The Sun.
London, England, 1859-01-26 00:00:00

THE SUN, LONDON, WEDNESDAY EVENING, JANUARY 26, 1859.

THE BURNS• CENTENARY

In The Sun of yesterday we gave a brief notice
of the celebration of the Burns' festival at the
Crystal Palace. We now add some additional par-
ticulars :

(From the Daily News.)
The project, poetic at once and national, of the
directors of the Crystal Palace, for celebrating with
all due solemnity the hundredth anniversary of the
birthday of the great Scottish poet, met yesterday
all the response that could have been expected from
the compatriots of the deceased bard. The London-
bridge station of the railway was besieged from an
early hour by an eager company, whose accent, as
they engaged in excited conversation, gave unmis-
takeable evidence that it was north of the Tweed
that most of them had first learned to appreciate
the rare merits of the poet whose centenary they
were about to celebrate. Trains were despatched
at the shortest possible intervals, but still the crowd
seemed to increase, and,' had it not been that the
officers of this line are the most experienced about
London in the management of sudden and immense
influxes of passengers, it is highly probable that
some accident might have resulted from the general
eagerness and pressure. All, however, were brought
to their journey's end in perfect safety, and at an
unusually early hour the interior of the palace pre-
sented all the crowd and bustle of a fair, the illusion
being further strengthened by the stalls withwhich
the nave was lined, and all of which offered for sale
appropriate little souvenirs of the poet. On one, of
a literary character, might be had for a trifling sum
a complete edition of his works, and on another.
neat little busts in Parian warranted to be a correct
likeness. Mr. Hayes, the superintendent of the
Fine Arts Department, had extemporised imme-
diately under the great orchestra an exceedingly
chaste and handsome " Court of the Poets," all the
decorations of whichhad more or less reference to the
business of the day. The court took the form of a
semicircular architectural screen of classical design,
supported by pillars in coloured marbles, and sur-
mounted by an elaborate cornieeupon which rested,
at regular intervals, well-executed busts of the poets
from whom Burns might have been supposed to
have received some of his early inspiration, who
were contemporary with him, or whose early, dawn
might have impinged upon his sad although
glorious sunset. At one extremity the sharp
features of the sage of Fernay peered maliciously
forward, at the. other the mild features of Alfieri
presented themselves in marked contrast. Within
was a 'goodly row, including the large massive
features of Wordsworth as Wordsworth was in his
prime, the epicurean features of Moore, and the
Phidian lineaments of Byron. There were also
Coleridge and Scott, Cowper and Shelley, a goodly,
catalogue of illustrious men but yesterday, as it
were, alive and practising their divine art amongst
us—to-day but busts and a name, as far removed
from the busy world which stood in crowds gazing
at their " counterfeit presentments" as was Burns
himself, whose bust, of heroic proportions, and
having a column and a pedestal to itself, occupied
a distinguishing central position in front of the
court. This bust, the work of Mr. Calder Marshall,
was much admired, and was strikingly like the
well-known Nasmyth•portrait, which is admitted to
be the most correct likeness of the poet extant. In
the wall of the court were a great number of little
panels framed and glazed, and within them were
arranged such relics as the enterprise of the direc-
tors of the company, aided by the kindness of con-
tributors, had enabled them to bring together.
There was the Nasmyth portrait itself, bearing on its
front intrinsic evidence of its fidelity. It is true
that there was not one amongst the crowds which
surrounded this interesting " kit-cat" duEing the
day that could have vouched for its resemblance to
Robert Burns, but any one could have sworn that
it was the likeness of a true poet, so bright and
deep was the eye, so fine and ideal the forehead, so
musical so to speak, the general arrangement of the
features. There was anotherportrait, known as the
Taylor portrait, but it was "of the earth, earthy,"
and did not seem as if it had been taken for the same
individual. In some of the panels were pages from
poor Buns' account book, in which the gains of his
earlier 'forks were carefully summed up. This
was the poet's ledger, and a great curiosity it was.
Then, in another frame was, preciously preserved,
the rough- draft of one of his ballads, and it told of
the facility with which he composed, there being
