The romance of Robert Burns. A pastoral of the present and drama of days lang syne

Front matter

THE ROMANCE

OF

ROBERT BURNS

I

Looking down from Scotland Hill, over the farms of Rockland, across the intervening miles of roads and fields, beyond the valley of Montmoor, the eastern view is bounded by a range of purple peaks which mark the Hudson's course and give the name of Highlands to the heights on either side.

At Haverstraw, against the distant sky, appears the towering Torne, and farther south, and shading Rockland Lake, a strange forma tion shows towards the west—the figure of an Indian sleeping on the hills— a mountain and a monument reared by the hands of Nature when she labored here, and left a silent witness of her mighty deeds.

Over this range of hills, on summer nights, the moon appears, lifting her lanthorn slowly as she comes and showing all the splendors of the sylvan scenes for fifty miles around.

On such a night and viewing such a scene an old Scotch farmer sat within the shelter of his porch, and looked from off the western hill, straight towards the east, and saw the slowly rising moon, and watched it eagerly until the globe of yellow light, pushed up by unseen hands, stood out in all its glory, silent and alone. It lighted up the old man's face and marked the lines of care and age ; the pallor in his faded cheek, the silver in his hair; his wasted form; his worn-out hands — a being of the past — a light about to fade; but in his eyes the living fire— the undimmed joy of other days.

*'0h, wife, gude wife!" he cried. **Themoon! The moon!'*

**Yes, Duncan." The poor old woman answered him— as if in fear of some fatality— -Well— well!"

**The moon is up, at last, gudewife! The moon ! Through long dark nights Fve waited till the storm should clear— through fever and through cold I've waited till she's come!"

**Yes— yes— be patient — well!"

"The moon! the moon! It is the same I've looked on near a hundred years— but ne'er will look on more,"

**Duncan!"

**It is the same we saw in Scotland when we two were bairns. Dinna ye mind the happy days we wandered by the Doon and she the only witness of our love?"

**I mind it well— oh, Duncan, rest."

**Aye! I maun be contented now. She smiles upon us yet as once she did — she'll smile upon our children when we're gone to dust!"

**Yes, Duncan dear, and now come in."

**No. Bid the young ones come to mg— here in the moonlight — let us part. I'll no die happy till they've said good-bye! But hark! His step and hers. Are love and death so close together?— Donald I"

**Father!"

•'Mother!"

*'Hush! Dear ones— he would speak to you!"

And now there knelt beside the father's chair a sturdy, dark-haired boy, and with him was the bright-eyed girl he loved. Behind the three, the mother wept.

"Children"— the old man said — **how sweet the time of youth and love. Be ye so loving always. Yonder moon is called inconstant, but she's not. Shadows may come and shadows go ; but still behind them is her blessed smilelike my good wife's has always been to me.

Be patient Id dark hours— the light will come "

"Father!"

**But I maun leave ye now. My day is done and in the evening's light I pass away."

**Nay, husband dear, don't speak it."

**Seek not to stay me. 'Twill not be for long. Ye'U all come after— only live right here."

**Father! We will! we will!"

**Gudewife, bring me the books—the same we brought frae Scotland when we came — the only ones. Though old and worn, read and respect them still."

** We will! we will!"

**The Bible for the lass— the Burns, my boy, for you. Kespect the good in each — the bad let

go."

**Father, we promise you."

**That's well. There's good and bad in everything — in books and acts, in plants and flowers. The rose is lovely, yet it has a thorn; the thistle beautiful, but you must never touch. These lessons read in memory of me — and dinna all forget me when I'm gone!"

** Oh, father! never! never! Our blessing on the hands that worked for us, the head that sorrows bowed in our behalf!"

**Gudewife, draw near— here— hand-in-hand for days lang-syne, and for the days to come

"Yes, father! Hand and heart and soul!" "So— good-bye — good-bye — good-bye— to ye all! Live here — and keep the old place as it is. The woods and trees — the meadows and the pastures — and the cattle — and the fowls. Don't let them miss me when I'm gone!" "We will remember— oh, father!— father!" "So, good-bye. The moonlight smiles and lights for me the way. I mind the lines I used to speak— they're not by Burns, but Lowe — ye ken them well. There are some others something like in' Kenil worth,' but not by Scott— in which the moon is called the 'regent o' th' sky'- See! see! she's mounting higher. Now — she's looking down on Indian Hill — and now she smiles on me, a sad farewell! Yes— yes — I mind me well:

" *The moon had climbed the highest hill That rises o'er the source of Dee, And from its eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree. ' * '

"Father!"

"Hush!— there's something more — I can't remember it — but so it ends— as— my last — words to you — yes — yes — ^an' then— ye'll — then

ye'U

** *Weep no more for me.' "

And starting up, he fixed his staring eyes full on the shining moon and fell back dead within his loved ones' arms.

• ••••••• •

And now a lapse of many years — some bright and quickly passed, and others long, hard wrought and sorrowful; but these kind silence views in charity and comes on tiptoe, with her finger on her lip, and beckons them away, and so they go — their griefs untold— all buried there in that small space of sacred ground where rest the dead beside the village charch.

II

Come now to present days and the same rural scene — the landscape brighter than it was before; the bushy fields cleared up and sown with scented grass and blue-green rye; the pastures spotted by the daisy and the buttercup, and stone walls green with blossoming grape, woodbine and bitter-sweet; the woods grown taller, and the scattered pines with longer branches swaying in the wind^ and over all the slopes, far as the eye can reach, ten thousand blossoming trees, scattering their spices on the warm May winds, and showering the green mantle of the fields with flecks of pink and white —a gaudy covering — outrivaling the honeysuckle's beauty and the dogwood's whiter bloom.

Within the wood, and up and down the lanes, on every fence, just as of old, field-sparrows twitter and the bluebird gives his changing note ; the quail calls to his mate, the robins sing, all things revive and speak of happiness. Nature, rejoicing, lingers here and smiles on man, her friend, and daily comes to that same little house upon the hill to see the woodbine and clematis clinging lovingly about the porch where, in the bygone years, the old man sat, and where the good wife and the lovers held him in their arms that moonlight night on which he died.

And now these living blossoming things in Nature seem like the mortals did to him who passed away, and twine their arms about the ruins of the house, to wrap and fold it in a kind embrace, returning thanks for all the shelter and protection it has given them. The pansies and forget-me-nots look up in gratitude, and all the garden flowers nod in the wind and send the fragrance of their wasted lives in at the open door. The primrose and sweetbrier cling to the pillars which uplift the roof, and tall half-wild red roses, climbing the lower shutters, which they half conceal, reach up their hands and spread the crimson blossoms in the open windows of the old north room where the young couple sleep. In the soft air the branches sway and creak till the song-sparrow, nesting beneath their leaves, gets up and sings. The bobwhite calls aloud, and from the woods which border on the newly planted corn, a thousand crows cry **caw!"

The sun shows red and gold above the notch on Indian Hill— another day has dawned on the Elysian fields— as erst it did in Eden— if mankind but knew.

**Diccon, get up, and to the barn. I'll make the tire and 'Dusky Joan shall keel the pot.' " So calls the master of the house. "Come, Barbara! The old clock says it's half -past five, and father's watch, says six."

"Yes, Donald," answered Barbara, speaking down the stairs. "Let Joan help Diccon with the cows and I'll do all the rest."

So, aiding one another, they begin the day; and so with many days gone by, and which have passed in peace — for this new master of the little farm, this mistress of his humble house, are the same loving ones who, on that moonlight night, knelt by the old man's chair and promised him to keep the homestead place and live respecting what was good in life— rejecting what was not. Honored and blessed, so far they had lived, doing their duty to the uttermost, and helping others while they labored for themselves. And middle life was creeping on; but still they were content. The wear and tear of daily work was in his sun-burned face, and in his hardened hands, and in his hair a tinge of frost; but in his heart was cheerfulness, and in his eye intelligence and kindness, courage for any fate, all clear as day.

And Barbara was everything that could be asked of woman — industrious, thoughtful, gentle, good, loving and faithful where she'd set her heart, and womanly in all that makes a woman loved.

The good wife— nearly ninety now, but still as cheerful as in younger days — ^was with them yet. To sit and knit and read and talk of all the follies of the present days and tell some tale old as herself, or to repeat some schoolgirl speech, or try with her cracked voice to turn a wornout tune, was her employment or expression of content, and well she carried it ; for spite of an impatient bigotry and pride, she had those sterling qualities of mind and heart which never can grow old.

So master and mistress, mother, man and girl made up this simple home— save when a traveler benighted lost his way — or when some friendly visitor came from a distant place, or some acquaintance from the city called, or lingered over Sunday at the house. And to all others — idlers, tramps or lazy boys, and so-called huntsmen who tore down rods of wall to seize a rabbit which was miles away; or dug the meadows full of holes to catch a chipmunk which sat chuckling on a limb above their heads —the good dog, with more intelligence than theirs, gave warning with a bark and said **move on."

But now the spare-room held a visitor— a mighty man and one, in brief, who knew all things — except himself. A man who feasted on the day's events, as detailed in the daily press, until, in fancy, he was something more than mortal *'I" and used the plural **we" to awe the millions of his fellowmen — a crank and a reformer of the latest date, and with the necessary forwardness to make his mission thrive.

