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Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reprodult en un seul ciichi, 11 est fiimd d partir de Tangle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m6thode. by errata led to ent jne pelure, 'apon d 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 RO UE^ d PRINTED Bl -,<- (,•».)»«« i^t- :3^^^» mm^^m^!^^M£i§ma^ CENTENARY 01 ROBERT BURNS % %tcime, DELIVERED BY THE REY W. MCKENZIE BEFORE TilB Mm^miim'' Wt'mMmu, AT RAMSAY. MONTREAL : PRINTED BY J. C. BECKET, 38 GREAT SAINT JAMBS STREET. 1859. \ <** RO] i ■•■ Ey a IBINTED B\ 7 '■'A CENTENARY or ROBERT BURNS; % %utm, DELIVERED BY THE EV. w. Mckenzie, BEFORE THE illi^^jjdiJlJ^^^'' StD^a^liJftS^, AT RAMSAY. MONTREAL : [RINTED by J. C. BECKET, 38 GREAT SAINT JAMBS STREET. 1859. ) ■> ) ' , ' 19 3?- C 3 PREFATORY NOTE. This Lecture was first delivered before the Mechanics' Institute of Ramsay. Having been earnestly requested by some of those who were then present to allow it to be published, it is now given in this form. The Lecture is substantially the same as when first delivered ; but it has been re-written, with some slight alterations and additions. To always must a considi all the ful car the ce enthusj been w strain inan th for my enthusi Burns, fitting hollow remem present men m lifetim genius crush 1] Now be cal fully th extent works ; lencies ^% Ctntenarg of Jlobert Jnnts. jhanics' isted by t to be Lecture but it ns and To every Scotchman, a deep sad interest must always belong to the name of Robert Burns. It must always continue to be well worth our while to consider what he was, and what he did — to ponder all the circumstances of his brief and deeply sorrow- ful career. At the present time — called forth by the centenary of his birth-day — there has been an enthusiastic out-burst of admiration ; and there have been words of praise heaped one upon another in a strain of extravagant eulogy, such as, perhaps, no man that ever lived ever fully deserved. I cannot, for my part, sympathise in the present out-burst of enthusiasm. As connected with the name of Robert Burns, such an exhibition seems anything rather than 111 ling ; and besides, in the general, it is false and hollow at the very heart of it, for, I cannot help remembering that the very men whr are at the present time loudest in their acclaim of praise, are men manifestly of a kindred spirit to those who, in his lifetime, did much to give an evil warp to the splendid genius of Robert Burns, and thus to imbitter and crush his heart. Now, I do not pretend to be able to give what may be called a review of Burns: to be able to record fully the true significance of his life ; to map out the extent of his genius ; to estimate the value of his works ; or to characterise uU their peculiar excel- lencies or defects. But yet, there are many detached thoughts upon all these points which may be suggested to any thoughtful man. Some such thoughts, which have been suggested to my own mind, I shall try to give ; and give as plainly and clearly as possible, and thereof let every man judge for himself; only, let no mSiU pre-judge the inB.tter. Burns occupies a much higher place in the minds of men at the present day, than he did during his own lifetime : as we have receded from him in time, he has grown in apparent magnitude. Perhaps, in some ob- scure and mean quarter of a great city, you stumble unexpectedly on a fair and magnificent building. — The common dwellings of men crowd around it on every side, and allow only a partial view; you can see its spreading front, and obtain a glimpse of the swelling dome. Not one of the common habitations, singly, can for a moment compare wiii- it, yet they press into notice, and encumber the view ; and be- cause of their mean environment the fair proportions and the real magnitude of the other can only be but imperfectly discerned. But take your way to the overhanging height where, at one view, the whole city is spread out, as upon a map, beneath your eyes, and then the edifice which could be only imperfectly seen while you were involved in the narrow, crooked streets, now stands out in bold relief, dwarfing all around it into their proper insignificancy. Farther,, and farther, as you recede in space, bolder, and more boldly still, does the object of real magnitude stand out to view ; until, on the far edge of the horizon, when all the common things are swallowed up in the blue distance, it rears its head as a solitary landmark to tell us where the great city lies. So is it with some men as we recede farther and farther from them in time. Amid the mean environments of their ggested iy which II try to ble, and ', let no e minds his own i, he has om*^ ob- stumble Iding.