A VISIT TO ROBERT BURNS.
I had long been pressed and impressed to pay a visit to the spirit home
of Robert Burns, Scotland’s favored child of song, where he extends the
thorough hospitality of a genial heart, and where all kindred souls are
welcomed with royal cordiality.
I had met Burns upon many occasions since my entrance to the joys of
spirit life. I had seen him in the public convocations of poets, had
been with him at friendly gatherings where souls like his meet to enjoy
the rich and varied productions of each other’s minds; I had seen him in
hall and bower, amid lofty and amid lowly scenes; and finally I had
received a visit from him in my own private domain. But as yet I had
never responded to his kindly, urgent invitations, nor to my own
promptings, to return the visit. An opportunity at length presented
itself for me to do so, and accordingly, with a friend, who wished me to
travel leisurely as mortals do, and who accompanied me to point out the
natural beauties and points of interest along our route, I set out with
a joyful spirit, and anticipations of a rich treat, to visit the spirit
home of Scotia’s immortal bard.
I will not weary you by descriptions of our journey. The time is coming
when the localities and scenery of spirit life will be described to
mortals by those who are fully competent to do so. At present, I will
confine myself to the object of my journey, namely, the arrival at the
spirit home of the poet.
My companion and myself journeyed along—he interesting me on the way, by
relating bits of history or incidents concerning places we passed,
together with anecdotes of the people and their customs—until we arrived
at the entrance of a natural basin or valley, that lay like a great
emerald between two ranges of towering mountains. Upon the right, the
mighty pile reared its lofty head in solemn grandeur; the morning
shadows resting upon it, only serving to deepen the impressiveness of
its height and power. Its base of a dark brown hue supported the rugged
pile, which deepened in color as it arose, until its apex presented the
appearance of a gigantic amethyst, glittering beneath the light of
morning in an indescribable purple splendor.
Upon the left arose a range of polished stone, as white as sculptured
marble, which gleamed and glistened in the sunlight like a mountain of
frost work. Its numerous crags and peaks shone like so many spears of
frozen snow, the rosy light resting upon its sparkling surface causing
it to present an appearance at once marvelous and bewitching to the
beholder.
In the hollow formed by these mountain ranges nestled the valley I have
mentioned, covered with a luxuriant growth of vegetation and verdure.
Fields of ripening grain, blooming gardens, delighting the senses with
their fragrance and beauty, waving trees, in all the glory of exuberant
foliage, were to be seen in every direction, while the white cottages of
the dwellers gleamed here and there, and in their delightful locality
bore every indication of home comfort. The people whom we saw busy about
their gardens, or caught glimpses of between the open doorways of their
houses, appeared happy and contented; their dress was simple, and
seemingly worn for comfort; their countenances betokened peace and
liberty. Songs of innocence and mirth arose upon the balmy air, mingling
with the tones of children’s merry laughter. In short, here was an
Arcadia in real life, such as any poet might be proud to dream of, and
to picture out to the delight of his fellow-men.
“These,” said my friend, “are the people who have gathered about Robbie
Burns, as a flock of sheep gather around a beloved shepherd; or better,
as a group of children gather about a beloved and venerated father, to
listen to his advice, and follow his counsel, knowing it is for their
good.
“Robert Burns has made these people what they are. They have come to
spirit life one by one, worn and weary from the cares of earth; some of
them even sin-sick and degraded from unnatural lives, led while in the
body. He has gathered them together, taught them self-reliance, preached
to them through the opening flower, the running stream, and the songs of
birds. He has taught them to forget their cares, and to desire a nobler
existence. He has set them at work to cultivate their gardens and build
themselves homes. In doing this they have grown happy and found rest.
“From him they have learned patience, self-restraint, and
self-abnegation, a belief in the divinity of every spirit, and love for
humanity.
“Some of these people, worn and broken down, came to him of themselves.