For reasons only known to Providence, Fate set this subject down on Scotland Hill. He knew the country always proved a fertile field in which the inspired fool could plant his crop of isms, leaving to time and better men the task of tending them until the harvest came and yielded his reward.

First he essayed the village school, and gave a long harangue — telling his gaping listeners when and what and how to teach and who should teach it when 'twas taught. And then he boldly entered the Seceder's Church and^told them all the newer kinds of sins — sins that these innocent people never dreamed of — never knew before — how, like the dock, the daisy and wild-carrot in the meadows, and thistle seeds and scallions of the pasture lands, these things were spreading far and wide, and every family —like the farmsteads they possessed — was in a daily danger of these pestilential blights on their prosperity and peace.

He did not know what other men might do, but *'for ourselves," he said,** we should proceed at once to seize these monsters by the throat and dash them down and trample them beneath our feet!"

As he spoke this he acted it, and grasped a section of the invisible air, and choking out what little life it had, he threw it to the floor and sprang upon it with his feet, and with a smile of triumph held it down. This performance — more than was promised, by the way, roused up his one confederate to say **Amen!" This was enough. Before the sound of this sole exclamation had died out the easy convert found himself on a committee, self-appointed by the Columbus who discovered all this sin, to visit, with him, every house and introduce reform.

Hence the spare-room at our friend's place was occupied—for courtesy and hospitality, never lacking in that little home, had made him welcome there, and Donald Stuart, knocking on the door, said in his kindliest manner:

'^Breakfast is ready, friend."

And good Colurabus Cant was nothing loath, but prompt on call, and answered the usual morning question with the usual reply:

"Yes, yes, we've slept well — and sleeping well has given us an appetite. In fact the work we have in hand has given us both appetite and inspiration."

He rolled his eyes a little as he spoke, which gave his long and churn -like face a curiously unsteady look; but this was counterbalanced by a broad and beaming smile as he accepted all the good things passed his way. To do him justice there was something satisfying in his look; besides, his manner was magnetic and his words could charm.

*'There— there," he said. "Now, good friends, don't mind us; and brother Stuart, you go to your work, for you cannot neglect your fields, nor can we ours — so go. We'll stay and talk to the good lady of the house; *for man and wife are one,' you know — eh? Yes. Ha! ha!"

"But you will stay to dinner with us, will you not?"

*'We-e-l— let me see — we-el — yes; 'always room for one more,' you know — eh? Yes. Ha ! ha!"

The novelty and unique wit of these remarks made Donald loath to part with so original a mind — however, with a promise of another double-feast at dinner time, he went ; but what he thought, was hidden by good manners in his breast.

That the Pretender's visit was prolonged from dinner until supper time, and then another night, and then another day, and then a week, might be a matter of surprise to those who do not know how really good a man can be who gives his soul to a good cause, and, knowing his own value, takes his pay as he performs.

Donald said nothing, but thought much, and more than usual when, on coming home at night, weary and worn from labor in the tields, covered with dirt and dust, sunburned and overwrought, he had to listen to a homily from one who had passed the heated day in quiet and in shade, or swung himself to sleep in the broad hammock underneath the trees.

*'You farmers don't know how to work," the visitor exclaimed. "You lack intelligence. Before we go — if we lind time — we'll show you certain papers and the books you ought to read. You don't plow deep enough — nor fertilize enough, nor use good seed. Kemember the parable of the sower, he— — "

**Yes— yes/' broke in Donald, impatiently, forgetting his restraint. *'He sowed! And, though he wasted seed on stony ground, and though the thorns choked some — yet some sprang up and yielded fifty and one hundred fold! God bless the man who plows! The man who sows! The man who works! As well as men who talk!"

*'Donald! — why, what do you mean?" questioned his mother and his wife.

**0h, nothing! nothing!" said the visitor, to whom the sharp retort was merely pleasantry. *'He doesn't understand; but after supper he can read our books. Awakening is what he needs. His methods and his logic are all wrong."

**Say that my manners are at fault, and Til agree," said Donald, rising as he spoke. *' Welcome or not, you are our guest, and never underneath this roof has a stranger been treated otherwise than with kindness and civility." Saying this, he started in, and as he did so, his dog came up, and standing at his side, looked back towards his visitor and growled.

III

That night the troubled Donald had resolved to talk with Barbara. Often, of late, he had wished to speak about this stranger whom they sheltered ; but just as often he had paused, fearing he might let fall some hasty word, or in some way imply a doubt of her, or her good taste at least, in seeming to encourage one who but a fortnight back was quite unknown to all, and who was half a stranger still.