— nd it on »ou can of the ilations, et they ind be- portions r be but to the e whole ur eyes, erfecily [jrooked 'iing all artheiv id more stand lorizon, ) in the ndmark it with m them f their actual, every day life, and among the crowd of their contemporaries ; they are hidden and obscured ; and, to the men of their own age they are but partially known, and it may be, most inadequately appreciated. The t*ue, and certain test of their real greatness is time ; and, when v/e liad that, as we recede from them in time they are not enveloped in a dark and nameless oblivion ; that they are not hidden altogether from our sight by the mists of one or two intervening generations — th»} fate, alas ! of many very famous men in their own day and generation — when we find that, instead of this, they stand out boldly in relielf as a landmark of that time, and that generation during which thcv flourished ; then we have a proof, patent to ail, of a real greatness, of whatsoever sort that may be. So much then we can assert of Kobert Burns, that, tried now by the test of time, he appears J to be the most notable man of his own country of that generation wherein he flourished. As year after year has gone past, he has been rated higher and higher ; until at the present time, two generations after bis death, the voice of eulogy has been raised higher than ever before. " Robert Burns, the chief of the peasant poets of Scotland, was born in a little mud-walled cottage on the banks of the Doon, near ^ Alloway's auld haunted Kirk,' in the IShire of Ayr, on the twenty-fifth day of January, seventeen hundred and fifty-nine,'* so writes Allbn Cunningham, in the opening paragraph of his short and kindly memoir, introducing the complete works of Burns. It is curious to notice how Allan Cunningham here, in the beginning of his first para- graph only claims for Burns the honour of being " the oMx^i oH\i% pecLsant poets of Scotland." But, when he has about finished bis work, when he is fresh 6 from the review of all that Bums did, and when his heart has been deeply touched while penning the sad memorials of his last days, then we find him claiming for Burns a higher place than before. ''Thus,'' — he says at the head of one of his closing paragraphs — ** Thus lived and died Robert Burns, the chief of Scottish poets." He no longer claims for him only the first place in the second rank of the poets of our country, but he now claims the first place in the first rank. And perhapsi on a much larger scale, and ex- tending over a much larger period of time, a process has been going on in the minds of men with respect to the standing of Burns as a poet, somewhat similar to that which seems to have had its course in the mind of his biographer, during the time he wrote his memoir, and with the same result. We can touch but lightly, and briefly on the dif- ferent periods of the life of Burns. Up till about his twenty-third year he remained under the family roof, and under his father's eye. As far as we seem to have the materials for a judgment, that early pe- riod seems to have been the best and the happiest portion of his life. His father was a man of a thoughtful and earnest character ; of a keen observa- tion and insight, and of a reverent, devout heart ; one of those " priest-like father's," of whom his son has given us such an exquisite picture in the " Tottar's Saturday night." Old William Burns did not thrive well in the world ; some fitful seasons of comparative prosperity cheered his humble family circle ; but, as a rule, his life was a hard struggle against poverty, almost his whole energies were expended in keeping want from his door. Yet he did not sink, or faint in the day of adversity. In this respect he was a far stronger man than his gifted son, who might, had he ^ben his the sad claiming ?hus,"— ragrapbs chief of bim only ts of our the first and ex- i process 1 respect Bit similar se in the wrote his [1 the dif- till about ie family we seem early pe- happiest an of a observa- lart ; one son has (ottar's kot thrive iparative but, as poverty, keeping \r faint in ras a far y, had he been so disposed, have learned some noble lessons in the home where he spent so much of his life. Such a father as he had, with his reverence toward God, and his simple faith in Him, whereby he was able to rise above those adverse circumstances which otherwise would have crushed him to the dust, was a gift of price, far more precious than one bearing an historic name, or possessed of wealth untold, but yet who was destitute of that faith and reverence. There was much to be learned in that home. The balm of na- tural feeling, and of kindly sympathy shed its frag- rance there j the highest wisdom was not banished from that poor hearth ; and Burns had an eye to ap- preciate the beauty of those things which invested that humble family circle with dignity and mural gran- deur. Up till the time when Burns left his home it was well with him. But, in his twenty-third year he leaves the paternal roof, he goes forth into the world, he mingles among looser, and more exciting society than heretofore, and soon he becomes initiated into those vices, which many men, in their foolish wisdom, think to be the true and proper preparative for enter- ing on active life, and for taking ones true place among men. * A kind of mud-bath," as one has well said, " in which the youth is, as it were neces- sitated to steep, and, we suppose, cleanse himself, before the real toga of manhood can be laid on him." Burns, to his loss, was a too apt pupil of such wretched wiseacres ; he plunged into the mud-bath, and to the end of his days he was