troduced me to him, and he took his place. We had a noble
dinner, and a most elegant dessert. Dr. Johnson, in the middle of
dinner, asked Mrs. Thrale what was in some little pies that were near
him.

"Mutton," answered she, "so I don't ask you to eat any, because I know
you despise it!"

"No, madam, no," cried he; "I despise nothing that is good of its sort;
but I am too proud now to eat of it. Sitting by Miss Burney makes me
very proud to-day!"

"Miss Burney," said Mrs. Thrale, laughing, "you must take great care of
your heart if Dr. Johnson attacks it; for I assure you he is not often
successless."

"What's that you say, madam?" cried he; "are you making mischief between
the young lady and me already?"

A little while after he drank Miss Thrale's health and mine, and then
added:--

"'Tis a terrible thing that we cannot wish young ladies well without
wishing them to become old women!"

"But some people," said Mr. Seward, "are old and young at the same time,
for they wear so well that they never look old."

"No, sir, no," cried the doctor, laughing; "that never yet was: you
might as well say they are at the same time tall and short."

ROBERT BURNS

(1759-1796)

BY RICHARD HENRY STODDARD

There have been, there are, and there always will be, poets concerning
whose lives it is not necessary that the world should know anything in
order to understand their poetry; and there have been, there are, and
there always will be, other poets concerning whose lives it is necessary
that the world should know all there is to be known, before it can begin
to understand their poetry. The difference between these two classes of
poets is the difference between a company of accomplished actors, who by
virtue of their training and practice are able to project themselves
into imaginary characters on the public stage, and the originals of
these characters in private personal life; or to put it in other words,
the difference between art and nature. It is the privilege of art to
dispense with explanations and extenuations; for if it be true to itself
it is sufficient in itself, and anything added to it or taken from it is
an impertinence or a deformity. When we read 'Hamlet' and 'Lear,' or 'As
You Like It' and 'Much Ado About Nothing,' we do not ask ourselves what
Shakespeare meant by them,--why some scenes were written in verse and
other scenes in prose,--for it is not of Shakespeare that we are
thinking as we read, but