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AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

CHAPTER X.

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ROBERT BURNS: A RATHER SCOTCH CHAPTER.

“How happy have I been been by turns, With Ramsay, Ferguson and Burns.”

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“Ding dong! ding dong! The slow sounds weep, And cadence keep, With the wail of woe O’er the grave below. Ding dong! ding dong! Strew garlands round The holy ground.”—Motherwell.

On the 25th of May in this year, the Commemoration of Burns, for which I had thrown out a signal the year before (as noticed in a preceding page), and the “getting up” of which required much time and exertion, was brought to a gratifying issue. If there is a word or name in the language to serve as a rallying-point for Scotchmen, at home or abroad, that name is Burns. But for this sesame I could never have succeeded in my project. There was hardly a failure. Wherever application was made the response was cordial. Nevertheless, my office of secretary was no sinecure. I was fortunate in procuring the Earl of Aberdeen to preside; the Duke of Buccleugh having previously consented to take the chair, and only withdrawn in consequence of a

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remarkable request which I received from the Duchess, his mother, at Richmond, my prompt acquiescence in which led to gratifying courtesies from that truly excellent lady as long as she lived. Lord Aberdeen was admirably supported by Mr. C. Grant (Lord Glenelg), Sir John Majoribanks, Sir Neil Campbell, Mr. W. R. Keith Douglas, member for Dumfries, Mr. (Sir) Charles Forbes, Mr. Kirkman Finlay, Sir Thomas Bell, Sheriff at the time, Mr. Thomas Campbell, Mr. Wilkie, Mr. (Sir Peter) Laurie, and other gentlemen eminent in the mercantile world, in literature, and the arts. The following list of stewards will verify this, though several were prevented, by various public and insuperable private causes, from attending the dinner party:—

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Campbell wrote a poem on the occasion, which was admirably recited by Mr. Conway, and in the composition of which I met with a peculiar instance of the poet’s fastidiousness in correcting his effusions,—an example, the reverse of which entails upon us so much of the slip-slop and want of finish to which we must submit at the present time: a couple of days only before the meeting, the bard had courteously read over his Ode to me, and left the MS. with me to be printed, returning himself to his residence, then at Sydenham. I thought it was polished to perfection; but not so the author. It rushed into his head that he had written “Which,” instead of “That,” in the penultimate line of the fourth stanza, where two other lines commenced with “who,” and, as I might guess from his note, in much distress at being guilty of such an inelegancy, he despatched an express messenger from Sydenham to town to me with the important correction!* I am inclined to think that Campbell often weakened his first poetical ideas by overpolish, as Scott often left his with blots, in consequence of seldom taking the trouble to correct and refine.

The Earl of Aberdeen having hardly ever, if ever, been induced to preside at a festivity of this kind, gave additional interest to the Commemoration, which, I should say, was “in aid of the subscription for completing the monument over the grave of Burns, then erecting at Dumfries.” Among

* This poetic carefulness may be paralleled by another instance. One Friday afternoon, when I went as usual to my printer’s (Bensley), to correct the last proofs, and see that all was right for the “Literary Gazette” of the morrow, and whilst waiting for slips, I happened to glance over some loose sheets lying on the desk of Rogers’s “Italy” (I think). I pointed out two or three of the slightest inaccuracies or doubtful points to the reader (Mr. Barker, one of those invaluable, good printing-house allies to authors), which he communicated to the poet, and the result was the cancelling of several sheets, at an expense of 50l. or 60l. The majority of writers would not have given sixpence to mend them all. Not so the fastidious Rogers.

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his lordship’s most apposite observations in proposing “The Memory of Robert Burns,” which he did with great feeling, he said: “As Scotchmen, we may well be vain of his talent and his name, for his genius was truly national. Scotland may exult in having given him birth, for he might almost be said to have sprung from her very soil! But while, as Scotchmen, we are justly proud that it was reserved for our country to give birth to such a poet, the hard fate of Burns, while living, and the comparative obscurity in which he closed his days, prove, I am afraid, that while among us he was not sufficiently valued [what genius ever was?], and this reflection, in some sort, turns our very pride into our reproach! We owe to his memory a long arrear of admiration. The only way in which we can now discharge this debt is by uniting to honour his tomb. [It will appear by an incident in the sequel that this was happily not ‘the only way.’] This has now become the duty of his friends and admirers; call it a vain and fruitless duty if you will, but still it is a duty which those who feel an interest in the honour of their country, and in the powers of genius being duly appreciated, will not be the less anxious to fulfil.” After the applause had ceased, and the toast been drunk in silence, Mr. Conway recited the Ode in honour of Burns to which I have alluded, so effectively as to be often interrupted by enthusiastic expressions of admiration and delight. It is, indeed, not unworthy of the bard of “Hohenlinden,” “Lochiel’s Warning,” and “The Mariners of England.” The following is a copy:—

Soul of the Poet! wheresoe’er Reclaim’d from earth thy genius plume Her wings of immortality; Suspend thy harp in happier sphere, And with thine influence illume The gladness of our jubilee.