not much the bet- ter of it, but rather much the worse. It was well the old man, bis father, died before he knew the result of this perilous experiment, for, to him, the sins of his son, both with respect to intemperance and wicked 8 I lewdness, would have brought more shame and sorrow than could have been relieved or healed by joj in his fame as a poet. Burns was not made more tit for his work in life bj his initiation into the pleasant vices, so called, of his javial friends at Irvine. SiUf by whatever pleasant name you call it, is the weakness and the degrada- tion of any man. It is not after we become dissi- pated that we become men, and are prepared to act our part i* > men, but rather b v not becoming dissi- pated at all, or, at the very least, o?ily when we for- sake such a course if it has been begun. A course of dissipation, when continued, shall soon destroy any man, and even when it is short, when a man soon breaks off such a course ; yet he comes not scatheless out of it ; to the very end of his days it is almost certain to be a caur e of weakness to him. Just like some short malignant distemper, which leaves be- hind a running ulcer as a source of perpetual pain and weakness to the whole body. And then, in the case of Burns, with all those splendid endowments of natural genius he had from the hand of God, it was a far more disgraceful, and therefore dangerous experiment to try, than it was with common men. For him to use his own strong expressive words — " To desert f-iir virtue's way, In folly's path to go astray, To exalt the brute, and sink the man." was doubly dangerous, and was certain, as it did, to leave its sting behind to the end of his days. Then, shortly after he left home. Burns fell into acquaintance with a set of divines, called in those days, the new lights, by whom he was welcomed and caressed ; and for whom he did good service by the sorrow J in his I life by I, of bis [)leasant egrada- e dissi- to act ig dissi- we for- course troy any an soon atheless ; almost fust like ^ves be- lal pain I, in the wments God, it gerous Dn men. ds— did, to ell into 1 those ed and by the composition of his religious satires. It was a dark and melancholy time in Scotland at the end of last century. Moderatism. with its wretched substitute of an imperfect morality, for the power of godliness, reigned supreme, with most baleful influence, in the Kirk, and many indeed almost all who arrogated to themselves trie praise ot being the truly liberal and enlightened men of the ftge, and a ver» poor, unheroic age they made of it after all, many sucu set them- selves in determined opposition to what they called a rigid Calvinism, and they did not seem to know that every blow they dealt was aimed against the foun- dations of that faith once deliv^ered to the saints. Among such men Burns found himself, he enjoyed and cultivated their society, and in their companion- ship any little faith or reference which he might have had, seems to have been finally unsettled and destroyed, and in losing these, he lost well nigh all the strength he had wlK^rewith to maintain any future warfare. The position of Burns some three or four years after his father's death was pitiable in the extreme. He had not prospered well in the farm of Mossgiel, to which he had removed his mother and the family ; and while trouble hemmed him in his mind was dis- turbed, burdened, ill at ease. He had no stay for his mind, such as his father had had, no stay on the Blessed God, whereby to continue strong of heart, and steadfast in endeavour, even in the time of sore trial. His own feeling of self-approval and respect had been seriously damaged by his course of dissipa- tion, his character for sobriety was destroyed, and a feeling of despair seems to have been gathering over him dark and thick like a storm cloud, illumined only by the lightnings of remorse. To himself, at this i 10 time, his whole life appeared to be blasted, his very liberty was in danger, for hungry ruin had him in the wind and his only refuge seemed to be an exile from his native country. Amid the gloom of that time he wrote his wild farewell to Scotland. " I had taken," he says, " the last farewell of my friends, my chest was on the road to Greenock, and I had composed the last song I should measure in Caledonia." A song in which he pictures his own menial distress : a dark and stormy night seemed to be closing in upon him at that time, gathering fast, and so he sings : — '' The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast ; Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain." And then, at the thought of being driven into a hopeless exile from his native land, he says : — " Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors aud winding vales ; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past — unhappy loves ; Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those, The bursting tears my heart declare, Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr." a strange, wild and troubled strain. Nothing could be more abhorrent to his heart than to leave his country, so passionately loved by him, and so he sings his sorrow at the near prospect. But it