exerted it is but dimly conscious, a spirit of pleasure wherever it
can be found, in the walks of nature, and in the business of men.
The poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates among the
felicities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes
the fairer aspects of war, nor does he shrink from the company of
the passion of love though immoderate--from convivial pleasures
though intemperate--nor from the presence of war, though savage, and
recognized as the handmaid of desolation. Frequently and admirably
has Burns given way to these impulses of nature, both with
references to himself and in describing the condition of others. Who,
but some impenetrable dunce or narrow-minded puritan in works of art,
ever read without delight the picture which he has drawn of the
convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer Tam o' Shanter? The
poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset that his hero was a
desperate and sottish drunkard, whose excesses were as frequent as
his opportunities. This reprobate sits down to his cups while the
storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion; the night
is driven on by song and tumultuous noise, laughter and jest thicken
as the beverage improves upon the palate--conjugal fidelity archly
bends to the service of general benevolence--selfishness is not
absent, but wearing the mask of social cordiality; and while these
various elements of humanity are blended into one proud and happy
composition of elated spirits, the anger of the tempest without
doors only heightens and sets off the enjoyment within. I pity him
who cannot perceive that in all this, though there was no moral
purpose, there is a moral effect."

Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious,
O'er a' the ills of life victorious.