ure, in the living waters of Song. That is what he did; but
to do that, did not require the highest powers of the poet and the
philosopher. Nay, had he marvellously possessed them, he never would
have written a single line of the poetry of the late Robert Burns. Thank
Heaven for not having made him such a man--but merely the Ayrshire
Ploughman. He was called into existence for a certain work, for the
fulness of time was come--but he was neither a Shakespeare, nor a Scott,
nor a Goethe; and therefore he rejoiced in writing the "Saturday Night,"
and "The Twa Dogs," and "The Holy Fair," and "O' a' the Airts the Win'
can blaw," and eke "The Vision." But forbid it, all ye Gracious Powers!
that we should quarrel with Thomas Carlyle--and that, too, for calling
Robert Burns one of the greatest of poets and philosophers.

Like a strong man rejoicing to run a race, we behold Burns in his golden
prime; and glory gleams from the Peasant's head, far and wide over
Scotland. See the shadow tottering to the tomb! frenzied with fears of a
prison--for some five-pound debt--existing, perhaps, but in his diseased
imagination--for, alas! sorely diseased it was, and he too, at last,
seemed somewhat insane. He escapes that disgrace in the grave. Buried
with his bones be all remembrances of his miseries! But the spirit of
song, which was his true spirit, unpolluted and unfallen, lives, and
breathes, and has its being, in the peasant-life of Scotland; his songs,
which are as household and sheepfold words, consecrated by the charm
that is in all the heart's purest affections, love and pity, and the joy
of grief, shall never decay, till among the people have decayed the
virtues which they celebrate, and by which they were inspired; and
should some dismal change in the skies ever overshadow the sunshine of
our national character, and savage storms end in sullen stillness, which
is moral death, in the poetry of Burns the natives of happier lands will
see how noble was once the degenerated race that may then be looking
down disconsolately on the dim grass of Scotland with the unuplifted
eyes of cowards and slaves.

The truth ought always to be spoken; and therefore we say that in fancy
James Hogg--in spite of his name and his teeth--was not inferior to
Robert Burns--and why not? The Forest is a better schoolroom for Fancy
than ever Burns studied in; it overflowed with poetical traditions. But
comparisons are always odious; and the great glory of Jam