John Wilson is the oldest son of a wealthy manufacturer in the city of Paisley, and was born there in the year 1788, and is now therefore fifty-eight years of age. He was reared and educated, with almost patrician indulgence, and inherited from his father a considerable amount of property, variously estimated from twenty to fifty thousand pounds sterling. Of course he enjoyed the best facilities for acquiring a thorough and polished education. His instructor in cla.s.sical learning was Mr. Peddie of Paisley, to whom a public dinner was given in 1831 by his friends and pupils. Professor Wilson was present, and on proposing the health of his venerable preceptor, delivered a brilliant oration, not the least interesting portion of which had reference to his somewhat erratic course at school. "Sometimes," said he, "I sat as dux--sometimes in the middle of the cla.s.s--and I am obliged to confess, that on some unfortunate occasions, I was absolutely _dolt_!" The confession was received, of course, with roars of laughter.

From this school he was entered at the University of Glasgow, when he was little more than thirteen years of age. But he was tall for his years, and possessed an original and remarkably exuberant mind; and though distinguished at this time, more for the vigor of his physical const.i.tution, and the buoyancy of his spirits, than for any particular attainments in literature, he generally kept his standing among his fellow students, many of whom were greatly his seniors.

From Glasgow he was transferred to Oxford, and here he first distinguished himself as a man of genius. He contended in the annual compet.i.tion for the Newdigate prize of fifty guineas for the best fifty lines of English verse, and though the contest was open to not less than two thousand individuals, he carried off the palm from every compet.i.tor.

At Oxford as at Glasgow he was distinguished for his fine athletic frame, his joyous and even boisterous spirits, and his excessive devotion to all sorts of gymnastics, field sports and frolicking. This however was blended with an extraordinary devotion to literature, and a peculiar simplicity and frankness of character, which rendered him a universal favorite. It is well known that at Oxford great lat.i.tude is enjoyed, especially by "gentlemen commoners," as they are called, to which cla.s.s Wilson chose to belong. It is expected that the "gentlemen commoners" shall wear a more splendid costume,--spend a good deal more money,--and enjoy various immunities, which amount occasionally to a somewhat unbridled license. "Once launched on this...o...b..t," says a fellow student of Wilson's, writing to a friend in America, "Mr. Wilson continued to blaze away for four successive years. * * * Never did a man, by variety of talents and variety of humors, contrive to place himself as the connecting link between orders of men so essentially repulsive of each other; from the learned president of his college, Dr.

Routh, the Editor of parts of Plato, and of some theological selections, with whom Wilson enjoyed unlimited favor, down to the humblest student.

In fact from this learned Academic Doctor, and many others of the same cla.s.s, ascending and descending, he possessed an infinite gamut of friends and a.s.sociates, running through every key; and the diapason closing full in groom, cobbler, stable boy, barber's apprentice, with every shade and hue of blackguard and ruffian. In particular, amongst this latter kind of worshipful society, there was no man who had any talents, real or fancied, for thumping, or being thumped, but had experienced some taste of his merits from Mr. Wilson. All other pretensions in the gymnastic arts he took a pride in humbling or in honoring, but chiefly did his examinations fall upon pugilism; and not a man who could either 'give,' or 'take,' but boasted to have been punished by Wilson of _Mallens_ (corruption of Magdalen) College."

Whether the statement of Wilson's pugilistic attainments is not somewhat exaggerated we have not the means of deciding. All reports however go to confirm its general accuracy. His career was certainly a wild and hazardous one, and would have ruined an ordinary man. But underlying the wild exuberance of Wilson's nature, there was a solid foundation of good feeling and good sense, which ever and anon manifested itself, and finally formed the princ.i.p.al element of his character. Besides, he could never forget the holy instructions of his childhood. Scotland throws a thousand sacred influences around the hearts of her children; and hence, wild and wayward in their youth, they not unfrequently live to be the safeguards of virtue and the ornaments of society.

