tionary destructionists of France. In sanguine mood he celebrates the Tree of Liberty:

"Heard ye o' the tree o' France,

I watna what's the name o't;
Around it ail the patriots dance,

Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When superstition's hellish brood

Kept France in leading-strings, man."

It has been said, with truth, that if there is any one that is really mean and contemptible, it is he that is continually sneering at something or somebody. Any fool can sneer. The poor seldom envy the rich their wealth, but they revolt at being considered a mere herd of cattle by those who are very often both mentally and morally their inferiors. Burns says, speaking of great folk:

"I tent less and want less

Their roomy fireside;

But hanker and canker

To see their cursed pride."

But think not that Burns was a man to brood over his hard fate. On the contrary he had a vivacity and cheerfulness which seldom deserted him, and which made his poems not wholly or for the most part of a querulous or complaining kind, but humorous, witty, racy and refreshing. Even after he had lost nearly all the friends of his earlier career, when society frowned on, and the "unco guid" shunned him, when, in addition to his fear of losing the position which he held from government, his heart was wrung by the ill success of that revolutionary struggle in France, in which he ardently believed that the liberties of man were locked up, he still continued to write those songs of patriotism and love, remarkable for their fire and pathos, and the ruins of Lincluden still echoed to the sweet strains of his muse. I know that the vivacity and humor observable about Burns' poems may admit of a different explanation; and a story is told of one

Carlini who kept all Paris in good humor consulting a physician for hypochondria. But this seems to me rather one of those contradictions which certain persons delight to find in the characters of the great.

There are two men, contemporaries, who have done more to render Scotland famous than even the picturesqueness of her scenery or the heroic deeds of her sons. The glamor of their genius still rests upon each rock and mountain, each grove and glen. The one is the bard of the people, the other the poet of the great. The one rescued from oblivion the heroic legends of her chiefs and transmitted them to posterity, adorned with all the wealth of his glorious imagery, colored with all the brilliant dyes of his fertile imagination. The other, in verse equally sweet and true, brings us to the door of the lowly cottage and shows us, in bright and lovely colors, the happy scenes within. Both embalm, as it were, in immortal verse the superstitions of their native land. The one has weird tales of wraiths and demons to relate; the other tells, in humorous and pathetic strain, the simple ghost stories of the yeomanry. Both loved their country, and the breasts of both ever beat with every noble and patriotic sentiment. Scotland can never fully repay the debt of gratitude which she owes to her two great national poets; and she should cherish their memory along with that of the heroes and the places which they have done so much to render famous. Scott was a prudent man. Burns was far otherwise. Impulsive, even to rashness, his soul was one in which the coldness of logic was obliterated in the warmth of human feeling. His passions became a law unto him, and ultimately the hidden machinery that regulated his existence. He followed them, not as a slave his master, but with the same grand unison that causes the planets to pursue the beaten paths of heaven. He did nothing as the result of calculation, but allowed his thoughts and actions to follow involuntarily, as it were, from his soul, like the rush of blood from the animal heart. A

creature of impulse, he has no time to reason.

He has tasted

of life's most delicious pleasures, and he seeks to plunge anew into its intoxicating whirl. He is not choice in respect to his companions, nor of the point at which he strikes the muddy current. He does not wholly eschew wisdom, but declares that folly has raptures to give. But Cicero says: "To live long it is necessary to live slowly." It is a sad spectacle, that of genius dragged down and debased by appetites merely sensual. Burns had suffered through life the shame of his youthful indiscretions. His self-indulgence hastened the end. Well might he have said with the French poet on his bed of death:

"La fleur de ma vie est fanée;

Il fut rapide mon destin !

De mon orageuse journée

Le soir toucha presque au matin."

2

TERRA MARIQUE.

