ite
philosophy, mindful of Descartes. Surely of all the wits none was ever
so good a man, none ever made life so rich with humour and friendship.

XIX. To Robert Burns.

Sir,--Among men of Genius, and especially among Poets, there are some to
whom we turn with a peculiar and unfeigned affection; there are others
whom we admire rather than love. By some we are won with our will, by
others conquered against our desire. It has been your peculiar fortune
to capture the hearts of a whole people--a people not usually prone to
praise, but devoted with a personal and patriotic loyalty to you and to
your reputation. In you every Scot who _is_ a Scot sees, admires, and
compliments Himself, his ideal self--independent, fond of whisky,
fonder of the lassies; you are the true representative of him and of his
nation. Next year will be the hundredth since the press of Kilmarnock
brought to light its solitary masterpiece, your Poems; and next year,
therefore, methinks, the revenue will receive a welcome accession from
the abundance of whisky drunk in your honour. It is a cruel thing for
any of your countrymen to feel that, where all the rest love, he can
only admire; where all the rest are idolators, he may not bend the knee;
but stands apart and beats upon his breast, observing, not adoring--a
critic. Yet to some of us--petty souls, perhaps, and envious--that loud
indiscriminating praise of 'Robbie Burns' (for so they style you in
their Change-house familiarity) has long been ungrateful; and, among the
treasures of your songs, we venture to select and even to reject. So it
must be! We cannot all love Haggis, nor 'painch, tripe, and thairm,'
and all those rural dainties which you celebrate as 'warm-reekin, rich!'
'Rather too rich,' as the Young Lady said on an occasion recorded by Sam
Weller.

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

You _have_ given her a Haggis, with a vengeance, and her 'gratefu' prayer' is
yours for ever. But if even an eternity of partridge may pall on the
epicure, so of Haggis too, as of all earthly delights, cometh satiety at
last. And yet what a glorious Haggis it is--the more emphatically rustic
and even Fescennine part of your verse! We have had many a rural bard
since Theocritus 'watched the visionary flocks,' but you are the only
one of them all who has spoken the sincere Doric. Yours is the talk of
the