It may be well supposed that on leaving Oxford, in the very hey-day of youth, with an amazing exuberance of animal spirits, and the command of an ample fortune, he must have run a somewhat extravagant career. He purchased a beautiful estate on the banks of Windermere, not far from the residences of Southey, Coleridge and Wordsworth, and yielded himself to the full enjoyment of every pleasure. Having built upon his estate a new and splendid edifice, he furnished it with every appliance of taste and luxury, and succeeded by his "magnificent" style of housekeeping, in spending a large amount of his property. He gave himself up to the most diversified pursuits, now conning his literary treasures, and now frolicking in sailor jacket and trowsers, with the young men of the country.

The following, from a writer already quoted, will give a lively idea of Wilson's habits and appearance, at this period of his life. "My introduction to him--setting apart the introducee himself--was memorable from one circ.u.mstance, viz., the person of the introducer. _William Wordsworth_, it was, who in the vale of Grasmere, if it can interest you to know the place, and in the latter end of 1808, if you can be supposed to care about the time, did me the favor of making me known to John Wilson. I remember the whole scene as circ.u.mstantially as if it belonged to but yesterday. In the vale of Grasmere--that peerless little vale which you, and Gray, the poet, and so many others have joined in admiring as the very Eden of English beauty, peace, and pastoral solitude--you may possibly recall, even from that flying glimpse you had of it, a modern house called Allan Bank, standing under a low screen of woody rocks, which descend from the hill of Silver Horn, on the western side of the lake. This house had been recently built by a wealthy merchant of Liverpool; but for some reason, of no importance to you or me, not being immediately wanted for the family of the owner, had been let for a term of three years to Mr. Wordsworth. At the time I speak of, both Mr. Coleridge and myself were on a visit to Mr. Wordsworth, and one room on the ground floor, designed for a breakfasting room, which commands a sublime view of the three mountains, Fairfield, Arthur's Chair, and Seat Sandal, was then occupied by Mr. Coleridge as a study.

On this particular day, the sun having only just risen, it naturally happened that Mr. Coleridge--whose nightly vigils were long--had not yet come down to breakfast; meantime and until the epoch of the Coleridgean breakfast should arrive, his study was lawfully disposable to profane uses. Here, therefore, it was, that opening the door hastily in quest of a book, I found seated, and in earnest conversation, two gentlemen, one of them my host, Mr. Wordsworth, at that time about thirty-eight years old; the other was a younger man, by at least sixteen or seventeen years, in a sailor's dress, manifestly in robust health--_fervidus juventa_, and wearing upon his countenance a powerful expression of ardor and animated intelligence, mixed with much good nature. _Mr.

Wilson of Elleray_--delivered as the formula of introduction, in the deep tones of Mr. Wordsworth--at once banished the momentary surprise I felt on finding an unknown stranger where I had expected n.o.body, and subst.i.tuted a surprise of another kind. I now understood who it was that I saw; and there was no wonder in his being at Allan Bank, as Elleray stood within nine miles; but (as usually happens in such cases) I felt a shock of surprise on seeing a person so little corresponding to the one I had half unconsciously prefigured to myself."

Mr. Wilson here appears in a comparatively grave and dignified aspect.

The same writer describes him in quite a different scene. Walking in the morning, he met him, with a parcel of young "harum skarum" fellows on horseback, chasing an honest bull, which had been driven off in the night from his peaceful meadow, to furnish sport to these "wild huntsmen." About this time, also, he was the leader of a "boating club,"

which involved him in great expense. They had no less than two or three establishments for their boats and boat-men, and innumerable appendages, which cost each of them annually a little fortune. The number of their boats was so great as to form a little fleet, while some of them were quite large and expensive. One of these in particular, a ten-oared barge, was believed at the time to have cost over two thousand dollars.

In consequence of these and other expenses, and perhaps the loss of some of his patrimony by the failure of a trustee, subjected him to the necessity of seeking a change of life. This led to his becoming a candidate for the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh.

Previous to this he had formed plans of extensive travel. One was a voyage of exploration to Central Africa and the sources of the Nile.

Another was concocted with two of his friends, with whom he proposed to sail from Falmouth to the Tagus, and landing wherever accident or fancy might determine, to purchase mules, hire Spanish servants, and travel extensively in Spain and Portugal, for eight or nine months; then, by such of the islands in the Mediterranean as particularly attracted them, they were to pa.s.s over into Greece, and thence to Constantinople.

Finally, they were to have visited the Troad, Syria, Egypt, and perhaps Nubia!

