One clear, and the spelling and punctuation are excellent. characteristic that attracts the attention of the examiner is his use of short dashes after the punctuation marks. 66 Perhaps one of the most interesting bits of Burns's writing is the release to the farm that he had occupied at Ellisland. Burns leased it in the hope that he might make an independent living as a farmer, but his ambition was not realized. The muse offered superior attractions and this release was the result. It was to Ellisland that Burns went after his second winter in Edinburgh, a saddened and embittered man.' Ellisland is about six miles from Dumfries. The farm contained one hundred acres with a fine romantic outlook. "To the west," writes one that has visited the place," the eye falls on the hills of Dunscore, and looking northward up the Nith the view is bounded by the heights that shut in the river toward Drumlanrig and by the high, conical hill of Corsincon, at the base of which the infant stream slips from the shire of Ayr into that of Dumfries." The rest of the bank on which the farmstead stands is covered with broom, through which winds a greensward path whither Burns used to retire to meditate his songs. But, unhappily, in the selection of his new home, as Allen Cunningham's father said to him, he had " made a poet's, and not a farmer's, choice." The release to the farm reads in this way and it is in Robert Burns's own writing : WHEREAS, I have paid the rents of the farm of Ellisland for the term of Martinmas first and settled my account rel ative thereto with Patrick Miller, of Dalswinton, the proprietor of said farm, I have agreed to give up my tack of the said farm at Martinmas first. I accordingly hereby give up and renounce forever the said tack. In witness whereof I write and subscribe these presents at Dalswinton this 10th November, in the year 1791. [Signed.] ROBERT BUrns. It fairly thrills a man's being to hold in his hand a document that cut so great a figure in the career of this real genius. And it awakens the liveliest emotions to study the manuscript of the dear old song that has so firm a hold upon the memories of every man in whose soul there is the slightest love for his fellow men. A characteristic letter to his friend Sloan is worth printing: MY DEAR SLOAN :-Do not ask me why I have never written you. Blame anything but forgetfulness. I often remember you over my cups and to my cups. My present incentive, which has roused me from my lethargy, is a complaint from Mr. Readell that you have not taken notice of a late letter and business of his. I have insisted that you are incapable of ingratitude and I beg that by next post you will vindicate and excuse yourself. I have just made my appearance in two volumes. A copy awaits you. Yours, ROBT. BURNS. FRIARSCARSE, 18 Mch., 1793. One of the manuscripts that Mr. Gunther highly prizes is the poet's apostrophe to dullness. It is printed exactly as it appears in MS.: O Dulness portion of thy truly blest! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes hangs seeming Strong on the signpost stands the stupid ox-- Nor such the workings of their moonstruck brain ; By turns in soaring heaven or vaulted hell. * * * * * All the rest of the poem is yet without form and void in the pericranium of the poet. Following is an inscription for an altar to independence which Mr. Gunther very properly suggests should be used as an inscription on a monument to Burns that may be erected in Chicago: If an independent mind A soul resolved, a soul resigned; Prepared Power's proudest frown to brave, Virtue alone who dost revere, Thy own reproach alone dost fear. Approach this shrine and worship here. Written in pencil on a scrap of paper and almost obliterated by time is this pretty compliment to one of his lady acquaintances: On being asked why God had made Miss Davies so little and Miss Mc- — so big— Ask why God made the gem so small And why so huge the granite, Because God meant mankind should set A page from the journal that he kept during a tour in the highlands is a remarkable relic. The chirography is almost a scrawl and here and there is not so readily deciphered. Here is one page selected at random: Tuesday-Findhorn River-rocky banks. Came on to Castle Cawdor, where Macbeth murdered King Duncan. Saw the bed in which King Duncan was stabbed. Dine at Kilbraick. Mrs. Rose, senr., a true chieftain's wife, a daughter of Clephane. The journal bears the date of Aug. 25, 1787. In the Gunther gallery there is also a medallion miniature portrait of Robert Burns by Robertson and a lock of the poet's hair. Mr. Gunther has in his possession the only signature of Jean Armour, the woman with whom Burns fell in love in one of his periods of ecstasy and afterward married. THE HUMANITY OF BURNS. "In my schoolboy days," says a writer to the London Scotsman," there resided in Kilmarnock, near my father's house, a widow named Clark, who had been a servant in the Burns family. Mrs. Clark was an excellent hand at field labor, and occasionally assisted my father's people. One day my father asked her if she remembered Robert Burns, and what kind of a man he was. 'Ay, brawly,' said she,' I remember Robin-it's no easy to forget a man like him. He was an unco' nat'ral, kindly man as ever was. Ae simmer, wee Davock (his brother) got his leg broken, an' the callan' wearied sair in the hoose in the lang days. But when Robin cam hame frae his wark, if the nicht was gude, he carriet him out to the yard, and lay doon and read aside him and carriet him in again when the dews begood to fa'. He did the same on the Sabbath mornin' an' aye whan he cam hame frae the kirk in the afternoon.'" BURNS'S BIRTHDAY. BY J. S. MACNAB. AGAIN returns the festal nicht When Burns's name echoes oot sae bricht; Ye scarce can see anither licht, For th' electric gleams Of his enchanted torch o' micht, Effulgent beams. Nature's ain darlin' poet he; His sangs gush forth richt merrilie, Like some Eolian melodie Steer'd by the winds. Whaur Wallace turned tyrannic pride, True peasant boy! Remembered o'er the worl' beside Wi' rapt'rous joy! As time rolls on, still mair endeared, In this New World his name's revered-- This nicht we'll gether in a corps, We'll sing them as in days o' yore, A BURNS SUPPER MENU. AN interesting, account of a Burns's Birthday Celebration in Salt Lake City, contains the following menu, which will be found suggestive and appetizing. Kail Broth. Tak' a Dram. "Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, And wandered through the bow kail; Sae bow't that nicht." Finnan Haddies. Saumon frae Tweed. Saut Herrin' frae Leith. Tak' a Dram. Deuks Stuffed wi' Saebys frae Ecclefechan. Bubbly Jock wi' Cranberry Sauce. Hind Leg o' Jock Tamson's Soo. Ribs of Hielan' Stirk. "And aye a rowth Roast Beef and Claret, Syne wha wad starve." Gigot o' Mutton. "I wat she was a sheep o' sense, And could behave hersel' wi' mense." |