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have accounted themselves happy indeed had they found it. Are we to suppose, for it only can be supposition, that this great treasure was of little value to Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, and Burns? Or was the light so dim that it did not colour all their thoughts, and give to every act an unknown charm? This is impossible: it must have been, indeed we know it to have been, strong and piercing. They did not hide their lights under a bushel, but they set them in golden candlesticks, ornamented with the most beautiful designs, all "carved out of the carver's brain." We do not imagine for instance, that the religion of the Cottar's Saturday Night is a mere incidental ceremony in the kitchen scene of a ploughman's humble cottage. It is the belief of a fervent, loving heart, intreating others by set purpose, and deliberate design, carefully and elaborately finished, to remember Robert Burns and the Cottar's Saturday Night, the foundation of his hope, his faith, the faith in which he lived and died, and through which he lives again. To us this is the highest aspect which the writings of a great poet present. And from this point of view, we look upon him as a great gift to a nation; we esteem him the counsellor of his people. He stands on a lofty eminence among his compeers, but his distinction is isolated, for his greatness is his own. Over and over again the lofty desire to stand where he stands is conceived in the minds of less gifted men. A proper estimate of their own power, and a just perception of its character, would preserve them from a profitless imitation, and save them from a ridiculous failure. But ambition makes a proper estimate impossible. The step is taken which is to lead on to glory, which is to place them on the pinnacle of Fame. They do not see their folly, they will never hear of it, for a hundred years must be fulfilled before a true verdict echoes back their shame.