But the reduction of his means, and his marriage with a young and beautiful English lady, to whom he was greatly attached, broke up these extravagant schemes. His marriage took place in 1810. Two sons and three daughters were the fruits of it; and the connection has doubtless proved one of the happiest events in the Professor's life. Death however has entered this delightful circle. "How characteristic of him," says Gilfillan, "and how affecting, was his saying to his students, in apology for not returning their essays at the usual time, 'I could not see to read them in the Valley and the Shadow of Death.'"

His application in 1820 for the professorship of Moral Philosophy which he now fills, was successful, notwithstanding he had for his compet.i.tor one of the profoundest thinkers, and most accomplished writers of the age, Sir William Hamilton, who conducted himself in the affair with the greatest dignity and urbanity. Many things were said, at the time, derogatory to Wilson's personal character, and his fitness to fill the chair of Moral Philosophy. The matter probably was decided, more with reference to political considerations than any thing besides, as at that time party politics ran exceedingly high. Professor Wilson has disappointed the expectations of his enemies, to say the least, and has been gaining in the esteem and good will of all cla.s.ses of the community.

His splendid career as a poet, editor, critic and novelist, is well known. His poems, the princ.i.p.al of which are the "Isle of Palms," and the "City of the Plague," are exquisitely beautiful, but deficient in energy, variety and dramatic power. He excels in description, and touches, with a powerful hand, the strings of pure and delicate sentiment. Nothing can be finer than his "Address to a Wild Deer"--"A Sleeping Child"--"The Highland Burial Ground," and "The Home Among the Mountains" in the "City of the Plague." His tales and stories, such as "Margaret Lindsay," "The Foresters," and those in "The Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," are well conceived, and charmingly written.

They breathe a spirit of the purest morality, and are highly honorable not only to the head but to the heart of their eloquent author. But it is in criticism and occasional sketching in which he chiefly excels. In this field, so varied and delightful, he absolutely luxuriates. His series of papers on Spenser and Homer are remarkable for their delicate discrimination, strength and exuberance of fancy. No man loves Scotland more enthusiastically, or describes her peculiar scenery and manners with more success. Here his "meteor pen," as the author of the Corn Law Rhymes aptly called it, pa.s.ses like sunlight over the glowing page. His descriptions of Highland scenery and Highland sports are instinct with life and beauty. In a word, to quote the eulogy of the discriminating Hallam, "Wilson is a writer of the most ardent and enthusiastic genius, whose eloquence is as the rush of mighty waters."

Professor Wilson's nature is essentially poetical. It is sensitive, imaginative and generous. It is also said to be deeply religious. Age and experience, reflection, and the Word of G.o.d, which he greatly reveres, have tamed the wild exuberance of his youth, strengthened his better principles, and shed over his character the mellow radiance of faith and love. "The main current of his nature," says Gilfillan, "is rapt and religious. In proof of this we have heard, that on one occasion, he was crossing the hills from St. Mary's Loch to Moffat. It was a misty morning; but as he ascended, the mist began to break into columns before the radiant finger of the rising sun. Wilson's feelings became too much excited for silence, and he began to speak, and from speaking began to pray; and prayed aloud and alone, for thirty miles together in the misty morn. We can conceive what a prayer it would be, and with what awe some pa.s.sing shepherd may have heard the incarnate voice, sounding on its dim and perilous way."

CHAPTER VI.

The Calton Hill--Burns's Monument--Character and Writings of "the Peasant Poet"--His Religious Views--Monument of Professor Dugald Stewart--Scottish Metaphysics--Thomas Carlyle.

