t spoken there, through having studied a most interesting
little book of poems called _Rasmie's Buedie_, published in Paisley. The
author of this book is Mr. Haldane Burgess, a very prolific and able
writer, but unfortunately afflicted with blindness. During my short stay
in Lerwick, I gave myself the pleasure of calling upon him, and I was
intensely delighted with my reception. When the sense of sight is lost,
that of touch becomes inordinately keen: Mr. Burgess has accordingly
excellent control over his type-writer, and can compose as nimbly as in
the days when his eyesight was unimpaired. He spoke of his most recent
novel, _The Treasure of Don Andreas_, and expressed himself as highly
pleased at the criticism passed upon it by a reviewer in the _Athenaeum_.
Mr. Burgess begins composition every morning at seven, and regulates his
life with military precision. On all departments of Shetlandic history,
folk-lore, and dialect, he discourses with great knowledge, fluency, and
animation. But his interests in the general field of modern literature
are extremely wide. He speaks the Norse language almost as easily as
English, has studied Icelandic, and knows a good deal about the writers
of modern France. Some friend had been reading Arnold's _Literature and
Dogma_ to him shortly before my visit. He was loud in praise of that
book, the ironical insolence and pawky humour of which he had greatly
enjoyed.

On parting from Mr. Burgess, I received from him a copy of his pleasant
Shetlandic story _Tang_, a careful and illuminating study of island life
and manners. The English style struck me as full, robust, and strongly
tinged with poetical figures, and the character sketches drawn with the
precision of intimate knowledge. All his prose works display great
wealth of material, and much psychological insight. His most
characteristic production, however, is his little book of poems
mentioned above, _Rasmie's Buedie_. Rasmie is a Shetland crofter who is
typical of the race: shrewd, kindly, thoughtful, and gifted with a touch
of quaint sarcasm. He has perfectly clear views of life, this old
peasant, and is quite free from cant, or superstition, or mystery. Some
of his metaphors are droll: after long pondering on the scheme of
creation, he comes to the conclusion that earth is the field, heaven the
house, and hell the "midden." Pope, speaking of _Paradise Lost_,
complains that--

"In quibbles angels and archangels join,
And G