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The business of Robert Burns was love-making.
All love is good, but some kinds of love are better than others.
Through Burns' penchant for falling in love we have his songs. A Burns
bibliography is simply a record of his love-affairs, and the spasms of
repentance that followed his lapses are made manifest in religious verse.
Poetry is the very earliest form of literature, and is the natural
expression of a person in love; and I suppose we might as well admit the
fact at once that without love there would be no poetry.
Poetry is the bill and coo of sex. All poets are lovers, and all
lovers, either actual or potential, are poets. Potential poets are the
people who read poetry; and so without lovers the poet would never have a
market for his wares.
If you have ceased to be moved by religious emotion; if your spirit is
no longer exalted by music, and you do not linger over certain lines of
poetry, it is because the love-instinct in your heart has withered to
ashes of roses. It is idle to imagine Bobby Burns as a staid member of the
Kirk; had he been so, there would now be no Bobby Burns. The literary
ebullition of Robert Burns (he himself has told us) began shortly after he
had reached the age of indiscretion; and the
occasion was his being paired in the hayfield, according to the Scottish
custom, with a bonnie lassie. This custom of pairing still endures, and is
what the students of sociology call an expeditious move. The Scotch are
great economists—the greatest in the world. Adam Smith, the father of
the science of economics, was a Scotchman; and Draper, author of "A
History of Civilization," flatly declares that Adam Smith's
"Wealth of Nations" has influenced the people of Earth for good
more than any other book ever written—save none.
The Scotch are great conservators of energy.
The practise of pairing men and women in the hayfield gets the work
done. One man and one woman going down the grass-grown path afield might
linger and dally by the way. They would never make hay, but a company of a
dozen or more men and women would not only reach the field, but do a lot
of work. In Scotland the hay-harvest is short—when the grass is in
bloom, just right to make the best hay, it must be cut. And so the men and
women, the girls and boys, sally forth. It is a jolly picnic-time, looked
forward to with fond anticipation, and after recalled with sweet, sad
memories, or otherwise, as the case may be.
But they all make hay while the sun shines, and count it joy. Liberties
are allowed during haying-time that otherwise would be declared
scandalous; during haying-time the Kirk waives her censor's right, and
priest and people mingle joyously. Wives are not
jealous during hay-harvest, and husbands never faultfinding, because they
each get even by allowing a mutual license. In Scotland during haying-time
every married man works alongside of some other man's wife. To the
psychologist it is somewhat curious how the desire for propriety is
overridden by a stronger desire—the desire for the shilling. The Scotch
farmer says, "Anything to get the hay in"—and by loosening a
bit the strict bands of social custom, the hay is harvested.
In the hay-harvest the law of natural selection holds; partners are
often arranged for weeks in advance; and trysts continue year after year.
Old lovers meet, touch hands in friendly scuffle for a fork, drink from
the same jug, recline at noon and eat lunch in the shade of a friendly
stack, and talk to heart's content, sweetening the labor of the long
summer day.
Of course this joyousness of the haying-time is not wholly monopolized
by the Scotch. Haven't you seen the jolly haying parties in Southern
Germany, France, Switzerland and the Tyrol? How the bright costumes of the
men and the jaunty attire of the women gleam in the glad sunshine!
But the practise of pairing is carried to a degree of perfection in
Scotland that I have not noticed elsewhere. Surely it is a great economic
scheme! It is like that invention of a Connecticut man, which utilizes the
ebb and flow of the ocean-tides to turn a gristmill.
And it seems queer that no one has ever attempted to utilize the waste
of dynamic force involved in the maintenance of the Company Sofa.
In Ayrshire, I have started out with a haying party of twenty—ten men
and ten women—at six o'clock in the morning and worked until six at
night. I never worked so hard, nor did so much. All day long there was a
fire of jokes and jolly gibes, interspersed with song, while beneath all
ran a gentle hum of confidential interchange of thought. The man who owned
the field was there to direct our efforts and urge us on in well-doing by
merry raillery, threat, and joyous rivalry.
The point I make is this—we did the work. Take heed, ye Captains of
Industry, and note this truth, that where men and women work together
under right influences, much good is accomplished, and the work is
pleasurable. Of course there are vinegar-faced philosophers who say that
the Scotch custom of pairing young men and maidens in the hayfield is not
without its effect on esoterics, also on vital statistics; and I'm willing
to admit there may be danger in the scheme. But life is a dangerous
business anyway—few indeed get out of it alive!
