"Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather the ideas which it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising title of 'The Justice of Peace.' I whispered my information to a friend present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a word, which, though of mere civility, I then received and still recollect with very great pleasure.

"His person was strong and robust; his manners rustic, not clownish a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its effect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture; but to me it conveys the idea that they are diminished, as if seen in perspective. I think his countenance was more

massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sagacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, i. e., none of your modern agriculturists, who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gudeman who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed (I say literally glowed) when he spoke with feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the men who were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himself with perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness; and when he differed in opinion, he did not hesi

tate to express it firmly, yet at the same time with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conversation distinctly enough to be quoted; nor did I ever see him again, except in the street, where he did not recognise me, as I could not expect he should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what literary emoluments have been since his day) the efforts made for his relief were extremely trifling.

"I remember, on this occasion, I thought Burns's acquaintance with English poetry was rather limited, and also that, having twenty times the abilities of Allan Ramsay and of Fergusson, he talked of them with too much. humility as his models; there was, doubtless, national predilection in his estimate. This is all I can tell you about Burns. I have only to add that his dress corresponded with his manner. He was like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the laird. I do not speak in malam partem, when I say

I never saw a man in company with his superiors in station and information more perfectly free from either the reality or the affectation of embarrassment. I was told, but did not observe it, that his address to females was extremely deferential, and always with a turn either to the pathetic or humourous, which engaged their attention particularly. I have heard the late Duchess of Gordon remark this. I do not know anything I can add to these recollections of forty years since."

In the painting of the meeting between Burns and Scott, the artist has placed Professor Ferguson, the host, at the fireside; Dugald Stewart is seated behind the young Scott; and then come Dr. Joseph Black, Adam Smith, who wrote "The Wealth of Nations," taking snuff, John Home, author of the once popular tragedy of Douglas, whose

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Young Norval" is not yet forgotten, and, lastly, Dr. James Hutton, the geologist.

These two admirable illustrations of the

life of the Ayrshire bard were both painted by Charles M. Hardie, a Scotch artist, who has also produced other works on the same theme, and to whom every lover of Burns should be grateful.

CHARTIER.

WHEN, in 1743, Voltaire's

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Mérope "

received its first performance, the enthusiasm of the audience was extreme.

"The pit was mad," wrote the poet to one of his friends. "They cried to the duchess (his old friend, the Duchess de Villars) to kiss me, and they made so much noise that she was obliged at last to do it, by the order of her mother-in-law. I have been kissed publicly, like Alain Chartier by the Princess Marguerite of Scotland, but he was asleep, and I was awake."

The eminent French poet of whom Voltaire spoke is doubtless better known to