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Let us separate the items of this account. The money laid out by him must stand by itself—and for that outlay, he had then been compensated by the profits of the sale of the Collection. Those profits, we do not doubt, had been much exaggerated by public opinion, but they had then been considerable and have since been great. Our undivided attention has therefore to be turned to "his precious time consumed," and to its inadequate compensation. And the first question that naturally occurs to every reader to ask himself is-"in what sense are we to take the terms 'time,' 'precious,' and 'consumed ?"" Inasmuch as "time" is only another word for life, it is equally "precious" to all men. Take it then to mean leisure hours, in which men seek for relaxation and enjoyment. Mr. Thomson tells us that he was, from early youth, an enthusiast in music and in poetry; and it puzzles us to conceive what he means by talking of "his precious time being consumed" in such studies. To an enthusiast, a musty volume" is a treasure beyond the wealth of Ind-to pore over musty volumes" sweet as to gaze on melting eyeshe hugs them to his heart. They are their own exceeding great reward-and we cannot listen to any claim for pecuniary compensation. Then who ever heard, before or since, of an enthusiast in poetry avowing before the world, that he had not been sufficiently compensated in money, "for the precious time consumed by him in corresponding with Poets?" Poets are prover. bially an irritable race; still there is something about them that makes them very engaging—and we cannot bring ourselves to think that George Thomson's "precious time consumed" in corresponding with Sir Walter Scott, Thomas Campbell, Joanna Baillie, and the Ettrick Shepherd, deserved "compensation." As to amateurs, we mournfully grant they are burthensome; yet even that burthen may uncomplainingly be borne by an Editor who "expects by their means to make any valuable addition to our national music and song ;" and it cannot be denied, that the creatures have often good ears, and turn off tolerable verses. Finally, if by "precious" he means valuable, in a Politico Economical sense, we do not see how Mr. Thomson's time could have been consumed more productively to himself; nor indeed how he could have made any money at all by a different employment of

it. In every sense, therefore, in which the words are construed, they are equally absurd; and all who read them are forced to think of one whose "precious time was indeed consumed "—to his fatal loss—the too generous, the self-devoted Burns-but for whose "uncompensated exertions," "The Melodies of Scotland " would have been to the Editor a ruinous concern, in place of one which for nearly half a century must have been yielding him a greater annual income than the Poet would have enjoyed had he been even a Supervisor.

Mr. Thomson has further put forth in his letter to Robert Chalmers, and not now for the first time, this most injudicious defence. "Had I been a selfish or avaricious man, I had a fair opportunity, upon the death of the poet, to put money in my pocket; for I might then have published, for my own behoof, all the beautiful lyrics he had written for me, the original manuscripts of which were in my possession. But instead of doing this, I was no sooner informed that the friends of the poet's family had come to a resolution to collect his works, and to publish them, for the benefit of the family, and that they thought it of importance to include my MSS. as being likely, from their number, their novelty, and their beauty, to prove an attraction to subscribers, than I felt it my duty to put them at once in possession of all the songs, and of the correspondence between the poet and myself; and accordingly, through Mr. John Syme of Ryedale, I transmitted the whole to Dr. Currie, who had been prevailed on, immensely to the advantage of Mrs. Burns and her children, to take on himself the task of editor. For this surrendering the manuscripts, I received both verbally and in writing, the warm thanks of the trustees for the family—Mr. John Syme and Mr. Gilbert Burns -who considered what I had done as a fair return for the poet's generosity of conduct to me.' Of course he retained the exclu. sive right of publishing the songs with the music in his Collection. Now, what if he had refused to surrender the manuscripts ? The whole world would have accused him of robbing the widow and orphan, and he would have been hooted out of Scotland. George Thomson, rather than have done so, would have suffered himself to be pressed to death between two mill-stones; and yet he not only instances his having "surrendered the MSS. as a

proof of the calumnious nature of the abuse with which he had been assailed by anonymous scribblers, but is proud of the thanks of "the trustees of the family, who considered what I had done as a fair return for the poet's generosity of conduct to me. Setting aside, then, "the calumnies of anonymous scribblers," with one and all of which we are unacquainted, we have shown that Josiah Walker, in his foolish remarks on this affair, whereby he outraged the common feelings of humanity, left his friend just where he stood before-that Lord Woodhouselee knew nothing whatever about the matter, and in his good nature has made assertions absurdly untrue-that Mr. Thomson's own defence of himself is in all respects an utter failure, and mainly depends on the supposition of a case unexampled in a Christian land-that Lockhart with unerring finger has indicated where the fault lay-and that Cuninghame has accounted for it by a reason that with candid judges must serve to reduce it to one of a very pardonable kind; the avowal of which from the first, would have saved a worthy man from some unjust obloquy, and at least as much undeserved commendation-the truth being now apparent to all, that "his poverty, not his will, consented" to secure on the terms of non-payment, a hundred and twenty songs from the greatest lyrical poet of his country, who during the years he was tus lavishing away the effusions of his matchless genius, witnout fee or reward, was in a state bordering on destitution, and as the pen dropt from his hand, did not leave sufficient to defray the expenses of a decent funeral.