They had heard of Burns while on earth, had read his words of sympathy,
of love and tenderness, knew that he had sinned and suffered, and that
with all he had faith in man. Through the great desire of their souls to
see him, they were drawn to his presence, and his great, kindly heart,
understanding their needs, spoke to them words of cheer, which gave
relief and strength.
“Others he himself found by the wayside, sunk in misery and degradation;
he held to them the helping hand, kindled in their breasts contrition
for wrong committed, which brought a desire to do better and be better.
He found their loved and loving ones for them; and all reverence him
with love and blessing. The children abiding here are little waifs cast
off from earth, who have known no tender care before their spirit birth;
here they are cared for and educated by those capable of giving
instruction to opening minds.”
A group of merry children, laughing and shouting in glee, dashed by us
as my companion ceased speaking, their faces radiant with joy and
happiness.
We paused at the entrance of a magnificent garden, whose limits extended
far and wide. The well-kept walks, the superb parterres of blooming
flowers, the shrubs raising their graceful branches as if conscious of
their beauty, the grand old trees rearing their mighty heads, and
casting grateful shadows, the pond at the further end, gleaming and
glittering in the sunlight, rustic seats scattered here and there, banks
of velvet-like richness, bright with their vivid hue of emerald green,
all betokened this place to be the property of one who loved Nature, and
was a willing worker in beautifying and adorning her productions.
This immense garden was not enclosed from the public way, except by a
low hedge of evergreens, whose tops were tufted with delicate,
creamy-hued, fragrant blossoms, reminding me forcibly of our own native
hawthorn. No gate barred the entrance way; it was open to the free
admittance of all.
At the farther end of the principal walk arose a plain, unpretentious
dwelling, its white walls gleaming with an appearance of purity and
peace. So far had we come up the valley that this cottage appeared to us
to rest at the base of the purple-crested mountain, like a bird’s nest
securely fastened upon a rugged rock.
“Here,” said my guide, “you have the home of Robert Burns. I will now
leave you to his care.” Ere he could proceed, a form issued from the
open doorway of the house, and hastened down the path to meet us. That
beaming countenance, those kindly eyes, and warm, cordial hands extended
to greet us; that commanding, yet unassuming figure, clothed in simple,
rustic garb, could belong to no man in God’s universe but Robert Burns.
It needed no honeyed speech, no formal words of greeting, no
conventionalities, to tell us we were welcome; the spirit of our host
over flowed with hospitality, and his soul beamed with all the fervor of
his joy at meeting us.
Oh, the pleasure that enwrapped my being when I first entered the
sanctuary of that good man’s great heart, and felt that we were
congenial companions! No constraint, no conventional formalities with
him; all was freedom and perfect ease.
My guide pleaded necessities of business as an excuse for leaving me
alone with my host, and as we both preferred to roam in his great
treasure-garden to entering the house, and feeling refreshed and strong
in spirit, as though I had just partaken of food (which was true, as I
had been feeding my soul all the way on the many delights I had
encountered), we turned down a by-path, and I began to examine the rare
plants and elegant shrubbery of the place, my host displaying and
explaining his treasures as we went.
“I am surprised,” said I, “at your wealth of luxuriant bloom, and the
beauty as well as the delicacy of the perfume of these plants; they
surpass everything I have yet seen; you must give them a great deal of
attention.”
“Well, lad,” replied my companion, “it’s not that so much. I look after
them every day, of course, give them water and just the right degree of
light, and trim and train them when there’s muckle need; but I think its
adaptability to surroundings that makes ’em fine. I love them,—every
one,—and it’s real pleasure to care for them;” and it was with unfeigned
fondness that he bent over a rare stock of geraniums, and lifted a
magnificent bloom to my view. We wandered along, chatting about this
shrub and that plant; the proper treatment of this stock, and the right
degree of culture for that variety. Nature and time had made him a
thorough floriculturist; it was the spiritual refining of that love of
Nature, manifested in the farmer-boy, using the plough and spade, and
weaving songs of richest beauty over his work.