ITHOUT any ceremony I introduce myself as a passenger on board the steamship "Nova Scotian," of the "Allan Line," bound for the country from which our gallant ship takes its name. The object of this voyage iswell there isn't any clearly defined object in view, simply a pleasure trip, to escape the heat of a Southern sun, where the thermometer ranges between 95 and max. I forgot to mention that Baltimore is the port from which we start, and August 5th, 18-, the time. Promptly at 9 o'clock in the morning the bell rings, the whistle gives a shriek and we are afloat; slowly and quietly we glide down the harbor, where vessels from every country lie snug at the moorings, and the waves caused by our ship causes them to rock a little and bend as if they wished to bid us a farewell and a Godspeed. This is my first sea voyage, and I must confess that my heart quickens its beat as we quicken our speed. I feel quite con

spicuous; I am thoroughly absorbed with the bustle on deck and the officers giving commands, which are to me meaningless-unintelligible. Of all persons on board the man at the wheel is the most interesting to me: see what a steady eye he has! how attentive is he to the orders that are given ! and I wonder how is he going to guide us through that maze of ships, and never strike one. But he does it perfectly; just as accurately as the hands of a clock pass one another, does he steer us through them all, and we pass out into the open river, and after awhile into the Chesapeake Bay.

Now that we are under way, and the excitement somewhat subsided, I have time to look about and notice my fellow passengers. Of course I expected to find a number of young girls, who would be willing to admit of an introduction from me and, then and there start a friendship: who ever read of a sea trip in which this was not the case, and of course mine would not be lacking in such an important feature. But I was disappointed-very much so. There were none with whom an acquaintance was either to be sought, or desired. Our passengers were for the most part men, and what women were sprinkled through them were old, and therefore, so far as I was concerned, their company was not to be sought after.

All day long we have been moving down the Bay, and I had begun to think that all of that much dreaded sea sickness was nonsense. I was not any more affected than if I had been in a rocking chair. That night about 9 o'clock we passed out of the Capes into the broad Atlantic; the sea was rougher than it had been in the Bay, the vessel rocked more, and things began to look uneasy. I myself began to feel rather nervous, a little sick perhaps, but I was tired, and then the excitement of the day had been more than I was used to. Don't think that I was sea sick, I would not leave anyone under that impression; of course I was not; but then taking things together, I thought that it was expedient that I should retire. And I did so. I laid down in my berth and soon

I was asleep.

"Rocked in the cradle of the deep,"

The next morning I arose early in order to see a sun-rise at ocean. It was with much trouble I succeeded in dressing myself. I found that I was still tired, and suffering from excitement more so than on the night previous. I could not truthfully contribute it to the causes with which I had solaced myself yesterday; in fact I was prepared to confess that I was sea sick; yes decidedly so. I made my way to the deck, just in time to see that for which I had arisen; and as great a task as it was to "clip my morning's nap," I felt that I had been repaid; it was unlike every sun-rise I had ever seen, and I shall not attempt to describe that which must be seen to be appreciated, and of which I could give none but the most imperfect description.

I did not see very many whales, sea serpents, icebergs &c., comparatively few, certainly not more than six, or seven at the outside of each, and then this wasn't a very good time of the year for them.

I passed through every stage of that detestable ailment, with which, I believe, I confessed I was afflicted; mine was just like everybody else's: only I then thought that it was the most violent attack on record; and the history of mine. can be obtained by reading any book on the subject of course at first I was afraid that my last hour had come, and had begun to think of my final remark; then, as I grew worse, I began to be entirely careless as to whether I lived, or otherwise; but when it reached its climax, I had the greatest fear, one which was somewhat different from the preceding ones; I became very much alarmed lest I should continue to live in such a condition; it may seem wicked to you that such a desire should ever have crossed the mind of a person who is endowed with any discretion, but I actually would gladly have accepted a "leave of absence" from this earth, or rather from that water. For three days I considered it an insult if any of the waiters asked me what would I take for dinner or supper, as the case might be. At one time I was like Mark Twain: "I believed I had thrown up my immortal soul."