was not so to be ; light began to dawn upon him from a new quarter, " a letter put into his hand, which seemed to light him to brighter prospects," made him turn his face to Edinburgh, where for a little while we shall follow him. When Burns took his journey to Edinburgh, he M 11 lis very *om liis time he taken," \y chest mposed A song a dark )on him n into a s, foes! )se. ig could eave his id so he t it was a from a d, which " made r a little urgh, he ht*.d •\o introduction to any one, and he wasunac- q^r ted personally, with any one, save Dugald Stevvart. At the first he hesitated to call upon the professor, he refrained from making himself known, and he began to negociate with some obscure pub- lisher for a new edition of his works ; this was not the way to make good speed in ridding himself from his difficulties. But soon, accidentally, he was dis- covered by some of his west country acquaintances, and introduced to the society of the capital. His appearance among the wise, and the learned, the titled, and the great, made a great sensation. He is feasted and flattered ; he is welcomed in a sort of triumph, with universal blandishment for a while, and with the highest note of acclamation. Grave professors, and courtly high-born dames, alike unite to do him all honour, beauty and talent alike offer him the incense of praise. It was not an easy thing for Burns, so unaccustomed to such society and scenes, to stand the ordeal ; and the simple manly dignity wherewith he took his place, and sustained it among the noble and cultivated circles of Edinburgh, is one of the best proofs we have of his high rank among the nobility of genius. It was no " mockery king" who had made his appearance among the ele- gant coteries of the city. The sudden elevation vouchsafed to him does not turn his head. As his biographer tells us, " his air was easy and unper. plexed, his address was perfectly well-bred, and ele- gant in its simplicity, he felt neither eclipsed by the titled nor struck dumb before the learned and the eloquent, but took his station with the ease and grace of one born to it." Or, as one of his critics has said, *' He stands there on his own basis, cool, unastonish- ed, holding his equal rank from nature herself, put- 12 III :i i i : ) h ' ' 1 ting forth no claim which there is not strength in him, as well as about him, to vindicate." Dugald Stewart sajs of Burns, at this time, ^* His manners were simple, manly and independent, strongly ex- pressive of conscious genius and worth, but without any indication of forwardness, arrogance or vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to him. Noihing perha|"S was more re- markable among his various attainments, than the fluency and precision and originality of language, when he spoke in company. From his conversation I should have pronounced him to be fitted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he had chosen to exert his abilities." And again, at another time he says, *• all the faculties of Burns' mind were, as far as 1 could judge, equally vigorous," and just so must it ever be with a man of the highest order of genms. — True genius may manifest itself in one special way, or exert its energies in one special department of work ; but that mind where genius of the highest order resides must be comprehensive, many-sided, and expansive ; strong and vigorous in all its powers and faculties ; and able to do any work in any de- partment of mental exertion, better than common men. But there were of her circles in Edinburgh besides those of courtly, high-born dames, and grave learned professors, where Burns was welcomed, and where, to bis own damage, he was often to be found. Cir- cles, where wit transgressed the bounds of modesty, where social enjoyment merged into the excesses of intemperance : circles where the v^ild sally of inde- corous mirth, or the pungent scofi" at all things sa- cred, met with the ready echo of uproarious applause. The name of Burns; Allan Cunningham tells us^ after 13 a while " began to be associated with those of pro- fane wils, and free lirers in ihe city." Poor Burns ! These were no fit scenes wherein to mingle for any man ; still less for hiin [»ossessed of all those rich en- dowments of natural genius, ft was a vile degrada- tion for him to sit even as the King of a drunken orgie, or to move ihe laughter of fools by the utter- ance of spiced blasphemy, or b) makmg a mock at sin. Great gemus has great responsibilities. It does not excuse a man for excesses of low riot or debauchery, but rathtr makes them appear in more than their native delormity, because of their unnatural conjunction with the highest gifts, which have been given for high and worthy ends. And, will any man venture to affirm, that Robert Burns, with that spiendid genius of his, the gift of God, that he was true to himself, far less true to Hirn who made him, in such a use of his talents \ Will any man venture to affirm ihat he was rightly discharging his responsi- bility, when he was giving zest to scenes of debauch- ery and sin ? 