Burns succeeded in his love-making and succeeded in poetry, but at
everything else he was a failure. He failed as a farmer, a father, a
friend, in society, as a husband, and in business.
From his twenty-third year his days were passed in sinning and
repenting.
Poetry and love-making should be carried on with caution: they form a
terrific tax on life's forces. Most poets die young, not because the gods
especially love them, but because life is a bank-account, and to wipe out
your balance is to have your checks protested. The excesses of youth are
drafts payable at maturity. Chatterton dead at eighteen, Keats at
twenty-six, Shelley at thirty-three, Byron at thirty-six, Poe at forty,
and Burns at thirty-seven, are the rule. When drafts made by the men
mentioned became due, there was no balance to their credit and Charon
beckoned.
Most life-insurance companies now ask the applicant this question,
"Do you write poetry to excess?" Shakespeare, to be sure, clung
to life until he was fifty-three, but this seems to be the limit. Dickens
and Thackeray, their candles well burned out, also died under sixty. Of
course, I know that Browning, Tennyson, Morris and Bryant lived to a fair
old age, but this was on borrowed time, for in the early life of each
there was a hiatus of from ten to eighteen years, when the men never wrote
a line, nor touched a drop of anything, bravely eschewing all honey from
Hymettus. Then the four men last named were all
happily married, and married life is favorable to longevity, but not to
poetry. As a rule only single men, or those unhappily mated, make love and
write poetry. Men happily married make money, cultivate content, and
evolve an aldermanic front; but love and poetry are symptoms of unrest.
Thus is Emerson's proposition partially proven, that in life all things
are bought and must be paid for with a price—even success and happiness.
Burns once explained to Doctor Moore that the first fine, careless
rapture of his song was awakened into being when he was sixteen years old,
by "a bonnie sweet sonsie lass" whom we now know as
"Handsome Nell." Her other name to us is vapor, and history is
silent as to her life-pilgrimage. Whether she lived to realize that she
had first given voice to one of the great singers of earth—of this we
are also ignorant. She was one year younger than Burns, and little more
than a child when she and Bobby lagged behind the troop of tired
haymakers, and walked home, hand in hand, in the gloaming. Here is one of
the stanzas addressed to "Handsome Nell":
"She dresses all so clean and neat,
Both decent and genteel,
And then there's something in her gait
Makes any dress look weel."
And how could Nell then ever guess why her cheeks burned scarlet, and
why she was so sorry when haying-time was over? She was sweet, innocent,
artless, and their love was very natural, tender, innocent. It's a pity
that all loves can not remain in just that idyllic, milkmaid stage, where
the girls and boys awaken in the early morning with the birds, and hasten
forth barefoot across the dewy fields to find the cows. But love never
tarries. Love is progressive; it can not stand still. I have heard of the
"passiveness" of woman's love, but the
passive woman is only one who does not love—she merely consents to have
affection lavished upon her. When I hear of a passive woman, I always
think of the befuddled sailor who once saw one of those dummy
dress-frames, all duly clothed in flaming bombazine (I think it was
bombazine) in front of a clothing establishment. The sailor, mistaking the
dummy for a near and dear lady friend, embraced the wire apparatus and
imprinted a resounding smack on the chaste plaster-of-Paris cheek. Meeting
the sure-enough lady shortly after, he upbraided her for her cold
passivity on the occasion named.
A passive woman—one who consents to be loved—should seek occupation
among those worthy firms who warrant a fit in ready-made gowns, or money
refunded.
Love is progressive—it hastens onward like the brook hurrying to the
sea. They say that love is blind: love may be short-sighted, or inclined
to strabismus, or may see things out of their true proportion, magnifying
pleasant little ways into seraphic virtues, but love is not really
blind—the bandage is never so tight but that it can peep. The only kind
of love that is really blind and deaf is Platonic love. Platonic love
hasn't the slightest idea where it is going, and so there are surprises
and shocks in store for it. The other kind, with eyes wide open, is
better. I know a man who has tried both. Love is progressive. All things
that live should progress. To stand still is to retreat, and to
retreat is death. Love dies, of course. All things die, or become
something else. And often they become something else by dying. Behold the
eternal Paradox! The love that evolves into a higher form is the better
kind. Nature is intent on evolution, yet of the myriads of spores that
cover earth, most of them are doomed to death; and of the countless rays
sent out by the sun, the number that fall athwart this planet are
infinitesimal. Edward Carpenter calls attention to the fact that
disappointed love—that is, love that is "lost"—often affects
the individual for the highest good. But the real fact is, nothing is ever
lost. Love in its essence is a spiritual emotion, and its office seems to
be an interchange of thought and feeling; but often thwarted in its
object, it becomes general, transforms itself into sympathy, and embracing
a world, goes out to and blesses all mankind.