Let us take a walk on the Calton Hill, this afternoon; we shall find some objects of interest there. At the termination of Prince's Street, commences Waterloo Place, in which are situated the Stamp Office, Post Office, Bridewell and the Jail. This also leads to Calton Hill, and is one of the most delightful promenades in the city. We skirt around the Hill, a little to the right, pa.s.s the beautiful and s.p.a.cious buildings of the Edinburgh High School on the left, one of the best educational inst.i.tutions in Scotland, continue our walk a short distance, and come to a round building on the farther declivity of the hill. That is "Burns's Monument." By giving a small douceur to the keeper, we are permitted to enter the interior, in the center of which stands a statue of the poet, by Flaxman. Beautiful and expressive certainly, as a work of art, but it is not quite equal to one's conception of the poet. The forehead is particularly fine--open, ma.s.sive and high, with an air of lofty repose. The mouth is unpoetical and vulgar--at least _something_ of this is visible in its expression. It wants the chiseled delicacy, as well as gracious expression of n.o.ble and generous feeling which we naturally look for in the countenance of Burns. But the likeness, we understand, is defective. In his best days, Burns had a n.o.ble, and almost beautiful countenance. In stature he was about five feet ten inches, of great agility and muscular vigor. His countenance was open and ruddy, with a fine, frank, generous expression, eyes large and radiant, forehead arched and lofty, with curling hair cl.u.s.tering over it, and his mouth, especially when engaged in animated conversation, or lighted with a smile, wreathed with intelligence and good humor.

Burns has been termed "the Shakspeare of Scotland." And certainly no poet has ever been regarded, in that country, with such enthusiastic love and reverence. With all his faults, some of which were bad enough, all cla.s.ses of the Scottish people, from the n.o.ble to the peasant, cherish him in their heart of hearts. Indeed he is a sort of national idol, to whom all feel bound to do reverence, notwithstanding his admitted failings. Nor is this a matter of surprise. For, taken as a whole, the poetry of Burns is the poetry of nature--of the heart--and especially of the Scottish heart. It represents the genius of the nation--wild, beautiful and free, shaded by thoughtfulness, and set off by devotion, at once merry as her mountain brooks, yet deep, strong and pa.s.sionate as the stormy ocean which encircles her coast. "Tam O'Shanter," or "Halloween," the "Cotter's Sat.u.r.day Night," or "Mary in Heaven," are the two extremes of the picture. In Burns, Scotland saw incarnated her poetry and song, her music and pa.s.sion, her love and devotion, her seriousness and merriment, her strong-hearted adherence to integrity and truth, her occasional recklessness and madness of spirit, her love of nature, her veneration for G.o.d. The grave and the gay, the old and the young, the religious and the reckless, all saw themselves represented in the glorious fragments of his witching poetry. Hence the enthusiasm with which his first volume of poems was received. It seemed as if a new realm had been added to the dominions of the British muse--a new and glorious creation fresh from the hand of nature. There the humor of Smollett, the pathos and tenderness of Sterne and Richardson, the real life of Fielding, and the description of Thomson, were all united in delineations of Scottish manners and scenery by the Ayrshire ploughman! The volume contained matter for all minds--for the lively and sarcastic, the wild and the thoughtful, the poetical enthusiast and the man of the world. So eagerly was the book sought after, that when copies of it could not be obtained, many of the poems were transcribed and sent round in ma.n.u.script among admiring circles. His songs are the songs of Scotland. A few have been furnished by Tannahill, Fergusson, Ramsay and others; but the main body of the most exquisite and most popular Scottish melodies are from the pen of Burns. Evermore they echo among her heathy hills and bosky dells. You hear them by the sides of her "bonnie burns," and along the sh.o.r.es of her silver lakes and "rivers grand." At evening gray, they are heard resounding from gowan'd braes and "birken shaws," in the shadow of haunted woods, and h.o.a.ry ruins; and especially, on winter nights, and "tween and supper times" from her ten thousand happy "inglesides." In Burns's "Cotter's Sat.u.r.day Night" are seen his reverence for religion "pure and undefiled," combined with exquisite description and melodious verse; in "Tam O'Shanter," his vivid fancy and dramatic energy; in "Halloween," his spirit of humor and fun; in his "Lines to a Mountain Daisy," his fine moral sense and tenderness of spirit; and in his "Address to Mary in Heaven," his true heartedness, and sweet lyric power. His native country is beautifully pictured in all his poetry. The "Banks of the Dee," "Edina's lofty seat," "Old Coila's hills and streams"--the "Braes of Yarrow"--"Allan Water"--"Bonnie Doon"--"Sweet Afton among her green braes"--"Auld hermit Ayr," "Stately Irwine," "The birks of Aberfeldy,"--where "summer blinks o'er flowery braes," the "lovely Nith, with fruitful vales and spreading hawthorns,"--"Gowrie's rich valley and Firth's sunny sh.o.r.es," "the clear winding Devon,"--"Castle Gordon,--where waters flow and wild woods rave,"--"the banks and braes and streams around the Castle of Montgomery,"--Bannockburn, Ellerslie and Sheriff Muir;--these, and a thousand other beautiful or storied scenes, mirror themselves in the stream of his sweet and varied verse.

