The Scotch have a way of making oatmeal porridge that justifies its reputation. But I tried the “haggis,” and once was enough. I do not know what the component elements of Scotch “haggis” may be, but I suspect that they are the remnants of the last meal minced together, with oatmeal and sheep-blood added to make them palatable. The Scotch people are not high livers. Whatever cannot be made out of oats and mutton is too high-priced for the ordinary citizen. The farm-house is generally divided by a solid wall, the family on one side and the cows and sheep on the other. The people of Scotland always have been poor, and they are not ashamed of it; but they consider it disgraceful to be ignorant or irreligious, so they have as good schools and churches as can be found anywhere outside of America. The men no longer go around with guns and plaids, calling themselves by the names of their clans, but there is much family pride, and the traditions of the good old times of murder and robbery are kept in mind. The English language has taken the place of the old Gaelic for general use, but the English as spoken in Scotland is only about second cousin to the English language as known in Kansas.
Walter Scott wrote the history of Scotland for the world, and it is very fortunate for the clansmen that he did. Scott had a picturesque way of dressing up the costume and character of a dirty highwayman so that he would appear to be the soul of honor and the pride of chivalry. He has given some of the kings and dukes, who committed every crime from arson to murder, the reputation and standing of good and respectable citizens. His historical novels, in so far as their description of royal character is concerned, have the merit of beauty and interest, but not of truth. The Scots were fierce fighters, and in the days when war meant conquest and conquest meant pillage the Scots were unexcelled in all lines. Now that the world is putting up a different standard for success we find the Scotchmen adapting themselves to modern ideas; and in science, invention, law and commerce they can show down with any lot of people twice their size on earth. They are proud of their country, and can recite its legends and its poems of Burns even if they are so poor that they don’t have a square meal a day. They love to argue, state their views positively, contradict flatly, and do not object to taking as good as they send. They are not polite like the Germans, insinuating like the French, or reserved like the English. They are abrupt and inconsiderate, though kind-hearted and helpful, proud and poor, quick-witted and industrious. If they had any other country’s natural advantages they would own the earth.
The Land of Burns
Ayr, Scotland, September 9.
Today we have spent in Ayr, the village which bases a claim on fame because in a humble little cottage, just outside its limits, Robert Burns, the great Scottish poet, was born. I call Burns “the great Scottish poet” because it is right that his beloved country should be linked with his name, but, as a matter of fact, Burns is the poet of humanity in every land and every clime. His writings jingle like a familiar song, his thoughts are the thoughts we all think but cannot express, and his music touches the heartstrings like recollections of childhood, a letter from home, or the memory of those who are dear and away. Burns wrote in rhyme the thoughts that came themselves and not thoughts he had worked up for the occasion. A child of poverty himself, he was neither blinded to its troubles nor overcome by its restrictions, and he tells us of the joys and pleasures, the griefs and sorrows of the people. He puts epigrams into verse and he tells of things as they are, looking through the shams and deceits and making good-natured fun of weakness and folly. He never gets away from the human interest and he never fails in knowledge of human nature.
Burns’s father was a farmer, and not a very successful one. He spelled his name Burness, but for some unknown reason the poet shortened it. The father was an honest and religious man who was highly respected, but never made good in a business way. His mother was brighter, and used to sing Scotch songs and ballads, and if there is anything in heredity Robert got his poetic instincts from that side of the house. They were trying to make a nursery pay when Robert was born, and I visited the cottage where that event took place. One end of the shanty with three rooms was for the family and the other with two rooms was for the cattle. The Burnses failed in the nursery business, and rented a small farm near by, on which Robert spent his boyhood days, not far from the taverns in Ayr and Irvine, where he learned how to be a “good fellow” and thus shortened his life. He was 15 years old when he wrote his first verses, and was helping on the farm and going to school. After the father died Robert and his brother tried to run the farm, but the poet got discouraged, and decided to emigrate to Jamaica. A publisher printed his poems, and he intended to take the money he received for them to pay his passage. But the book made a hit from the start, a second edition was called for, and Burns at once attained great popularity. He gave up the idea of leaving Scotland, and put in most of the remainder of his days writing, besides holding a small job which his friends got for him, in the revenue service. He bought a farm near Dumfries, and lived there and in the town the rest of his short life, for he died in 1796, when he was only 37 years of age.
Burns not only enjoyed popularity in his own generation, but in the more than a century since he wrote his fame has grown steadily and his genius and talent are appreciated in every part of the world. There are statues and monuments to Burns all over Scotland, but the greatest memorial is in the hearts of the people of his own country and of all others into which his songs have gone. Wherever there is a son or daughter of Scotland there is a lover of “Bobby Burns.”