of a century, I unhesitatingly say that I
would rather be the author of the above three lyrics of Burns'
than I would be the author of all Scott's novels. Certain I am
that if immortality were my aim I should be much surer of it in
the one case than the other. I cannot conceive 'Scots wha hae,'
'Auld Lang Syne,' etc., ever dying. Are there any of Scott's
writings of which the same could be said? I doubt it....

--I am yours, etc., "J.B.
"London, June 18th, 1895."

The hopelessness of the difficulty is amusingly, if rather
distressingly, illustrated by this letter. Here again you have the
best will in the world. Nothing could be kindlier than "J.B.'s" tone.
As a Scot he has every reason to be impatient of stupidity on the
subject of Burns: yet he takes real pains to set me right. Alas! his
explanations leave me more than ever at sea, more desperate than ever
of understanding _what exactly it is_ in Burns that kindles this
peculiar enthusiasm in Scotsmen and drives them to express it in
feasting and oratory.

After casting about for some time, I suggested that Burns--though in
so many respects immeasurably inferior to Scott--frequently wrote with
a depth of feeling which Scott could not command. On second thoughts,
this was wrongly put. Scott may have _possessed_ the feeling, together
with notions of his own, on the propriety of displaying it in his
public writings. Indeed, after reading some of his letters again, I am
sure he did possess it. Hear, for instance, how he speaks of Dalkeith
Palace, in one of his letters to Lady Louisa Stuart:--

"I am delighted my dear little half god-daughter is turning out
beautiful. I was at her christening, poor soul, and took the
oaths as representing I forget whom. That was in the time when
Dalkeith was Dalkeith; how changed alas! I was forced there the
other day by some people who wanted to see the house, and I felt
as if it would have done me a great deal of good to have set my
manhood aside, to get into a corner and cry like a schoolboy.
Every bit of furniture, now looking old and paltry, had some
story and recollections about it, and the deserted gallery, which
I have seen so happily filled, seemed waste and desolate like
Moore's

'Banquet hall deserted,
Whose flowers are dead,
Whose odours fled,
And all but I departed.'

Bu