Some vulgar and foolish things he has written; and we condemn them as heartily as others. But his poetry embodies much that is pure and beautiful and true, much of which Burns had no occasion to repent, even on a deathbed, and much of which his native country may well be proud.

He was somewhat intemperate, but not to the extent which is generally supposed. Strong temptations,--the habits of the times--the folly of his friends, who thoughtlessly introduced him to the gaities of the metropolis, and then left him to contempt and penury, broke down his const.i.tution, and consigned him to a premature grave. But he was not a man of base and vulgar pa.s.sions. His was not the cold heart of the sceptic, nor the envenomed spirit of the villain. It was a wild and wayward heart, I grant, but honest and true, generous and kind. The temple was shattered by the lightnings of Heaven, but it was a temple still; and from its broken altars ever and anon ascended the sweet incense of prayer and praise. Burns could never forget his good old father, and the hallowed influences of religion, shed upon his young heart. He loved the Psalms of David, and the holy melodies of his native land; and we presume often sang them, of an evening, accompanied, as he himself intimates, with "the wild woodland note," of his beloved wife.

Several of his letters to Miss Dunlop and others indicate a strong conviction of the Divine existence and the immortality of the soul, his struggles against the doubts which haunted his spirit, and his earnest longing for purity and perfection. "You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy," he says in a letter to Mr. Aiken, "but it is a sentiment which strikes home to my very soul; though sceptical on some points of our current belief, yet I think, I have every evidence for the reality of a life beyond the stinted bourn of our present existence;"

and then adds--"O thou great, unknown Power, thou Almighty G.o.d! who has lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality! I have frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for the perfection of thy works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken me."

Having expressed to Mrs. Dunlop his strong conviction of the immortality of the soul, he writes as follows, "I know not whether I have ever sent you the following lines, or if you have ever seen them; but it is one of my favorite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my progress through life, in the language of the Book of Job,

"Against the day of battle and of war."--

spoken of religion:

"'Tis _this_ my friend that streaks our morning bright, 'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night.

When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few; When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Disarms affliction, or repels her dart; Within the breast bids purest raptures rise.

Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies."

One of the most beautiful letters ever written by Burns has reference to this subject, and was addressed to the same lady, on New Year's day.--"This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes; and would to G.o.d that I came under the Apostle James's description!--'the prayer of the righteous man availeth much.' In that case, Madam, you should welcome in a year full of blessings: everything that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoyment should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion for breaking in on that habitual routine of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very little superior to mere machinery.

"This day, the first Sunday of May, a breezy, blue skyed noon, sometime about the beginning, and a h.o.a.ry morning and calm sunny day about the end of Autumn,--these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of holy day. * * * * I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, "The Vision of Mirza;" a piece that struck my young fancy before I was capable of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables. 'On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always _keep holy_, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdad, in order to pa.s.s the rest of the day in meditation and prayer.'

"We know nothing, or next to nothing of the substance or structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary impression.

I have some favorite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain daisy, the harebell, the foxglove, the wild brier rose, the budding birch, and the h.o.a.ry hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular delight. I never heard the loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or the wild, mixing cadence of a troop of gray plover in an autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing? Are we a piece of machinery, which like the aeolian harp, pa.s.sive, takes the impression of the pa.s.sing accident? Or do these workings argue something within us above the trodden clod? I own myself partial to such proofs of those awful and important realities--a G.o.d that made all things--man's immaterial and immortal nature--and a world of weal or woe beyond death and the grave."

A fit comment on this and other pa.s.sages of similar import in his letters is the following affecting poem, ent.i.tled "A Prayer in the Prospect of Death." It seems to us to utter the deep throbbings of the poet's spirit:

"Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?

Some drops of joy, with draughts of ill between; Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms; Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?

For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry G.o.d, And justly smart beneath his sin avenging rod.

Fain would I say, 'forgive my foul offence!'