1 have no sympathy with those men who looked upon Burns merely as a jovial soul, who were always ready to meet him over the glass with a " hail fellow.' Those I'hili-tines who robbed him of his tru(; lij^ht and strength, and then set him to grind in their own p^i^on-house for their amusement. Such men did much to shorten his days, and imbitter his htrr rt ; they have robbed us of what we might have had from him, only a few scattered fragments have come to us giving some indication of all we have lost, and 1 have no sympathy with the men of kindred spirit of our own day, those men who fasten upon the barchanalian songs of Burns, even with their broad floods of mirtli," or upon his satires, with their hard and sharp impieties, or upon any other of a u i^ r If 1 I \ I his loose and foolish utterances. I say I have no sympathy with the men of our own time who would fasten on these as worthy of their highest applause. In doing so, such men make a miserahle revelation of their own heart, manifesting an affinity there with all things vile and debasing, and further they just show themselves to be of a kindred spirit to those men who, in his lifetime were the bane and curse of Ro- bert Burns, and were he among them even now, such men would do their best to pervert, degrade, and ruin him. Such men are not to be classed at any time among the friends, or among the true admirers of Burns, but rather in a class just the opposite. But let us hasten on with his history. After a prolonged stay in Edinburgh the season of triumph and blandishment was succeeded by one of compara- tive neglect. Burns had many admirers, but hardly any that were wise, and that were true friends. His boon companions, though willing to sun themselves in his humour, and to fool him to the top of his bent, were not the men to whom he could look in the time of his real need, for any wise advice, or for any ef- fectual help, and so Burns began to see that if he was to attain and secure any permanent benefit, he must rely upon himself. His scheme of life, as far as we can see, does not seem to have been so very ill-judged. He sought, and obtained a post in the excise, and he was offered, and accepted a farm, which he had on the terms which he himself proposed. He left Edinburgh to carry his scheme into execution ; he left the city much richer in fame, and somewhat richer in purse than when he came there ; for, not only had he surmounted his embarrassments of debt, but after his settlement with his bookseller, he car- ried with him somewhere about four hundred pounds. 15 have no bo would ipplause. ilation of with all ust show lose men of Ro- ow, such and ruin any time nirers of • After a triumph ompara- it hardly s. His selves in u's bent, the time • any ef- f he was he must ir as we -judged, and he ; had on He left ion ; be mewbat for, Dot )f debt, he car- pounds. His fiiture comfort, and worldly independence seemed to depend on his own perseverance, in working out his own scheme of life. " The farm and the excise exhibit the poet's humble scheme of life," —says his biographer '* the money of the one, he thought, would support the toil of the other, and in the fortunate management of both, he looked for the rough abund- ance, if not the elegancies suitable to^a poet's condi- tion. In connection with >this point, there is a querelous tone of complaint pervading the memoir of Allan Cunningham, which does not seem to be justified by the facts which he himself narrates. He talks about his " ungrateful country," " sordid meanness," ** coldness and neglect," " abuse of the sacred trust of patronage," and other such like platitudes. And he laments that such a genius was " driven to live by the sweat of his brow " or " degraded to the plow and the excise.'' Now, all that in the face of the simple narrative sounds very much like nonsense ; and it is as false in sentiment, as it seems uncalled for by the circumstances of the case. There was no degradation involved in Burns going to his farm, in his being required to labour for a maintenance ; no degradation even in poverty, and Burns would not have been slow to tell his biographer that, and to re- pudiate indignantly such a sentiment. " Is there for honest poverty, That hangs his head and a' that, The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that." If a man be but true to himself, it is beyond the power of outward circumstances to degrade him. — And besides, Burns was a very proud man ; the pa- tronising help which might have been gladly received ■I I i'l 16 by some, would have been disdainfully rejected by him. His own humble scheme of life was far more in accordance with his natural spirit. Indeed, th« mere want of means, the pressure of actual poverty, does not seem to have been his special burden. For long aft»ir this time, when solicited to contribute some lyrics for Thomson's collection of Scottish songs, he made it one conLlition of his compliance that he should receive no remuneration in the shape of money, and even later, he resented as an affront, the sending of a small check on the bank, and warned Thomson to do so no more unless he wished to quarrel with him, so much for his position, and his own feelings on this point. His scheme of life, however, did not succeed. After a trial of about three years he had to gi?e up his