myself, Let us try whether we cannot at least discern it, lay our fingers upon it, saying, Lo! here is the genuine essence.

The

Gems are proverbially small. In the vast mines of literature we find them surrounded with much ordinary material. gem itself is comprised in a line or a word, which should be easily recognized. When it is found we cry "Eureka!" with safety. Here it is. This is genius. We say of much that precedes and follows this one line, or two, in rare instances this one word or two: "Several could have written this-talent is equal to it; but this one word or line, never. That comes not from a toiler below looking upward. The gods threw this from above into the soul of genius." Talent has climbed Parnassus, crag over crag, with us upon its shoulders, and called upon us to look back and enjoy the lovely pastoral scene below. Genius alone has scaled the height, and revealed to us the enchanted land beyond and over the mountain-top and all around the vaulted dome.

The fire of genius, we say, and all are agreed that one essential element of genius is this "fire." No amount of smoke, no amount of heat suffices. The smoke passes away. the heat becomes intense, and the flame bursts forth, or genius there is none. Wherever genius touches, the divine spark sets fire to the pile.

The test of genius in any writer, therefore, seems to be whether he has power to lead the understanding and sympa. thetic reader step by step, line after line, into regions more and more elevated, stirring the heart, the altar upon which the Godlike is placing the elements which he is to set blazing anon

It will be admitted that if the title of genius can be properly applied to any human being, it is to that phenomenon, the Scottish plowman. No one questions but that he was a pure child of genius.

Mr

I took the works of the poet from their place of honor, ner those of the "god of gods" in the kingdom of poetry. working copy begins with the "Twa Dugs," the Newfoundland of the lordling, with its "braw brass collar," and the other the wisest and truest of all, that which creeps farthest into the core of the heart-the Scotch collie. The dog of the po poet describes the joys of his own humble home. picture of the home of honest poverty which sets all dancing young and old, as happy as only careless poverty can be:

Here is à

Here in one line lies the gem; here is genius. The elements have taken fire. That collie has a soul; he is one of the family, as the collie always is in the home of the Scotch peasant. Every collie in the world has been elevated in social status since the pen of genius made him one of that joyous throng. He sings his song, speaks his piece, dances with the rest, and contributes his part to the general happiness. Talent would probably have forgotten him altogether. It could never have seen that the needed music to cap the joyous scene might be invoked out of his bark. No; that is just the one step, the "little more" of Michael Angelo's definition of genius. Two lines at the close of this poem call for notice. These hairy philosophers sitting on the heather hills have told each other much of the trials and disadvantages of life in the palace and in the cottage; for there are advantages and disadvantages in both, though we have Marcus Aurelius's word for it, that "life can be lived well even in a palace." The sun had set, the gloaming was coming on

"When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they were na men but dugs"

The reader

There is no use in enlarging upon that last line. who does not feel it to be a stroke of genius can never be made to see it. But who can fail to feel it? The poem ends with it, and goes out in a blaze. The line crystallizes and passes into literature as one of its gems. Genius, nothing but genius.

Burns, like Milton, always betrays an extraordinary partiality for the devil. It would be difficult to illustrate genius better than by quoting several lines from his address to that wicked imp. One is tempted to quote several, but let us take the last verse only:

"But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-

Still hae a stake

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

E'en for your sake!"!

Talent, even of the highest order, would have stopped much short of such a farewell. It might have tendered some good advice, ponderously delivered. Genius alone could have suggested the possible repentance and reformation of the very spirit of evil; and the suggestion is so delicately conveyednothing of the preacher, no denunciation, just a friendly word at parting. And so Burns takes leave of his Infernal Majesty lovingly, anxious for his future improvement and happiness. The poet would not do even Old Nick a bad turn; he would do him a good turn if he could. The spark is in this line. The glow of sympathy becomes all-pervading, sympathy with misfortune in all its phases, and we feel that he "prayeth best who" not only "loveth best all things, both great and small," but all things, even evil things, loveth he so, that he prays their return to the better path.

The dying words of poor Maillie, the plowman's pet ewe, furnish several gems. The dying sheep gives advice to her lambs, and two lines inculcate a lesson at least as valuable as any other that can be given to lambs in the form of young men and women. For those who eschew bad company are safe.

"But aye keep mind to moop an' mell

Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'!"

The address closes with the four following lines:

"And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,

I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith:
An' when you think upo' your mither,

Mind to be kin' to ane anither."

A sermon in two lines for every family in the world. If there be brothers and sisters at variance anywhere, who can withstand these lines and remain apart, Heaven help them! Not the note, this, which sets fire to the blood? But genius has another test not less searching than that of fire. The tear is also her own. The gracious drops from the fount of sorrow fall at her call. She alone strikes the hard heart with enchanted spear, and softens all into the sacred rain of tears.

In the 66 Epistle to a Young Friend," amidst much good advice, we come to a stanza that blazes in these days of higher criticism and patching of human creeds which have too long passed for divine:

"The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip

To haud the wretch in order;

But where ye feel your honor grip,

Let that aye be your border:

Its slightest touches, iustant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;

And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences."