Fain promise never more to disobey; But should my Author health again dispense, Again I might desert fair virtue's way; Again in folly's path might go astray; Again exalt the brute and sink the man.

Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray; Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan, Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

O thou great Governor of all below, If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, Or still the tumult of the raging sea; With that controling power a.s.sist ev'n me, Those headlong furious pa.s.sions to confine, For all unfit I feel my powers to be, To rule their torrent in the allowed line; O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine!"

After writing thus far, we read for the first time, "The Genius and Character of Burns," by Professor Wilson, the richest garland yet wreathed around the poet's brow; and we are happy to find the views expressed above fully corroborated by that distinguished writer. It is true that Wilson delineates the character of Burns with enthusiastic admiration; but his views are so discriminating, and withal backed by such an array of facts, that no candid man can deny their correctness.

We cannot therefore resist the temptation of making the following extract, in which the finest discrimination is blended with the largest charity. Long may the Literature of Scotland be guarded by such a critic! But one thing must not be forgotten here, namely, that no one, and especially one personally unacquainted with Burns, can p.r.o.nounce in regard to his actual spiritual state. Whether he was truly 'born of G.o.d,' and notwithstanding the errors of his life, died a Christian and went to heaven, is happily not a question which we are called to decide.

"We have said but little hitherto of Burns's religion. Some have denied that he had any religion at all--a rash and cruel denial--made in the face of his genius, his character, and his life. What man in his senses ever lived without religion? "The fool hath said in his heart, There is no G.o.d"--was Burns an atheist? We do not fear to say that he was religious far beyond the common run of men, even them who may have had a more consistent and better considered creed. The lessons he received in the "auld clay biggin" were not forgotten through life. He speaks--and we believe him--of his "early ingrained piety" having been long remembered to good purpose--what he called his "idiot piety"--not meaning thereby to disparage it, but merely that it was in childhood an instinct. "Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name!" is breathed from the lips of infancy with the same feeling at its heart that beats towards its father on earth, as it kneels in prayer by his side. No one surely will doubt his sincerity when he writes from Irvine to his father--"Honor'd sir--I am quite transported at the thought, that ere long, perhaps soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary life; for I a.s.sure you I am heartily tired of it, and, if I do not very much deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the n.o.ble enthusiasm with which they inspire me, for all that this world has to offer. '15. Therefore are they before the throne of G.o.d and serve him day and night in his temple; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. 16. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. 17. For the Lamb that is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and G.o.d shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'" When he gives lessons to a young man for his conduct in life, one of them is, "The great Creator to adore;" when he consoles a friend on the death of a relative, "he points the brimful grief-worn eyes to scenes beyond the grave;" when he expresses benevolence to a distressed family, he beseeches the aid of Him "who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb;" when he feels the need of aid to control his pa.s.sions, he implores that of the "Great Governor of all below;" when in sickness, he has a prayer for the pardon of all his errors, and an expression of confidence in the goodness of G.o.d; when suffering from the ills of life, he asks for the grace of resignation, "because they are thy will;" when he observes the sufferings of the virtuous, he remembers a rectifying futurity;--he is religious not only when surprised by occasions such as these, but also on set occasions; he had regular worship in his family while at Ellisland--we know not how it was at Dumfries, but we do know that there he catechised his children every Sat.u.r.day evening;--Nay, he does not enter a Druidical circle without a prayer to G.o.d.

He viewed the Creator chiefly in his attributes of love, goodness and mercy. "In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a superintending Deity, an Almighty protector, are doubly dear." Him he never lost sight of, or confidence in, even in the depths of his remorse. An avenging G.o.d was too seldom in his contemplations--from the little severity in his own character--from a philosophical view of the inscrutable causes of human frailty--and most of all, from a diseased aversion to what was so much the theme of the sour Calvanism around him; but which would have risen up an appalling truth in such a soul as his, had it been habituated to profounder thought on the mysterious corruption of our fallen nature.

Sceptical thoughts as to revealed religion had a.s.sailed his mind, while with expanding powers it "communed with the glorious universe;" and in 1787 he writes from Edinburgh to a "Mr. James M'Candlish, student in physic, College, Glasgow," who had favored him with a long argumentative infidel letter, "I, likewise, since you and I were first acquainted, in the pride of despising old women's stories, ventured on 'the daring path Spinoza trod;' but experience of the weakness, not the strength of human powers, _made me glad to grasp at revealed religion_."