only two words—short words—altered in five verses
of four lines each. Few of Moore's melodies ex-
ceeded these dimensions, and yet he himself con-
fesses that he kept some of them by him for five or
six weeks, polishing and altering every day. " Scots
wha hae," the finest war song that was ever written,
sprung as it were complete from the head of the
ploughman poet; he composed it as he rode along a
dark wintry road, and when it was taken down it
went to the printer's without a single alteration.
But it was an inspiration, and an inspiration can-
not be improved. There was, too, the old desk upon
which he had written during his life. and there was
Burns' commission in the service of his sovereign
as an exciseman. It was a curious employment for
the great poet of nature, but he did his work faith-
fully and well. There was shown yesterday under a
panel satisfactory evidence of the exactness with
which his gauging accounts were kept. In one case
also were only two locks of hair, one light brown,
taken from the ploughman's head in youth; the
other, silver grey, the contribution of " Jean Ar-
mour," when near the close of her earthly pilgri-
mage. Very small and insignificant objects they
were both, hardly to be seen until you got up close
to the glass, and yet it seemed as if nothing was
looked at with more intense interest. There was
also a large picture of Burns' installation as laureate
to a masonic lodge in Edinburgh, which was inte-
resting as marking the time and the place when
the poor fellow began to beset with the temptations
which ruined him at last. The whole of these relics
were objects of intense curiosity, being surrounded
by thousands of persons during the day.
At 12 o'clock precisely' the great organ pealed
forth a strain of appropriate music, and a curtain
being suddenly let fall, the whole of the poet's court
and its precious contents were at once disclosed to
.the company. A loud• cheer resounded through the
building, and immediately the boy's band: of the
Caledonian Asylum played an inspiriting Scottish
air. From that moment until two o'clock, when the
regular concert began, 'the sound of national airs
might be heard in every corner. The youn6 Cale-
donians seemed to be omnipresent, and their zeal
left nothing to be desired ; indeed it was with diffi-
culty they could be restrained during the very few
moments which were occupied by Mr. Phelps in
reading the prize poem. Then there were relays
of pipers, and a military band, so that nothing was
wanting in the way of appropriate accessories to
the festival. In the concert a Mr. Mac Davitt made
a creditable first appearance, and Misses Dolby,
Lizzy Stuart, Ransford, and Madame Poma, were
enthusiastically applauded in their ballads. Miss
Stuart wore, with good taste and discretion, a very
elegant tartan dress, and the compliment was fully
appreciated by the audience. After the first por-
tion of the concert, preparations were at once com-
menced for reading the poem, and it is needless to
add that this was a moment of great excitement
and expectation. Mr. Grove appeared upon the
platform holding a mysterious packet, and received
a distinct round of applause. Then the workmen
proceeded to cover the front rail with scarlet cloth,
which, when properly extended, showed in the
centre the word "Silence," printed in large white
letters. This was the signal for a general laugh,
but the hint was at once taken and obeyed. Then
Mr. Phelps came.forward and had a hearty recogni-
tion which was succeeded by a death-like silence
as he proceeded to open the large letter, which had
been with due form handed to him by Mr. Grove.
Another moment and he raises his voice—he has
been requested to announce that the author of the
successful poem is "Isa Craig, of Ranelagh-street,
?imlico." Now there is a general buzz and uni-
versal surprise. Professor Aytoun had been the
favourite, and "Isa Craig" was entirely a " dark
horse." " Who is Isa Craig ?" "Is it a man or a
woman ?" "Is he here ?" and a thousand similar
observations, ran round like lightning. Then the
outsiders got boisterous, they had heard but indis-
tinctly, and clamored for a placard. The fortunate
h
poet ouhteef
restored,
poem,
ui n lt i
ao
il atca h lastdnd
a theap
rtphode
aeaothrz
le3endnl
reading
nbna
era
Td,rmah names sp
sp in
eina r
oeafds me
radneye
r, •
nothing to be desired. Accustomed to speya
day, was then read. Mr. Ph l
kstetro-
ps e reading left
ey,
laser
file a ui dit
reenaceehs
e,
dt h et
heem ienxetnr te
ma ci
tt
es
pitchedo f
his
h s immensei s voice
circle, andiehnrifyso slow mud
separate ntlheaa stwut
ekr
re ded accents gave its full
second poem, which
valmrueetaoreeN
narrowly escaped being first, was the work of a
youth named Myers, who is not more than 15 years
old.