Very, very rare is the couple that has the sense and poise to allow
passion just enough mulberry-leaves, so it will spin a beautiful silken
thread, out of which a Jacob's ladder can be constructed, reaching to the
Infinite. Most lovers in the end wear love to a fringe, and there remains
no ladder with angels ascending and descending—not even a dream of a
ladder. Instead of the silken ladder on which one can mount to Heaven,
there is usually a dark, dank road to Nowhere, over which is thrown a
package of letters and trinkets, all fastened round with a white ribbon,
tied in a lover's knot. The many loves of Robert
Burns all ended in a black jumping-off place, and before he had reached
high noon, he tossed over the last bundle of white-ribboned missives and
tumbled in after them. The life of Burns is a tragedy, through which are
interspersed sparkling scenes of gaiety, as if to retrieve the depth of
bitterness that would otherwise be unbearable. Go ask Mary Morison,
Highland Mary, Agnes McLehose, Betty Alison, and Jean Armour!
The poems of Robert Burns fall easily into four divisions.
First, those written while he was warmly wooing the object of his
affection.
Second, those written after he had won her.
Third, those written when he had failed to win her.
Fourth, those written when he felt it his duty to write, and really had
nothing to say.
The first-named were written because he could not help it, and are, for
the most part, rarely excellent. They are joyous, rapturous, sprightly,
dancing, and filled with references to sky, clouds, trees, fruit, grain,
birds and flowers. Birds and flowers, by the way, are peculiarly lovers'
properties. The song and the plumage of birds, and the color and perfume
of flowers are all distinctly sex manifestations. Robert Burns sang his
songs just as the bird wings and sings, and for the same reason. Sex holds
first place in the thought of Nature; and sex in the minds of men and
women holds a much larger place than most of us are willing to admit. All
religious emotion and all art are born of the sex instinct.
Burns' poems of the second variety, written after he had won her, are
touched with religious emotion, or filled with vain regret and deep
remorse, as the case may be, all owing to the quality and kind of success
achieved, and the influence of the Dog-Star.
Burns wrote several deeply religious poems. Now, men are very seldom
really religious and contrite, except after an
excess. Following a debauch a man signs the pledge, vows chastity, writes
fervently of asceticism and the need of living in the spirit and not in
the senses. Good pictures show best on a dark back-ground. Men talk most
about things they do not possess.
"The Cotter's Saturday Night," perhaps the most quoted of any
of Burns' poems, is plainly the result of a terrible tip to t' other side.
Bobby had gone so far in the direction of Venusburg that he resolved on
getting back, and living thereafter a staid and proper life.
In order to reform you must have an ideal, and the ideal of Burns, on
the occasion of having exhausted all capacity for sin, is embodied in the
"Saturday Night." It is all a beautiful dream. The real Scottish
cotter is quite another kind of person. The religion of the live cotter is
well seasoned with fear, malevolence and absurd dogmatism. The amount of
love, patience, excellence and priggishness shown in "The Cotter's
Saturday Night" never existed, except in a poet's imagination. In
stanza Number Ten of that particular poem is a bit of unconscious
autobiography that might as well ha' been omitted; but in letting it
stand, Burns was loyal to the thought that surged through his brain.
People who are not scientific in their speech often speak of the birds
as being happy. My opinion is that birds are not any more happy than
men—probably not as much so. Many birds, like the English sparrow and
the blue jay, quarrel all day long. Come to think of it, I believe
that man is happier than the birds. He has a sense of remorse, and this
suggests reformation, and from the idea of reformation comes the picturing
of an ideal. This exercise of the imagination is pleasure, for indeed
there is a certain satisfaction in every form of exercise of the
faculties. There is a certain pleasure in pain: for pain is never all
pain. And sin surely is not wholly bad, if through it we pass into a
higher life—the life of the spirit.
