was too late, said that he was sorry for grieving those who loved him, and for wasting his life; but I do not know about that.