THE PRIZE POEM.
(From the Times.)

The important event of, the day was now at hand
—the opening of the sealed envelope. containing

the name of the author .of the Prize Poem,---the
Fifty-guinea Ode to 'Sums, " not less than 100
nor more than 200 lines in length," the copyright
of which becomes the property, of the Sydenham
donor. Breathless was the attention with which
the short preliminary address of Mr. Phelps was
listened to. The popular tragedian, with lungs of
Stentor, said—" I am requested to break this seal,
and to announce' the name of the author of the
poem.l am about to read to you." Everybody un-
derstood what was to follow ; and, in order to elicit
the desired attention, there was no necessity what-
ever for hanging out that large red cloth over the
balustrade of the orchestra, with the word" Silence"
inscribed upon it in staring white capitals. Mr.
Phelps deliberately broke the seal, and as delibe-
rately pronounced the favoured name—which, to
those situated near enough sounded very like
" Esau Craig," but to those fur er away was unin-
telligible. The directors, howiter, ready with any
expedient but that of furnishing good singers, had
caused the name of the fortunate minstrel to be
written on parchment, and by exhibiting this re-
vealed to the spectators theiegitimate orthography.
The prize poem was the- work of a lady—" Isa
Craig"—a communication hailed with reiterated
plaudits. Many passages were interrupted by ap-
plause, and among others the sixth strophe, allud-
ing to the poet's intimate familiarity with all the
phenomena of nature ; the eighth, which in•
smuates the folly of regretting that he Possessed the
weaknesses of a man ; the tenth, which implies that'
only the Almighty could 'have made him other than
he was;. the eleVenth, alliding most eloquently to
the veneration that now attaches to every scene and
object with which 'the poet was' familiar during his
lifetinie; and the twelfth, setting' forth how his
song
o have been endeared to distant lands through
emigrants whose toils they have helped to lighten.
The termination was followed by deafening shouts
of applause,' and repeated calls for the author,
which last were so obstinately persisted in that
Mr. Bowley, general manager, was compelled to
come forward and protest. "It is,"said the zealous
and able functionary, " the wish of the directors as
well as of yourselves to have the lady here—(A
voice—" Lady ?" Answer—!‘ Yes, Lady.")--but
you must be aware that we cannot bring her here.
I hope, therefore, you will allow the concert to
proceed." Thus ended the " Centenary celebration
of the birth of Robert Burns," which may have
brought money, but has certainly brought little
credit to the Sydenham Palace. The thing should
have been done on a more liberal' and efficient
scale, or not at all—better, perhaps, not at all.

(From the Morning Herald.)

