We may be dazzled by the splendid gifts of Burns; we may admire the better side of his nature; but surely this should not blind us to his faults. Surely it is a very false theory to go upon, that because there is, so much to admire in a genius whose thoughts are ever with us, like household words, we must therefore extend that admiration to his walk and conduct in life, and varnish over all his vices with honeyed phrases and specious excuses-'he was a kind father,' 'he was no one's enemy but his own,' and the like. It is a sad sight to meet with profligacy and besotted habits in any man-disreputable enough even in the case of an unlettered country clown; but how much more so when found in one to whom such great talents had been entrusted, and whose education and natural parts must every hour have told him of the vicious folly into which he so deliberately plunged. That Burns knew his errors, and understood the punishment of his sins, we know from his own letters; but those wandering stabs of remorse' of which he often speaks were, unfortunately, but of a transient character, and their pain was soon drugged by the opiates of which he was so madly fond. No! whatever may be our admiration for Burns as a poet, yet there is very much in him as a man which we can only behold with the deepest regret and disgust, and which we can only reprobate as it deserves. We would not willingly go out of our way to fling a cruel stone on the cairn of one who so nobly showed How Verse may build a princely throne On humble truth. Far rather would we — leaving each unquiet theme Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, A TRUE WOMAN. And prompt to welcome every gleam Of good and fair; 151 echo Wordsworth's prayer, in his noble lines At the Grave of Burns:' 6 Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven And memory of Earth's bitter leaven, But when we are called upon to deal with such a subject as Burns and his Highland Mary,' no desire to hide the heartless conduct of the man should make us persist in regarding the attachment under the false haze of poetical imagery with which he has contrived to invest it. To me, his attachment' to Highland Mary seems one of the greatest scandals in his life. That her character should come out of the trial scatheless, is so much the more in her favour. She, most probably, was greatly deceived in her lover-credited his Bible Vows and imagined that his passion was as pure as his words were convincing. Whatever fault may attach to Burns, not the slightest speck has ever been found to stain the character of his Highland Mary; and she stands enshrined in the temple of Romantic Poesy, in all the spotless purity of Parian marble. IT CHAPTER XIV. LOCH LOMOND. View from Balloch Pier-A Bright Day for Tourists-The T is a lovely morning in the early autumn as I sit on Balloch Pier, and, looking up Loch Lomond, try my best to carry away a water-colour sketch of the scene before me. Loch Lomond itself— the lake full of islands,' 'the Queen of Scottish lochs'-here narrowed to a comparative strip, which gradually widens to a breadth of five miles, claims the centre of the sketch. On either side, the Loch is shut in by a long-withdrawing range of mountains, the Grampians, extending in a long and rugged line to the right, and terminating towards the centre of the view in the distant Ben Lomond, whose highest pinnacle of rock is swathed by the morning mists. The hills are fringed with foliage down to the water-side; gleaming rocks crop up from amid emerald pastures and verdant clumps; and the undulating ground is splashed everywhere with heather, with its varied tints of crimson and creamy pink and purple. Castles, villas, and humbler residences sparkle white from amid the embosoming foliage and the dark masses of the Scotch firs. Scattered islands, receding bays, and rocky headlands break up the surface of the Loch, and crowd the picture with every variety of form and outline. The long level gleam of water is ruffled into gentle ripples, which, in the morning sunshine, are In colour like the satin shining palm, Or sallows in the windy gleams of March. The sails of boats flash like sea-gulls' wings; and a cloud of small birds glisten in the air and quiver white against the clear blue of the sky, like a shoal of silverscaled fish sparkling in the shallows. It is the very morning of all others to induce a visit to Loch Lomond; and, as I work away with my paintbrush and moist colours, and endeavour to note down the salient features in the crowded loveliness of the scene, I am not at all surprised to find my solitude interfered with by a swarm of tourists who have just arrived by the two railways from Stirling and Glasgow. A few of these venture into the rowing and sailingboats, whose proprietors are clamorous for custom; but by far the greater number flock to the steamer, which is snorting and puffing beside the pier. It is probable that many of these tourists have come that morning through Glasgow from Edinburgh; they will now sail twenty miles up Loch Lomond to Inversnaid, from whence they will cross Rob Roy's country in comfortable coaches to Stronalachan, where a steamer will be in waiting to bear them down Loch Katrine; from whence coaches will carry them through the Trossachs and over the Brig o' Turk to Callander; where they will again seat themselves in their railway carriage, to be taken past the Bridge of Allan, Stirling, Bannockburn, Falkirk, and Linlithgow, and will be back in Edinburgh by comfortable time in the evening. Could any single day's 'Tour in Tartan-land' surpass this especially if, as now, the sun so brightly shines upon their undertaking? There is the usual medley of sight-seers: the middleaged folks, so careful about their luggage; the young ladies, in such gushing emotions at the scenery; the university men, in the latest novelties of travelling costume, casting to the winds the cares of greats and smalls; the evident reading party, with their necessary reading paraphernalia of fishing-rods, gun-cases, and riding-whips; and, among all, an adventurous amateur photographer, who, after a fatal hesitation of five minutes, has straddled out his three-legged camera, and has no sooner decided upon his point of view, and hidden his head beneath the hood like a hunted ostrich, than the signal for departure is given, and the 'Now then, sir, if you please!' of the captain compels him to pack up his traps, and leave his performance as incomplete as that of Mr. Punch, when Policeman X bids him 'Move on!' ere his tragedy has reached halfway to its diabolic denouement. More fortunate than Mr. Punch or the amateur photographer, I have completed my water-colour drawing; and, as I wish to get back to the comfortable hotel at Tarbet, I may as well enjoy another sail up the Loch while the weather is so propitious. So, we are all on board; and the favourable seats on the high deck between the tops of the paddle-boxes are already crowded with ladies, who, from that moment, keep up an incessant feu de joie of enthusiastic comments on the lovely scenery that slides past them in a series of panoramic views, whose beauty, on a bright |