hings, had been flung away
like a weed on the dismal strand. Only twenty-three years of poetry and
folly had sufficed that other reckless boy to destroy himself and
shatter his little lamp of light. Burns was only a few years older, and
perhaps, though on the heights of triumph, felt something of that
horrible tide already catching his own feet to sweep him too into the
abyss. There are few things in the world more pathetic than this tribute
of his to the victim who had gone before him.

I may perhaps venture to say, with an apology for recurring to a subject
dealt with in another book, that this poetic visit to Edinburgh reminds
me of the visit of another poet in every way very different from Burns
to another city which cannot be supposed to resemble Edinburgh except in
the wonderful charm and attraction for devotees which she possesses.
There is indeed no just comparison between Petrarch at Venice and Burns
at Edinburgh, nothing but the fantastic link, often too subtle to be
traced, which makes the mind glide or leap over innumerable distances
and diversities from one thing to another. The Italian poet came
conferring glory, great as a prince, and attended by much the same
honours and privileges, though he was but a half priest, the son of an
exile, in an age and place where birth and family were of infinitely
more importance than they are now. He was the perfection and flower of
learning and high culture, and a fame which had reached the point which
is high-fantastical, and can mount no farther--and he came to a palace
allotted to him by the Government, and every distinction which it was in
their power to bestow, and demeaned himself _en bon prince_, adorning
with skilful eloquent touches of description the glorious scene beneath
his windows, the pageants at which he was an honoured spectator. Nothing
could be more unlike the young, shy, proud, yet genial-hearted rustic,
holding firmly by that magic wand of poetry which was his sole right to
consideration, and facing the curious, puzzled, patronising world with a
certain suspicion, a certain defiance, as of one whom no craft or wile
could betray or pretension daunt--yet ready to melt into an enthusiasm
almost extravagant when a lovely young woman or a noble youth pushed
open with a touch the door always ajar, or at least unfastened, of his
heart.

"The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,