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"To reconcile to our imagination the entrance of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind," says the excellent Currie, required the powers of Burns; he, however, succeeds." Burns cared not at that time for our imagination—not he, indeed, not a straw; nor did he so much as know of our existence. He knew that there was a human race; and he believed that he was born to be a great power among them, especially all over his beloved and beloving Scotland. "All hail! my own inspired bard!" That "all hail!" he dared to hear from supernatural lips, but not till his spirit had long been gazing, and long been listening to one commissioned by the "genius of the land," to stand a Vision before her chosen poet in his hut. Reconcile her entrance to our imagination! Into no other mansion but that "Auld Clay-Biggin" would Coila have descended from the sky.

on

The critic continues, "To the painting on her mantle, which is depicted the most striking scenery, as well as the most distinguished characters of his native country, some exception may be made. The mantle of Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis (see the first Idyllium of Theocritus), and the shield of Achilles, is too much crowded with figures, and some of the objects represented upon it are scarcely admissible according to the principles of design."

We advise you not to see the first Idyllium of Theocritus. Perhaps you have no Greek. Mr Chapman's translation is as good as a translation can well be, but then you may not have a copy of it at hand. A pretty wooden cup it is, with curled

ears and ivy-twined lips-embossed thereon the figure of a woman with flowing robes and a Lydian head-dress, to whom two angry men are making love. Hard by, a stout old fisherman on a rock is in the act of throwing his net into the sea: not far from him is a vineyard, where a boy is sitting below a hedge framing a locust trap with stalks of asphodel, and guarding the grapes from a couple of sly foxes. Thyrsis, we are told by Theocritus, bought it from a Calydonian Skipper for a big cheese-cake and a goat. We must not meddle with the shield of Achilles.

Turn we then to the "Vision" of Burns, our Scottish Theocritus, as we have heard him classically called, and judge of Dr Currie's sense in telling us to see the cup of Thyrsis.

"Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen,
Till half her leg was scrimply seen;
And such a leg! my bonny Jean

Could only peer it ;

Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,

Nane else could near it."

You observe Burns knew not yet who stood before himwoman, or angel, or fairy-but the Vision reminded him of her whom best he loved.

"Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs

Were twisted gracefu' round her brows;
I took her for some Scottish Muse,

By that same token."

Some Scottish Muse-but which of them he had not leisure to conjecture, so lost was he in admiration of that mystic robe"that mantle large, of greenish hue." As he continued to gaze on her, his imagination beheld whatever it chose to behold. The region dearest to the Poet's heart is all emblazoned there-and there too its sages and its heroes.

"Here, rivers in the sea were lost;

There, mountains to the skies were tost ;
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast,
With surging foam;

There, distant shone Art's lofty boast,
The lordly dome.

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods ;
There, well-fed Irvine stately thuds:
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods,
On to the shore;

And many a lesser torrent scuds,
With seeming roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread,
An ancient borough rear'd her head;
Still, as in Scottish story read,
She boasts a race,

To ev'ry nobler virtue bred,

And polish'd grace.

By stately tow'r or palace fair,

Or ruins pendent in the air,

Bold stems of heroes, here and there,
I could discern;

Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare,
With feature stern.

My heart did glowing transport feel,
To see a race heroic wheel,

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel
In sturdy blows;

While back recoiling seem'd to reel
Their Southron foes.

His Country's Saviour, mark him well!
Bold Richardton's heroic swell;

The chief on Sark who glorious fell,
In high command;

And he whom ruthless fates expel
His native land.

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid,
I mark'd a martial race, portray'd
In colours strong;

Bold, soldier-featured, undismay'd
They strode along."

What have become of "the laws of design?" But would good Dr Currie have dried up the sea! How many yards, will anybody tell us, were in that green mantle? And what a pattern! Thomas Campbell knew better what liberty is

allowed by nature to Imagination in her inspired dreams. In his noble Stanzas to the Memory of Burns, he says, in allusion to "The Vision,"

"Him, in his clay-built cot the Muse

Entranced, and showed him all the forms

Of fairy light and wizard gloom,

That only gifted poet views,

The genii of the floods and storms,

And martial shades from glory's tomb."

The Fata Morgana are obedient to the laws of perspective, and of optics in general; but they belong to the material elements of nature; this is a spiritual creation, and Burns is its maker. It is far from perfect, either in design or execution; but perfection is found nowhere here below, except in Shakespeare; and if "The Vision" offend you, we fear your happiness will not be all you could desire it even in the "Tempest" or the "Midsummer's Night's Dream."

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How full of fine poetry are one and all of his "Epistles" to his friends Sillar, Lapraik, Simpson, Smith,-worthy men one and all, and among them much mother-wit almost as good as genius, and thought to be genius by Burns, who in the generous enthusiasm of his nature exaggerated the mental gifts of everybody he loved, and conceived their characters to be "accordant to his soul's desire." His "Epistle to Davie” was among the very earliest of his productions, and Gilbert's favourable opinion of it suggested to him the first idea of becoming an author. It was, I think, in summer 1784, when in the interval of hard labour, he and I were reading in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the principal parts of this Epistle." It breathes a noble spirit of independence, and of proud contentment dallying with the hardships of its lot, and in the power of manhood regarding the riches that are out of its reach, without a particle of envy, and with a haughty scorn. True, he says, "I hanker and canker to see their cursed pride;" but he immediately bursts out into a strain that gives the lie to his own words :—

"What though, like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,
But either house or hal'?