Anything is better than the Dead Sea of neutral nothingness, wherein a
man merely avoids sin by doing nothing and being nothing. The stirring of
the imagination by sorrow for sin, sometimes causes the soul to wing a
far-reaching upward flight.
Asceticism is often only a form of sensuality: the man finds
satisfaction in overcoming the flesh. And wherever you find asceticism you
find potential passion—a smoldering volcano held in check by a devotion
to duty; and a gratification is oft found in fidelity.
The moral and religious poems of Burns were written in a desire to work
off a fit of depression, and make amends for folly. They are sincere and
often very excellent. Great preachers have often been great sinners, and
the sermons that have moved men most are often a direct recoil from sin on
the part of the preacher. Remorse finds play in preaching repentance. When
a man talks much about a virtue, be sure that he is clutching for it.
Temperance fanatics are men with a taste for strong
drink, trying hard to keep sober. The moral and religious poems of Robert
Burns are not equal to his love-songs. The love-songs are free, natural,
untrammeled and unrestrained; while his religious poems have a vein of
rotten warp running through them in the way of affectation and pretense.
From this I infer that sin is natural, and remorse partially so. In Burns'
moral poems the author tries to win back the favor of respectable people,
which he had forfeited. In them there is a violence of direction; and all
violence of direction—all endeavors to please and placate certain
people—is fatal to an artist. You must work to please only yourself.
Work to please yourself and you develop and strengthen the artistic
conscience. Cling to that and it shall be your mentor in times of doubt:
you need no other. There are writers who would scorn to write a muddy
line, and would hate themselves for a year and a day should they dilute
their honest thought with the platitudes of the fear-ridden. Be yourself
and speak your mind today, though it contradict all you have said before.
And above all, in art, work to please yourself—that Other Self that
stands over and behind you, looking over your shoulder, watching your
every act, word and deed—knowing your every thought. Michelangelo would
not paint a picture on order. "I have a critic who is more exacting
than you," said Meissonier—"it is my Other Self."
Rosa Bonheur painted pictures just to please her Other Self, and never
gave a thought to any one else, nor wanted to think of any one else, and
having painted to please herself, she made her appeal to the great Common
Heart of humanity—the tender, the noble, the receptive, the earnest, the
sympathetic, the lovable. That is why Rosa Bonheur stands first among
women artists of all time: she worked to please her Other Self.
That is the reason Rembrandt, who lived at the same time Shakespeare
lived, is today without a rival in portraiture. He had the courage to make
an enemy. When at work he never thought of any one but his Other Self, and
so he infused soul into every canvas. The limpid eyes look down into yours
from the walls and tell of love, pity, earnestness and deep sincerity.
Man, like Deity, creates in his own image, and when he portrays some one
else, he pictures himself, too—this provided his work is Art. If it is
but an imitation of something seen somewhere, or done by some one else, to
please a patron with money, no breath of life has been breathed into its
nostrils, and it is nothing, save possibly dead perfection—no more.
Is it easy to please your Other Self? Try it for a day. Begin tomorrow
morning and say: "This day I will live as becomes a man. I will be
filled with good-cheer and courage. I will do what is right; I will work
for the highest; I will put soul into every hand-grasp, every
smile, every expression—into all my work. I will live to satisfy my
Other Self."
Do you think it is easy? Try it for a day.
Robert Burns wrote some deathless lines—lines written out of the
freshness of his heart, simply to please himself, with no furtive eye on
Dumfries, Edinburgh, the Kirk, or the Unco Guid of Ayrshire; and these are
the lines that have given him his place in the world of letters.
The other day I was made glad by finding that John Burroughs, Poet and
Prophet, says that the male thrush sings to please himself, out of pure
delight; and pleasing himself, he pleases his mate. "The
female," says Burroughs, "is always pleased with a male that is
pleased with himself."
The various controversial poems (granting for argument's sake that
controversy is poetic) were written when Burns was smarting under the
sense of defeat. These show a sharp insight into the heart of things, and
a lively wit, but are not sufficient foundation on which to build a
reputation. Ali Baba can do as well. Considering the fact that twice as
many people make pilgrimages to the grave of Burns as visit the dust of
Shakespeare, and that his poems are on the shelves of every library, his
name now needs no defense. The ores are very seldom found pure, and if
even the work of Deity is composite, why should we be surprised that man,
His creature, should express himself in a varying scale of excellence!
