Dedication Address by Lord Rosebery

It is not easy for me to speak about Burns, for I have spoken about him so recently and so fully.   But I am glad to come here today to unveil yet another statue in his honour – a statue significant in at least two respects.   In the first place, it is produced fitly enough by melody, as I understand; for this effigy is the outcome of popular music, which, while it has at the moment charmed the hearts of thousands, has left a permanent embodiment here.   The figure, then, is in fact “petrified music.”  No more apt memorial could have been found of the sweet singer of Scotland.   In the second place, we citizens of Paisley always remember that a great master of phrases once bade the world, in words so familiar that you might almost adopt them as your motto keep its eye on Paisley.    When Paisley, then, takes action of this kind it may be assumed that her purpose is notable and well considered.   And so it is.   After a century of deliberation, during ninety years at least of which Paisley has had one and sometimes more Burns Clubs annually expatiating upon the poet, and during the whole of which she has been, I doubt not, watching for an opportunity, Paisley has determined to erect a statue to Burns, and, looking round at the many that already exist, has determined that hers should be unique.  And so, when we consider the means taken to provide the money, this statue may be described.   Moreover, the opportunity has come.   Nine years ago, for reasons I will presently touch upon, there might even have been a more suitable moment, but this year, when we commemorate Burns death  - this year, to which Burns looked forward as the test of his immortality – offers a fitting occasion for this deliberate memorial.

It is well; I think, in the case of great genius, that some memorials should be deliberate, and that some should be immediate.   It has recently been alleged, in connection with the memorial to Robert Louis Stevenson, first, that his works are his best memorial, and secondly, that it would be well to wait and see how these works endure.   In answer to the first contention that this would put an end to memorials altogether, except in cases where they would be injurious.    It would put an end to memorials of any worthy and enduring fame, and would encourage them only in the case of spurious and fleeting reputations.    And to the second contention I would urge this, that it is well enough for the genius, but it is not sufficient for the generation in which he lived.    They will be taunted with want of appreciation, as\were the contemporaries of Burns, if they do not, as soon as may be testify that they realised the fact that a genius dwelt among them.   On the other hand, it is also well when, a century after the death of a great man, his countrymen unite to show by commemoration, as in the present case, that his memory is still green and living among them.

As to this statue of Burns, however, it may be well to remember two or three points.   Manifold are the statues of Burns, but of busts or statues taken from life there is not one.   There is not even a cast taken after death (though we have a cast of his skull), inestimably precious as it would be now.   We have to some extent, therefore to idealise our statues of Burns, though not so much so as is the case of that statue of Highland Mary which was erected the other day – a graceful tribute to a charming character, but one of whom we posses no likeness whatever.   Still of Burns we have nothing but canvas, and canvas that is not wholly satisfactory, for the engraving which was, after all, touched from life  - always seems to me far more powerful and lifelike than the original painting – to give more of the vigour of the face and the spirit flashing through the eyes.   Skirving’s head, again refined and exquisite as it seems to me more delicate and less human than the man as we have him described by such eye-witnesses as Kirkpatrick Sharpe.  At any rate we have ample scope in a statue of Burns for idealisation and, after all, that is not a bad thing, if we cannot have an image taken directly from life, and approved as a clear likeness by contemporaries.

Let us try and realise what he was like.   We can please ourselves with fancies of what such and such a character would look like if he walked into the room where we are sitting.   It is perhaps a vain effort if our surroundings baffle us.   How can we fancy Moses or Homer or Caesar or St Paul or Attila or Peter the Hermit walking into our library!   The mere furniture scares the idea.   Luther in his monk’s dress we can conceive for the dress remains unchanged.   And when we get down to the era of portraiture, we can strain our imaginations to see the subjects of Holbein and Rembrandt and Vandyke walking out of their frames, and so into our own times, until we can realise men who never existed, such as Pickwick or Colonel Newcome, or even Squire Western or Moses Primrose, without a wrench.  The difficulty lies, not in the form or face of a man, but in the embodiment of that inexplicable force called genius.   You can realise, perhaps, the face; what none can realise is the manner and degree in which genius animated it.    Their eyes did not always gleam, their nostrils did not always dilate, their lips did not always curl – perhaps they never did – they were not always the figures portrayed for us in works of imagination – perhaps they never were.  But, nevertheless, one could not be with them for long without seeing in their faces they were different from their fellows.