farm, into the reasons for which step it is not need- ful that we should enter. Thereafter, he removed Vrith his family into the town of Dumfries, where he continued to reside the few last years of his life. In almost all the works of Burns, in his songs es- peciall)', very many of which were written during these latter days, there are the marks of the highest poetical genius. The true poet does not need to go far for a subject, all nature is the volume in which he reads ; and he has sympathies with all things around him, animate and inanimate. In description, there is a decisive power in Burns which fixes the very image of the thing clear and bright before the mind. Two or three of his winged words do far more than a page of laboured prose ; and thus, from his own day our national literature has been be-gemmed with his own word pictures. His eye was open to see the beauty there is in all things, and i here was a chord which vibrated in his heart, as he listened to their voice. — cted by ar more eed, the poverty, For ite some ongs, he e should ney, and 3ing or a on to do him, so i on this succeed, give up lot need- removed where he life. iongs es- in during B highest ed to go which he s around , there is ry image I. Two n a page day our his own e beauty n\ which voice. — 17 He noted the rain-cloud as it hurried on, the gowan, crushed beneath his plowshare awakened a strain of low, sad music in his heart. '* I have some favourite flowers in spring," he says in one of his letters, '' among which are the mountain-daisy, the harebell, the fox-glove, the wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that T view and hang over with particular delight.'' And again ** I never hear 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." Burns is a true poet, *' he loves the green earth with her streams and forests, her flowery leas »nd eternal skies, loves her with a sort of passion, in all her vicissitudes of light and shade ; his spirit revels in her grandeur and charms ; expands like the breeze over wood and lawn, over glade and dingle, stealing and giving odours." And so also with all the various aspects of human life. He has a fervid sympathy, a reverence, a tenderness, which go straight to the hearts of men. " He has a resonance in his bosom for every not** of human feeling," the high and low, the grave or gay — through the whole gamut of sadness, de- spondency, fear, pity, hope, mirth and joy ; all are alike welcome to him ; he can move them in the hearts of men, just as he himself has been moved by them. Many of his words hate spoken responsive, and shall continue so to speak, to the hearts of all men- No one can fail to mark the intense nationality of Burns. There is a deep pathos in that recorded wish of his : — *• A wish — I mind its power, A wish, that to my latest hour Will strongly heave my breast. That I for poor anld Scotland's sake, \ i r : 18 Some nsefn' plan or book conld make, Or sinp^ a sang at least. The rou^h bur Thistle spreading wide Amoncf the bearded bear, T turned my weeding-clipg aside, And spared the symbol dear." From first to last, the love of country, " a tide of Scottish prejudice," as he himself modestly calls it, swelled high up in his heart. In all his personal cares and distresses this never left him, and in the indulgence of this feeling he seems to escape from the dark clouds which so often hung above him, into the light and sunshine. We cannot but love to see the mani- festation of this deep and generous feeling ; it is, per- haps, the best and noblest of all his characteristics, that one, at least, which is maintained throughout with the most perfect consistency ; and as a Scotch- man we cannot help sympathizing with it. This strong national f'ieHng in the heart of Burns gave the key note to some of his noblest strains. Tt burns in every word of — " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled." by far the finest war-hymn that exist** in any language. The feeling dictated oftentimes the choice of subjects, and at all times the homely Scottish dialect — our loved mother-tongue. It is to Burns, above all men, that we are indebted for the revival of a national tinge and spirit in our literature. Tt shall be a sad day indeed, that da? — which T hope shall never come — when Scotsmen shall be ashamed of Scotland ; when love to their own mother-land shall die out of their hearts. Men may call it prejudice, or narrow- mindedness, or by any other hard name they please, but for our part we must confess that a man always rises in our estimation, when we can see the love of his country — whatever that country may be — strong in his heart. li a nake, wide ' a tide of y calls it, )nal cares ndulgence the dark ► the light the mani- it is, per- cteristics, broughout a Scotch- it. This 1 gave the t burns in language. ' subjects, lect — our e all men, I national I be a sad ;ver come Scotland ; die out of r narrow- ey please, an always le love of 5 — strong And how then, it may be asked, with that splendid genius we ascribe to him, was it that Burns achieved so little? And that his life was what it was 1 We might give a iwo-fold answer. Because, he was not true to himself : And — Because