Again we paused, this time by the side of a parterre of the most
beautiful garden-lilies I ever beheld. The creamy, cup-shaped blossoms,
which crowned the slender stems, rose tall and straight from a low mass
of deep, dark, and glossy leafage; while the regal flowers, with their
tints of snowy richness, flecked with tiny bars of golden hue, emitted a
fragrance of the most exquisite yet subtle of delicate odors. There were
dozens upon dozens of these royal blossoms, filling the air with their
rich perfume, and inviting the honey-bee to visit them in his search for
sweets.
As I paused to admire this magnificent group of beauties—mentally
likening them to a bevy of pure-souled, white-robed angels—and to drink
in the full richness and glory of the scene spread out before me, there
came, wafted upon the scent-laden air, a strain of sweetest music,—such
as I have often heard in spirit, but which is never produced by any but
highly-cultivated or advanced souls,—accompanied in this instance by a
female voice in singing; and such singing—so full of melody, of
expressive tenderness, with a rich under-current of harmony—mortal
tongue or pen is inadequate to describe. I looked at my companion
inquiringly. Said he: “It is my Highland Mary, the sainted soul who
passed on before me, and who has made me what I am. This patch of lilies
is her especial pride. I have named them for _her_, and call them ‘The
Snaw Mary.’ We shall soon be with her, and you will see her for
yourself.” I was delighted at the prospect of meeting “Highland Mary,”
which delight of course he perceived.
We moved on past beds of beautiful verdure and bloom of every hue, and
arrived at the lake, a superb sheet of water, clear as crystal, and
extending over a large area, its margin laid with tiny, white
cobblestones, presenting a neat, pretty appearance. A fairy-like boat
was moored at a landing-place, upon the side of which I observed painted
a large, thrifty-looking thistle.
A rustic bridge extended across the lake, over which we passed. At the
farther side were a number of tiny arbors, around and above which twined
and clung flowering vines, some of which were very familiar to me.
Toward the nearest of these flower-wreathed pavilions my companion
turned. The sound of singing had ceased, but through the swinging
leaflets of the vines I could perceive the white drapery of female
garments.
In a moment more we were in the presence of that sweet, long-loved,
immortalized “Highland Mary;” and well might Robert Burns have mourned
her loss, and well might the poet soul have sung his sweetest song “To
Mary in Heaven.” The features of this sainted maiden were almost
transparent; a halo of celestial beauty shone about her form as she
moved; her beautiful eyes emitted a radiance that must have been
dazzling to those not fitted to enter her sphere of purity; her bonny
hair rippled down her back in waves of golden light. The beauty of mind,
the purity of an innocent heart, the tenderness of soul, expressing
itself in sympathy toward the weak and erring, combined with traces of
experience in human suffering, manifested themselves in the chastened
refinement of that lovely countenance, and the sphere of purity
surrounding that angelic being.
I stood before her abashed and humbled; but a moment more, the sweet
voice of Burns’ Mary bade me welcome, and I was made to feel at home.
Years of experience in the higher life had been of inestimable value to
that maiden; she had had the teaching of highly-developed spirits, and
the beauty, brilliancy and grace of a cultured mind, that was accustomed
to deep thinking, were plainly discernible in her remarks. I was content
to be a listener, and to drink deeply of the living waters of truth that
flowed from the gifted mind of my host, and from the tender, loving soul
of his companion.
