The Press. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1896. THE ROBERT BURNS CENTENARY.

Press, Volume LIII, Issue 9522, 15 September 1896, Page 4

The Press. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1896. THE ROBERT BURNS CENTENARY.

The centenary of the death of Burns appears to have been celebrated throughout Scotland with even more than the usual enthusiasm and fervour that the birth days and death days of Scotland's darling poet patriot are wont to call forth. On that day at least it might well be said that Burns was Scotland's Mahomet and Dumfries its Mecca. For thither pilgrims repaired from all parts of Scotland and the United Kingdom, from America, the colonies—in fact from every corner of the earth where Scotsmen have made a home; and where have they not? Votive offerings, memorial wreaths, tokens of affection and reverence were brought by pilgrims to the shrine, and laid by Lord Rosebery on ,the poet's grave. On him also fell | the honour and the burden of the (centenary oration—a glowing, eloquent ■tribute to Burns as a poet, patriot !and man. I "Don't be afraid," said Burns to jhis wife, "I'll be more respected a j hundred years after I'm dead than I am at present." Here is the same ? strong note of confidence in his own jfame that Shakespeare uttered, and . that every sane and balanced man of ! genius feels. And never, truly, was | prophecy more amply, more gloriously , fulfilled. Burns has not merely won eternal fame ; he has won the affection I and gratitude of posterity in a sense

obtained by few, if any, of the great names in the history of literature. It is perhaps as much due to the weakness of his peccant nature, to the simple humanity of his character, as to his intellectual power or poetic inspiration that he owes this enviable fate. The Dantes, Shakespeakes, and Miltons of literature we honour ; it is only the Horaces, Goldsmiths and Burnses that we love. And Robert Burns is loved as no other writer before or since has" been loved; he is not the admired of a circle, the revered of a cult; he is the darling of a nation.

To what, then, does he owe this singular fate—this gratitude and devotion unparalleled in the history of literature? His inspiration accounts for much; yet even Shakespeare has no such hold upon a nation. His name inspires no fervid glow in the heart of his countrymen; they revere his memory, and do honour to his festivals; but the Stratford celebration compared with a Burns commemoration are academic functions rather than national outbursts. " Shakespeare Societies " are founded to expound and interpret an author; " Burns Clubs" are established to worship a deity. And "Burns statues " are, as Lord Rosebery wittily remarked, " a hardy annual." Nor shall we find the complete explanation in his career as a patriot. •He appeals, it is true to the democratic interests of his people; and " a man's a man for a.' that" is a saw of might that even Hodge can understand. But his democracy was not singular, was not new; it was in the atmosphere of his time, and he but gave poetic expression to the ideal of the French Revolution which had so much to do with moulding his genius. There was about him the infinite charm of sympathy and kindness—so catholic that it extended even from a field mouse to the " de'il himsel'" whose ultimate forgiveness he very freely refused to despair of. But other poets have been as tender and gentle and full of the milk of human kindness as even Burns.

Probably the explanation of his extraordinary hold upon Scotsmen lies in the fact that he not merely commanded their admiration, but compelled their gratitude. He possibly owes even more to the perfervid patriotism, the assertive, not to 'say bellicose national pride of his countrymen, than even to his own gifts, great though they were. He won for the literature of his country a consideration it had never enjoyed before; he elevated its homely dialect into a literary language, and exhibited its capabilities for poetic expression in a light that had never before been dreamed of. To quote Lord Eosebery, " Burns exalted his race. He hallowed Scotland and the Scottish tongue. His Scottish notes rang throughout the world, and preserved the Scottish language for ever." He became as it were the incarnation of Scottish nationality, and so arrayed on his side the national pride, the national gratitude of his countrymen. That is not the reason why he takes high—even the highest—rank as a poet, but it explains perhaps the perpetual buzz of praise he has earned as compared with the more silent admiration accorded to m§n of equal genius and perhaps even greater literary achievement.

But the love of Scotsmen for Burns becomes even more remarkable when we remember his life as well as his poetry. It must put a severe strain on the consciences of the --unco quid " of his nation to give such unstinted reverence to the memory of this wilful, erratic, dissipated child of genius. That this free-living, freethinking, free-loving poet should be the hero and darling of the austere Scottish nation is little short of a bewildering paradox, till we remember that it is often the imperfections of our greatest men that endear them to our hearts by reminding us they are made of the same clay as ourselves. Their love for Burns speaks eloquently of the tolera_.ce of his countrymen and of their capacity to realise that his soul was pure as crystal, even while imprisoned in a " muddy vesture of decay," that was more than usually muddy. And, after all, as Lord Rosebery said, his weaknesses and vices weighed against the purity of his inspiration and depth of his sympathy are matters infinitely little and remote. Such as his faults were, his sufferings in those last dark years more than expiated them. For no one ever realised more bitterly than Burns the truth of his own lines —amongst the finest in any language :— But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed. Or like the snow fall in the river, A moment white—then melts for ever.