subscription to get the money to pay his passage to America. Ah! could that poor, desperate ploughman of Mossgiel have foreseen this day, could he have known that because of those poems, an abiding part of literature, familiar to every people, sung and repeated in American homes from sea to sea, his genius would be honored and his name blessed and his statue raised with grateful pride to keep his memory in America, green forever, perhaps the amazing vision might have nerved him to make his life as noble as his genius, perhaps the full sunshine of assured glory might have wrought upon that great, generous, wilful soul to

"Take a thought an' men'."

brilliant society flattered him, but his brillianey outshone its own. He was wiser than the learned, wittier than the gayest, and more courteous than the courtliest. His genius flashed and blazed like a torch among the tapers, and the well-ordered company, enthralled by the surprising guest, winced and wondered. If the host was condescending,, the guest was never obsequious. But Burns did not love a lord, and he chafed indignantly at the subtle but invincible lines of social distinction, feeling too surely that the realm of leisure and ease, a sphere in which he knew himself to be naturally master, must always float beyond, beyond-the alluring glimmer of a mirage. A thousand times wistfully watching this fascinating human figure amid the sharp vicissitudes of his life, from Poosie Burns's sudden fame stayed him and Nansie's ale-house in Mauchline to the statebrought him to Edinburgh and its brilliantly drawing-room of Gordon Castle, with all literary society. Hume was gone, but Adam his royal manhood and magnificent capability Smith remained; Robertson was there and entangled and confused; the heart longs, but Dugald Stewart. There, also, were Blacklock longs in vain, to hear the one exulting and and Hugh Blair and Archibald Alison; Fra- triumphant cry of the strong man coming to ser Tytler, and Adam Ferguson and Henry himself, "I will rise." Erskine. There, too, were the beautiful Duchess of Gordon and the truly noble Lord Glencairn. They welcomed Burns as a prodigy, but he would not be patronized. Glad of his fame, but proudly and aggressively independent, he wanders through the stately city, taking off his hat before the house of Allan Ramsay and reverently kissing Robert Ferguson's grave, his "elder brother in misfortune,' as Burns called him. He goes to the great houses, and although they did not know it, he was the greatest guest they had ever entertained, the greatest poet that then or ever walked the streets of Edinburgh. His famous hosts were all Scotchmen, but he was the only Scotchman among them who had written in the dialect of his country, and who had become famous without ceasing to be Scotch. But one day there stole into the drawing-room, where Burns stood, a boy of fifteen, who was presently to eclipse all Scottish fame but that of Burns himself. The poet was looking at an engraving of a soldier lying frozen in the snow, under which were some touching lines, and as he read them, Burns, with his eyes full of tears, asked who wrote them. None of the distinguished company could tell him, but the young boy. Walter Scott, timidly whispered the name of the author, and he never forgot that Burns turned upon him his full, dark, tearful eyes -eyes which Scott called the most glorious imaginable, and thanked him. Scott never saw Burns again.

The dazzling Edinburgh days were a glaring social contrast to the rest of his life. The

But with all his gifts, that was not given him. Burns left Edinburgh to wander about his bonnie Scotland, his mind full of its historic tradition and legendary lore, and beginning to overflow with songs born of the national melodies. He was to see, and he wished to see no other land. His heart beat toward it with an affectionate fidelity, as if he felt that somehow its destiny were reflected in his own. At Coldstream, where the Tweed divides Scotland from England, he went across the river, but as he touched the English soil he turned, fell upon his knees, stretched out his arms to Scotland, and prayed God to bless his native land.

His wanderings ended, Burns settled at twenty-nine upon the pleasant farm of Ellisland, in Nithsdale, over the hills from his native Ayrshire.

"To make a happy fireside climo

For weans and wife."