But our stay in the pavilion was short; I would fain have lingered far
longer, but the lady, “on hospitable thoughts intent,” after the fashion
of woman everywhere, seemed anxious that I should be conducted to the
house and have refreshments. My protestations were overruled, and we
accordingly started for the abode,—not by the way my host and I had
come, but on the outer side of the garden. On our journey I made a new
discovery: Mary had turned to me previously, and said: “I would like you
to see my aviary, the place where I keep my pets; in fact, their
shelterhouse;” and soon I understood to what she referred. We were
approaching a thicket of bushes; I recognized furze, gorse, and hawthorn
among them. Passing through this thicket, we entered an extension of the
garden, still laid out in beds of beautiful flowers. A grove of trees,
in the center of which a pretty fountain sent up its jets of crystal
water, arrested my attention, and beyond that, the sparkling roof of a
large glass building. The bushes and trees resounded with the melody
issuing from the gaily-feathered throats of numerous songsters, of every
size and variety. It was a bird kingdom upon a small scale. As we
entered, the birds surrounded us, alighting upon the heads and shoulders
of my companions; but while they flew close to and around me, only one,
a tiny white warbler, would alight upon my person. This perched upon my
shoulder, and chirped and nodded as pert as possible.
We entered the glass building. Within were planted shrubs and trees,
some of them bearing fruit, others seeds. There were no cages, but I
observed numerous nests attached to the bushes and trees. The floor was
the natural earth; the sun shone warmly, and all was beautiful. There
were no doors, but here and there entrance-ways, always open for the
convenience of the feathered denizens of the place, who came and went of
their pleasure. A stream of water gushed from a rock, and gurgled and
plashed over a heap of stones. This was the bird-house belonging to the
estate, and the especial pride of “Highland Mary.”
We tarried a few moments, and then continued our way to the house, which
we soon reached. How different the scene! A plain, unpretentious, white
dwelling, with no attempt at ornamentation, the sun shining down upon
it, fully displaying all its simplicity. Within was the same; neat and
cheerful, suggestive of comfort and repose, but nothing finical, nothing
tawdry; no glitter, no display. There was no covering to the cool, white
floors, excepting here and there a rug or mat of green rushes. The walls
of the apartment into which I was ushered were draped with a snowy
gossamer-like fabric; the chairs round, wide, and comfortable, the
tables oval and plain. Here we were served with refreshments,—fruit of
various kinds, sweet cake formed of honey and the meat of nuts, and
sparkling water.
Afterward I entered the sitting-room of spirit Mary. Here the walls were
draped with blue silken stuffs; the furnishings were more elaborate and
elegant than the other parts of the house, and all arranged in exquisite
taste. My hostess entertained us with her tender, soulful singing,
striking a harp-shaped instrument, which sent forth a delicious
accompaniment to the song.
In Mary’s apartment, or boudoir, I observed a pot of primroses in full
bloom, the yellow petals of the flowers recalling old familiar scenes of
earth; and the sight of these flowers recalled to me also that they were
the only ones I had noticed within the dwelling. This seemed singular to
me; with all that wealth of bloom and fragrance without, it would only
be natural to find every room adorned with slips and cuttings. Of course
the drift of my thought was perceived. Burns smiled, but Mary
enlightened me. “Robbie will never pluck a flower,” said she, “for his
own use; he does not think it right to bring them out of their native
elements, and deprive them of life on the stalk. He thinks they are hurt
when they are culled; he also leaves them all out to be enjoyed by
anyone who comes along; but I have seen him often break the flowers for
some wee lassie, or poor laddie, who luks at them wistfully. He knows by
that they had none too many flowers and pleasures on earth.”
I looked at Burns; his kindly face lighted up with intelligence and
spirit beauty; every feature aglow with goodness, and every member of
his body filled with energy, with suppressed power, with concentrated
activity, now in abeyance, but ready to spring forth for the well-being
of another,—he who had risen above all earthly passions through his
great love for and faith in humanity; and I thought how characteristic
of the man is this abode of peace and rest,—the home, the shrine of his
faith and love,—plain, simple, yet full of cheer and interest,—no
glitter nor show,—like his own kindly heart, unpretentious, full of
kindness, overflowing with interest in God, Nature, and man! Without,
all is beauty and fragrance; yet the natural productions of life,
refined by care and cultivation, typical of the rich, the beautiful
expressions of his poet soul,—refined through love, cultured through
sympathy, manifested in sweetest heart songs, exemplified in those
peaceful homes I had seen, whose inmates rise up and call him blessed!