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And fly like fiends from sacred spell, Discord and strife, at Burns’s name, Exorcis’d by his memory; For he was chief of bards that swell The heart with songs of social flame, And high delicious revelry.

And Love’s own strain to him was giv’n To warble all its ecstacies, With Pythian words unsought, unwill’d, Love the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise In life’s else bitter cup distill’d.

Who that has melted o’er his lay To Mary’s soul in Heav’n above, But pictur’d sees in fancy strong, The landscape and the livelong day That smil’d upon their mutual love,— Who that has felt forgets the song.

Nor skill’d one flame alone to fan— His country’s high-soul’d peasantry What patriot-pride he taught!—how much To weigh the inborn worth of man! And rustic life and poverty Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him in his clay-built cot* the muse Entranc’d and show’d him all the forms, Of fairy-light and wizard gloom, (That only gifted Poet views,) The Genii of the floods and storms, And martial shades from glory’s tomb.

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse The swain whom Burns’s song inspires? Beat not his Caledonian veins, As o’er the heroic turf he ploughs, With all the spirit of his sires, And all their scorn of death and chains?

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* Burns was born in Clay-cottage, which his father had built with his own hands.

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And see the Scottish exile tann’d By many a far and foreign clime, Bend o’er his homeborn verse and weep, In memory of his native land, With love that scorns the lapse of time, And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

Encamp’d by Indian rivers wild The soldier resting on his arms, In Burns’s carol sweet recals The scenes that blest him when a child, And glows and gladdens at the charms Of Scotia’s woods and waterfalls.

O deem not, midst this worldly strife, An idle art the Poet brings, Let high Philosophy control And sages calm the stream of life, ’Tis he refines its fountain springs, The nobler passions of the soul.

It is the muse that consecrates The native banner of the brave, Unfurling at the trumpet’s breath, Rose, thistle, harp, ’tis she elates To sweep the field or ride the wave, A sunburst in the storm of death.

And thou young hero when thy pall Is cross’d with mournful sword and plume, When public grief begins to fade, And only tears of kindred fall, Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb, And greet with fame thy gallant shade.

Such was the soldier,—Burns forgive That sorrows of mine own intrude, In strains to thy great memory due. In verse like thine, Oh! could he live, The friend I mourn’d—the brave, the good Edward that died at Waterloo!*

Farewell high chief of Scottish song, That could’st alternately impart Wisdom and rapture in thy page, And brand each vice with satire strong Whose lines are mottoes of the heart, Whose truths electrify the sage.

* Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.

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Farewell, and ne’er may Envy dare To wring one baleful poison drop From the crush’d laurels of thy bust; But while the lark sings sweet in air, Still may the grateful pilgrim stop, To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

“The living poets of Scotland, and one of the most distinguished of their number, Mr. Campbell,” was the next toast drunk and acknowledged; after which, as I had informed the chairman that a son of Burns was present, with some of his kindred, his lordship, in a handsome manner, proposed their health. Mr. Burns, then a mere youth, answered the tribute with great modesty; and, in the course of the evening, I had the grateful office of introducing him to Mr. Charles Grant, the result of which was, his appointment as a cadet to India, whither he in due time proceeded, and, after good service, returned to his native land a respected officer and prosperous man. Such accidents are beautiful when they do happen, and very consolatory to look back and reflect upon.

An eloquent speech from Mr. Grant, comprising a fine and touching eulogy on Burns, and equally just compliment to the high classic accomplishments of Lord Aberdeen, called up the noble lord, who expressed his anxious feeling for the interest of Scotland, and especially where connected with its literature.

“Mr. Wilkie, and the Scottish Arts and Artists,” was next toasted and acknowledged amid tumultuous plaudits. Sinclair sang, Gow’s band played, and Macgregor, the “great piper”—I have forgot the Gaelic for it—paraded the room in full costume with a melody only ravishing, at such close quarters, to Scotch ears.

