The daily morning journal and courier., 1899-01-28

SlulllDCiIi4 SliSSAi'
 Animate life he set in this same re lationship. A louse is an insignifican and undesirable creature, but in tn, mind of Burns it inspired the wish:
 70 wad some power the giftie ge af
 To see ourselves as ithers see us
 It wad frae monie a bunder free Il:
 An foolish notion
 What airs in dress an gait wad lea'e | us
 And ev'n devotion"
 The twa dogs gossiped about the lairds O creation" The attachment for poor Maile and Auld Mare Maggie lies in that they are objects of human sympathy and embody and teach hu- man virtues. And even the
 Wee, sleelSt, cow'rin, tim rous beastie' of a mouse leads him to the sober ob- 1 servation:
 But, ,mousie, thou art no thy lane,
 In proving foresight may be vain,
 The last laid schemes O mice an men
 Gang aft agley
 For promised joy
 Still thou art blest, compar'd wi me!
 The present only touched thee;
 But, oh, I backward cast my e'e
 On prospect drear!
 An forward, tho I canna see, | I guess an fear" | Like Shakespeare the human heart was his temple and the mildest and widest passions his divinities, and all nature brought her coicest and best as offerings of praise. Burns had the rare quality of putting himself into his writings One reads Paradise Lost, The Idylls of the King, and Saul as Work of Art. He never thinks of the writers. Their life and nationality are alike indifferent. But almost every poem of Burns throbs with the pulsations of his own warm heart. He was at his best in his Ayrshire vernacular. You rejoice with him on his banks of the Devon and weep with him at the grave Highland Mary. And yet his writings are not egotistic, for his life was absolutely sincere. This is his genius. To describe it you have but to analyze his truer and better self.
 His clear mind was quick to perceive striking relationships, and one is con- tinualy surprised by his brilliant flashes of wit But more pleasing is the delightful and wholesome humor that pervades his works. Tam O'Shanter and Halloween are electric with it. But while he could keep his jolly companions in a roar of laughter, this was not his noblest power. His life was a sad one This filed his heart with pity and made him a poet of deep- est pathos. And with what a delicate touch he throws in the darker lines! Who can fail to sympathize with the wounded hare? Wrecks of loveships strew life's shore. Hearts are breaking every day. Yet who but Burns could have written:
 Had we never loved so kindly,
 Had we never loved so blindly,
 Never met and never parted,
 We had ne'er been broken hearted"
 Life has ever it's sunshine and shadow, and must fade at last into the night, but was this ever told more beautifully than:
 John Anderson, my Jo, John,
 We clamb the hill thegether;
 And many a cantie day, John,
 We've had wi ane anither;
 Now we maun totter down, John,
 And hand in hand we'll go,
 And sleep thegither at the foot,
 John Anderson, my Jo.
 It bears no mark of the ohisel; no inn press of the rhetorcian. He just said 1t. In simple Scotch he said 1t. But, oh, the pathos!
 The heart of Robert Burns was one gushing fountain of love. No wonder he had strong hold upon the affections of his countrymen.
 He loved his country. And who would not? The bonniest country of them all. I was delighted as I travelled through it and shall never forget my last view. I stood on the summit of the Cheviot Hills. The scene stretched far away till the Highlands were but a dark line on the horizon. The sun was setting softly. On the soft evening air echoed the bleating of sheep and the Curlew's call. I stood enraptured and the lines 1f Scott ran through my mind: 'Breathes there man with soul so
 dead, Who never to himself has said, This is mine own, my native land" Robert Burns was a patriot He | awakened anew the feeling of nationali- ! y. Though hampered by political posi- ion, he expressed his true feelings in | 'uch songs as Caledonia and 'There'l never be peace till Jamie
 comes hame"
 .. (COptinued on Eighth Pa pn