Here, then, was the poetic gem that carried off,
by the unanimous arbitrament of the judges, the
bays of victorious song against the array of a
world of lyres—lording it triumphantly over 620
other. enterprising but disappointed poets, who
entered the lists in this great tournament of harp-
strings, whose competitors for the last two months
poured ceaselessly into the Crystal. Palace Parnassus.
It cannot be concealed that a pretty general impres-
sion of disappointment prevails (and the almost
total want of applause yesterday during the recital
would appear to confirm it) as to the merit of the
chosen poem. That it is not a chef-d'-ceuvre of
song may be safely asserted ; that it is above medio-
crity no one will deny ; but that it is wanting in all
glow of thought, the sublimity of image, the mas-
ter, the master passion, and the Sapphic fire that
might have been thrown into the inspiration of the
occasion, is transparent on the face of the poem
itself. The general expression of critical opinion
appeared to confine itself to such conditional gene.
ralities as " I like it," " It's very good," &c., the
remark naturally suggesting itself at the same
time, " What must the other 620 poems have been
if the judges (who were to have been of 'the
highest standing in literature') adjudicated this to
be the best P"
At the close of the recitation of the poem, which
Was in some parts rather monotonously " intoned"
by Mr. Phelps, a proclamatory placard was hoisted
over the orchestra, the name of the successful com-
petitor not having been caught by multitudes
around, with the inscription in large black rubrics
on a' white ground of " The, author of the poem is
Isa Craig." Calls then arose for Isa Craig to come
before the scenes, and multitudinous an& mysterious
were the conjectures indulged in by lbe bystanders
as to who Isa Craig could really be. Some sug-
gested that it was a mistake for " Ailsa Craig • '
others read it Esau Craig ; while many pronounced
the whole affair to be a mystery and a myth, see-
ing that the fortunate pri zeholder did not make
her appearance to be corn plimented. The crowd
indulged in these dreamy disquisitions and con-
jectures until the-scene and the subject were alto-
gether changed by the striking up of the band for
the supplemental concert.
From all that we could ascertain, however, from
the most reliable sources we find that " Isa Craig"
is a young Scotch lady, and that the mysterious
monosyllable ." Isa" is a breviate or nomme de plume
for Isa-bella—that she belongs to the single sister-
hood, and has been a contributor to Chambers'
Journal, the Scotsman, and the Englishwoman's
Magazine, and is said to have published a small
volume of poems. From feelings either of timidity
or poetical delicacy and pride, Miss Craig neither
came before the curtain, nor did she pay a visit to
the company's treasury to receive the 50 guineas,
although the cheque had been waiting for her
acceptance all day. It may be mentioned that the
author of the poem which the judges reported as
inferior only to the prize poem is the production of
Frederick IVm. Henry Myers, of Cheltenham, a
youth of 16. It is understood that the other six
selected poems will be published by Messrs. Brad-
bury and Evans in a day or two. It has been
suggested that by way of climax and commemora-
tion of this celebrated poetic " raid," or competition,
itself, the judges and directors of the Crystal Palace,
by way of " Conseils aux mauvais poetes," should
deal with all the bad and indifferent poets as tha
Governor of Ispahan, an admirer and patron of
good poetry, did—that is, " cudgel them all
soundly ;" a process that in the case mentioned had
the effect of furnishing him for the future with
really excellent verse, and of vastly improving the
contributions of the tribe of poets generally.

(From the Morning Post:)

To this succeeded the recital of the prize poem by
Mr. Phelps in a measured style, only relieved by
certainly a most spirited delivery of the last four
lines. Wi may here observe that so little did the
prize poem excite the admiration of the visitors,
that we are somewhat curious to see the 33 highly
commended and the 590 rejected. The prize poem,
which we present to our readers, was announced to
be the production of Isa Craig (Mrs. or Miss, we
know not), and Mr. Bowley apologised for her non-
appearance, in answer to a call for the author, on
the ground that it was impossible to command the
attendance of a lady. During the delivery of the
poem a somewhat laughable occuaenee took place
—the juvenile band striking up a merry air—which
was to many doubtless a relief to the monotonous
delivery of the reciter—though, of course, it was
immediately stopped; and perhaps it may be re-
garded as a happy augury of the future career of
Isa Craig that during the delivery of her poem the
sun, for the first time throughout the day, shone
forth most resplendently.

• (From the Morning' Chronicle.)
Considering the enormous space which the voice
had to fill, and the necessity for the most distinct
articulation, Mr. Phelps delivered himself of his
charge most satisfactorily. A little more light and
shade might have been desired, but those judicious
modulations of voice which would have been appre-
ciated in a more limited area would have been
thrown away in the centre transept, and Mr.
Phelps did wisely in making himself " heard."
Upon the whole, the poem was listened to with rapt
attention, but there were portions of it which, ap-
pealing directly to the sympathies of the audience,
evoked applause. The allusion to the failing of
poor Burns—

Had ho but stood aloof!
Had he array'd hilaself in armour proof
Against temptation's darts 1
was caught up and echoed, not in, anger, but in
pity ; and the pent up feelings of the auditory again
found vent when Mr. Phelps came to the lines

It might not be
That heart of harmony
Had been too rudely rent;
Its silver chords, which ary hand could wound,
By no hand could be tun'd,
Save by the Maker of tlte instrument,
• Its every string who knew,
And from profaning touch His heavenly gift withdrew,

After Mr. Phelps had retired from the platform,
the merits of the poem were discussed, and it was
rumoured that the poem was the production of a
lady ; but although in deference to the reiterated
applause of the audience a placard was exhibited
repeating the name of the writer of the poem as
previously announced, and Mr. Bowley subsequently
informed them that the " lady" was not present,
people questioned, whether there. was not internal
evidence in the production which proclainied it to
be the work of one of the other sex. Be this as it

audier.ce were left in the dark as
may, yesterday's
of the ode.
to the real authorChiP