he was not true to his God above. It was not untoward outward circumstances, except in a very slight measure, that oppressed him, and made his life so sad, and his works so imperfect. These are not able to crush a inau true to himself, and to his vocaiionw Such an one is able to rise above them, to bring them under his feet; and one of the noblest chapters in the history of genius is that where we see it triumphing over ditii unities, subduing adverse cir- cumstances beneath it ; and, in spite of them all, actiieving its true and great woik. Milton — merely looking to outward things — was not so well dealt with in his latter days as Burns was. JVlilton for a while occupied a place far higher in the social scale than ever Burns did, and his fall, at the last, was far greater than his. Those events which dashed to ihe earth all the splendid hopes of Milton, of a new era being about to dawn on the destinies of his country, consigned him to poverty and neglect. He was barely tolerated by those in power ; old age began to creep in upon him, an old age oppressed with poverty j and, worst of all, his sight began to fail, and soon he was left in darkness. And yet, Milton, in his poor and blind old age, took his harp and awoke the highest strain which has yet been uttered in our own tongue. But Burns, especially in his latter days, besides having to battle with adversity, was at variance with himself. His mind seems to have been a battle- field, where a stern, ceaseless, and losing conflict was 20 h it Wi I waged, a conflict between his own sense of rig! ., and his sense of wrong-doing. The way of transgressors is very hard. He had lost his fcolln^- of self-approval, he had made shipwreck of a good conscience, and that in defiance of the light that was in liim. He could say many noble things about that which was lovely and virtuous, but he most miserably failed in acting them out. For example. What can bf truc^r and nner than this ? " la there, in human form, that bears a heart. A wretch ! a villain ! lost tolov.> an^i t-utb I That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring an, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth '\ Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth ! Are honour, virtu(?, conaciencc, all exIlM { Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child 1 Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild T' who could imagine, while reading that, that he himself was guilty — doubly guilty — in this very thing. Take another example. In another of his pieces we come unexpectedly on a train of somewhat serious thought — ' But pleasures are like poppies >prcad, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed : Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white, then melts forever ; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely forra, Evanishing arvf) iV** torm." And what are all these beautiful thoughts meant to adorn ? The winding up of the carousal of a tippling cobbler with a drunken farmer — " XV ae man can tether time or tide : The hour approaches Tam maun ride." And was it worthy of Burns to be merely the c^t^' of such good-fellows — falsely so-called ; and to iry, with the light of his God-given genius, to glorify all SCI 21 ^and •essors )roval, iCf and He cli was liled in truer b wild r himself pieces serious eant to tippling le chitnt to iry, orifj all their mad excesses to riot ? We trow not. Take one other example. Burns could not onljr see the beauty, but he could estimate the worth of those thing^s which were really beautiful and excellent. What a fine picture of domestic happiness and piety he has given us in the "Cottar's Saturday Xs'ight,'* of which the original was the home of his youth. A spirit of reverent piety animates the whole scene. — The high praises of God, and the fervent prayer to Him, are special features of it ; shedding over all the calm, still sunshine of peace. *' From 8cene3 like these, old Scotia's grandeur apriogs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad." Nothing more than the simple truth. But, O how very different ** scenes like these'' are, to those with which the name of Robert Burns is associated ! What a diflerence between these, and those other scenes where the " praise of whiskey" took the place of the " praise of God ;" and where the scoff or blasphemy took the place of the reverent prayer to God. It was not possible for Burns to mingle in those other scenes as he did, and escape a stern conflict with his outraged conscience. He knew the good, and he chose the evil ; and knowing this, he felt that he was neither true nor just to himself. It was a most vile degradation to him to reign, even as a king — in those other scenes — to be such a king as be himself de- scribes. " Wha first shall rise to gang awa' A cuckold, coward loon is he I Wha last beside bis chair shall fa, He is the king amang us three !" No genius could ever exalt that sentiment above the rank of brutish. In the mouth of Burns it is some- thing exactly the opposite of what is meant by a <* jewel of gold in a swme'a snout." Now, knowing 22 the good, yet choosing the evil, was one of those questions which be could not