appeared in print, and produced a perfect furore through all Scotland. "Old and young, high and low, grave and gay, learned or ignorant, all were alike delighted, agitated, and transported."

A kind letter from a gentleman in Edinburgh, who had enjoyed his book, and strongly advised a second edition, changed all his plans. He spent part of the money intended for his journey, for a new suit of clothes; left as much as he could for his dear mother's support, and, with an almost empty purse, went at once to Edinburgh, where he was most cordially received. His poems were a passport to the finest drawing-rooms, and earls and nobles were proud to know him. He was at once the lion of the day. It was the fashion to pet and flatter the poet-ploughman, and a subscription was soon raised for a second edition of his poems; such men as Blair, Robertson, and Dugald Stewart, carrying lists in their pockets, to obtain the names of their acquaintances. He bore the ordeal well; was unaffected and manly; was ready to listen or to talk, and his conversation, brilliant and powerful, was considered by many even more wonderful than his poetry.

Scotland could now boast of a national poet, and was glad to do him honor. He seldom blundered or lost his self-possession. His heavy boots and buckskin breeches were excused or forgotten by the fair ladies, listening with delight to his wonderful flow of language, and nobles and sages were alike charmed by his untrained eloquence. But, alas for him, and the honor of his country! this was but a temporary enthusiasm, and he was soon pushed aside. Some were envious of his fame and popularity; others preferred some new pet; his politics were not those of the ruling party; his habits were known to be irregular, and he was absolutely shunned by those who had pursued and caressed him. He had expected this

"contemptuous neglect," but it was hard to bear!-all his high hopes crushed in two short years, and the fires of ambition were now too strongly kindled to be easily put out.

He resolved to unite the farmer and the poet once more, and, remarrying his beloved Jean, he leased a fine farm and settled quietly at Ellisland, in 1788. The land was good, the scenery beautiful, but his home was little better than a hovel. Yet love was there, and, for a time, Burns was both busy and happy. He longed for the cultivated society, however, of which he had enjoyed such a brief taste-feeling that he was now at "the very elbow of existence," away from all congenial companionship-his visions of future glory fast disappearing. This made him restless and dissatisfied, and he was constantly on the move. "In the course of a single day, he might be seen holding the plough, angling in the river, sauntering with his hands behind his back, on the banks, looking at the running water, of which he was very fond; walking round his buildings or over his fields; and if you lost sight of him for an hour, perhaps you might see him returning from Friar's-Carse, or spurring his horse through the Nith, to spend an evening in some distant place, with such friends as chance threw in his way."

During these solitary walks and rapid rides he composed some of his best songs. "Auld Lang Syne" was written about this time. He loved to read these heartgems to his friends as old songs-the labors of forgotten. bards, or lyrics that he had taken down from some old woman's song.

A few years after, some friend obtained for him the office of exciseman for the district in which he lived, with a salary of seventy pounds a year, and much hard work— a pitiful position for the man whom his country should have delighted to honor.

But he tried to make the best of his lot, saying: "I dare to be honest, and I fear no labor; nor do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to my correspondence with the Muses. I meet them now and then as I jog among the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the banks of Ayr."

He was occasionally remembered in these days by his Edinburgh acquaintances in some pleasant way. He had a few good friends among them with whom he corresponded, and many more visitors than he cared for found their way to his humble cottage. His farm did not prosper; neither his wife nor himself knew how to manage it with thrift and skill. His excise duties took him often away; and the gay companions he found on these frequent excursions did him no good.

In 1791 he relinquished the lease of the Ellisland property, and removed his family and their humble furniture to Dumfries, where they tried in earnest to economize, but that was impossible. Friends and admirers must be fed and entertained; new books must be purchased; even the wandering poor must be cared for: no one was ever turned from his door.

In his family he was ever gentle and affectionate; helping his bright boys in their lessons; listening to Jean's sweet voice as she tried his last song; or writing in their midst, cheered rather than disturbed by their presence. A third edition of his poems, containing "Tam O'Shanter," as a new delight for his admirers, now came out. But his end was near. Suspected by the government of unpatriotic sentiments, distressed for means, crushed by disappointments, injured by constant dissipation, he died of a nervous fever, on the 21st of July, 1796-only thirty

seven.

The question is yet to be answered-asked by some one when he heard of his death-"Who do you think will be our poet now?"

Burns's great mistake in life was his lack of aim and principle. He drifted without helm or rudder-tossed about by passion and temptation—until dashed upon the cruel rocks.

His short, sad life is a lesson in itself-no moralizing could increase its effect. In judging his character and conduct, there is a tendency toward extremes. He is either condemned too severely, or extolled to the skies. Let us pass lightly over his faults, except as they may injure those who read his poems, and dwell thankfully, lovingly, on the happiness he has given to the world. The depths of one's heart are stirred by the very mention of his name.

As Beecher says, in his own inimitable way: "If every man that, within these twenty-four hours the world around, should speak the name of Burns with fond admiration, were ranked as his subject, no king on earth would have such a realm; and if such a one could change a feeling into a flower, and cast it down to his memory, a mountain would rise, and he should sit upon a throne of blossoms, now at length without a thorn!"

Carlyle's wonderful essay on this poet closes with these words:

"With our readers in general, with men of right feeling anywhere, we are not required to plead for Burns. In pitying admiration, he lies enshrined in all our hearts, in a far nobler mausoleum than that one of marble; neither will his works, even as they are, pass away from the memory of men. While the Shakespeares and Miltons roll on like mighty rivers through the country of Thought, bearing fleets of traffickers and assiduous pearl-fishers on their waves, this little Valclusa Fountain will also arrest our eye. For this also is of Nature's own and most cunning workmanship, bursts from the depths of the earth, with a full gushing current, into the light of day; and

often will the traveller turn aside to drink of its clear waters, and muse among its rocks and pines!"

A tourist, who writes very graphically in an Atlantic Monthly of 1860, on "Some of the Haunts of Burns," thus describes his grave and his early home:

"There was a footpath through this crowded churchyard, sufficiently well worn to guide us to the grave of Burns; but a woman followed behind us, who, it appeared, kept the key of the mausoleum, and was privileged to show it to strangers. The monument is a sort of Grecian temple, with pilasters and a dome, covering a space of about twenty feet square, It was formerly open to all the inclemencies of the Scotch atmosphere, but is now protected and shut in by large squares of rough glass, each pane being of the size of one whole side of the structure. The woman unlocked the door, and admitted us into the interior. Inlaid into the floor of the mausoleum is the gravestone of Burns- the very same that was laid over his grave by Jean Armour, before this monument was built. Stuck against the surrounding wall is a marble statue of Burns at the plough, with the genius of Caledonia summoning the ploughman to turn poet. Methought it was not a very successful piece of work; for the plough was better sculptured than the man, and the man, though heavy and cloddish, was more effective than the goddess. Our guide informed us that an old man of ninety, who knew Burns, certifies this statue to be very like the original.

storm.

"The next morning wore a lowering aspect, as if it felt itself destined to be one of many consecutive days of After a good Scotch breakfast, however, of fresh herrings and eggs, we took a fly, and started at a little past ten for the banks of the Doon. On our way, at about two miles from Ayr, we drew up at a roadside cottage, on which was an inscription to the effect that Robert Burns was born within those walls. It is now a public-house,