What, then, was Burns like, so far as we can tell?  We have, as it happens, few more vivid portraits of Burns than that sketched in your own town.   A hundred and nine years ago Burns visited Paisley.   Nine years ago would have been the centenary of that visit, and perhaps the fittest opportunity for erecting this statue.   The recollection of one who saw him then is distinct, “of a big, stout, athletic man of a brown ruddy complexion, broad-chested, erect, and standing firmly on his legs, which perhaps were rather clumsy, though hid in yellow top boots.   His dress was a blue coat and buckskin breeches, his caste seemed what we should now style that of a gentleman farmer.”   But the observer was struck with a certain gloominess that seemed to have possession of his countenance and general bearing.   As he stood at the noonday in the street, an ardent admirer who readily recognised him from his portrait took him home.   Burns then made the remark that “perhaps people were apt to attach more merit to poetry than was its due, for after all, it was only natural ideas expressed in melodious words.”     There we see the true poetic nature, for poetry is much more than this, but as it freely flowed from Burns it seemed little or nothing.

But there are a score of word portraits of Burns.   Walter Scott’s so well known is one of the best.    Here is the last living one, and one of the most curious:- “He was brought back (from Brow Well), I think, in a covered spring cart, and when he alighted at the foot of the street in which he lived he could scarcely stand upright.   He reached his door withy difficulty.   He stooped much, and there was a change in his looks.   Some may think it not important to know that he was at that time dressed in a blue coat with the undress nankeen pantaloons of the volunteers, and that his neck, which was inclined to be short, caused his hat to turn behind in the manner of the shovel hats of the Episcopal clergy.    Truth obliges me to add that he was not fastidious about his dress.   And here at last: - “He lay in a plain unadorned coffin with a linen sheet drawn over his face, and on the bed around the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage of the country.   He was wasted somewhat by long illness, but death had not yet changed the swarthy face, which was uncommonly dark and deeply marked.    The dying pang was visible in the lower part, but his open brow was pale and serene, and around it his sable hair lay in masses slightly touched with grey, and inclined more to wave than to curl.”

You at Paisley, then,  have a word photograph of the poet which will survive many statues.   But it is well to have a statue too.    It is well that men as they walk the street, as they pursue their toil or the business which binds them so close to the earth, should be able to lift their eyes to the celestial.   For genius is in itself celestial, as something spiritual, unsubstantial, infinite, above and beyond ordinary mortality.    And besides genius this effigy recalls much to raise us – patriotism, contempt of money, sympathy, humanity.   It is for these that the affection of Scotland, as apart from the admiration, clusters around Burns.   I think, indeed, that the greatest of the debts that we Scotsmen of the latter nineteenth century owe to Burns is that he keeps our enthusiasm alive.   It is impossible to overestimate that debt, for, though a nation cannot live on enthusiasm alone, it is its salt and savour.   Without it we degenerate and decay; for an individual, indeed, it seems nobler to fail with it than to succeed without it.   Great indeed are its virtues.   It was enthusiasm that sent forth the Crusades, that nerved the French Revolution; it was enthusiasm that freed our slaves and made Italy a nation.    Everywhere it is a rare and divine force, a sublime gas that may raise you to the stars or explode you; guided by wisdom, it may achieve the impossible.    And it is well to remember this now, when a wave of moral passion is sweeping over the land, and we see what we can see in no other country, a nation alighted with disinterested moral enthusiasm, with a towering indignation against the oppressor, and a glowing sympathy for the oppressed.    Some of us have feared that numbness was creeping over our people and that the spirit that animated Cromwell, Drake and Byron was paralysed or dead.   But this has been a great awakening, and putting all controversial matters of policy on one side, whatever may be the result, I for one rejoice to see that Britain which has always been the foe of the oppressor, the friend and shelter of the oppressed, is unchanged and unchangeable.

“We have proved we have hearts in a cause; we are noble still.”

It is to Burns that we owe our perennial supply, as opposed to gusts and flashes of this precious quality.   To Burns we owe it that we, canny, long headed Scots, do not stagnate into prose; his genius and character are the Gulf Stream which prevents our freezing into apathy and material life.   The Scottish character is proud and reserved; we want a hero who will keep us warm.   Wallace and Bruce are too remote; Knox wants a little warming himself; Mary Queen of Scots does not unite us all; Scott, though we all love him, is not so compact or picturesque as Burns.   He never fails us; we rally regularly and constantly to his summons and his shrine; his lute awakens our romance and charms the sunless spirits of darkness; his is the influence that maintains an abiding glow in our dour character.   Do you remember the line that Blackie quoted on his deathbed?   “The Psalms of David and the songs of Burns – but the Psalmist first” he added.  Those were the last words of that brave intellect and cynical Scot, and they contain the secret of many a Scottish character.  Strangers may wonder at our worship, but these do not understand the enthusiasm excited by a sympathy that survives time and the grave or the pride that cherishes a national and immortal heirloom.”    

