forward to some such judgment from a hackney scribbler as
this: "Burns, notwithstanding the FANFARONNADE of
independence to be found in his works, and after having been
held forth to view and to public estimation as a man of some
genius, yet, quite destitute of resources within himself to
support his borrowed dignity, he dwindled into a paltry
exciseman, and shrunk out the rest of his insignificant
existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of
mankind." And then on he goes, in a style of rhodomontade,
but filled with living indignation, to declare his right to a
political opinion, and his willingness to shed his blood for
the political birthright of his sons. Poor, perturbed
spirit! he was indeed exercised in vain; those who share and
those who differ from his sentiments about the Revolution,
alike understand and sympathise with him in this painful
strait; for poetry and human manhood are lasting like the
race, and politics, which are but a wrongful striving after
right, pass and change from year to year and age to age. The
TWA DOGS has already outlasted the constitution of Sieyes and
the policy of the Whigs; and Burns is better known among
English-speaking races than either Pitt or Fox.

Meanwhile, whether as a man, a husband, or a poet, his steps
led downward. He knew, knew bitterly, that the best was out
of him; he refused to make another volume, for he felt that
it would be a disappointment; he grew petulantly alive to
criticism, unless he was sure it reached him from a friend.
For his songs, he would take nothing; they were all that he
could do; the proposed Scotch play, the proposed series of
Scotch tales in verse, all had gone to water; and in a fling