settle with himself, and which, pressing for a settlement, darkened and em- bittered his lite. No man can make his life a vain, empty show ; a mere ma^k or revel ; or spend it in hollow laughter and empty mirth, without abiding a sure and stern retribution. " Not many lives, but only one have we, How sacred should that one life ever be ; We have no time to sport away the hours, All must be earnest in a world like out s." And less than most could Burns so use his life. — Great gifts are a great burden and a great curse, if they are not used to the glory of the giver. And the man must answer to nimsel/y as well as to God above, for the wrong or unworthy use of them. But theu; was Burns true to his Godi Can any one really afiirm this ? His living faith in God kept Milton from being utterly crushed under the troubles of his latter days. He says — " I am old and blind, Men point at rae as smitten by God's frown, Affiicttid and deserted of my kind, Yet I am not cast down. I am weak, yet 8trong~ I murmur not that I no longer see ; Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, Father supreme ! to Thee. Thy glorious face Is beaming towards me, and its holy light Shines in upon my dwelling-place, And there is no more night." O that Burns could have so spoken at any time, for God is a refuge in trouble, a stronghold in the time of need. But Burns knew not Him whose name is a itrong tower. There is something unexpressibl^ tad in tht tone of his few devotional pieces. 23 " Thou great being I what thon art, Surpasses me to know." Or apain, " thou unknown, almighty cause, &c." In such manner does he make his approach to Pinj who is revealed to us in Jesus Christ. Something like the purblind philosophers of heathen Athens, gropinaj in darkness after the living God,if haply they may feel after Him, and find Him, and with the dim feeling of their want, building an altar to the unknoT^n God. The morality of Burns was nothing more thap that of a mere worldly man. He had neither high principles, nor high ends : enjoyment, of a finer or coarser sort, is the only thing he seems to long for, or strive for. He has no higher guiding star, there is only a transient glance now and then to those things which are nobler and better — he does not live in their region at all. Indeed, Burns has in reality no religion, no faith in the blessed God. " He lives in darkness and in the shadow of doubt." At the best, he seems to have only an anxious wish, a dark peradyenture — reaching on to eternity. Burns claims from us a far profounder interest as a man^ than as a 'poet. There are few mor^ heart- louching histories recorded than that of his latte^ days When he finally took up his residence in Dumfries, his habits of sobriety were hopelessly broken up ; his peace of mind was gone for ever ; and his heart was bitter, partly against his fellow-men — most of all against himself. When we think of all he was, it sounds like harsh discord to have his name blared out by the hundred tongues of a public festival ; it seems a mockery to choose the ball-room as the place to recal his memory ; it is unfitting that his name should burden the cheers of boon-companions ; it should be uttered softly, and we should remember him in the quite still hour of thought, when the soul is u open to all solemn influences. There is unutterable sadness in the sight of that richly gifted spirit, so noble and gentle without, — wearing itself away in hopeless warring against those vile entanglements wherewith he was environed, — which held him closely in their embrace, coiling round him closer and closer, until death opened its door. He lost the battle which he waged against them. And so he died. — His light went out in profound darkness. \o gospel hope shed a brightness on his path at eventide ; there was no remembrance of that one only name, given among men, whereby we must be saved— no mention of it. In this matter, we are willing to stand upon the word of the living God in the face of all the no- tions and sentimentalities of men. And if that eternal word be true, then, in charity to the living who know that they too must die, no man can say that there was hope in his death. As he lived. So he died. But what a sight of pity and of fear we have in that fitful life, an«l darksome death of his. Words of saddest lamentation rise up in the heart unbidden- " How are the mighty fallen! Ye mountains of Gilhoa let there be no dew, nor rain upon you, nor fields of oflerings: for there the shield of the mighty is vi ely cast- away. How are the might? fallen in the midst of the battle !" The goodly ^hip, lost out- side the haven, not in storm or tempest, but shattered on the sunken rocks by the careless pilot, and going down amid the hungry waves, leaving only a fpw scattered wrecks of the precious freight it bore. unutterable ed spirit, so self away in itanglements 1 him closely r and closer, ; the battle ) he died. — \o gospel [itide ; there name, given -no mention > stand upon ^ all the no- ' that eternal g who know y that there h he died. we have in Words of b unbidden, ountains of on you, nor ' the mighty bty fallen in lip, lost out- Lit shattered , and going only a fpw t bore.