Dedication Address by Lord Rosebery

It is not easy for me to speak about Burns, for I have spoken about him so recently and so fully.   But I am glad to come here today to unveil yet another statue in his honour – a statue significant in at least two respects.   In the first place, it is produced fitly enough by melody, as I understand; for this effigy is the outcome of popular music, which, while it has at the moment charmed the hearts of thousands, has left a permanent embodiment here.   The figure, then, is in fact “petrified music.”  No more apt memorial could have been found of the sweet singer of Scotland.   In the second place, we citizens of Paisley always remember that a great master of phrases once bade the world, in words so familiar that you might almost adopt them as your motto keep its eye on Paisley.    When Paisley, then, takes action of this kind it may be assumed that her purpose is notable and well considered.   And so it is.   After a century of deliberation, during ninety years at least of which Paisley has had one and sometimes more Burns Clubs annually expatiating upon the poet, and during the whole of which she has been, I doubt not, watching for an opportunity, Paisley has determined to erect a statue to Burns, and, looking round at the many that already exist, has determined that hers should be unique.  And so, when we consider the means taken to provide the money, this statue may be described.   Moreover, the opportunity has come.   Nine years ago, for reasons I will presently touch upon, there might even have been a more suitable moment, but this year, when we commemorate Burns death  - this year, to which Burns looked forward as the test of his immortality – offers a fitting occasion for this deliberate memorial.

It is well; I think, in the case of great genius, that some memorials should be deliberate, and that some should be immediate.   It has recently been alleged, in connection with the memorial to Robert Louis Stevenson, first, that his works are his best memorial, and secondly, that it would be well to wait and see how these works endure.   In answer to the first contention that this would put an end to memorials altogether, except in cases where they would be injurious.    It would put an end to memorials of any worthy and enduring fame, and would encourage them only in the case of spurious and fleeting reputations.    And to the second contention I would urge this, that it is well enough for the genius, but it is not sufficient for the generation in which he lived.    They will be taunted with want of appreciation, as\were the contemporaries of Burns, if they do not, as soon as may be testify that they realised the fact that a genius dwelt among them.   On the other hand, it is also well when, a century after the death of a great man, his countrymen unite to show by commemoration, as in the present case, that his memory is still green and living among them.

As to this statue of Burns, however, it may be well to remember two or three points.   Manifold are the statues of Burns, but of busts or statues taken from life there is not one.   There is not even a cast taken after death (though we have a cast of his skull), inestimably precious as it would be now.   We have to some extent, therefore to idealise our statues of Burns, though not so much so as is the case of that statue of Highland Mary which was erected the other day – a graceful tribute to a charming character, but one of whom we posses no likeness whatever.   Still of Burns we have nothing but canvas, and canvas that is not wholly satisfactory, for the engraving which was, after all, touched from life  - always seems to me far more powerful and lifelike than the original painting – to give more of the vigour of the face and the spirit flashing through the eyes.   Skirving’s head, again refined and exquisite as it seems to me more delicate and less human than the man as we have him described by such eye-witnesses as Kirkpatrick Sharpe.  At any rate we have ample scope in a statue of Burns for idealisation and, after all, that is not a bad thing, if we cannot have an image taken directly from life, and approved as a clear likeness by contemporaries.

Let us try and realise what he was like.   We can please ourselves with fancies of what such and such a character would look like if he walked into the room where we are sitting.   It is perhaps a vain effort if our surroundings baffle us.   How can we fancy Moses or Homer or Caesar or St Paul or Attila or Peter the Hermit walking into our library!   The mere furniture scares the idea.   Luther in his monk’s dress we can conceive for the dress remains unchanged.   And when we get down to the era of portraiture, we can strain our imaginations to see the subjects of Holbein and Rembrandt and Vandyke walking out of their frames, and so into our own times, until we can realise men who never existed, such as Pickwick or Colonel Newcome, or even Squire Western or Moses Primrose, without a wrench.  The difficulty lies, not in the form or face of a man, but in the embodiment of that inexplicable force called genius.   You can realise, perhaps, the face; what none can realise is the manner and degree in which genius animated it.    Their eyes did not always gleam, their nostrils did not always dilate, their lips did not always curl – perhaps they never did – they were not always the figures portrayed for us in works of imagination – perhaps they never were.  But, nevertheless, one could not be with them for long without seeing in their faces they were different from their fellows.

