The father of Scottish poetry and history, was born about 1316; paid several visits to England and France; and was Archdeacon of Aberdeen from 1357, or earlier, till his death, on 13th March 1395. His national epic, “The Brus,” first printed at Edinburgh in 1571, has been reprinted by Dr. Jamieson in 1820; by Cosmo Innes, for the Spalding Club, in 1856; and by Professor Skeat, for the Early English Text Society, in 1870–77, and the Scottish Text Society in 1893–94. Of the “Legends of the Saints,” unearthed by Mr. Bradshaw in the Cambridge University Library, and doubtfully ascribed to him, there is a German edition by Horstmann (2 vols. Heilbronn, 1881–82), and one by Metcalfe for the Scottish Text Society (1887–89).
It is remarkable, that though Barbour was a Scotsman, his language is rather more intelligible to a modern English reader than that of any other poet of the fourteenth century, his great contemporary Chaucer himself not excepted.
Adorned the English language by a strain of versification, expression, and poetical imagery far superior to his age.
Perhaps the editor may be accused of nationality, when he says that, taking the total merits of this work together, he prefers it to the early exertions of even the Italian muse, to the melancholy sublimity of Dante, and the amorous quaintness of Petrarca, as much as M. Le Grand does a fabliau to a Provençal ditty. Here indeed the reader will find few of the graces of fine poetry, little of the Attic dress of the muse: but here are life, and spirit, and ease, and plain sense, and pictures of real manners, and perpetual incident, and entertainment. The language is remarkably good for the time, and far superior, in neatness and elegance, even to that of Gawin Douglas, who wrote more than a century after. But when we consider that our author is not only the first poet, but the earliest historian of Scotland, who has entered into any detail, and from whom any view of the real state and manners of the country can be had; and that the hero, whose life he paints so minutely, was a monarch equal to the greatest of modern times; let the historical and poetical merits of his work be weighed together, and then opposed to those of any other early poet of the present nations in Europe.
Given his countrymen a fine example of the simple energetic style, which resembled Chaucer’s best manner, and wanted little to make it the genuine language of poetry.
We may consider John Barbour … as the father of regular Scotch history; although that history be known to the world as a metrical composition, under the name of “The Bruce.”
When we compare such poetry with the contemporary productions of the bards of England under the reign of Edward III.—with Laurence Minot, for example, or Langland, the reputed author of the “Vision of Pierce Plowman”—the superiority of the Archdeacon completely justifies the encomium of Warton, whether we look to the poetical spirit of the author, to the taste and judgment in the pictures or reflections which he brings before us, or to the clear and forcible language in which he expresses himself.
If we were to compare it with the contemporary poetry of England, its place would be very high, Chaucer being set aside as unapproachable. Barbour must be pronounced much superior to Gower, and still more so to the anonymous writers of the very best of the metrical romances.
Fortunate in the choice of a subject, he has unfolded a series of remarkable events, and has diffused over a very long narrative that lively interest which an ordinary writer is incapable of exciting. Here we are not to expect the blandishments of modern poetry: the author stands conspicuous amid the ruins of time, and, like an undecayed Gothic tower, presents an aspect of majestic simplicity. The lively strain of his narrative, the air of sincerity which he always exhibits, his earnest participation in the success or sufferings of his favourite characters, as well as the splendid attributes of the characters themselves, cannot fail of arresting the attention of every reader familiarly acquainted with the language in which he writes.
Throughout his long work he shows, for his time, a very remarkable feeling of the art of poetry, both by the variety which he studies in the disposition and treatment of his subject, and by the rare temperance and self-restraint which prevents him from ever overdoing what he is about either by prosing or raving. Even his patriotism, warm and steady as it is, is wholly without any vulgar narrowness or ferocity: he paints the injuries of his country with distinctness and force, and celebrates the heroism of her champions and deliverers with all admiration and sympathy; but he never runs into either the gasconading exaggerations or the furious deprecatory invectives which would, it might be thought, have better pleased the generality of those for whom he wrote. His understanding was too enlightened, and his heart too large, for that. His poem stands in this respect in striking contrast to that of Harry, the blind minstrel, on the exploits of Wallace;… but each poet suited his hero,—Barbour, the magnanimous, considerate, and far-seeing king; Blind Harry, the indomitable popular champion, with his one passion and principle, hatred of the domination of England, occupying his whole soul and being.
