asy to imagine, on the other hand, the deadening or
degrading influences to which by that condition they were inevitably
exposed, and which keep down the heaven-aspiring flame of genius, or
extinguish it wholly, or hold it smouldering under all sorts of rubbish.
Only look at the attempts in verse of the common run of clodhoppers. Buy
a few ballads from the wall or stall--and you groan to think that you
have been born--such is the mess of mire and filth which often, without
the slightest intention of offence, those rural, city, or suburban bards
of the lower orders prepare for boys, virgins, and matrons, who all
devour it greedily, without suspicion. Strange it is that even in that
mural minstrelsy, occasionally occurs a phrase or line, and even stanza,
sweet and simple, and to nature true; but consider it in the light of
poetry read, recited, and sung by the people, and you might well be
appalled by the revelation therein made of the tastes, feelings, and
thoughts of the lower orders. And yet in the midst of all the popularity
of such productions, the best of Burns's poems, his "Cottar's Saturday
Night," and most delicate of his songs, are still more popular, and read
by the same classes with a still greater eagerness of delight. Into this
mystery we shall not now inquire; but we mention it now merely to show
how divine a thing true genius is, which, burning within the bosoms of a
few favourite sons of nature, guards them from all such pollution, lifts
them up above it all, purifies their whole being, and without consuming
their family affections or friendships, or making them unhappy with
their lot, and disgusted with all about them, reveals to them all that
is fair and bright and beautiful in feeling and in imagination, makes
them very poets indeed, and should fortune favour, and chance and
accident, gains for them wide over the world the glory of a poet's name.

From all such evil influences incident to their condition--and we are
now speaking but of the evil--the Five emerged; and first and
foremost--Burns. Our dearly beloved Thomas Carlyle is reported to have
said at a dinner given to Allan Cunningham in Dumfries, that Burns was
not only one of the greatest of poets, but likewise of philosophers. We
hope not. What he did may be told in one short sentence. His genius
purified and ennobled in his imagination and in his heart the character
and condition of the Scottish peasantry--and reflected them, ideally
true to nat