Indeed, it is not for those who have a true command of the
art of words, but for peddling, professional amateurs, that these
pointed occasions are most useful and inspiring. As those who speak
French imperfectly are glad to dwell on any topic they may have talked
upon or heard others talk upon before, because they know appropriate
words for it in French, so the dabbler in verse rejoices to behold a
waterfall, because he has learned the sentiment and knows appropriate
words for it in poetry. But the dialect of Burns was fitted to deal with
any subject; and whether it was a stormy night, a shepherd's collie, a
sheep struggling in the snow, the conduct of cowardly soldiers in the
field, the gait and cogitations of a drunken man, or only a village
cock-crow in the morning, he could find language to give it freshness,
body, and relief. He was always ready to borrow the hint of a design, as
though he had a difficulty in commencing--a difficulty, let us say, in
choosing a subject out of a world which seemed all equally living and
significant to him; but once he had the subject chosen, he could cope
with nature single-handed, and make every stroke a triumph. Again, his
absolute mastery in his art enabled him to express each and all of his
different humours, and to pass smoothly and congruously from one to
another. Many men invent a dialect for only one side of their
nature--perhaps their pathos or their humour, or the delicacy of their
senses--and, for lack of a medium, leave all the others unexpressed. You meet such an one, and find him in conversation full of thought,
feeling, and experience, which he has lacked the art to employ in his
writings. But Burns was not thus hampered in the practice of the
literary art; he could throw the whole weight of his nature into his
work, and impregnate it from end to end. If Doctor Johnson, that stilted
and accomplished stylist, had lacked the sacred Boswell, what should we
have known of him? and how should we have delighted in his acquaintance
as we do? Those who spoke with Burns tell us how much we have lost who
did not. But I think they exaggerate their privilege: I think we have
the whole Burns in our possession set forth in his consummate verses. It was by his style, and not by his matter, that he affected Wordsworth
and the world. There is, indeed, only one merit worth considering in a
man of letters--that he should write well; and only one damning
fault--that he should write ill. We are little the better for the
reflections of the sailor's parrot in the story. And so, if Burns helped
to change the course of literary history, it was by his frank, direct,
and masterly utterance, and not by his homely choice of subjects. That
was imposed upon him, not chosen upon a principle. He wrote from his own
experience, because it was his nature so to do, and the tradition of the
school from which he proceeded was fortunately not opposed to homely
subjects. But to these homely subjects he communicated the rich
commentary of his nature; they were all steeped in Burns; and they
interest us not in themselves, but because they have been passed through
the spirit of so genuine and vigorous a man. Such is the stamp of living
literature; and there was never any more alive than that of Burns. What a gust of sympathy there is in him sometimes flowing out in byways
hitherto unused, upon mice, and flowers, and the devil himself;
sometimes speaking plainly between human hearts; sometimes ringing out
in exultation like a peal of bells! When we compare the "Farmer's
Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie," with the clever and inhumane
production of half a century earlier, "The Auld Man's Mare's dead," we
see in a nut-shell the spirit of the change introduced by Burns. And as
to its manner, who that has read it can forget how the collie, Luath, in
the "Twa Dogs," describes and enters into the merry-making in the
cottage? "The luntin' pipe an' sneeshin' mill
   Are handed round wi' richt guid will;
   The canty auld folks crackin' crouse,
   The young anes rantin' through the house--
   My heart has been sae fain to see them,
   That I for joy hae barkit wi' them." It was this ardent power of sympathy that was fatal to so many women,
and, through Jean Armour, to himself at last. His humour comes from him
in a stream so deep and easy that I will venture to call him the best of
humorous poets. He turns about in the midst to utter a noble sentiment
or a trenchant remark on human life, and the style changes and rises to
the occasion. I think it is Principal Shairp who says, happily, that
Burns would have been no Scotsman if he had not loved to moralise;
neither, may we add, would he have been his father's son; but (what is
worthy of note) his moralisings are to a large extent the moral of his
own career. He was among the least impersonal of artists. Except in the
"Jolly Beggars," he shows no gleam of dramatic instinct. Mr. Carlyle has
complained that "Tam o' Shanter" is, from the absence of this quality,
only a picturesque and external piece of work; and I may add that in the
"Twa Dogs" it is precisely in the infringement of dramatic propriety
that a great deal of the humour of the speeches depends for its
existence and effect. Indeed, Burns was so full of his identity that it
breaks forth on every page; and there is scarce an appropriate remark
either in praise or blame of his own conduct but he has put it himself
into verse. Alas for the tenor of these remarks! They are, indeed, his
own pitiful apology for such a marred existence and talents so misused
and stunted; and they seem to prove for ever how small a part is played
by reason in the conduct of man's affairs. Here was one, at least, who
with unfailing judgment predicted his own fate; yet his knowledge could
not avail him, and with open eyes he must fulfil his tragic destiny. Ten
years before the end he had written his epitaph; and neither subsequent
events, nor the critical eyes of posterity, have shown us a word in it
to alter. And, lastly, has he not put in for himself the last
unanswerable plea?--

  "Then gently scan your brother man,
     Still gentler sister woman;
   Though they may gang a kennin' wrang,
     To step aside is human:
   One point must still be greatly dark--"

One? Alas! I fear every man and woman of us is "greatly dark" to all
their neighbours, from the day of birth until death removes them, in
their greatest virtues as well as in their saddest faults; and we, who
have been trying to read the character of Burns, may take home the
lesson and be gentle in our thoughts. FOOTNOTE:

  [3] For the love-affairs see, in particular, Mr. Scott Douglas's
    edition under the different dates. III

WALT WHITMAN


Of late years the name of Walt Whitman has been a good deal bandied
about in books and magazines. It has become familiar both in good and
ill repute. His works have been largely bespattered with praise by his
admirers, and cruelly mauled and mangled by irreverent enemies.