What, then, was Burns like, so far as we can tell?  We have, as it happens, few more vivid portraits of Burns than that sketched in your own town.   A hundred and nine years ago Burns visited Paisley.   Nine years ago would have been the centenary of that visit, and perhaps the fittest opportunity for erecting this statue.   The recollection of one who saw him then is distinct, “of a big, stout, athletic man of a brown ruddy complexion, broad-chested, erect, and standing firmly on his legs, which perhaps were rather clumsy, though hid in yellow top boots.   His dress was a blue coat and buckskin breeches, his caste seemed what we should now style that of a gentleman farmer.”   But the observer was struck with a certain gloominess that seemed to have possession of his countenance and general bearing.   As he stood at the noonday in the street, an ardent admirer who readily recognised him from his portrait took him home.   Burns then made the remark that “perhaps people were apt to attach more merit to poetry than was its due, for after all, it was only natural ideas expressed in melodious words.”     There we see the true poetic nature, for poetry is much more than this, but as it freely flowed from Burns it seemed little or nothing.

But there are a score of word portraits of Burns.   Walter Scott’s so well known is one of the best.    Here is the last living one, and one of the most curious:- “He was brought back (from Brow Well), I think, in a covered spring cart, and when he alighted at the foot of the street in which he lived he could scarcely stand upright.   He reached his door withy difficulty.   He stooped much, and there was a change in his looks.   Some may think it not important to know that he was at that time dressed in a blue coat with the undress nankeen pantaloons of the volunteers, and that his neck, which was inclined to be short, caused his hat to turn behind in the manner of the shovel hats of the Episcopal clergy.    Truth obliges me to add that he was not fastidious about his dress.   And here at last: - “He lay in a plain unadorned coffin with a linen sheet drawn over his face, and on the bed around the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage of the country.   He was wasted somewhat by long illness, but death had not yet changed the swarthy face, which was uncommonly dark and deeply marked.    The dying pang was visible in the lower part, but his open brow was pale and serene, and around it his sable hair lay in masses slightly touched with grey, and inclined more to wave than to curl.”

You at Paisley, then,  have a word photograph of the poet which will survive many statues.   But it is well to have a statue too.    It is well that men as they walk the street, as they pursue their toil or the business which binds them so close to the earth, should be able to lift their eyes to the celestial.   For genius is in itself celestial, as something spiritual, unsubstantial, infinite, above and beyond ordinary mortality.    And besides genius this effigy recalls much to raise us – patriotism, contempt of money, sympathy, humanity.   It is for these that the affection of Scotland, as apart from the admiration, clusters around Burns.   I think, indeed, that the greatest of the debts that we Scotsmen of the latter nineteenth century owe to Burns is that he keeps our enthusiasm alive.   It is impossible to overestimate that debt, for, though a nation cannot live on enthusiasm alone, it is its salt and savour.   Without it we degenerate and decay; for an individual, indeed, it seems nobler to fail with it than to succeed without it.   Great indeed are its virtues.   It was enthusiasm that sent forth the Crusades, that nerved the French Revolution; it was enthusiasm that freed our slaves and made Italy a nation.    Everywhere it is a rare and divine force, a sublime gas that may raise you to the stars or explode you; guided by wisdom, it may achieve the impossible.    And it is well to remember this now, when a wave of moral passion is sweeping over the land, and we see what we can see in no other country, a nation alighted with disinterested moral enthusiasm, with a towering indignation against the oppressor, and a glowing sympathy for the oppressed.    Some of us have feared that numbness was creeping over our people and that the spirit that animated Cromwell, Drake and Byron was paralysed or dead.   But this has been a great awakening, and putting all controversial matters of policy on one side, whatever may be the result, I for one rejoice to see that Britain which has always been the foe of the oppressor, the friend and shelter of the oppressed, is unchanged and unchangeable.

“We have proved we have hearts in a cause; we are noble still.”

It is to Burns that we owe our perennial supply, as opposed to gusts and flashes of this precious quality.   To Burns we owe it that we, canny, long headed Scots, do not stagnate into prose; his genius and character are the Gulf Stream which prevents our freezing into apathy and material life.   The Scottish character is proud and reserved; we want a hero who will keep us warm.   Wallace and Bruce are too remote; Knox wants a little warming himself; Mary Queen of Scots does not unite us all; Scott, though we all love him, is not so compact or picturesque as Burns.   He never fails us; we rally regularly and constantly to his summons and his shrine; his lute awakens our romance and charms the sunless spirits of darkness; his is the influence that maintains an abiding glow in our dour character.   Do you remember the line that Blackie quoted on his deathbed?   “The Psalms of David and the songs of Burns – but the Psalmist first” he added.  Those were the last words of that brave intellect and cynical Scot, and they contain the secret of many a Scottish character.  Strangers may wonder at our worship, but these do not understand the enthusiasm excited by a sympathy that survives time and the grave or the pride that cherishes a national and immortal heirloom.”