And often since this strange man came, a guest unbidden, by him at least unwelcomed — whose presence was protested even by the dog — he had wondered why it was that he remained. Was it his mother's liking for the man who could talk Bible with her by the hour, while neither seemed to tire? Or was it Barbara's overhospitable way that made the stranger think he should remain, and caused him to assume so confident a tone? What could it be? Surely no man, unless encouraged in some point, unusual, unknown, would so prolong his stay.

The more he thought of this the more it puzzled him; and now, at any cost, he'd speak to Barbara. She never had withheld her confidence — he knew she never would, and he must speak or doubt would grow to a suspicion that Barbara, whom he had always loved, had found another's talk more pleasant to her ear, if not another face more favored than his own.

Then too, he missed their happy nights, when sitting by the kitchen fire, after the old mother had gone off to bed, and when no others save themselves were up — when the good dog kept watch outside, and puss and kittens played upon the floor — and when the wind went moaning round the house, and cricket chirped beside the ruddy hearth — when by the lamp-light Barbara read the best books that their scanty means could buy — and when on Saturday nights, the labors of the week all done and all was housed and put away — the horses in their beds of straw, the cattle underneath the warm dry shed, and Luath in his cozy kennel by the door; when he had read from Barbara's book and she from his, and the old father's gifts were priceless still and loved and honored for the good they had done and for his sake who made their memory dear.

How many nights like these had passed — how many ended with a kind **good-night" to father's picture on the wall. How many a time within the shaded light, these two had knelt and asked a blessing on the dear old house that sheltered all from ill. And now — with these recurring thoughts — he sat and mused, and then at last he spoke.

** Barbara, if I may trespass on your time which now I know is taken up with hospitality, pray tell me, if you will, what books are these?"

''Those, Donald dear, the ones our guest has sent you — why?"

*'0h, nothing. They're appropriate. I lack intelligence and stand in need of reformation. But, Barbara, the first I seek from you — the last I'll ask from him."

**Donald ! What do you mean?"

''Barbara, you know me well — and till these two weeks gone I've thought that I knew you. Tell me if I have been mistaken?"

"Donald!"

"Forgive me, but I think I have, or something strange of late has come between us!"

"What do you mean?"

"This— your confidence is turned away, and when I come home nights from labor in the fields, I find no welcome as I used. You look at me, not kindly, but reproachfully, as if ashamed to see the honest sweat upon my sunburned face, the homely patches on my working clothes, the marks of honest labor on my hands. Is not this so?"

**It is, but not for reasons that you givj. It is because I love you, Donald!'*

** Barbara!"

**It is because I see you here, who might be honored among men, wearing your life away without a single gain and with a future showing no relief and offering no reward."

*'Beware, dear Barbara ! The poisonous weed of discontent — if once we taste it — grows in time to be necessity, and kills at last! This stranger's talk has led to this."

**It has revived what I myself have often thought, but never dared to tell you."

•*And that ?"

**That in the city yonder we could find some useful occupation which would build us up — not keep us down forever with the slaves!"

"Hush, Barbara. Imagination all. Have you forgot my father's dying wish? The lessons in the books he gave us? Dear wife, go bring them now, and doubt not we shall find, in one or both, some story of content."

**Yes, Donald dear; but I forget. Your mother took the Bible with her when she went upstairs, and Burns I cannot find."

**It's in the stranger's room."

**It was; but now it's gone. Joan told me of it first, and we both looked three days ago. It doesn't matter though. He says it's very common, out of date, and low and vulgar as the writer was — that poetry is dead, that only facts and news are useful now ; that there's a war on fiction and on verse; that Shakespeare, Scott, Byron and Burns, Longfellow, Irving, Poe and such like men must go — and modern moralists will rise and take their place!"

**Kise! Eise!" cried Donald, who had listened in amazement to this revelation of suspected things. *'Kise! They have need to rise! A resurrection would not raise them high enough to take the place of any one you've named!"

"Donald! '

**Don't mind me, lass," said Donald kindly, as he walked about the room. *'It's not your fault; but now I see — the cry is up! the war is on! No wonder my poor book is gone — no wonder!"

**rm sorry that I told you now," said Barbara in distress.

**Vm glad you did. You should have done so sooner. I should have known what animal we lodged within the house, whose place was in the barn. The dog knew at the start we should have set him on."

**But, Donald— patience. Is there not some truth in what he says? Some wrong— some error — and some evil in these things?"