When at Ellisland, he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, "My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart always give the cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks for the heart weaned from earth; the soul affianced to her G.o.d; the correspondence fixed with heaven; the pious supplication and devout thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of even and morn; who thinks to meet with these in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life! No: to find them in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must search among the obscure recesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty and distress." And again, next year, from the same place to the same correspondent, "That there is an incomprehensibly Great Being, to whom I owe my existence, and that he must be intimately acquainted with the operations and progress of the internal machinery, and consequent outward deportment of this creature he has made--these are, I think, self-evident propositions. That there is a real and eternal distinction between vice and virtue, and consequently, that I am an accountable creature; that from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as from the evident imperfection, nay positive injustice, in the administration of affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, there must be a retributive scene of existence beyond the grave, must, I think, be allowed by every one who will give himself a moment's reflection. I will go farther and affirm, that from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of his doctrine and precepts, unparalleled, by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of many preceding ages, though _to appearance_ he was himself the obscurest and most illiterate of our species: therefore Jesus was from G.o.d." Indeed, all his best letters to Mrs. Dunlop are full of the expression of religious feeling and religious faith; though it must be confessed with pain, that he speaks with more confidence in the truth of natural than of revealed religion, and too often lets sentiments inadvertently escape him, that, taken by themselves, would imply that his religious belief was but a Christianized Theism. Of the immortality of the soul, he never expresses any serious doubt, though now and then, his expressions, though beautiful, want their usual force, as if he felt the inadequacy of the human mind to the magnitude of the theme. "Ye venerable sages, and holy flamens, is there probability in your conjectures, truth in your stories, of another world beyond death; or are they all alike baseless visions and fabricated fables? If there is another life, it must be only for the just, the amiable, and the humane. What a flattering idea this of the world to come! Would to G.o.d I as firmly believed it as I ardently wish it."

How, then, could honored Thomas Carlyle bring himself to affirm, "that Burns had no religion?" His religion was in much imperfect--but its incompleteness you discern only on a survey of all his effusions, and by inference; for his particular expressions of a religious kind are genuine, and as acknowledgments of the superabundant goodness and greatness of G.o.d, they are in unison with the sentiments of the devoutest Christian. But remorse never suggests to him the inevitable corruption of man; Christian humility he too seldom dwells on, though without it there cannot be Christian faith: and he is silent on the need of reconcilement between the divine attributes of Justice and Mercy. The absence of all this might pa.s.s unnoticed, were not the religious sentiment so prevalent in his confidential communications with his friends in his most serious and solemn moods. In them there is frequent, habitual recognition of the Creator; and who that finds joy and beauty in nature has not the same? It may be well supposed that if common men are more ideal in religion than in other things, so would be Burns. He who has lent the colors of his fancy to common things, would not withhold them from divine. Something--he knew not what--he would exact of man--more impressively reverential than anything he is wont to offer to G.o.d, or perhaps can offer in the way of inst.i.tution--in temples made with hands. The _heartfelt_ adoration always has a grace for him--in the silent bosom--in the lonely cottage--in any place where circ.u.mstances are a pledge of its reality; but the moment it ceases to be _heartfelt_, and visibly so, it loses his respect, it seems as profanation. "Mine is the religion of the breast;" and if it be not, what is it worth? But it must also revive a right spirit within us; and there may be grat.i.tude for goodness, without such change as is required of us in the gospel. He was too buoyant with immortal spirit within him not to credit its immortal destination; he was too thoughtful in his human love not to feel how different must be our affections if they are towards flowers which the blast of death may wither, or towards spirits which are but beginning to live in our sight, and are gathering good and evil here for an eternal life. Burns believed that by his own una.s.sisted understanding, and his own una.s.sisted heart, he saw and felt those great truths, forgetful of this great truth, that he had been taught them in the Written Word. Had all he learned in the "auld clay biggin" become a blank--all the knowledge inspired into his heart during the evenings, when "the sire turned o'er wi' patriarchal air, the big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride," how little or how much would he then have known of G.o.d and Immortality? In that delusion he shared more or less with one and all--whether poets or philosophers--who have put their trust in natural Theology. As to the glooms in which his sceptical reason had been involved, they do not seem to have been so thick--so dense--as in the case of men without number, who have, by the blessing of G.o.d, become true Christians. Of his levities on certain celebrations of religious rites, we before ventured an explanation; and while it is to be lamented that he did not more frequently dedicate the genius that shed so holy a l.u.s.tre over "The Cotter's Sat.u.r.day Night," to the service of religion, let it be remembered how few poets have done so--alas! too few--that he, like his tuneful brethren, must often have been deterred by a sense of his own unworthiness from approaching its awful mysteries--and above all, that he was called to his account before he had attained his thoughtful prime."

