Speech of the President of the Centenary Celebration OF THE BIRTHDAY OF ROBERT BURNS, DELIVERED AT SAN FRANCISCO, JANUARY 25, 1859. ATURE made the author of "The Gentle Shepherd" a poet, NAT and, as it were out of compliment, she allowed him to live to a green old age in the full enjoyment of his fame and riches. The grass of the old Gray Friars' churchyard had only waved over the grave of Allan Ramsay one summer, before the great national poet was born. On the 25th of January, 1759, this very day one hundred years ago, Burns came weeping into the world to fulfil his high and glorious destiny. He was born in a clay-built, straw. thatched cottage, on the banks of the Doon, and was nursed in the lap of poverty. His journey of life was one of bitterness and neglect. He nobly struggled like a man, however, and towered above the circumstances of his birth. Though not born to titles, or to an inheritance from a long line of distinguished ancestors, he was illustrious by nature, and received the high credentials of nobility from his God-an imperishable honor, and a gift which monarchs cannot confer or take away. "And Burns-though brief the race he ran, The image of his God." Wherever the drum of freedom beats; wherever the flag of freedom waves; wherever the light of science shines; wherever the march of human improvement can be traced; wherever the English language is spoken, and wherever Scotchmen wander, you will find those who are familiar with his writings, who sing his spirit-stirring lyrics, and glory in his name. While we are enjoying ourselves around this festive board, there are thousands throughout the world, at this very hour, gathered together to commemorate the day of the year which gave birth to our great national poet one century ago. Never was there such a compliment paid to human genius. The titled lord and the humble peasant, the rich and the poor, men who are illustrious in science, in literature, in history, and in poesy, cordially unite, on this great occasion, to celebrate in a becoming manner the centenary anniversary of the poet Burns. Surely, there is something extraordinary about the genius of our bard, to command such universal honors and admiration. Some of the most distinguished men of our own time have nobly vindicated his character from the vile aspersions that canting hypocrisy and calumny endeavored to heap upon his memory. Mean minds slander the nobly gifted, and try to pull down the eminent to the platform of their own vulgar level. Some fools have disgraced the pulpit by their unsparing denunciations of the poet. Those reverend calumniators may with cowardly impunity assail the dead, and drag up all his shortcomings from the grave, but they would have quailed in his presence when living, they would have shrunk from the flashing lightning of his eyes. Tyranny found in him an implacable foe. Hypocrisy writhed under his bitter sarcasm. Freedom looked upon him as her brave defender, and smiled at his triumphs. Modesty may have blushed sometimes at his wayward Muse, but his many estimable qualities made ample atonement for all his transgressions. Virtue forgave him for all the little wrongs he inflicted upon her purity, and Charity, the handmaid of Love, draws a veil of forgetfulness over all his failings. His niche in the temple of fame is too lofty and sacred for the petty shafts of calumny to reach. Burns was emphatically the poet of nature. A warmer heart never beat within a bosom. He was intensely Scottish in his feelings, and his soul burned with a devotion to his country which adversity could not still. He sympathized with all suffering: that wee sleekit, cowerin', tim'rous beastie," the mouse, he called his 66 "Poor earth-born companion And fellow-mortal." He mourned the daisy of the field which he turned up with his plough, but while he crushed it the magic touch of his Muse gave the "Wee modest crimson-tippit flower" a glorious immortality. The Cotter's Saturday Night is beautifully faithful in description, and for true pathos and touching simplicity we have nothing in our language to equal it. His poems have supplied the sculptor with characters for the ingenuity of his chisel, and the artist with subjects for the exercise of his pencil. Tam O'Shanter, the most wildly imaginative of all his works, is the master-piece of his creative fancy. In it we discover the ludicrous, the sentimental, the moral, and the horrible, so exquisitely combined as to form a magnificent whole. No picture of pandemonium that ever was conceived by man can compete in horrible and appalling grandeur with the witches' dance in the old ghost-haunted Kirk Alloway. I will not dwell upon his writings. Scotland is taunted with first starving her bard, and afterwards erecting splendid monuments in honor of his memory. It is true that he died neglected by the very men who knew his wants and had it in their power to alleviate them. He had dedicated his poems "to the noblemen and gentlemen of the Caledonia Hunt;" but beyond subscribing for a copy each, at the request of the Earl of Glencairn, I should like to know what that titled band ever did for Burns while living, except cruelly degrading him by a disreputable appointment, with a salary not sufficient to bind decently body and soul together. His income, when he fell sick, was reduced to £35 a year. Lord Hawkesbury declined a personal introduction to the poet, when quartered at Dumfries; and yet, strange to say, he officiated as one of the chief mourners at his funeral. It is difficult to reconcile such inconsistency of character. We see a vast amount of very small feeling exemplified in our own day, even in our very midst. Gold, and not intellect, is taken as the standard of the man. Burns was shamefully negdoes not follow that neglect lected while living, it is true; but it of genius is peculiar to Scotland. No country stands entirely free from the imputation. Homer strolled as a ballad-singer, reciting his immortal verses, and seven cities claimed him when dead. Socrates was poisoned by the Athenians. Cervantes, the great genius of Spain, had not bread to eat at one period; and Camoens, the solitary pride of Portugal, perished from want of the necessaries of life. Vondel died in wretchedness and penury; Tasso and Ariosto were miserably poor. When Racine was asked by Louis XIV. what there was new in the literary world, he told the French monarch that he had seen a melancholy spectacle in the house of Corneille the poet, whom he found in a dying state, without bread to eat. Can our sister country, England, boast of what she has done for some of her poets? Did not Spenser languish in poverty? Did not Samuel Butler, the author of Hudibras, owe the decency of interment to the charity of a friend? Did not Dryden die neglected and in want, and, like Burns, was honored with a public funeral? Was not Savage buried at the expense of his benevolent jailer? Were not Collins and Goldsmith wretchedly poor? As for Otway and Chatterton, they were starved to death. I could dwell upon this melancholy subject for hours. All that I can say in regard to Burns is this, that the present generation is not accountable for the neglect and blunders of the last. The adoption of any other principle would be carrying out to the letter the old Mosaic law, by "visiting the iniquities of the fathers upon their children." We do well if we can give a good account of our own omissions and commissions, without being saddled with the transgressions of our ancestors. For love of country, I believe, the Scotch will yield to no other nation under the sun. Like Arabia, Scotland has been frequently invaded, and like that remarkable country she lives unconquered. The Hadjis travel over arid wastes and burning sands to visit the tomb of their Prophet, and, with feelings more enlightened and exalted, do we find thousands annually wending their way on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Burns. This is a grand national festival, my friends, and we are not assembled exclusively as Scotsmen to honor the memory of the poet. I care not from what nation you come. If from Scotland, I congratulate you, my countrymen, on this great occasion. Bring all your national |