Characteristic of the soul is this, who would cull a flower to give a
poor heart cheer, yet who will pluck none for his own use, to deprive
them of natural life,—who, when he had inadvertently uprooted the tiny,
wayside flower with his plowshare, immortalized the humble daisy with—
“Thou bonny crimson-tipped flower,
Thou’st met me in an evil hour,
For I mun crush amang the stower
Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now ’twere past my power,
Thou bonny gem.”
Still the same good man, gentle alike to “mon and beastie,” tender to
wayside flower and weed.
Another apartment in the home of the people’s bard is fitted up as a
study or library. Here are collected volumes by the true poets and
philosophers of all ages. Some are prototypes of what are or what have
been on earth; others are the outward productions of minds, grand and
glorious in their brilliancy of thought, radiant with exquisite imagery,
glowing with descriptive genius, or sweet and pathetic appeals to the
tenderest emotions of the soul, through their simple, home-like,
heartfelt tales of life and love, and which have never been heard by
mortals.
But you must not for a moment suppose Robert Burns to be dependent upon
books for intellectual enjoyment, or for the attainment of knowledge.
The soul is limitless in its resources, boundless in its capacity for
expansion, and that spirit who earnestly desires to gain knowledge,
finds a power developing within the mind which enables him or her to
comprehend the fields of learning continually opening before the vision;
while facilities and opportunities are afforded by which an honest
seeker may grasp the truth as it appears before him.
Could you but faintly realize the scope of the spirit, its perfect
freedom, its power and right to travel where it listeth, you would
understand that in the higher life we have but to earnestly desire to be
in the presence of any great soul, in order to gain pleasure and profit
from the gems of love, beauty, and wisdom which fall upon receptive
minds from those great repositories of thought, and, lo, we are there,
drinking in great and mighty truths from those who are above us in
grandeur of thought, beauty of expression, and sweetness of spirit.
Robert Burns is by no means confined to his books; but, as he informed
me, though his brightest thoughts are drawn from the life of Nature, or
the hearts of humanity, he loves to gather about him all the expressions
of the sweet, soulful, noblest ideals which others have produced. Much,
that by force of circumstances, he was deprived of on earth is his now;
all that will tend to ennoble and elevate his soul, which was denied him
here, he finds on the other shore. Why he does not ornament his home
with those adornments that denote rank and wealth to the external eye is
because his soul loathed the arrogance, and learned to despise the
superciliousness which he found in the hearts, often stamped on the
faces and shown in the mien, of many wealthy aristocratic personages he
met with while on earth.
He is Nature’s child to the core of his being, and no glittering
pageantry will adorn his heart and home; as well attempt to gild the
rose, and paint the lily, to add to their beauty.
Together, he and I went forth into the smiling valley. A low burn wended
its way beneath the shade of waving trees, close down to the mountain
base; thither we directed our steps, for he wished to show me, with a
sort of fatherly pride, the great plumy bunches of purple heather
tufting the sides of the gigantic hills.
A tiny child, paddling in the dark waters of the burn, her snowy feet
gleaming pearly white amid the shadows thrown by the green branches of
the trees, her brown locks hanging in a profusion of luxuriant curls
over her dimpled shoulders, and half veiling the azure blue eye and
damask cheek, arrested our attention and formed as pretty a picture as
one can well imagine; and the poet soul of my companion, drinking in the
beauty of the scene, felt all the sweetness of life rushing over him, as
he broke out in his quaint Scotch fashion:—
Thou winsome, weesome, smiling creature,
Half formed of human, half of nature,
Thy soul gleams through thy every feature,
This gladsome day;
While life itself becomes thy teacher—
Thou prattling fay!
Thy e’en, as blue as simmer skies,
Reflect the joys of paradise,
An’ glisten wi’ their sweet surprise,
That knows no guile;
While angel praises o’er thee rise,
An’ bless the while.