There was nothing of Jack Falstaff about Francis Schlatter, whose
whitened bones were found amid the alkali dust of the desert, a few years
ago—dead in an endeavor to do without meat and drink for forty days.
Schlatter purported, and believed, that he was the reincarnation of the
Messiah. Letters were sent to him, addressed simply, "Jesus Christ,
Denver, Colorado," and he walked up to the General-Delivery window
and asked for them with a confidence, we are told, that relieved the
postmaster of a grave responsibility.
Schlatter was no mere ordinary pretender, working on the superstitions
of shallow-pated people. He lived up to his belief—took no money,
avoided notoriety when he could; and the proof of his sincerity lies in
the fact that he died a victim to it.
Herbert Spencer has said all about the Messianic Instinct that there is
to say, save this—the Messianic Instinct first had its germ in the heart
of a woman. Every woman dreams of the coming of the Ideal Man—the man
who will give her protection, even to giving up his life for her, and
vouchsafe peace to her soul. I am told by a noted Bishop of the Catholic
Church that many women who become nuns are prompted to take their vows
solely through the occasion of an unrequited love. They become the bride
of the Church and find their highest joy in following the will of Christ.
He is their only Spouse and Master.
The terms of endearment one hears at prayer-meetings, "Blessed
Jesus," "Dear Jesus," "Loving Jesus," "Elder
Brother," "Patient, gentle Jesus," etc., were first used by
women in an ecstasy of religious transport. And the thought of Jesus as a
loving, "personal Savior," would die from the face of the earth
did not women keep it alive. The religious nature and the sex nature are
closely akin: no psychologist can tell where the one ends and the other
begins.
There may be wooden women in the world, and of these I will not speak,
but every strong, pulsing, feeling, thinking woman goes through life,
seeking the Ideal Man. Whether she is married or single, rich or poor, old
or young, every new man she meets is interesting to her, because she feels
in some mysterious way that possibly he is the One.
Of course, I know that every good man, too, seeks the Ideal Woman—but
that deserves another chapter.
The only woman in whose heart there is not the live, warm, Messianic
Instinct is the wooden woman, and the one who believes she has already
found him. But this latter is holding an illusion that soon vanishes with
possession.
That pale, low-voiced, gentle and insane man, Francis Schlatter, was
followed at times by troops of women. These women believed in him and
loved him—in different ways, of course, and with passion varying
according to temperament and the domestic environment already
existing. To love deeply is a matter of propinquity and opportunity.
One woman, whom "The Healer" had cured of a lingering
disease, loved this man with a wild, mad, absorbing passion. Chance gave
her the opportunity. He came to her house, cold, hungry, homeless, sick.
She fed him, warmed him, looked into his liquid eyes, sat at his feet and
listened to his voice. She loved him—and partook of his every mental
delusion.
This woman now waits and watches in her mountain home for his return.
She knows the coyotes and buzzards picked the scant flesh from his starved
frame, but she says: "He promised he would come back to me, and he
will. I am waiting for him here."
This woman writes me long letters from her solitude, telling me of her
hopes and plans. Just why all the cranks in the United States should write
me letters, I do not know, but they do—perhaps there is a sort o'
fellow-feeling. This woman may write letters to others, just as she does
to me. Of this I do not know, but surely I would not thus make public the
heart-tragedy told me in a private letter, were it not that the woman
herself has printed a pamphlet, setting forth her faith and veiling only
those things into which it is not our right to pry.
This Mary Magdalene believes her lover was the Chosen Son of God, and
that the Father will reclothe the Son in a new garment of flesh and send
him back to his beloved. So she watches and
waits, and dresses herself to receive him, and at night places a lighted
lantern in the window to guide the way.
She watches and waits.
Other women wait for footsteps that will never come, and listen for a
voice that will never be heard. All round the world there is a sisterhood
of such. Some, being wise, lose themselves in loving service to
others—in useful work. But this woman, out in the wilds of New Mexico,
hugs her sorrow to her heart, and feeds her passion by recounting it, and
watches away the leaden hours, crying aloud to all who will listen:
"He is not dead—he is not dead! he will come back to me! He
promised it—he will come back to me! This long, dreary waiting is only a
test of my loyalty and love! I will be patient, for he will come back to
me! He will come back to me!"
