the yeoman and the man of finest moral culture, though not the man of sturdiest sense and integrity — are two distinct individuals, and can never be melted or welded into one substance.

Zenobia soon saw this truth, and gibed me about it, one evening, as Hollingsworth and I lay on the grass, after a hard day’s work.

“I am afraid you did not make a song today, while loading the hay-cart,” said she, “as Burns did, when he was reaping barley.”

“Burns never made a song in haying-time,” I answered very positively.

“He was no poet while a farmer, and no farmer while a poet.”

“And on the whole, which of the two characters do you like best?”