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But be this as it may, the feelings with which, "I think of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul, that perished in his pride; Of Burns, who walk'd in glory and in joy Behind his plough, upon the mountain-side"
But whereas Addison and Pope never had the use of them, Gray had the use of them at times. He is the scantiest and frailest of classics in our poetry, but he is a classic. And now, after Gray, we are met, as we draw towards the end of the eighteenth century, we are met by the great name of Burns.
Not for nothing did its author choose as one of the mottoes for its title-page, 'Ce ne sont mes gestes que j'écrie; c'est moy. It may be said of this book, as of Senancour's Oberman: 'A fever in these pages burns; Beneath the calm they feign, A wounded human spirit turns Here on its bed of pain. The still small voice of its author whispers through My Confidences.
"But how apply the remark?" said my companion. "Robert Burns," I replied, again grasping his hand, "yours, I am convinced, is no vulgar destiny.
I snapped at him in a most sarcastic tone. The shaft told, because Mr. Burns, like many other disagreeable people, was very sensitive himself. He remained as if thunderstruck, with his mouth open for some further communication, but I did not give him the chance. "And, anyhow, what the deuce do I care?" I added, retiring into my room. And this was a natural thing to say.
Our school-books depended, so far as American authors were concerned, on extracts from the orations and speeches of Webster and Everett; on Bryant's Thanatopsis, his lines To a Waterfowl, and the Death of the Flowers, Halleck's Marco Bozzaris, Red Jacket, and Burns; on Drake's American Flag, and Percival's Coral Grove, and his Genius Sleeping and Genius Waking, and not getting very wide awake, either.
Robbers and robber-castles have long since passed away, and the people, rough and uncouth as they may at first seem, are as kindly-hearted as they are honest. Among them was born and in their incomprehensible dialect wrote Hebel, the German Burns. We dislike the practice of using the name of one author as the characteristic designation of another.
Would you mind kissing them again? this one; it burns so and aches!" and he raised his thin, right hand, winch Grey took in his own, and kissed reverently and lovingly, saying as he did so: "Poor, tired hand, which has done so much hard work, but never a bad act." "Oh, oh!
On seating myself at my table to await the bell of the Gouverneur Faulkner, without which ringing my Buzz had instructed me I must never on pain of extinction as a secretary enter His Excellency's office, I opened that letter and began to read with difficulty a letter of a few words from my wee Pierre, now in the hospital of that kind Doctor Burns.
Burns and Wordsworth were content with the farm country, but for poets whose theories were not so intimately joined with experience such an environment was too tame. The early American poet, J. G. Percival, expressed the same theory, declaring of poetry,
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