Mrs.

u have only just answered-you who will answer! I wish you would consider this Letter of mine an Answer (as

éranger, no doubt, was The Artist; which still is not the highest Genius-witness Shakespeare, Dante, ?schylus, Calderon, to the contrary. Burns assuredly had more Passion than the Frenchman; which is not Genius either, but a great Part of the Lyric Poet still. What Béranger might have been, if born and bred among Banks, Braes, and Mountains, I cannot tell: Burns had that advantage over

like the r

wly sprun

is like

etly play'

ill love

the Seas

red Rose has burned itself into one's silly Soul in spite of all. Do you know that one of Burns' few almost perfect stanzas was perf

nd Braes o'

loom (so fre

Birds how

weary) ful

my heart, th

ingest so) up

me of dep

ver sha

never to

things which my last Quot

en he was one day by Doon-side-'I can't tell how it was, Fitz, but I fell

sband or Child. She talked of her Loss and Sorrow with some Resignation; till the Coach happened to pull up by a roadside Inn. A 'little Bird' was singing somewhere; the poor Woman then

I am afraid he partly led the way. Burns' very Passion half excused him; so far

sermon of half its Dulness. And I am now going to transcribe you a Vau-de-vire of old Olivier de Basselin, [23a] which will show you something of that which I miss in Béranger. But I thi

he Fly-leaf: being too long,

, I suppose, somewhat shorn of its Glory.-If you were not so sincere I should think you were persiflaging me about the Photo, as applied to myself, and yourself. Some years ago I said

ie

F