Thy bonnie tresses veil thy face
Wi’ such a winsome, modest grace,
My spirit fain wad leave its place
An’ clasp thee close
In ane sweet, fervent pure embrace,
Like some rare rose.
Thy snawy feet, like twa fair pearls,
Gleam brightly ’neath the wave that whirls;
The water o’er them softly purls;
God lo’es thee best,
An’ keeps thee ’mang the sweetest girls
That Heaven has blest.
In conveying a pure stream of crystal fluid through a muddy pipe, the
liquid loses much of its clearness, and gathers sediment from the
channel through which it passes. So, in striving to convey to your
understanding a type of the outgushings of a noble spirit, it loses much
of its transparency and becomes unsettled through the medium of earthly
expression, and perchance distorted by the crude materiality it is
sometimes obliged to pass through. Therefore, you are to take this as a
symbol only of what I had the good fortune to enjoy.
I learned in our rambles that the inhabitants of this smiling valley
were not all the countrymen and women of Robert Burns; neither were
they, when on earth, all of one belief or religion. They were of every
race and clime. Some had been fierce denouncers of the truth; some
earnest defenders of old theologic ideas and doctrines; others had had
no religion, no faith either in God or man. But it was plain that all
had suffered, had been weary, repentant, lonely, heart-sick, and
home-sick; and all had found a home, rest, action for their pent-up
energies, development for their repressed powers, love, enjoyment, and
peace beneath the ministrations of this good man and his gentle
companion.
I met with some of these happy people; conversed with them, after the
manner of spirits, read the interior conditions of their souls, and
found them all pure, loving, simple, intelligent, respecting man,
adorning the divine in humanity, and recognizing God as the author of
life, whose spirit was found in everything. How their spirits sent forth
a halo of light, which, springing from their unbounded love and
veneration for Robert Burns, settled about him like an atmosphere of
glory!
Well did I think highly of the good this man had accomplished; of the
beauty of his life-work, of the grandeur of his spirit, which, rising
above adversity, rejecting the tempter, had outwrought by his example,
by his endeavors, such a noble result as this,—the emancipation of souls
from bondage. How many, few could tell; for his efforts have been
unlimited, and the results of his labors are not confined to this
valley, but are scattered far and wide in spirit life and on earth.
What need has Robert Burns to return to earth and sing his songs through
the lips of media? He does so rarely; and why? His spirit of love, of
faith in God, of hope for human progress is so broad, so free and
untrammeled, that it breathes itself out in a benediction of good over
all humanity. It is manifested wherever a soul prays to be of use to
itself and others; it inspires the weak with strength, and blesses the
erring with a determination to redeem past errors; it is felt on earth
and in spirit life, purifying, elevating, and regenerating. Is not this
the loftiest poem, the sweetest song, the grandest tale that bard or
prophet ever could have dreamed? Is it not the outworking, in lines of
living glory, of the most sublime yet soulful pæan of praise to God that
spirit can conceive? Is it not the breathing, soul-quickening,
revivifying poem of life that is outwrought from the inspirations and
aspirations of a gifted, struggling soul once in mortal, and which is
the perfect culmination of all that has been dreamed of by that soul,
manifesting itself in the fruition of a work of beauty, glory, and
grandeur,—not of mechanical art, but of natural, quickened, sentient
life?
Could the mortal denouncers of Robert Burns witness his noble triumph of
spirit over matter, his defeat of all sensual life, his wonderful
efforts for the good of others, and his glorious soul, radiant with the
light of truth, they would bow before him in abject poverty of spirit.
One of a band of noble workers, his spirit flows out in love and
forgiveness to all his foes, and in blessing to all humanity.
