purposes of solitary individuals just as well.
I am a member of any national society; and,
which is more, an orator, if the world only
knew it; and, which is more, as pretty a piece
of Scotch flesh as any in Caledonia; and one
that likes to dine to the sound of bagpipes.
Go to! And all this is generally private, and
unknown to everybody but me and my own
set. What will help me, Mr. Mac Anybody, to
make a long speech, and to get it reported in
all the newspapers? What will procure me
the privilege of telling an assembly of my
much-enduring fellow-creatures that I have
"sauntered with delight along the Banks
o' Doon; that I have stood in rapture on that
spot where Ayr gurgling kissed its pebbled
bed;" that I have "climbed" up this place,
and "wandered through" that; and "looked
with emotion" here, and "gazed with sorrow"
there; and what will give me the pride
and pleasure of actually seeing it in print
the next morning? Hech, sirs! Just the
memory of Burns.

Leaving London, and ranging over provincial
England and Scotland, we discover all sorts
of distinguished and undistinguished people
swarming in clusters on the new Hat Peg,
and publicly humming together to their
hearts' content. Sometimes we find the most
benevolent sentiments hung up to be aired, as
it were, at the memory of Burns. At Glasgow,
for example, we discover, to our unspeakable
gratification, that our friend Sir Archibald
Alison does not think the worse of Burns
because he was a Radical. There is something
affecting in this. It does honour to Tory
human nature. Very interesting, also, is Sir
Archibald's account of how Burns came by his
fame. Towards the close of the eighteenth
century, Nature, it appears, had "a passport
to immortality" to dispose of; and she seems
to have set about her work, as our English
government has generally set about its work,
by carefully going to the wrong place, and
looking for the wrong man. She sets out to
look for Burns in the "halls of princes;''
and doesn't find him there. She tries "the
senates of nobles;" and doesn't find him
there. She wanders into the "forums of
commerce;" and doesn't find him there. She
looks for him at last, where she ought to
have looked for him at first, in her own
solitudes under her very nose, so to speak—and
pounces on him at the plough, "with his eye
fixed on the mountain daisy."

At Newcastle-on-Tyne, a refreshing
originality appears to have characterised the
proceedings. Here the Burns Hat-Peg seems
to have given way altogether early in the
evening, and to have been skilfully replaced
by local and living hat-pegs. Here, we learn
from an after-dinner orator, that one of the
grand characteristic merits of the Northumbrian
peasant is his "looking with an eye of
suspicion on the questionable sentimentality
of the present day." This singularly clear
and intelligible tribute to local virtue having
been offered in the words just quoted, an
appropriate living commentary on the observation
of the speaker was presented in the
shape of a new pitman-poet, who typified, we
presume, that unquestionable sentimentality
which Northumbrians look on with an eye of
approval; for he contrived to get all the
surplus cash of the company, after paying the
expenses of the meeting, laid out in the
purchase of copies of his poems.

We have reserved the demonstration at
Edinburgh for the last, because the Festival
at the Music Hall is the only one of the
Burns Festivals which has, in any single
respect, produced a favourable impression.
We are not disposed to single out this
particular assembly on account of anything
that was done at it. One thing, indeed, was
done at it, the taste of which seems to our
mind rather questionable. Relics of Burns
were exhibited, of course, at all the
Commemorations. His hair, his toddy-ladle, his
wife's hair, his snuff-box, his pistols, his
punch-bowl, and even a print over which he
is reported to have once shed tears, were all
displayed at different places. But the
Edinburgh Gathering went a step farther, and
exhibited a living relic, in the shape of a
poor old man, who had lived one hundred
years in this weary world, and who at that
great age was hung up in public on the
Hat-Peg, because he had been brought, as a
carrier, into personal contact with Burns, as
an exciseman. It seems scarcely consistent
with the respect and the consideration which
are due to great age to make a show of
this old man; and, when one assembly had
done staring at him, to pass him on to
another.

The claim of our Edinburgh friends to be
singled out for favourable distinction, arises,
in our estimation, from the circumstance
that one man happened to be present, who
has done something for the memory of Burns
besides talk about it. Among the list of
toasts and speeches, we find just two lines,
reporting that the company drank, "The
Biographers of Burns," and that Mr. Robert
Chambers acknowledged the toast. What
Mr. Robert Chambers said for Burns, on this
occasion, is not mentioned in the report we
read. The infinitely more important question
of what he has done for Burns, we are in a
position to answer without referring to reports.
About seventeen years ago, a grateful
country had left Burns's sister, Mrs. Begg,
and her daughters, in the most impoverished
circumstances; and Mr. Robert Chambers set
on foot a subscription for them. The result
of the appeal thus made, and of a solemn
Branch-Burns Commemoration, got up in
Ayrshire, was a subscription amounting to
something less than four hundred pounds; of
which the Queen and Court gave sixty-four.
As much was done with this pittance as
could be done; and it was sunk in an
annuity for the three poor souls to live upon.