erhaps not so well as if he had not been hurried
and worried by practical affairs. As an officer he is generally
admitted to have been thorough, correct, and at the same time humane;
as a farmer, he again failed, and in 1791 sold back the lease of his
place, pocketed, it is said, a loss of L300, and moved with his family
to Dumfries. Here he took up the plan of living entirely upon his
salary from the Government--L70 per annum. This would seem a meagre
stipend now; but it would at that time have enabled Burns to support
his family in comfort, though not in the way his abilities entitled
him to do. His position gave him some perquisites, and he had the hope
of an advance in his salary, which would follow a looked-for promotion
to the office of supervisor. He spent his time in the performance of
his duties, in collecting and writing songs for the above-mentioned
compilation of Scottish melodies, and in meeting and conversing with
the many friends whom his genius and geniality drew around him.

But his hopes and his health gradually failed together. Dumfries was
on one of the great stage lines that led to and from London, and it
was often invaded by tourists who were intent on "making a night of
it" with the well-known peasant-poet. In these bouts, in which he was
generally willing to recite his poems and sing his songs, he received
much pleasure and applause, but nothing else, save the wear and tear
of dissipation. His habit of outspoken opinion, in political and other
matters, proved obstacles to his advancement in the public service; he
fell gradually into debt, despondency, and disease--a mournful trio of
companions for the most brilliant of Scottish poets! "An old man
before his time," he lay down to die, in 1796, having lived, as time
is counted, only thirty-seven short years.

The fame of this great and unfortunate poet has increased since his
death; Scotchmen everywhere thrill with pride when Burns's magic name
is spoken, and the world in general has a sincere love for the
warm-hearted, plain-spoken bard, who turned his own soul to the gaze
of his fellow-beings, that they might the better know their own. The
space of this article will not permit even an enumeration of his
wonderful poems; the world may almost be said to know them by heart.
His "Cotter's Saturday Night," "Tam O'Shanter," "Bonnie Doon," "Auld
Lang Syne," "Bruce's Address," "A Man's a Man for a' That," and many
others that might be named, are likely