*' There is. There's right and wrong in all this world and everything which it contains. Gardens have weeds; the purest diamond has a flaw; there's not a field I till but labor must subdue. The best of books has in ii errors scattered far and wide, but its sublimities are there, like mountains capped with snow above the level wastes. The surface of the earth is hardly habitable, save where mankind has wrought and toiled for years and years, and I believe man's mission here is but to make it some day worthy of a God-like race!"

**Donald!"

**That's my belief. And every century's improvement shows it's true. For that I daily do my part — knowing it is a duty which should be performed for Him who placed me here!"

**Dear Donald — will you listen? "

**Not to such arguments as his. They are as much too plausible as he's too good. What does he here? We were content and happy till he came, and now all's wrong — and even she I've always loved sees faults in everything I do, and wrong in everything I prize!"

**No, Donald. Do not turn away. See here, I put my arms about your neck, and looJs into your honest face, and say I love you more than all the world; and only because it is so, do I wish to see you have a higher place in life and higher thoughts, if any such there be."

*'God bless you, Barbara, but let us not be self-deceived nor take a stranger's word before the best of books, for these are best of words by best of men, and no mere would-be wise man has a right to cry them down."

**But, Donald, this man says it is the world in arms against the erring few. A crusade for the right, no matter who may fall."

**Then let those fail and fall who most deserve to do so, Barbara. Right will survive when all crusades and those who lead them on are low in dust! As for this canting stranger, let him go his way. Our house was blessed before he came. I do not want an evil spell to settle on it now."

**Nor I, dear Donald, only I had thought — as we lived here alone — away from all the greater world — there might be something we had missed — something we had not learned— something to better both our lives, and other lives as well, which, may be, we had left undone!"

'*Nay, Barbara, it was a loving, kindly thought, and I'll not chide you for it. I've often noticed how good women try to help the world— as angels fallen— knowing what we've lost — would lead us back to Heaven!"

**If I deserved that thought I'd cherish it. But, Donald, dear, ours is a very lowly, earthly lot, and, save our books and all the fancies in your fertile brain, it sometimes seems discouraging."

"Barbara, unwittingly, you have confessed; our books, my fancies have made light to you — as God in mercy knows they have to me — the burthens and the troubles of this world ! Then let the bigot say whate'er he will; let strangers come and strangers go; let canting hj^pocrites or true crusaders fight these follias down— we'll not desert them any more than we'd desert a friend who stood unshaken in our hour of need."

*'I cannot argue with you, Donald dear; nor shall I longer try to do so. What you say always seems the best that can be said, and may be you are right, for you have read and studied much, and thought and talked on subjects only dear to honest-hearted men who understand. But grant me one request."

**Name— and I grant it, Barbara." **It's only this: To-morrow night this man makes his report. The meeting's at the yellow schoolhouse, as you know, and all the neighborhood is asked to come — ourselves among the rest. Forget all prejudice and let us go — hear what is said, and then decide— you to conclude with me there may be higher, better things in life— or I, with you, believe as Shakspeare says:

** *Poor and content is rich and rich enough; But riches endless are as poor as winter

To him who ever fears he shall be poor!* "

^'Barbara, come here, and let me kiss the honest lips that spoke those honest words ! — And he's to be replaced! What incandescent light, shining from out a vacuum, shall shame great Shakspeare's sun? What puerile popinjay, with senseless twaddle of the times, shall step into Longfellow's shoes? What moralist, with an affected modesty, shall in the foulest terms urge on the rest? But, Barbara, as you have said, we'll wait until to-morrow night. Meantime, no more. God bless you! Go to bed. I want to sit and think awhile, alone."

**Bless you, Donald. So, good-night! Don't let what I have said make you unhappy. My thought was but to lighten care, and not increase it for you, dear."

**I know— I know— don't say another word. Burns says it all in the old book:

*' 'It's iio' in titles nor in rank —

It's no' in wealth like Lunnon bank To purchase peace and rest,

If happiness have not her seat And centre in the breast T

Good-night!" *'Good-night!"

IV

The schoolhouse waited for Columbus Cant, as evidently it had waited for him when he was a boy. The night had come. His auditors expectantly listened for his bold "Ahem!" and watched for his approach. The final day of grace had passed. The sinners shivered in their seats. The hour of judgment was at hand.

Strange as it may seem, the coming of this solitary warrior on the field had captured all the camp. Audacity had conquered, and by its very boldness won respect. The call to meet the conqueror was as imperious as Caesar might have issued to a race of slaves, commanding them to pay their homage and their tribute at a certain hour. Further than this, these simple people— overawed by what appeared the greatness and the goodness of their judge — were ready to confess to sins which he suggested, but which they, in worthy ignorance, had never seen or known.