We come now to contemplate his dying days; and mournful as the contemplation is, the close of many an illustrious life has been far more distressing, involved in far thicker darkness, and far heavier storms. From youth he had been visited—we shall not say haunted-by presentiments of an early death; he knew well that the profound melancholy that often settled down upon. his whole being, suddenly changing day into night, arose from his organization ;—and it seems as if the finest still bordered on disease-disease in his case perhaps hereditary-for his father was often sadder than even "the toil-worn cottar" needed to be, and looked like a man subject to inward trouble. His character was somewhat stern; and we can believe that in its austerity he

found a safeguard against passion, that nevertheless may shake the life it cannot wreck. But the son wanted the father's firmness; and in his veins there coursed more impetuous blood. The very fire of genius consumed him, coming and going in fitful flashes; his genius itself may almost be called a passion, so vehement was it, and so turbulent-though it had its scenes of blissful quietude; his heart too seldom suffered itself to be at rest; many a fever travelled through his veins; his calmest nights were liable to be broken in upon by the worst of dreamswaking dreams from which there is no deliverance in a sudden start-of which the misery is felt to be no delusion—which are not dispelled by the morning light, but accompany their victim as he walks out into the day, and among the dew, and surrounded as he is with the beauty of rejoicing nature, tempt him to curse the day he was born.

Yet let us not call the life of Burns unhappy-nor at its close shut our eyes to the manifold blessings showered by heaven on the Poet's lot. Many of the mental sufferings that helped most to wear him out, originated in his own restless nature" by prudent, cautious, self-control" he might have subdued some and tempered others better regulation was within his power—and, like all men, he paid the penalty of neglect of duty, or of its violation. But what loss is hardest to bear? The loss of the beloved. All other wounds are slight to those of the affections. Let Fortune do her worst-so that Death be merciful. Burns went to his own grave without having been commanded to look down into another's where all was buried. "I have lately drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her." The flower withered, and he wept-but his four pretty boys were soon dancing again in their glee—their mother's heart was soon composed again to cheerfulness-and her face without a shadow. Anxiety for their sakes did indeed keep preying on his heart;—but what would that anxiety have seemed to him, had he been called upon to look back upon it in anguish because they were not? Happiness too great for this earth! If in a

dream for one short hour restored, that would have been like an hour in heaven.

Burns had not been well for a twelvemonth; and though nobody seems even then to have thought him dying, on the return of spring, which brought him no strength, he knew that his days were numbered. Intense thought, so it be calm, is salutary to life. It is emotion that shortens our days by hurrying life's pulsations-till the heart can no more, and runs down like a disordered time-piece. We said nobody seems to have thought him dying; yet after the event everybody, on looking back on it, remembered seeing death in his face. It is when thinking of those many months of decline and decay, that we feel pity and sorrow for his fate, and that along with them other emotions will arise, without our well knowing towards whom, or by what name they should be called, but partaking of indignation, and shame, and reproach, as if some great wrong had been done, and might have been rectified before death came to close the account. Not without blame somewhere could such a man have been so neglected-so forgotten-so left alone to sicken and die.

"Oh, Scotia! my dear, my native soil,

For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent!

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!"

No son of Scotland did ever regard her with more fiilial affection-did ever in strains so sweet sing of the scenes "that make her loved at home, revered abroad "—and yet his mother stretched not out her hand to sustain-when it was too late to save her own Poet as he was sinking into an untimely grave. But the dying man complained not of her ingratitude—he loved her too well to the last to suspect her of such sin—there was nothing for him to forgive-and he knew that he would have a place for ever in her memory. Her rulers were occupied with great concerns in which all thoughts of self were merged! and therefore well might they forget her Poet, who was but a cottar's son and a gauger. In such forgetfulness they were what other rulers have been, and will be,—and Coleridge lived to know that the great ones of his own land could be as heartless in his own