joys and sorrows, of his
faults and failings, and the awful pangs of remorse. And if a man be
candid and sincere, he will be taken at his word when he makes the world
his confessional, and calls himself a sinner. There is pleasure to small
minds in discovering that the gods are only clay; that they who are
guides and leaders are men of like passions with themselves, subject to
the same temptations, and as liable to fall. This is the consolation of
mediocrity in the presence of genius; and if from the housetops the poet
proclaims his shortcomings, the world will hear him gladly and believe;
his faults will be remembered, and his genius forgiven. What more easy
than to bear out his testimony with the weight of collateral evidence,
and the charitable anecdotage of acquaintances who knew him not?
Information that is vile and valueless may ever be had for the seeking;
and it needs only to be whispered about for a season to find its way
ultimately into print, and to flourish.

It might naturally be expected at this time of day that all that is
merely mythical and traditional might have been sifted from what is
accredited and attested fact, that the chaff might have been winnowed
from the grain in the life of Burns. In some of the most
recently-published biographies this has been most carefully and
conscientiously done; but through so many years wild and improbable
stories had been allowed to thrive and to go unchallenged, that fiction
has come to take the colour and character of fact, and to pass into
history. 'The general impression of the place,' that unfortunate phrase
on which the late George Gilfillan based an unpardonable attack on the
character of the poet, has grown by slow degrees, and gained credence by
the lapse of time, till it is accepted as the general impression of the
country. Those who would speak of the poet Robert Burns are expected to
speak apologetically, and to point a moral from the story of a wasted
life. For that has become a convention, and convention is always
respectable. But after all is said and done, the devil's advocate makes
a wretched biographer. It seems strange and unaccountable that men
should dare to become apologists for one who has sung himself into the
heart and conscience of his country, and taken the ear of the world. Yet
there have been apologists even for the poetry of Burns. We are told,
wofully, that he wrote only short poems and songs; was content with
occasional pieces; did no