Barbour’s poem has always been admired for its strict accuracy of statement, to which Bower, Wynton, Hailes, Pinkerton, Jamieson, and Sir Walter Scott all bear testimony; for the picturesque force of its natural descriptions; for its insight into character, and the lifelike spirit of its individual sketches; for the martial vigour of its battle-pictures; for the enthusiasm which he feels, and makes his reader feel, for the valiant and wise, the sagacious and persevering, the bold, merciful, and religious character of its hero, and for the piety which pervades it, and proves that the author was not merely a churchman in profession, but a Christian at heart. Its defects of rude rhythm, irregular constructions, and obsolete phraseology, are those of its age; but its beauties, its unflagging interest, and its fine poetic spirit, are characteristic of the writer’s own genius.
Some of his battle-pieces have an animation that might almost be called Homeric.
Barbour’s “Brus,” if not precisely a poem, has passages whose simple tenderness raises them to that level. That on Freedom is familiar. But its highest merit is the natural and unrestrained tone of manly courage in it, the easy and familiar way in which Barbour always takes chivalrous conduct as a matter of course, as if heroism were the least you could ask of any man…. The “Brus” is in many ways the best rhymed chronicle ever written. It is national in a high and generous way, but I confess I have little faith in that quality in literature which is commonly called nationality,—a kind of praise seldom given where there is anything better to be said.
Believers in race will not fail to observe that Barbour was born in the north-east of Scotland, and that in the population of this district there was a large admixture of settlers from the opposite coasts of Norway and Denmark—men of the same race as the Norman founders of chivalry—so that the patriotic, warlike-minded churchman may have inherited from roving and reaving ancestors his passion for celebrating heroic achievements. At all events, race or no race, the passion was strong within him. He enters the battle with his hero, and lays about him with sturdy enthusiasm. The shock of Bruce’s spear is irresistible; and when his spear is shivered and his good sword drawn, there is death in every sweep of his arm: heads are smitten off, helmets cleft, shoulder-plated arms shorn away like corn before the scythe. He does not hesitate to oppose the Bruce single-handed to two hundred men, and bring him off victorious after much slaughter; comparing this incomparable achievement with the defeat of fifty men by the hardy son of Tydeus. With what energy he recounts the discomfiture of the three gigantic Macindrossans, who attempted to take Robert alive! How thoroughly he enjoys the feat of the king in bringing the giant who has leapt on his horse behind him round from the crupper within reach of his deadly sword!
In clearness and simplicity it must rank before either Gower or Chaucer…. To this day “The Bruce”—the first epic in the English language—is a favourite work among the common people of Scotland, through the medium of a modern version.
He was gifted with good natural faculties; his imaginative and reproductive powers were considerable, and he showed practical insight and good judgment; his feelings and sentiments were keen and warm, and his opinions were very liberal for the age. His general fairness and moderation was characteristic, though in a few instances his love of freedom and his patriotism caused him to use harsh expressions…. The literary merits of Barbour’s work, taking everything into account, were great. His language and style were, for the period, remarkably good. His style possessed the qualities of clearness, brevity, terseness, and point; his descriptions of scenes and positions, and delineations of historic characters, were generally vivid and interesting; while, in short, his poem was pervaded by a dignified simplicity and a directness of aim admirably calculated to attract and to sustain attention; its historical value has been long recognised by Scottish historians.
