Ralph Waldo Emerson - In Honor of
January 25, 1859; Boston Burns Club, Massachusetts; In Honor of Burns, Scottish poet
"Mr. President and gentlemen - I do not know by what untoward accident it has chanced - and I forbear to inquire -that, in this
accomplished circle, it should fall to me, the worst Scotsman of all, to receive your commands, and at the latest hour, too, to respond to the sentiment just offered, and which, indeed, makes the occasion. But I am told there is no appeal, and I must trust tothe inspiration of the theme to make a fitness which does not otherwise exist. Yet, sir, I heartily feel the singular claims of the occasion. At the first announcement, from I know not whence, that the twenty-fifth of January was the hundredth anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns, a sudden consent warned the great English race, in all its kingdoms, colonies and states, all over the world, to keep the festival.
We are here to hold our parliament with love and poesy, as men were wont to do in the Middle Ages. Those famous parliaments might or might not have had more stateliness, and better singers
than we - though that is yet to be known - but they could not have better reason. I can only explain this singular
unanimity in a race which rarely acts together - but rather after their watchword, each for himself - by the fact that Robert Burns, the poet of the middle class, represents in the mind of men today that great uprising of the middle
class against the armed and privileged minorities - that uprising which worked politically in the American and French Revolutions, and which, not in governments so much as in education and in social order, has changed the face of the world. In order for this destiny, his birth, breeding and fortune were low.
His organic sentiment was absolute independence, and resting, as it should, on a life of labor. No man existed who could look down on him. They that looked
into his eyes saw that they might look down on the sky as easily. His muse and teaching was common sense, joyful, aggressive, irresistible. Not Latimer, nor Luther, struck more telling blows against
false theology than did this brave singer. The "Confession of Augsburg," the "Declaration of Independence," the French "Rights of man," and the "Marseillaise," are not more
weighty documents in the history of freedom than the songs of Burns. His satire has lost none of its edge.
His musical arrows yet sing through the air. He is so substantially a reformer, that I find his grand, plain sense in close chain with the greatest masters Rabelais,
Shakespeare in comedy, Cervantes, Butler, and Burns. If I should add another name, I find it only in a living countryman of
He is an exceptional genius. The people who care nothing for literature and poetry care for Burns. It was
indifferent -they thought who saw himwhether he wrote verse or not; he could have done anything else as well. Yet how true a poet is he.
And the poet, too, of poor men, of hoddengray, and the Guernsey-coat, and the blouse. He has given voice to
all the experiences of common life; he has endeared the farmhouse and cottages, patches and poverty, beans
and barley; ale the poor man's wine; hardship, the fear of debt, the dear society of weans and wife, of
brothers and sisters, proud of each other, knowing so few, and finding amends
for want and obscurity in books and thought. What a love of nature; and - shall I say? - of
middle-class nature. Not great, like Goethe, in the stars, or like Byron, on the ocean, or Moore, in the luxurious East, but in the homely landscape
which the poor see around them-bleak leagues of pasture and stubble, ice, and sleet, and rain, and
snow-choked brooks; birds, hares, field-micel thistles, and heather, which he daily knew. How many "Bonny
Doons," and "John Anderson my Joes," and "Auld Lang Synes," all around the earth, have his verses been
applied to! And his love songs still woo and melt the youths and maids; the farm work, the country holiday, the fishing
cobble, are still his debtors today.
And, as he was thus the poet of the poor, anxious, cheerful, working humanity, so had he the language of low life. He grew up in a rural district, speaking a patois unintelligible to all but natives, and he has made that Lowland Scotch a
Doric dialect of fame. It is the only example in history of a language made classic by the genius of a single man. But more than this. He had that
secret of genius to draw from the bottom of society the strength of its speech, and astonish the ears of the
polite with these artless words, better than art, and filtered of all offense through his beauty. It seemed
odious to Luther that the devil should have all the best tunes; he would bring them into the churches; and
Burns knew how to take from fairs and gypsies, blacksmiths and drovers, the speech of the market and street,
and clothe it with melody.
But I am detaining you too long. The memory of Burns - I am afraid heaven and earth have taken too
good care of it to leave us anything to say. The west winds are murmuring it. Open the windows behind you and
hearken for the incoming tide, what the waves say of it. The doves, perching always on the eaves of the Stone
Chapel opposite, may know something about it. Every home in broad Scotland keeps his fame bright. The
memory of Burns - every man's and boy's, and girl's head carries snatches of his songs, and can say them by
heart, and, what is strangest of all, never learned them from a book, but from mouth to
mouth. The wind whispers them, the birds whistle them, the corn, barley, and bulrushes hoarsely rustle them; nay, the music boxes at Geneva are framed and toothed to play
them. The hand organs of the Savoyards in all cities repeat them,
and the chimes of bells ring them in the spires. They are the property and the solace of