s tended to exalt in their eyes a country which had produced such
a stalwart and gifted son. We may, indeed, apply to the feeling of pride
which animates Scotchmen, and particularly Scotchmen in other lands, at
the thought of Burns being their countryman, the famous lines of
Dryden--

"Men met each other with erected look,
The steps were higher that they took;
Each to congratulate his friends made haste,
And long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd."

The poor man, says Wilson, as he speaks of Burns, always holds up his
head and regards you with an elated look. Scotland has become more
venerable, more beautiful, more glorious in the eyes of her children,
and a fitter theme for poetry, since the feet of Burns rested on her
fields, and since his ardent eyes glowed with enthusiasm as he saw her
scenery, and as he sung her praise; while to many in foreign parts she
is chiefly interesting as being (what a portion of her has long been
called) the Land of Burns.

The real successors of Burns, it is thus manifest, were not Tannahill or
Macneil, but Sir Walter Scott, Campbell, Aird, Delta, Galt, Allan
Cunningham, and Professor Wilson. To all of these, Burns, along with
Nature, united in teaching the lessons of simplicity, of brawny
strength, of clear common sense, and of the propriety of staying at home
instead of gadding abroad in search of inspiration. All of these have
been, like Burns, more or less intensely Scottish in their subjects and
in their spirit.

That Burns' errors as a man have exerted a pernicious influence on many
since, is, we fear, undeniable. He had been taught, by the lives of the
"wits," to consider aberration, eccentricity, and "devil-may-careism" as
prime badges of genius, and he proceeded accordingly to astonish the
natives, many of whom, in their turn, set themselves to copy his faults.
But when we subtract some half-dozen pieces, either coarse in language
or equivocal in purpose, the influence of his poetry may be considered
good. (We of course say nothing here of the volume called the "Merry
Muses," still extant to disgrace his memory.) It is doubtful if his
"Willie brew'd a peck o' Maut" ever made a drunkard, but it is certain
that his "Cottar's Saturday Night" has converted sinners, edified the
godly, and made some erect family altars. It has been worth a thousand
homilies. And, taking his songs as a whole, they have done much to stir
the flames of pure love, of patriotism, o