the heaving waters seemed one mighty sheet of living fire; and as the ships, like a great forest, reared their burnished heads, and floated their glittering pendants in his farewell beams-and the towering spires of Amsterdam stood like rejoicing giants in the distance-I could not but wish that I had the pen of a Byron, or the pencil of a Claude Lorraine, to give my thoughts and feelings to immortality.

I am, my dear Coleridge,

Most affectionately and sincerely yours,

THE BURNS FESTIVAL.

We should be wanting to ourselves, our readers, and our country, if we did not for a moment refer to the noble, the magnificent Festival which has just been held at Ayr, to the memory of the greatest and most illustrious of Scottish Poets, ROBERT BURNS.* From the banks of the Nith, the Doon, and the Lugar, which he so dearly loved,-from misty Morven, sacred to the Muse of Ossian,-from the blue hills of Dumfries,from "stately Edinborough throned on crags," and Glasgow, and Liverpool, and even the Continent, crowded in innumerable swarms, the devoted worshippers of genius, to render homage at the shrine of the Apollo of the Scottish Muse. The selection of Chairman and Vice Chairman was peculiarly appropriate,—the Earl of Eglintoun, descendant of the "good Sir Hew," of "the Castle of Montgomerie," and himself celebrated for his chivalrous tournament, presided, whilst Professor Wilson, who, most of any man living, is akin to Burns, in character, eccentricity, genius, and large, ample manliness of heart, occupied the Vice chair, and proposed in one of his most soul-stirring and eloquent appeals, the "SONS OF BURNS."

In Scotland we see thousands crowding like Moslem * August 6th, 1844.

pilgrims to the shrine of their prophet,—we behold men of distinguished rank sitting side by side with men only eminent for their genius—we see a whole nation stirred as by the sound of a trumpet, at the name of a humble Poet, sprung from the humblest rank. But Burns

never was in poverty; he died free from debt; over his corpse martial artillery sounded, and the tears of universal Scotland fed the flowers upon his grave. Nor were they faithless to those for whom his great heart was most deeply troubled,-his widow lived in affluence, his sons were raised to a distinguished position, and, proudest sight of all, they came back to their native land, and beheld her tributary at the tomb of their immortal father! Can rich imperial England exhibit a picture like this?

Let broken-hearted Spencer-let Milton, "fallen upon evil times and evil men"-let Dryden, struggling with toil, and penury, and grief-let Otway, perishing of famine-let Chatterton, driven to suicidelet Savage, from his prison-bars-let Byron, banished from his country by cruel persecution, and then refused a tomb in Westminster, record the story of England's ingratitude, to the noblest and greatest of her sons!

With wealth, intelligence, enterprise, and large pretence to intellectual progression, how is this? Is it the carking spirit of Mammon that curdles their heart's blood, and freezes the sympathies of Englishmen ? Or is it vulgar pride, aristocratical intolerance, hatred and indifference to mind and soul, on the part of our coun

trymen ? We cannot tell. Is it in Scotland, larger moral and intellectual capabilities, education more general and universal, an aristocracy more liberal and generous, a public more enthusiastic, more enlightened, more discerning and patriotic, that pictures the reverse? for a reply!

We pause

True, Burns is essentially and peculiarly the national Poet of Scotland! His whole moral and physical being was deeply embued with national feelings and local sympathies, and he was linked body and soul with the peasantry from whom he sprang. His own words are,

"I had a wish, I mind its power,

A wish that to my dying hour

Shall strongly heave my breast,

That I for poor Auld Scotland's sake

Some useful plan, or book should make,

And sing a sang at least."

And when the Muse found him at the plough, and laid on his broad shoulders the mantle of inspiration, and on his lofty brow planted the rustling holly crown, her words are,

"All hail my own inspired Bard!

In me thy native Muse regard!
No longer mourn thy fate is hard,
Thus poorly low,
I come to give thee such reward

As we bestow.

I taught thy manners-painting strains,
The loves, the ways of simple swains,

Till now o'er all my wide domains

Thy fame extends;

And some, the pride of Coila's plains

Become thy friends.

Tam O'Shanter, the Holy Fair, Halloween, and the Jolly Beggars, could have been written nowhere but in Scotland, by no one but a Scotsman ;-nay he shewed his fidelity to his country by apostrophizing Scotch drink (whiskey) and the Haggis. His songs about bonnie Jean, Clarinda, to "the lassie wi' the lint-white locks," and, finest of all, his affecting" Address to Mary in Heaven," do they not prove how his warm, gushing heart clung with fervency and devotion to the mountain daughters, who ministered to his Inspiration? And insensate things, the "winding Nith," and "gurgling Ayr," and silvery Luthar; even the meek daisy destroyed by the plough, the thistle turned aside by his weeding hook, and the

"Stately tower, or palace fair,

Or ruins pendent in the air,"

As well as the humblest sheiling where
"The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,

The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride."

Attest how faithfully Burns paid his devotions to the genius of his country.

But there exist a class of stern zealots, and cold moralists, who would fain link the name of Burns with associations of guilt and depravity. Ignorant of the springs which impel the poetical character,-ignorant