Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 1, July 1850Various
General
Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 1, July 1850
Various
Literature -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
This humor, too, is generously and jovially human, and although Burns’
ridicule is often coarse, it is rarely cruel. He strikes, but it is with
the arm of a man, and not with the blasting of a fiend. Gall he does
sometimes mingle with the cup of satire, but never the deadly
night-shade; the barb he sharpens keenly, but he does not steep it in
poison. He painted, it is true, with a breadth and richness of coloring
that made men hold their sides and set the table in a roar, the
fooleries and absurdities of individuals; the pretensions of sects, and
the bitterness of factions; the vanities of professions; the motley
trivialities of presumptuous and stolid nonsense; but in the very storm
of his sarcasm, he spares our common nature. There is a ridicule which
properly may be called diabolical; which desecrates every thing endeared
and noble; which laughs not in festivity of spirit, but in bitterness of
heart; which like the witches in Macbeth, around the midnight cauldron,
shrieks in the irony of satanic mirth over the degradation of humanity.
This temper is realized in the writings of Swift, and affected in those
of Byron; but we discover no trace of it in the compositions of Burns.
Burns would give even to Satan himself the grace of repentance, and a
chance of heaven. Burns, like Byron, can pass rapidly from the grave to
the grotesque, but altogether in a different spirit. In the one it is
the prodigality of fun; in the other it is willfulness of scorn; in the
one, it is sport; in the other it is derision; the one as friend to
friend mocks humanity pleasantly; the other makes it a Sancho Panza,
tosses it in a blanket, and laughs the louder, the more it is
humiliated. I believe the spirit of Byron was naturally a fine one; but
it was spoiled, if not utterly ruined, as to all its higher capacities
and sympathies. I say not that his moral humanity was extinguished,
because that would be uncandid; but I do say, that he became fantastic
and capricious to such a degree as to fail in the charities which not
only soften life, but dignify literature.
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