Of John Barbour’s life we know little besides the facts that he was Archdeacon of Aberdeen, and that he wrote a metrical account of the Scotch rulers beginning with Brutus called The Brute, and a poem on The Lives of the Northern Saints,—besides this poem of The Bruce. But when we read this last work we do not feel that we lack any further knowledge to make us acquainted with John Barbour. About a hundred and fifty years before Barbour a very fervent English poet named Orrmin called his poem “The Ormulum,” or little Orrmin, as if it were a sort of miniature copy of himself; and so we might call Barbour’s Romance the Barbulum. It shows him to us over again. We see clearly how simple, how lofty, how clean are all his thoughts; how fervent are his love and admiration of all manful deeds; how keen and intelligent are his ideas of the remarkable degree in which Robert Bruce added perseverance, prudence, ready wit in emergencies, wisdom in handling his resources, to his personal bravery and physical strength; how true is his passion for freedom; and how fine and large is his ideal of manhood as given in his account of James the Douglas.
The father of the Anglic literature of Scotland.
Not only the first but the most famous of the poet-chroniclers of Scotland. But for his pen the passion of patriotism which gave Scotland a soul for four hundred years might have died with Douglas and Bruce, and but for him the living heroes of the Scottish wars of succession and independence might have come down to us little more than empty names.
The “Legends of the Saints” demand concessions from us much more frequently than “The Bruce,” and, indeed, concessions of various kinds—to the spirit of the age in which the poem originated, to the power of tradition which even the most gifted poet cannot ignore, and to the various influences and conditions which compel him to accept all manner of things not adapted to poetry, even things that are insipid. It is saying a good deal that we are able to recognize in these religious epics the patriotic singer of the war of independence. It is not the inevitable defects attached to the poetry, but its great merits, that should excite our astonishment. Barbour, as a very old man, thus created a work which far surpassed almost everything of its kind that English literature had to show, and, indeed, he was not surpassed in this domain even at a later date. Huchown in his “Susannah” exhibits greater brilliancy of diction, Chaucer’s “Cecilia” more completely captivates our ear by the pleasant sound of its strophes; but, as a whole, it will be found that Barbour’s simple as well as vivid form of representation corresponds best with the character of the genus, and that it is the only form which can be carried out successfully, especially in poems of longer effort or in compilations…. English literature—and, indeed, Scottish literature—can show no more brilliant figure or richer nature than his.
During all last century, despite the various editions of Barbour, it was Blind Harry who was the favourite, and even if we admit that this was because he could be read in the modernized version by Hamilton of Gilbertfield, yet there must be some merit in a poem which could go through this process and yet live. The work it did during two generations in fostering Scottish patriotism and developing Scottish character is well known from the testimony of Burns. Barbour, on the other hand, was scarcely known, and this cannot have come altogether from the difference in language, but must have been also due to the difference in the good Archdeacon’s idea of a national poem. With the critical study of Scottish history begins the above-mentioned confusion between the merits of a poem and the truth of its historical basis, and straightway Barbour begins to supplant Blind Harry in the favour of the critics. As no one will venture to quote the latter as an authority for anything, so writers on literature, whether English literature in general or Scottish in particular, dispose of their best epithets on Barbour, and apologetically give their remaining ones to blind Harry, if indeed they do not leave him only the disparaging ones.
Barbour’s intention is to write a true history; he thus expects, he says, to give twofold pleasure: firstly because it is a history, secondly because it is a true one. But where passion has a hold it is rare that Truth reigns paramount, and Barbour’s feeling for his country is nothing short of passionate love; so much so that, when a legend is to the credit of Scotland, his critical sense entirely disappears, and miracles become for him history. Thus with monotonous uniformity, throughout his poem a handful of Scotchmen rout the English multitudes; the highlanders perform prodigies, and the king still surpasses them in valour; everything succeeds with him as in a fairy tale.
Barbour is not a brilliant writer, and, in strange contradistinction to the Scotch poets who followed him, he is austerely bare of ornament. He tells a patriotic story very simply and fluently, with a constant appeal to chivalrous instincts, and with a remarkable absence of all mythological machinery.
