heart. Burns does not keep continually holding up to them the evils of their lot, continually calling on them to endure or to redress; but while he stands up for his Order, its virtues and its rights, and has bolts to hurl at the oppressor, his delight is to inspire contentment. In that solemn "Dirge,"—a spiritual being, suddenly spied in the gloom, seems an Apparition, made sage by sufferings in the flesh, sent to instruct us and all who breathe that" Man was made to mourn."

"Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame !

More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

See yonder poor o'erlabour'd wight,

So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife

And helpless offspring mourn."

But we shall suppose that "brother of the earth"

rotten, and forgotten by the "bold peasantry their country's pride," who work without leave from worms. At his work we think we hear a stalwart tiller of the soil humming what must be a verse of Burns.

"Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!

What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin grey, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,

May bear the gree, and a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet for a' that,

That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that."

A spirit of Independence reigned alike in the Genius and the Character of Burns. And what is it but a strong sense of what is due to Worth apart altogether from the distinctions of society-the vindication of that Worth being what he felt to be the most honoured call upon himself in life? That sense once violated is destroyed, and therefore he guarded it as a sacred thing-only less sacred than Conscience. Yet it belongs to Conscience, and is the prerogative of Man as Man. Sometimes it may seem as if he watched it with jealousy, and in jealousy there is always weakness, because there is fear. But it was not so; he felt assured that his footing was firm and that his back was on a rock. No blast could blow, no air could beguile him from the position he had taken up with his whole soul in "its pride of place." His words were justified by his actions, and his actions truly told his thoughts: his were a bold heart, a bold hand, and a bold tongue; for in the nobility of his nature he knew that, though born and bred in a hovel, he was the equal of the highest in the land; as he was-and no more-of the lowest, so that they too were MEN. For hear him speak-"What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness! When fellowpartakers of the same nature fear the same God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the same scorn at everything unworthy-if they are not in the dependence of absolute beggary, in the name of common sense are they not EQUALS? And if the bias, the instinctive bias of their souls, were the same way, why may they not be FRIENDS?" He was indeed privileged to write that "Inscription for an Altar to Independence."

"Thou of an independent mind,

With soul resolved, with soul resign'd

Prepared Power's proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;

Virtue alone who dost revere,

Thy own reproach alone dost fear,

Approach this shrine, and worship here."

Scotland's adventurous sons are now as proud of this moral feature of his poetry as of all the pictures it contains of their native country. Bound up in one volume it is the Manual of Independence. Were they not possessed of the same spirit, they would be ashamed to open it; but what they wear they win, what they eat they earn; and if frugal they be-and that is the right word—it is that on their return they may build a house on the site of their father's hut, and, proud to remember that he was poor, live so as to deserve the blessings of the children of them who walked with him to daily labour on what was then no better than a wilderness, but has now been made to blossom like the rose. Ebenezer Elliott is no flatterer —and he said to a hundred and twenty Scotsmen in Sheffield, met to celebrate the birth-day of Burns

"Stern Mother of the deathless dead!

Where stands a Scot, a freeman stands ;
Self-stayed, if poor-self-clothed—self-fed ;
Mind mighty in all lands.

No wicked plunder need thy sons,

To save the wretch whom mercy spurns;
No classic lore thy little ones,

Who find a Bard in Burns.

Their path though dark, they may not miss ;

Secure they tread on danger's brink;

There are, it is true, some passages in his poetry, and more in his letters, in which this Spirit of Independence partakes too much of pride, and expresses itself in anger and scorn. These, however, were but passing moods, and he did not love to cherish them; no great blame had they been more frequent and permanent-for his noble nature was exposed to many causes of such irritation, but it triumphed over them all. A few indignant flashes broke out against the littleness of the great; but nothing so paltry as personal pique inspired him with feelings of hostility towards the highest orders. His was an imagination that clothed high rank with that dignity which some of the degenerate descendants of old houses had forgotten; and whenever true noblemen "reverenced the lyre" and grasped the hand of the peasant who had received it from

nature as his patrimony, Burns felt it to be nowise inconsistent with the stubbornest independence that ever supported a son of the soil in his struggles with necessity, reverently to doff his bonnet, and bow his head in their presence with a proud humility. Jeffrey did himself honour by acknowledging that he had been at first misled by occasional splenetic passages, in his estimation of Burns's character, and by afterwards joining, in eloquent terms, in the praise bestowed by other kindred spirits on the dignity of its independence. "It is observed," says Campbell with his usual felicity, "that he boasts too much of his independence; but in reality this boast is neither frequent nor obtrusive; and it is in itself the expression of a noble and laudable feeling. So far from calling up disagreeable recollections of rusticity, his sentiments triumph, by their natural energy, over those false and artificial distinctions which the mind is but too apt to form in allotting its sympathies to the sensibilities of the rich and poor. He carries us into the humble scenes of life, not to make us dole out our tribute of charitable compassion to paupers and cottagers, but to make us feel with them on equal terms, to make us enter into their passions and interests, and share our hearts with them as brothers and sisters of the human species."

In nothing else is the sincerity of his soul more apparent than in his Friendships. All who had ever been kind to him he loved till the last. It mattered not to him what was their rank or condition—he returned, and more than returned their affection-he was, with regard to such ties, indeed of the family of the faithful. The consciousness of his infinite superiority to the common race of men, and of his own fame and glory as a Poet, never for a moment made him forget the humble companions of his obscure life, or regard with a haughty eye any face that had ever worn towards him an expression of benevolence. The Smiths, the Muirs, the Browns, and the Parkers, were to him as the Aikens, the Ballantynes, the Hamiltons, the Cunninghames, and the Ainslies -these as the Stewarts, the Gregorys, the Blairs, and the Mackenzies these again as the Grahams and the Erskinesand these as the Daers, the Glencairns, and the other men of rank who were kind to him,—all were his friends-his benefactors. His heart expanded towards them all, and throbbed with gratitude. His eldest son and he has much of his

father's intellectual power-bears his own Christian name; the others are James Glencairn, and William Nicol-so called respectively after a nobleman to whom he thought he owed all -and a schoolmaster to whom he owed nothing—yet equally entitled to bestow-or receive that honour.

There is a beautiful passage in his "Second Commonplace Book," showing how deeply he felt, and how truly he valued, the patronage which the worthy alone can bestow. "What pleasure is in the power of the fortunate and happy, by their notice and patronage, to brighten the countenance and glad the heart of depressed worth! I am not so angry with mankind for their deaf economy of the purse. The goods of this world cannot be divided without being lessened; but why be a niggard of that which bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet takes nothing from our own means of enjoyment? Why wrap ourselves in the cloak of our own better fortune, and turn away our eyes lest the wants and cares of our brother mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of our souls ?" What was the amount of all the kindness shown him by the Earl of Glencairn? That excellent nobleman at once saw that he was a great genius, gave him the hand of friendship-and in conjunction with Sir John Whitefoord got the members of the Caledonian Hunt to subscribe for guinea instead of six-shilling copies of his volume. That was all-and it was well. For that Burns

was as grateful as for the preservation of life.

"The bridegroom may forget the bride

Was made his wedded wife yestreen;

The monarch may forget the crown

That on his head an hour hath been;

The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me."

He went into mourning on the death of his benefactor, and desired to know where he was to be buried, that he might attend the funeral, and drop a tear into his grave.

The "Lament for Glencairn" is one of the finest of Elegies. We cannot agree with those critics-some of them of deserved reputation—who have objected to the form in which the poet chose to give expression to his grief. Imagination, touched by human sorrow, loves to idealise; because thereby it purifies,