The chairman having proposed “The Health of the Stewards, and the Secretary, for his services in promoting

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the meeting,” Mr. (Sir Charles) Forbes returned thanks for the former, and I had the pleasure to read over a list of subscriptions, amounting to ahout 3501., with the remark that I trusted it would enable the committee at Dumfries to go on vigourously with the monument, and also to remind the company of the opinion of Burns, that the “Scottish poet should not sleep without a monument,” when he raised one, at his own expense, to the memory of Ferguson.

After Lord Aberdeen retired, Campbell was called to the chair, whose vivacity and good humour prolonged the festival of feeling for another hour. He gave “The Health of the great living Bard, Sir Walter Scott, and also of Mr. Mayne, the author of the charming ballad of ‘Logan Waters;’” for which Mr. Mayne (of the “Siller Gun,” a sweet composition), returned his acknowledgments. Mr. Laurie (now Sir Peter) again proposed my health, with a flattering notice of me as “the individual who had originated this Commemoration, and whose exertions, for the last two years, to accomplish the interesting object, had been as great and unremitting as they had ultimately proved successful.” I naturally expressed my gratitude for such a compliment; and the night concluded in so gratifying a manner that a morning paper of the following day stated, the “entertainment had terminated, at the close of which every friend to poetical genius who was present

Might have the happiness to say, My friends, I have not lost a day!”

Together with Campbell’s fine poem were printed and distributed two other pieces: one by an English lady, and the other by myself, for the toast of “the Duke of Wellington and the Scottish Heroes of Egypt and Maida, the Peninsula,

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and Waterloo;” both of which I append to this description of a memorable Scottish day in London.

O Thou, too early and too sadly lost, Enchanting Bard! by fate, by passion tost, Whose hardy genius forced its tangled way, And would expand, and struggled into day;— At length we hail thee, cenotaphed, inurned, At length we mourn thee, as thou should’st be mourned; Art waits at length upon thy honour’d tomb, And Poesy recording weeps thy doom.

Yet fame was thine, and tears. Thy native plains, The hills, the rivers, echoed to thy strains. For bright though changeful, as his Scottish clime, The Peasant-minstrel’s wild and vigorous rhyme; Where smiles and tears contest the varying hour, Or sweetly blend like April’s sunny shower; Where lightsome airs come fresh and fancy-driven, Like white clouds whirling o’er the deep blue Heaven. And many a lovely sound thy name has brought, Many a fair sight wakened thy dear thought.

Oh! who could see the mountain daisy spring, Or hear high-poised the early laverock sing, Or loitering tread the pleasant banks of Ayr, Or list the milk-maid sooth her evening care With some old, wild, yet sweetest melody, Nor inly breathe that strain divinely free Which gives to each its immortality!

And when, long ages hence, gray moss shall spread Destructive o’er each column’s trophied head, And every stone confused and broken lie, And e’en the Mausoleum’s self shall die; Then, if perchance some mouldering letters tell Whose reliques in its ruined precincts dwell;— Then shall that fresh, that unforgotten name Repay the arrear of monumental fame, As oft the Traveller, oft the Poet turns, To muse and linger o’er the Tomb of Burns.

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THE AFTER-BATTLE SANG.

BY WILLIAM JERDAN.

Tune—“Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.”

Scots frae Maida’s laurel’d strand, Scots o’ Wellington’s brave band, Welcome to yere native land, After glorious Victory!

Scotchmen bauld, by Scotchmen led, For yere Country hae ye bled, Making foemen’s bluidy bed In ilka field o’ Victory.

Another wreath about thy urn Is twined, thou Chief o’ Bannockburn, And them we luve, and them we mourn, Reminded us o’ thee;

Whan to the winds the tartan threw Its meteor faulds o’ changefu’ hue, And on thy plain, red Waterloo, The claymore reap’d the Victory!

Scots o’ Wellington’s brave band, O’ Egypt and o’ Maida’s strand, Let’s drain the bowl, and grasp the hand, And sing the Sang o’ Victory,

It was presumption enough in me to appear in type on the same page with Campbell; but it was all from the heart, and I have no apology to offer.

As this chapter is peculiarly Scottish, I imagine that a few specimens of Scottish sentiments on the subject of Burns will not be unacceptable, at least to the national portion of my readers; nor indeed to any readers, for where is it that the admiration of Burns does not prevail?

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FROM MR. FRANCIS HORNER.

* This was not amiss in the editor of the “Morning Chronicle!”

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I am afraid Mr. Hunt, who was the architect of the monument, Mr. Turnerelli executing the sculpture, never received the proposed honorarium.*

* I see a receipt to me signed “Peter Turnerelli” for 220l., in part payment of the sculpture. The whole design was finished in September, 1819.

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