This world would be a sorry place if most men conducted their lives on
the Robert Burns plan. Burns was affectionate, tender, generous and kind;
but he was not wise. He never saw the future, nor did he know that life is
a sequence, and that if you do this, it is pretty sure to lead to that.
His loves were largely of the earth.
Excess was a part of his wayward, undisciplined nature; and that
constant tendency to put an enemy in his mouth to steal away his brains,
bound him at last, hand and foot. His old age could never have been frosty,
but kindly—it would have been babbling, irritable, senile, sickening.
Death was kind and reaped him young. Sex was the rock on which Robert
Burns split. He seemed to regard pleasure-seeking as the prime end of
life, and in this he was not so very far removed from the prevalent
"civilized" society notion of marriage. But it is a phantasmal
idea, and makes a mock of marriage, serving the satirist his excuse.
To a great degree the race is yet barbaric, and as a people we fail
utterly to touch the hem of the garment of Divinity. We have been mired in
the superstition that sex is unclean, and therefore honesty and free
expression in love matters have been tabued.
But the day will yet dawn when we will see that it takes two to
generate thought; that there is the male man and the female man, and only
where these two walk together hand in hand is there a perfect sanity and a
perfect physical, moral and spiritual health.
We reach infinity through the love of one, and loving this one, we are
in love with all. And this condition of mutual sympathy, trust, reverence,
forbearance and gentleness that can exist between a man and a woman, gives
the only hint of Heaven that mortals ever know. From the love of man for
woman we guess the love of God, just as the scientist from a single bone
constructs the skeleton—aye! and then clothes it with a complete
garment.
In their love-affairs women are seldom wise, or men just. How should we
expect them to be when but yesterday woman was a
chattel and man a slave-owner? Woman won by diplomacy—that is to say, by
trickery and untruth, and man had his way through force, and neither is
quite willing to disarm. An amalgamated personality is the rare exception,
because neither Church, State nor Society yet fully recognizes the fact
that spiritual comradeship and the marriage of the mind constitute the
only Divine mating. Doctor Blacklock once said that Robert Burns had eyes
like the Christ. Women who looked into those wide-open, generous orbs lost
their hearts in the liquid depths.
In the natures of Robert Burns and Francis Schlatter there was little
in common; but their experiences were alike in this: they were beloved by
women. Behind him Burns left a train of weeping women—a trail of broken
hearts. And I can never think of him except as a mere youth—"Bobby
Burns"—one who never came into man's estate. In all his love-making
he never seemed really to benefit any woman, nor did he avail himself of
the many mental and spiritual excellencies of woman's nature, absorbing
them into his own. He only played a devil's tattoo upon her emotions.
If Burns knew anything of the beauty and inspiration of a high and holy
friendship between a thinking man and a thinking woman, with mutual aims,
ideals and ambitions, he never disclosed it. The love of a man for a maid,
or a maid for a man, can never last, unless these two mutually love a
third something. Then, as they are traveling the
same way, they may move forward hand in hand, mutually sustained. The
marriage of the mind is the only compact that endures. I love you because
you love the things that I love. That man alone is great who utilizes the
blessings that God provides; and of these blessings no gift equals the
gentle, trusting companionship of a good woman.
So, having written thus far, I find that already I have reached the
limit of my allotted space.
In closing, it may not be amiss for me to state that Robert Burns was
an Irish poet whose parents happened to be Scotch. He was born in Ayrshire
in Seventeen Hundred Fifty-nine. He died in Seventeen Hundred Ninety-six,
and was buried at Dumfries by the "gentleman volunteers," in
spite of his last solemn words—"Don't let the Awkward Squad fire
over my grave!"
His mother survived him thirty-eight years, passing out in Eighteen
Hundred Thirty-four. Burns left four sons, each of whom was often pointed
out as the son of his father—but none of them was.
This is all I think of, at present, concerning Robert Burns.
For further facts I must refer the Gentle Reader to the
"Encyclopedia Britannica," a compilation that I cheerfully
recommend, it having been vouched for to me by a dear friend, a clergyman
of East Aurora, who, the past year, perused the entire work, from A to Z,
reading five hours a day: and therefore is competent to speak.
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