was living. Hamilton managed to introduce me to him. We talked of all subjects save the poems of Burns. He is above the middle size; stout made, and inclining to corpulency; his complexion is swarthy, his eye black and expressive he wears a brown wig, and dresses in black: there is little or nothing of the pedant about him.” Mr. Wilson is living, and enjoying the world; but his friends, I hear, share in the dread felt by Cromek, of alluding to the poems of Burns in his presence.

This poem has an admirer in one of our first-rate poets. Wordsworth, who seems to have the poetry of Burns by heart, says, "When the poet wrote his 'Death and Doctor Hornbook,' he had very rarely been intoxicated, or perhaps much exhilarated by liquor; yet how happily does he lead his reader into that track of sensation! and with what lively humor does he describe the disorder of his senses and the confusion of his understanding, put to the test by his deliberate attempt to count the horns of the

moon:

'But whether she had three or four,

He could na' tell.'

Behold a sudden apparition, which disperses this disorder, and in a moment chills him into possession of himself. Coming upon no more important mission than the grisly phantom was charged with, what mode of introduction could have been more efficient or appropriate?" No spirit ever came into this world's air more naturally; yet the devil, in the tale of Ramsay, who wore shoes on his hoofs, and a bonnet on his horns, is not half so ludicrous, though painted on purpose.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

"The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face
They round the ingle form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride:
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,

He wales a portion with judicious care;

And, 'Let us worship God,' he says, with solemn air."

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THE domestic devotion of Scotland has inspired many poems and pictures, but no one has touched the subject with the solemn feeling and serene beauty of Burns. Nor is his strain confined to religion alone: he felt that the sublime act of reading the Gospel and worshipping God in prayer made but a portion of the scene. He has introduced release from toil -a father's affection. mother's care-fire-side happiness national spirit and true and innocent love as subordinate matters indeed, but all conducive to devotion. I have often joined in family worship in the cottages of Scotland, and to me it was as impressive as the most fervent prayer or the most eloquent sermon in a public place. To see a venerable man laying his ancestor's Bible across his knees, and with all his children and servants around him singing a psalm and reading a chapter- while in the former, the softer tones of woman's voice mingled with the rougher melody of the voice of man; and in the latter, a light from a rustic candelabra in the middle of the floor showing the

reader's gray hair, and the ancient page soiled by long and frequent use,—formed, with the grave looks of the household, a picture too impressive to be soon forgotten. But this was much increased when, closing the Bible, the master of the house extinguished the lamp, and saying, "Let us pray," all knelt silently down separately at their individual seats: stooping their foreheads nigh the floor, and uniting in thought with the prayer now poured piously out for their welfare here and hereafter. On these occasions I have sometimes ventured to look up to see the beauty of the scene around: the moon at the window, or the glimmering peat-fire on the floor, helped me to a dim view of the fervent old man, his equally fervent dame, or a daughter or a maid-servant with her face buried in her hands, and her long hair streaming down to the floor.

This, and more than this, was present to the mind of Burns when he composed this noble poem; and equally so to the mind of Wilkie when in his picture he gave to the words of the poet the finest shape and the truest color. Gilbert Burns has recorded the delight which he felt, when in one of their solitary walks Robert first communicated to him "The Cotter's Saturday Night;" and Mrs. Dunlop often related the influence it exercised over her when laid on a bed of sickness. The poet wrote it in a little chamber or crypt in the farm-house of Mossgiel; and Allan, aware of this when he conceived his picture of Burns writing "The Cotter's Saturday Night," gave locality to the scene. Another poet, but a far inferior one, has given us the impression which the words "Let us pray" made on his mind.

"Now let us pray,' he said. Knelt every knee,

And down into the dust stooped every face;

All lights were quench'd, save that which seraphs see

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At night, hung o'er the angels' dwelling-place.
All humbly now before the throne of grace
He pour'd his spirit forth, and there was given

Much rapture to him for a little space; —

Thought flash'd on thought, as bright and fast as levin; Something there was of earth, but there was more of heaven."

It sometimes happens that things humorous mingle with things serious one of these incidents illustrates both the poem and the manners of the land. Into a blacksmith's household, in the vale of Nith, a knowledge, it seems, of the bass in music had failed to penetrate, till his eldest son brought it from a singing-school, and surprised his father when he "took the book," by uniting it to the tenor in the tune of The Bangor. The old man at first thought that his son had mistaken the tune, and would take up the right one when he came to the next verse; but the other struck more boldly into the second verse than he had done into the first; and his father imagining that he was setting up an opposition tune, could not keep his wrath from rising. The mother, who knew that her husband, a worker in fire, was hot and choleric, interposed, and turning to her son, said, "O Robin, my man, fye, fye!-taking the word of God out of your poor auld father's mouth in that way!" "Never mind him, Janet, just never mind him," said old Robin, "I'll break his voice till him." So saying, he turned the leaf; and choosing the hundred and nineteenth psalm, the longest in the book, fairly sung it out and out; and by the time the sun rose, young Robin's voice was so sobered down, that his mother afterwards, in telling the story, declared that "the scraich of a magpie was music till't."

THE "Country Lassie" is a picture of innocent love, and suspicious wisdom: of young love supported by conscious truth and purity, and of ancient wisdom, sustained by proverb lore, and the experience of ages. The young maiden vindicates faith and love; and without the aid of either levity or wit, achieves a victory over her wily opponent. The dame of wrinkled eld, seems to belong to the household of Mammon: she makes out a good case in favor of what she considers a prudent match, and thinks, with the old adage, "When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out at the window ;" and that gold and bonds are superior to health, and strength, and youth: she is full of wise saws and modern instances.

"O, thoughtless lassie, life's a faught!

The canniest gate, the strife is sair:

But ay fu' han't is fetchin best,

A hungry care's an unco care:

But some will spend, and some will spare,
An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will:

Syne as ye brew my maiden fair,

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill."