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LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.

THERE is no poet of the present age more deservedly popular than Burns. Though born in an humble station in life, he raised himself, by the mere exertions of his mind, to the highest pitch of intellectual greatness. The originality of his genius, the energy of his language, and the richness of his imagination, merited the gratitude as well as the admiration of his countrymen. But his highest efforts, in which the tide of human feeling seemed to flow in deep and exhaustless channels, failed to soften the avarice of a mean and selfish aristocracy. Like his native and lonely hills, he was subject to every blast, and exposed naked and bare to every tempest. He was an elevated point, round which the storm clung and gathered; a prominent rock, condemned by nature, as it were, to endure the buffettings of the surge. Yet his rude splendor remained uninjured. Amidst the bitter waters of indigence and sorrow, of drudgery and neglect, he produced those beautiful idylliums which will ever exist for the delight of the world; and which will never be read without an expansion of the understanding and of the heart.

Robert Burns was born on the 25th of January, 1759, in a cottage near the banks of the Doon, about two miles from Ayr. The chief incidents of his life are related, by himself, in a letter to Dr. Moore. In this document, and in several passages of his correspondence, he unfolds the

vicissitudes of his fortune, and the peculiarities of his character, with great strength and clearness. Whoever would do justice to his memory, must copy his sentiments and his language.

"For some months past," says he, "I have been rambling over the country; but I am now confined with some lingering complaints, originating, as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made some little noise in this country; you have done me the honor to interest yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful account of what character of a man I am, and how I came by that character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give you an honest narrative; though I know it will be often at my own expense; for I assure you, sir, I have, like Solomon, whose character, except in the trifling affair of wisdom, I sometimes think I resemble; I have, I say, like him, 'turned my eyes to behold madness and folly,' and, like him, too, frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship.' * * * * After you have perused these pages, should you think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that the poor author wrote them under some twitching qualms of conscience, arising from suspicion that he was doing what he ought not to do: a predicament he has more than once been in before.

"I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that character which the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a gentleman. When at Edinburgh, last winter, I got acquainted in the Herald's Office, and, looking through that granary of honors, I there found almost every name in the kingdom; but for me,

'My ancient but ignoble blood

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood.' Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c., quite disowned me.

"My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, who rented lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal,

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