In fact, Halleck’s admiration of Burns, as a poet, was second only to his admiration of him as a man.
There was always a faint touch of punctilious politeness lingering about Halleck, such as we might imagine characterized the old French noblesse in their exile, and this accompanied with a never-failing bonhommie, a gentleness of manner, that even in his old age made women his friends and children his companions. But the real characteristics of our dear friend appeared, when he was talking with some congenial companion about the great poets he loved, with all the fervor of his soul. Then the domous head would seem to have gathered electric fire from the words that poured from his heart, the branching veins on his temples would suddenly shoot out, and swell, and enlarge. Then his blue eyes would dart out gleams of intellectual light, the projecting lower jaw would tremble with passion, the lips would quiver, one hand would pound another with expressive vehemence, and the foot, not less expressive, would respond, and when the heroic sentiment was reached, or pathos had carried all before it, then the voice would falter, the eyes fill, and you felt that the spell of living genius was upon you.
It has been often said, that Halleck’s poems exhibit great artifice in their construction, and show the clearness and polish of laborious composition. This is partly true, but scarcely any poet knew better than he how to reach the highest art of all—the art of concealing art. Like the Sculptor in Schiller’s poem of the Ideal and the Actual, he knew how to use his implements.