This sentiment will meet with general acceptance to-day. That Burns dared write it in his day is explicable only by the law that genius does what it must.

Matthew Arnold says that for dramatic force equal to that displayed in "Tam o' Shanter" and "The Jolly Beggars we must look in the pages of Shakspere alone. The scene in Alloway Kirk, with witches and warlocks in a dance, would obviously have been incomplete without the presence of the head spirit of the fraternity himself. But what part would Old Nick play in such an entertainment? To dance with the others would scarcely have comported with his regal dignity; to stand apart would never do, for if there be any mischief afoot, he certainly must be in it. Goethe makes Mephistopheles draw the wine from the cask and put the sulphurous flame in it a proper part, no doubt; but these spirits of the air neither eat nor drink, yet the devil must do something among them. Here is the stroke of genius:

"At winnock-bunker i' the east,

There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, an' large,
To gie them music was his charge;

He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl."

He gets at the very core of the whole matter. Without music no dance was possible, and Nannie could never have " "lapped and flang.' Those who dance must pay the piper; and when Auld Nick himself sets the tune, as he often does, the devil's to pay indeed; his scale of charges knows no maximum, and he is a sure collector. The next lines have a weird touch which is hard indeed to equal. One line contains the searched-for spark:

"Coffins stood round like open presses;
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some deev'lish cantraip slight
Each in its cauld hand held a light."

The idea of ranging the dead in their coffins around the ballroom of these spirits of darkness in their orgy might possibly have occurred to a clever poet; but what of the last touch? The " little more "lies just here-the cold hand of corpses made to serve as candlesticks to light the revels! The element of the awful is thus introduced with appalling power. What a background for the picture! Mirth and revelry-life at its flood; the living ringed in and lighted up by the dead! Tam o' Shanter has too many of the sparks to be quoted fully-the picture of Tam's home at the farm, for instance, when he was reveling at night in Ayr:

sex.

"Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,

Gath'rin' her brows like gath'rin' storm,
Nursin' her wrath to keep it warm."

The finger goes at once upon the last line. Burns knew the Most wives are too good, sweet, tender, and self-sacrificing to do more than make-believe when they rebuke. Their wrath needs constant fuel, or down it all goes, perhaps too

soon.

In all that Burns has written there is nothing finer than "The Vision." He paints himself sitting in his hovel at night, the very den of poverty-an "auld clay biggin" filled with tormenting smoke. At last he falls asleep, and the "Genius of Scotland" comes to him in a dream. From beginning to end this is a poem filled with the brightest gems, rich in the divine sparks of genius. Mark the description of Scotia's Guardian Angel, who presides over the inspired natures who have made that little land one of the largest domains in the realm of the spirit, and the home of Poetry, Romance, and Song.

"The Vision" tells him to "preserve the dignity of man with soul erect," and then follows the close. The highest test of the poet is the manner in which he touches the supernatural.

Men may easily call spirits from the vasty deep, but how to use them so that we preserve our gravity is known to few. Very few men, it is said, know how to take their departure from a room becomingly. It has troubled many a writer how to dispose of his supernatural visitor, and prevent "exit ghost" being followed by peals of laughter. What genius can do is seen in Hamlet's" Remember me" as he noiselessly glides away. Banquo's exit with finger pointing to bloody throat is magnificent. True sparks indeed, especially the latter; but even with that may we not rank this departure of "The Vision"? "And wear thou this,'-she solemn said And bound the holly round my head: The polished leaves, and berries red, Did rustling play:

And, like a passing thought, she fled
In light away."

How could that peasant plowman in his smoky den ever conceive anything so exquisitely delicate as this ending! I know nothing of the kind so perfect. One fondly lingers over

"And, like a passing thought, she fled

In light away."

Two words, but a Koh-i-noor. Genius! Inspiration!

There is something splendid in this poor plowman greeting himself, as a matter of course, as the inspired bard and placing the holly upon his own royal head. Supreme genius does know its powers and its heritage. Burns was indeed the Bard of Scotland and the rightful king. No man has risen to dispute his title to the crown. The holly still remains there, its leaves greener and its berries redder to-day than when bound around his head.

The address to the mouse has been often quoted, but not the lines which to me contain the purest spark. Take the second stanza:

"I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor ea thorn companion,
An' fellow-mortal!"

Here is Darwinism for you. Talent could never have reached down so far as to become "fellow-mortal" to a mouse. Or if

it might have condescendingly done this much, it never could have elevated the poor little mouse to companionship with man. It took genius to divine and so to announce in this fashion that "all flesh is kin."

Here is an epitaph upon his friend and benefactor, Gavin Hamilton, from whom President Arthur was proud to claim descent. I remember he corrected me one day when I spoke of Gavin Hamilton. "Not Gavin Hamilton," said he. You ought to know better. He was one of my ancestors, and it was always Gauin with my grandfather."