comparable with Shakespeare.  Scott himself, sensible as ever, wrote in his Journal, “The blockheads talk of my being like Shakespeare—­not fit to tie his brogues.”  “But it is also true,” said Mr. Swinburne, in his review of the Journal, “that if there were or could be any man whom it would not be a monstrous absurdity to compare with Shakespeare as a creator of men and inventor of circumstance, that man could be none other than Scott.”  Greater poems than his have been written; and, to my mind, one or two novels better than his best.  But when one considers the huge mass of his work, and its quality in the mass; the vast range of his genius, and its command over that range; who shall be compared with him?

These are the reflections which occur, somewhat obviously, to the Southron.  As for character, it is enough to say that Scott was one of the best men who ever walked on this planet; and that Burns was not.  But Scott was not merely good:  he was winningly good:  of a character so manly, temperate, courageous that men read his Life, his Journal, his Letters with a thrill, as they might read of Rorke’s Drift or Chitral.  How then are we to account for the undeniable fact that his countrymen, in public at any rate, wax more enthusiastic over Burns?  Is it that the homeliness of Burns appeals to them as a wandering race?  Is it because, in farthest exile, a line of Burns takes their hearts straight back to Scotland?—­as when Luath the collie, in “The Twa Dogs,” describes the cotters’ New Year’s Day:—­

    “That merry day the year begins,
     They bar the door on frosty winds;
     The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,
     An’ sheds a heart-inspirin’ steam;
     The luntin’ pipe an’ sneeshin’ mill
     Are handed round wi’ richt guid will;
     The cantie auld folks crackin’ crouse,
     The young anes rantin’ through the house,—­
     My heart has been sae fain to see them,
     That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.”

That is one reason, no doubt.  But there is another, I suspect.  With all his immense range Scott saw deeply into character; but he did not, I think, see very deeply into feeling.  You may extract more of the lacrimae rerum from the story of his own life than from all his published works put together.  The pathos of Lammermoor is taken-for-granted pathos.  If you deny this, you will not deny, at any rate, that the pathos of the last scene of Lear is quite beyond his scope.  Yet this is not more certainly beyond his scope than is the feeling in many a single line or stanza of Burns’.  Verse after verse, line after line, rise up for quotation—­

    “Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird
       That sings beside thy mate;
     For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
       And wist na o’ my fate.”

Or,