Speaking of Burns's last sickness, Professor Wilson says: "But he had his Bible with him in his lodgings, and he read it almost continually--often when seated on a bank, from which he had difficulty in rising without a.s.sistance, for his weakness was extreme, and in his emaciation he was like a ghost. The fire of his eye was not dimmed--indeed fever had lighted it up beyond even its natural brightness; and though his voice, once so various, was now hollow, his discourse was still that of a Poet. To the last he loved the sunshine, the gra.s.s, and the flowers; to the last he had a kind look and word for the pa.s.sers-by, who all knew it was Burns. Laboring men, on their way from work, would step aside to the two or three houses called the Brow, to know if there was any hope of his life; and it is not to be doubted that devout people remembered him, who had written the Cotter's Sat.u.r.day Night, in their prayers. His sceptical doubts no longer troubled him; they had never been more than shadows; and he had at last the faith of a confiding Christian."

Leaving Burns's Monument, we ascend the hill, in the opposite direction, pa.s.s the unfinished Parthenon, consisting only of a few elegant columns, and intended to commemorate the battle of Waterloo, the Observatory, and the Monument of Professor Playfair, the celebrated mathematician and astronomer, and reach the elegant though not imposing monument of Professor Dugald Stewart, not the most acute, but certainly the most finished and instructive of all the writers of the Scottish metaphysical school. Let us linger here, a few moments, for the name of Professor Stewart is peculiarly dear to Scotland. No man was ever more enthusiastically regarded by his pupils, or more generally loved and revered by the community. Dr. Reid of Glasgow University, the immediate predecessor and preceptor of Stewart, was a man of an acute and original mind, though not possessed of half the grace and fluency of his ill.u.s.trious pupil. It was Reid however that first gave clearness and method to the metaphysics of Scotland. His writings on first principles, or, as he called them, principles of Common Sense, gave a death-blow, at least in Scotland, to the _ideal theory_ of Berkeley and Hume, and greatly affected the course of philosophical investigation not only in England but in France. In fact, his philosophy supplanted, for a time, the infidel metaphysics of Hume and the French rationalists. It cut the roots equally of idealism and sensualism, and was eagerly received by thoughtful men in Europe and in this country. It can be seen running like a sunbeam, through the speculations of Royer Collard, Constant, Jouffroy and even of Cousin. Based on the Baconian method, it proceeded, modestly and unostentatiously, to ascertain, and then to cla.s.sify the facts of mind; and, because it projected no splendid theories, or blazing fancies, it has been rejected by superficial and visionary thinkers, with some degree of contempt. After all, it may yet be recognized, by all genuine philosophers, as the only true scientific method. In the hands of Stewart and of Brown, his colleague and successor, it began to a.s.sume a lofty and attractive position; but alas!

it has remained stationary for the want of strong and true-hearted defenders. Stigmatized by the Germans as "pallid and insular--timid and cold," it has been forsaken, of late, by the more popular metaphysical writers, for the brilliant and astounding, but ever varying visions of the Transcendental School. Smitten with the love of Ontology, or the doctrine of "the absolute and the essential," scorning the methods of Bacon and Newton as empirical and shallow, and setting their foot on the modest, perhaps timid speculations of Reid and Stewart, metaphysicians have plunged one after another into the abyss of an absolute Spiritualism, where, amid the glimmerings of a half-dark and lurid radiance, may be seen the disciples of Kant and Fichte, Hegel and Sch.e.l.ling, floundering in the gloom, changing places continually, now rising towards the light of heaven, and then sinking in the "abysmal dark."