asked Thomson to send back all his
manuscripts for revisal, saying that he would rather write five songs to
his taste than twice that number otherwise. The battle of his life was
lost; in forlorn efforts to do well, in desperate submissions to evil,
the last years flew by. His temper is dark and explosive, launching
epigrams, quarrelling with his friends, jealous of young puppy officers.
He tries to be a good father; he boasts himself a libertine. Sick, sad,
and jaded, he can refuse no occasion of temporary pleasure, no
opportunity to shine; and he who had once refused the invitations of
lords and ladies is now whistled to the inn by any curious stranger. His
death (July 21, 1796), in his thirty-seventh year, was indeed a kindly
dispensation. It is the fashion to say he died of drink; many a man has
drunk more and yet lived with reputation, and reached a good age. That
drink and debauchery helped to destroy his constitution, and were the
means of his unconscious suicide, is doubtless true; but he had failed
in life, had lost his power of work, and was already married to the
poor, unworthy, patient Jean, before he had shown his inclination to
convivial nights, or at least before that inclination had become
dangerous either to his health or his self-respect. He had trifled with
life, and must pay the penalty. He had chosen to be Don Juan, he had
grasped at temporary pleasures, and substantial happiness and solid
industry had passed him by. He died of being Robert Burns, and there is
no levity in such a statement of the case; for shall we not, one and
all, deserve a similar epitaph?

WORKS

The somewhat cruel necessity which has lain upon me throughout this
paper only to touch upon those points in the life of Burns where
correction or amplification seemed desirable, leaves me little
opportunity to speak of the works which have made his name so famous.
Yet, even here, a few observations seem necessary.

At the time when the poet made his appearance and great first success,
his work was remarkable in two ways. For, first, in an age when poetry
had become abstract and conventional, instead of continuing to deal with
shepherds, thunderstorms, and personifications, he dealt with the actual
circumstances of his life, however matter-of-fact and sordid these might
be. And, second, in a time when English versification was particularly
stiff, lame, and feeble, and words were used with ultra-academical
timidity, he wrote verse