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consistent Christian living. All these he glorifies. But he pierces every bubble blown by bombast. For him the body of divinity does not consist in the tomes of Calvinism studied by the theologians of his day, nor in the sermons so repugnant to his intellectual selfrespect, but in any group of men and women who cannot think straight and walk crooked at the same time. He wanted a theology that differed from that on the mediaeval disk run into the eighteenth century pulpit victrola. The wave of intellectual sincerity that was part of the French Revolution no doubt sent its spray to Scotland. But Burns' own soul, that would nowhere screen itself, was ready for the moistening of the Gallic tide. It did not wash him from his moorings into infidelity. Had his personal life corresponded with his religious ideals he would have been Scotland's greatest religious reformer. Knox freed it from the spell of priestcraft. Burns would have freed it from the blight of dead orthodoxy. But his vices made him only a critic, not a constructive power. He unmasked hypocrisy. He plunged his keen rapier up to the hilt into caricatures of religion. He cartooned the theological parrots so that they became ridiculous. He was an expert in destruction. One can not help trying to imagine what effect his tremendous energy, confined to assault upon the weakness of the religion of his day, would have accomplished had he been equally strong in illustrating in his own character and life the positive constructive ideals he so nobly expressed. He believed in God, but God was not the controlling power in his life. He glorified the Bible, but did not incarnate its ethical and religious ideals. He wrote nobly of the life beyond the grave, but had no plan for his own life that extended beyond his tomb. All this so far as his writings and life show.

Yet we dare not judge him finally. Who is bold enough to limit the love of the Father that is exhaustless in its pity for those "who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran." Hear Burns' prayer:

"Oh, Thou great Governor of all below!

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea;
With that controlling power assist even me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine,
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,

To rule their torrent in the allow'd line:

Oh, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine."

The bitter tooth of remorse lacerated his soul. But excesses had weakened his will. His self-control shrivelled. He stands before us as almost a classic example of a perpetual struggle between virtue and passion, a continuous moving picture show of the strife between a mind whose ethical ideals are evermore growing and clarifying, and a body diseased and unable to resist its habits, a human tennis ball flying back and forth between the divine and the diabolical. He wrote as he lived, not from ambition but from feeling. All he wrote and did was a sample of himself. He was evermore autobiographical. We can do no better than to quote from the epitaph he wrote for himself ten years before he died. When he wrote it he penned both history and prophecy:

"Is there a man, whose judgment clear,

Can others teach the course to steer,

Yet runs himself life's mad career

Wild as the wave?

Here pause—and, through the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame,

But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit;

Know, prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root."

IN THE room of the Burns Club of St. Louis is the original

of "Lines to Burns" by Chang Yow Tong. Of the varied collection of Burnsiana none is more prized. Chang Yow Tong was a highly cultivated member of the Chinese Imperial Commission. He wrote in 1904 "Human Progress as shown at the World's Fair in St. Louis," dedicating the volume of graceful verse "To Universal Peace." The opening of the Exposition drew from him "China's Message to Columbia.” In sentiment and composition these were of no ordinary character, but in his "Lines to Burns" the poetic genius of Chang Yow Tong found its most notable expression; it flamed with the spirit of the bard. The inspiration of the "Lines" was the coming dedication of the replica of the Burns Cottage at the World's Fair; that ceremony was on the 24th of June, 1904, Bannockburn Battle day. The address of dedication was delivered by Sir Hugh Gilzean-Reid, president of the World's Press Parliament. Chang Yow Tong was one of the guests.

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HESE "Lines to Burns," reproduced in facsimile of the Chinese poet's autographed copy, are treasured by Burns' Clubs in all parts of the world. They were sent on the one hundred and fifty-third anniversary with the greeting of the Burns Club of St. Louis to members of the Burns Federation. From Kilmarnock, Thomas Amos, honorary secretary of the Federation, wrote:

"I have been asked by the office bearers of the Federation to express to your club our gratitude for your kindness in sending such a unique greeting. I can assure you it has been much valued. From newspapers which I have received I see that excellent poem has been read at Burns Clubs in Scotland, England and Ireland. To me it is wonderful that an Oriental has so caught the spirit of Burns and has seen right into the heart of his teachings. At our great gathering in Glasgow in September, I read the poem to more than three hundred delegates from all parts of the United Kingdom and it was received with great applause. A tribute to our bard such as you have sent makes us feel that the wished for time "when man to man the world o'er shall brithers be for a' that" is nearer than we imagine."

LINES TO BURNS

By Chang Yow Tong,

Chinese Imperial Commissioner

Inspired by the Burns Cottage, World's Fair, 1904

O! kindred soul of humble birth,
Divine, though of the lowly earth,
Forgotten thou art not to-day,
Nor yet neglected-here's thy bay!

Thy cottage-home, hid from the proud,
Nor thought of by the vulgar crowd
In thine own time, has claimed a place
On which the world's eyes now gaze.

Nor changed its homely, rugged lines,
Where closely crept thy tender vines;
But men have changed: nor yet deplore-
Where once they spurned we now adore.

Thy life and work and destiny
Contain a meaning deep for me;-
Though fame be darkened by a fate,
The laurel-wreath comes soon or late.

Thy splendid fame shall ever rise
With undimm'd glory o'er the skies;-
To struggling souls a hope shall yield
On sailing seas and ploughing field.

I am a foreign, unknown bard,
Whose devious course is rough and hard;
But cheered at times by thy sweet song,
I sing away, nor mind the throng.

Like thee, I'll toil with manly hand,
Like thee, by manhood ever stand;
And, guided by thy spirit brave,
Shall wait for verdict at the grave.

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