(Fromßth arrr throat,"
t t:
te ,
..,
jiLning Advertiser.)
‘n, I. the very transcendental,
v.ninF-ish strophes end-
the linnet's
misty, and
se, ' and " Thus, thus
At one or two pa:ssag es, that closing with " front
ing " Triumphant, moral.
he had been saved," the applause was warm
and hearty. At its close tL ere was an anxious
pause, when Mr. Phelps broke the envelope, with
the mottoes, and curiosity- was still further ex-
cited when the name of " ISA ,e..INt.A.IG" was exhi-
bited in bold capitals as the successful competitor
for the laurels, and. the more solid reward of fifty
guineas there and then payable to . 'fie lyrist. But
" Isa Craig" was " deaf as Ailsa Cra.,'g,' to the mill
of a thousand voices, and at.last, as no Claimant for
the "fifty" appeared, the multitude slowly. Aspersed,
canvassing whether " Isa" was not a L lYth—a
'poetical "Mrs. Harris"—in short, some thwn de
plume, concealing for the day some of our 1,:0wr.,
poets, whose appearance to claim the guerdott
would certainly, if there be truth in all literary
history, not be long delayed. After the second
part of the concert, the many-headed multitude
betook itself to promenading, the great organ,
and the band of the Caledonian Asylum, with other
instrumental corps, keeping up a. succession of
Scottish strains. Hundreds, too, were amused in
the Lecture Room, where the poem of " Tam.
o'Shanter" was recited at intervals,illustrated by
dissolving views, photographed from thp subjects
by John Faed, Esq. - • . •

GREAT CELEBRATION IN EDINBURGH.
The Edinburgh Total Abstainers' Society were
to celebratc'the centenary list night in a banquet,
at the Corn Exchange. The tickets, 2,500 in num.:
ber, had all been sold on Monday at is. 9d., 2s. 6d.,
and as. 6d. The speech of the Rev. Alex. allace,
of Glasgow, which has reached us, contained the

following passages :
This is, in some respects, one of thetimost remark-
able nights in the history of Scotland. The country
is stirred to its very depths, and not only so, but a
sympathetic chord is struck which vibrates in the
breast of every Scotchman on the face of the earth.
What is it that has led to such a national demon-