Here his life began happily. He managed
the farm, started a parish library, went to
church, and was proud of the regard of his
neighbors. He was honored and sought by
travellers, and his genius was in perfect tune.
"Tam O'Shanter," and Bonnie Doon,"
the songs of " Highland Mary," "John An-
derson my Joe," and "Auld Lang Syne,"
are all flowers of Ellisland.
not be farmer, gauger, poct, and prince of
good fellows all at once. The cloud darkened
that was never to be lifted. The pleasant
farm at Ellisland failed, and Burns, selling

But he could

Five years of letting his life "wear ony "Except for grace," said Bunyan, "I should way it would hing" and Burns's life was have been yonder sinner." "Granted," says ended in 1796, in his thirty-seventh year. Burns's brother man and brother Scot, There was an outburst of universal sorrow. Thomas Carlyle, in the noblest plea that one A great multitude crowded the little town at man of genius ever made for another, "Granthis burial. Memorials, monuments, biogra- ed the ship comes into harbor with shroud phies of every kind followed. Poets ever and tackle damaged, and the pilot is theresince have sung of him as of no other poet. fore blameworthy, for he has not been allThe theme is always fresh and always capti- wise and all-powerful; but to know how vating, and within the year our own Ameri- blame-worthy, tell us first whether his voycan poet, beloved and honored in his beauti-age has been round the globe or only to ful and unwasted age, sings of Burns as he Ramsgate and the Isle of Dogs." sees him in vision, as the world shall forever see him, an immortal youth cheerily singing at his toil in the bright Spring morning.

man's words true. Great poets before and after Burns have been honored by their countries and by the world; but is there any great poet of any time or country who has so taken the heart of what our Abraham Lincoln, himself one of them, called the plain people, that, as was lately seen in Edinburgh, when he had been dead nearly a hundred years, workmen going home from work begged to look upon his statue for the love and honor they bore to Robbie Burns? They love him for their land's sake, and they are better Scotchmen because of him. England does not love Shakespeare, nor Italy Dante, nor Germany Goethe, with the passionate ardor with which Scotland loves Burns. It is no wonder, for here is Auld Scotia's thistle bloomed out into a flower so fair that its beauty and perfume fill the world with joy.

is more divine than his, that no influence is more profound, that no human being is a truer benefactor of his kind. The spiritual power of poetry, indeed, like that of natural beauty, is immeasurable, and it is not easy to define and describe Burns's service to the world. But without critical and careful detail of observation, it is plain, first of all, that he interpreted Scotland as no other country has been revealed by a kindred genius. Were Scotland suddenly submerged and her people swept away, the tale of her politics and kings and great events would survive in histories. But essentially Scotland, the customs, legends, superstition, language, age, the grotesque humor, the keen sagacity, the simple serious faith, the characteristic spirit of the national life caught up and preserved in the sympathy of poetic genius, would live forever in the poet's verse. The sun of Scotland sparkles in it; the birds of Scotland sing; its breezes rustle, its waters murmur. Each "timorous wee beastie," the "ourie cattle," and the "sillie sheep," are softly penned and gathered in this all-embracing fold of song. Over the dauntless battle hymn of "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" rises the solemn music of the "Cotter's Saturday Night." Through the weird witch romance of "Tam O'Shanter" breathes the scent of the wild rose of Alloway, and the daring and astonishing Babel of the "Jolly Beggars' is penetrated by the heart-arts who impress us as most exquisitely rebreaking sigh to Jessie:

"Although thou maun never be mine,
Although even hope is denied,
"Tis sweeter for thee despairing

Than aught in the world beside.”

The poet touches every scene and sound, every thought and feeling, but the refrain of all is Scotland. To what other man was it ever given so to transfigure the country of his birth and love? Every bird and flower, every hill and dale and river, whisper and repeat his name, and the word Scotland is sweeter because of Robert Burns.