Even in spirit life this soul remembers and loves his native home and
haunts on earth. The rugged rocks and darkling streams, the gowan-gemmed
sod, and heather-crowned hills of Scotland, are dear to him still. We
were seated upon a mossy bank, enjoying the loveliness of the scene,—the
gleaming valley, dotted with its blooming gardens and snowy-white
habitations; the crystal stream murmuring at our feet; the birds
chirping in the branches; the lofty mountains uprearing their crests but
a little way before us; with the glorious sun, throwing a flood of
golden splendor over all. Environed with these conditions, I could
perceive the thoughts of my companion reverting to earthly scenes, and
presently, with bosom heaving, and his great dark eyes glowing with the
intensity of his emotions, he broke forth:—
Fair are thy smiling fields of green, oh, vale,
And sweet the flowers that gem thy emerald sod;
Thy zephyrs bring a spice in every gale,
And man and nature here commune with God.
Thy crystal waters flow in melody,
Thy birds make music through the waving trees;
Thy mountains, rising in their majesty,
Survey in grandeur all thy harmonies.
But fair and sweet as thou, my spirit home,
To this fond, loving, clinging heart of mine,
Are Scotia’s fields, where once I loved to roam,
And pluck the gowan and the eglantine.
Thy brooks are clear, but Scotia’s burns are bonnie,
Where once I paddled through the simmer day;
Thy birds recall the times, not few but monny,
I’ve heard the mavis chant her tuneful lay.
And though thy mountains rise in mystic glory,
They are not fairer to my spirit sight
Than Scotia’s grim old crags and peaks so hoary,
That brought my boyhood soul such dear delight.
Aye, Scotia’s lands to me are sweet and canny,
As in the days I roamed her meadows fine,
Wi’ loving frien’, or gleesome, prattling bairnie—
Those sweet, rare blessings of the auld lang syne.
As a ray of light, in passing through a pane of glass, may become broken
or refracted, or as a straight staff placed in a vessel of water may
present a misshapen appearance to the beholder, so in attempting to
present to you the straight, symmetrical lines of thought, the golden
rays of light, emanating from a poet’s soul, they become broken and
distorted in their passage through matter; but by these refracted rays
you may be able to gain a faint comprehension of the glory of the soul
in which they originated.
And thus we passed our time, with great profit to myself; for, from the
companionship of my friend, I gained a knowledge of the true beauty of
the natural life of the spirit, and a larger conception of the grandeur
of individualized life, when fulfilling its proper mission and expanding
to its full capacity, even while drinking in the beauty of my
surroundings, the harmony of the scene, quaffing the crystal drops or
inspiring thought which filled the soul of my companion, and imbibing of
that deep peace and gladness that imbued his entire being.
In attempting to portray to you a tithe of the pleasure and profit that
my spirit gained from this visit to Robert Burns I have sought to give
you an idea of the home and occupation of Scotland’s immortalized son,
whose songs and poems have enriched the literature of earth, and
gladdened the hearts of countless beings here and in the immortal world;
but in doing so I have deeply realized that it is impossible for spirits
to convey to mortals an adequate conception of life in the soul world as
it really is.
I am aware that I have said nothing in regard to the nearest relatives
and friends of the poet,—his brave, honest parents, those to whom he
ever pays filial respect, and those also who receive fraternal sympathy
and regard,—his noble sons, that sweet, gentle daughter, the pet and
blessing of his heart, whose early loss he mourned until his death; and
last, but by no means least, his faithful, forgiving Jean, his counselor
and guide to the end. Though I have not mentioned these, it is not that
they are remote or separated from our poet. They are with him, as a
cluster of stars gather around one brilliant, far-reaching center; and
upon him they bestow that true spirit love and sympathy which he
reciprocates in kind.
But I have dwelt longest upon his connection with the beautiful ideal of
his early life; for in her is centered the power to draw forth the
noblest and purest aspirations of his soul. As a beacon-light, a radiant
star, her undefiled spirit, overflowing with the love that has blest and
enriched his being, has ever led him onward and upward over the ruts and
pitfalls of sensual life until he has reached the heights of
self-conquest and self-respect. In every sense, Mary Campbell has been
the savior and sustainer of Robert Burns.