stration on the part of a people not easily moved
to such meetings as the present? The gatherings
in every town and village to-night, froniJohn o'
Groats to Maidenkirk, are no sectional or party
gatherings, bid national. They breathe the spirit
of an entire people—for Robert Burns was the most
intensely national poet that ever lived. The
Supreme Giver of all good gave Scotland a rich
and a rare gift—we may never see the like of it
again—in that immortal genius which, when it rose
to the high purpose for which it was given, men
felt, as they feel still, and must ever do, so long as
human hearts can feel the power of genius—that
this gift was truly the "touch of nature that makes
the world kin." His " native wood•notes wild,"
were so sweet, so simple, so full of nature, that men
felt that a voice was given to feelings which they
had all experienced, but which they could not utter
—and that new life, and beauty, and attraction were
thrown around the most commonplace objects, and
the most familiar incidents of every-day life. It is
but simple. justice to our national poet to say, that
his brilliant genius should be looked at apart from
the dark cloud .through which, alas! that genius
often shone, and struggled into glorious light. The
splendour of his genius made the dark spots of his
life all the more visible. We would look upon
these through tears—the blinding tears of pity
and regret ; but we cannot remain insensible to
that genius which has sung, as poet never did be-
fore, the joys and the sorrows of the poor man's lot,
and given a voice at the same time to noble senti-
ments which make the poor proud of him as their
poet—for he is emphatically, the poet of the poor—
but by the power of his genius he binds together
the rich and the poor in one common sentiment.
The toiling thousands of this and other lands have
reason to be proud of that genius which has beau-
tified the rough bycways of labour. And so they
are. They have ever looked upon his genius with
grateful admiration. They stood true to him when
he was cast off by those from whom better things
might have been expected. If we are to speak of
faults at all to-night, and if there were great genius
and great faults ou the one sidet.were there not-
others to blame ? I ask you to look back upon the
social character of those times, so far as drinking
was concerned, when he came from the " plough
stilts" to take up his abode with a friend from
Mauchline, in an apartment in Baxter's Close, in
the Lawnmarket, rented at 3s. per week. The
drinking habits of Edinburgh killed poor Fergus-
son ; and was there no danger for Burns, whose
conversational powers were even a greater wonder
than his poetical genius ? Where were Scotland's
nobility and gentry ? Where was her middle
class when the life of her greatest poet became
a sad tragedy ? There are few things so tragic
as the last days of Scotland's greatest poet.
Scotland received a gift which she may never
receive again ; and if there is to be blame,
let a large portion of it rest where it ought to
lie, at the door of Scotland's intemperance at
that time, which made it a terrible risk for a
man to be endowed with genius such as Burns
possessed. Notwithstanding all his faults, we owe
mach to him. The fact that we have a distinct pea-
sant literature that has sprung from the lowly
cottage homes of our country, which has been nur-
tured amid the many-sided trials of the poor man's
lot, which has gladdened his fireside, and made him
proud of his land—a literature which has given a
name and a glory to every stream and glen and
river, and ancient ruin and old feudal keep and
lofty mountain, from the far north to the banks of
the Tweed—a literature which, so far as it has
been embodied in song, is as varied as every 'mood
of the human soul keenly alive to the beauties of
nature, and strung to every emotion of joy or of
sorrow in the heart of man—a literature which is
at once the burning purpose of the patriot, the war
song of freedom, or the voice of artless of love, or
the low key note of a mother's affection, as, with a
simple song, she hushes the babe to sleep—the fact
we say, that we have such a distinct peasant lite-
rature is an honour to which few countries besides
our own can lay claim, and but, for the genius of
Burns she would have had but few claims to such
an honour. There was in him, by nature, what
could not fail to attract and delight, and make him
a power amongst the people. In that humble
homestead in which he was reared conjugal love
and all the gentle ministrations of the home affec•
tions brightened the stern face of poverty, strength-
ened every noble sentiment, and cheered the
drudgery of ceaseless toil. No man knew better,
or could better describe,. the home influences of
humble cottage life. He knew the straits, the pri-
vations, the joys and the sorrows, the independence
and the worth, the manly virtues and the weak-
nesses, that were to be found in the cottage homes
of Scotland ; and nowhere does his marvellous
genius appear to greater advantage—nowhere does
it shine with greater brightness and purity, than
when he starts into life those scenes and feelings
which appeal to the common heart of man.
This is the secret of his power, especially with the
mass of the people. They love him notwithstand-
ing all his failings. They look upon him as a
brother, because the best effusions of his genius
have enshrined in the bosom of living sympathy
their own experiences, and much which, in point
of endurance, at least, was peculiar to themselves.
What poet lives so familiarly amongst the people
as he does ? They fondly speak of him as their
own Robin, or Rabble, when they would charac-
terise the more pathetic effusions of his muse ;
whilst they speak of him as Rab, or "an unco
Rab," in reference to his more wild and reckless
fancies. Nowhere is his genius more appreciated
than at the firesides of labouring men, and that
very class of toiling men, of whom Scotland may
feel justly proud—
" Who makes her lov'd at home, raver' d abroad."
I well remember the thrilling effect produced in a
humble home circle, when but a mere child, when
some of his noblest effusions were repeated by a
pious father, who could do this as but few could do
it. The homely jingle was new and attractive to
the ear, but the scenes, the sentiments, and the in-
cidents, could move to tears, or shake the sides with
laughter. You have but to witness the effect pro-
duced in any circle, or in any great promiscuous
gathering of the people, by the singing of one of
Burns' songs, in which manly independence, or the
love of freedom, or patriotism, or conjugal affection,
or the purity of virgin love, are set forth, to be con-
vinced of the power and vitality of his genius, and
of the hold winch he has upon the hearts of men.
The popularity of his best lyrics does not arise from
the music to which they have been wed, as is the
case with many songs, but from the inherent power
of genius itself. Take away from his writings all
that is objectionable, all that in his last hours he
would have blotted out, and which he would have
consigned, could bitter regret have done it, to the
deepest shades of oblivion—take away all which
the best of men and his firmest admirers regret
should ever have been written, and after this is
done there will still remain much, very much, that
will endear his genius to the common heart of man,