But the power thus to depict national life and character and thus to kindle an imperishable patriotism cannot be limited by any nationality or country. In setting words to Scotch melodies Burns turns to music the emotions common to humanity, and so he passes from the exclusive love of Scotland into the reverence of the world. Burns died at the same age with Raphael; and Mozart, who was his contemporary, died only four years before him. Raphael and Mozart are the two men of lyrical genius in kindred

fined by careful cultivation; and although Burns was of all great poets the most unschooled, he belonged in poetry with Raphael in painting and Mozart in music, and there is no fourth. An indescribable richness and flower-like quality, a melodious grace and completeness and delicacy, belong to them all. Looking upon a beautiful human Madonna of Raphael, we seem to hear the rippling cadence of Mozart and the tender and true songs of Burns. They are all voices of the whole world speaking in the accent of a native land. Here are Italy and Germany and Scotland, distinct, individual, perfectly But in thus casting a poetic spell upon recognizable, but the sun that reveals and ileverything distinctively Scotch, Burns fos-luminates their separate charm, that is not tered a patriotism which has become proverbil. The latest historian of England says that at the time of Burns's birth England was mad with hatred of the Scots. But when Burns died there was not a Scotchman who was not proud of being a Scotchman. A Scotch ploughman singing of his fellow peasants and their lives and loves in their own language, had given them in their own eyes a dignity they had never known:

"A man's a man for a' that."

Italian or German or Scotch, it is the sun of universal nature. This is the singer whom this statue commemorates, the singer of songs immortal as love, pure as the dew of the morning, and sweet as its breath; songs with which the lover wooes his bride and the

mother soothes her child, and the heart of a people beats with patriotic exultation; songs that cheer human endeavor and console hu

man sorrow and exalt human life. We cannot find out the secret of their power. Until we know why the rose is sweet, or the dew

And America is trying to make the plough- drop pure, or the rainbow beautiful, we can

not know why the poet is the best benefactor of humanity. Whether because he reveals us to ourselves, or because he touches the soul with the fervor of divine aspiration, whether

because in a world of sordid and restless anx

iety he fills us with serene joy, or puts into rhythmic and permanent form the best thoughts and hopes of man-who shall say?

But none the less is the heart's instinctive loyalty to the poet the proof of its consciousness that he does all these things, that he is the harmonizer, strengthener, and consoler. How the faith of Christendom has been staid

OF BURNS.

LONDON, 25 JANUARY, 1859.

We hail, this morn,

for centuries upon the mighty words of the THE PRIZE ODE ON THE CENTENARY old Hebrew bards and prophets, and how the vast and inexpressible mystery of divine love and power and purpose has been best breathed in parable and poem! If we were forced to surrender every expression of human genius but one, surely we should retain poetry; and if we were called to lose from the vast accumulation of literature all but a score of books, among that choice and perfect remainder would be the songs of Burns.

How fitly, then, among the memorials of great men, of those who in different countries and times and ways have been leaders of mankind, we raise this statue of the poet whose genius is an unconscious but sweet and elevating influence in our national life. It is not a power dramatic, obvious, imposing, immediate, like that of the statesman, the warrior, and the inventor, but it is as deep and strong and abiding. The soldier fights for his native land, but the poet touches that land with the charm that makes it worth fighting for, and fires the warrior's heart with the fierce energy that makes his blow invincible. The statesman enlarges and orders liberty in the State, but the poet fosters the love of liberty in the heart of the citizen. The inventor multiplies the facilities of life, but the poet makes life better worth living. Here, then, among trees and flowers and waters; here upon the green sward and under the open sky; here where birds carol, and children play, and lovers whisper, and the various stream of human life flows bywe raise the statue of Robert Burns. While the human heart beats that name will be music in human ears. He knew better than we the pathos of human life. We know better than he the infinite pathos of his own. Ah! Robert Burns, Robert Burns, whoever lingers here as he passes and muses upon your statue will see in imagination a solitary mountain in your own beautiful Scotland, heaven-soaring, wrapped in impenetrable clouds. Suddenly the mists part and there are the heather, the brier-rose, and the gowan fine, there are the

A century's noblest birth;

A Poet peasant-born,

Who more of Fame's immortal dower
Unto his country brings,

Than all her Kings!