two-story house, built of stone, and whitewashed, like its neighbors,
but perhaps of a little more respectable aspect than most of them, tho I
hesitate in saying so. It was not a separate structure, but under the
same continuous roof with the next. There was an inscription on the
door, bearing no reference to Burns, but indicating that the house was
now occupied by a ragged or industrial school. On knocking, we were
instantly admitted by a servant-girl, who smiled intelligently when we
told our errand, and showed us into a low and very plain parlor, not
more than twelve or fifteen feet square. A young woman, who seemed to be
a teacher in the school, soon appeared, and told us that this had been
Burns's usual sitting-room, and that he had written many of his
songs here.
She then led us up a narrow staircase into a little bedchamber over the
parlor. Connecting with it, there is a very small room, or windowed
closet, which Burns used as a study; and the bedchamber itself was the
one where he slept in his later lifetime, and in which he died at last.
Altogether, it is an exceedingly unsuitable place for a pastoral and
rural poet to live or die in,--even more unsatisfactory than
Shakespeare's house, which has a certain homely picturesqueness that
contrasts favorably with the suburban sordidness of the abode
before us....
Coming to St. Michael's Church, we saw a man digging a grave, and,
scrambling out of the hole, he let us into the churchyard, which was
crowded full of monuments. There was a footpath through this crowded
churchyard, sufficiently well worn to guide us to the grave of Burns,
but a woman followed behind us, who, it appeared, kept the key to the
mausoleum, and was privileged to show it to strangers. The monument is a
sort of Grecian temple, with pilasters and a dome, covering a space of
about twenty feet square. It was formerly open to all the inclemencies
of the Scotch atmosphere, but is now protected and shut in by large
squares of rough glass, each pane being of the size of one whole side of
the structure. The woman unlocked the door, and admitted us into the
interior. Inlaid into the floor of the mausoleum is the gravestone of
Burns--the very same that was laid over his grave by Jean Armour, before
this monument was built. Displayed against the surrounding wall is a
marble statue of Burns at the plow, with the Genius of Caledonia
summoning the plowman to turn poet. Methought it was not a very
successful piece of work; for the plow was better sculptured than the
man, and the man, tho heavy and cloddish, was more effective than the
goddess. Our guide informed us that an old man of ninety, who knew
Burns, certifies this statue to be very like the original.
The bones of the poet, and of Jean Armour, and of some of their
children, lie in the vault over which we stood. Our guide (who was
intelligent, in her own plain way, and very agreeable to talk withal)
said that the vault was opened about three weeks ago, on occasion of the
burial of the eldest son of Burns. [Footnote: This was written in 1860.]
The poet's bones were disturbed, and the dry skull, once so brimming
over with powerful thought and bright and tender fantasies, was taken
away and kept for several days by a Dumfries doctor. It has since been
deposited in a new leaden coffin, and restored to the vault.
We went into the church, and found it very plain and naked, without
altar-decorations, and having its floor quite covered with unsightly
wooden pews. The woman led us to a pew cornering on one of the
side-aisles, and, telling us that it used to be Burns's family pew,
showed us his seat, which is in the corner by the aisle. It is so
situated, that a sturdy pillar hid him from the pulpit, and from the
minister's eye; "for Robin was no great friends with the ministers,"
said she. This touch--his seat behind the pillar, and Burns himself
nodding in sermon time, or keenly observant of profane things--brought
him before us to the life. In the corner-seat of the next pew, right
before Burns, and not more than two feet off, sat the young lady on whom
the poet saw that unmentionable parasite which he has immortalized in
song. We were ungenerous enough to ask the lady's name, but the good
woman could not tell it. This was the last thing which we saw in
Dumfries worthy of record; and it ought to be noted that our guide
refused some money which my companion offered her, because I had already
paid her what she deemed sufficient.
At the railway station we spent more than a weary hour, waiting for the
train, which at last came up, and took us to Mauchline. We got into an
omnibus, the only conveyance to be had, and drove about a mile to the
village, where we established ourselves at the Loudoun Hotel, one of the
veriest country inns which we have found in Great Britain. The town of
Mauchline, a place more redolent of Burns than almost any other,
consists of a street or two of contiguous cottages, mostly whitewashed,
and with thatched roofs. It has nothing sylvan or rural in the immediate
village, and is as ugly a place as mortal man could contrive to make, or
to render uglier through a succession of untidy generations. The fashion
of paving the village street, and patching one shabby house on the
gable-end of another, quite shuts out all verdure and pleasantness; but,
I presume, we are not likely to see a more genuine old Scotch village,
such as they used to be in Burns's time, and long before, than this of
Mauchline. The church stands about midway up the street, and is built of
red freestone, very simple in its architecture, with a square tower and
pinnacles. In this sacred edifice, and its churchyard, was the scene of
one of Burns's most characteristic productions, "The Holy Fair."
Almost directly opposite its gate, across the village street, stands
Posie Nansie's inn, where the "Jolly Beggars" congregated. The latter is
a two-story, red-stone, thatched house, looking old, but by no means
venerable, like a drunken patriarch. It has small, old-fashioned
windows, and may well have stood for centuries--tho seventy or eighty
years ago, when Burns was conversant with it, I should fancy it might
have been something better than a beggar's alehouse....
[Burns's farm of] Moss Giel is not more than a mile from Mauchline, and
the road extends over a high ridge of land, with a view of far hills and
green slopes on either side. Just before we reached the farm, the driver
stopt to point out a hawthorn, growing by the wayside, which he said was
Burns's "Lousie Thorn"; and I devoutly plucked a branch, altho I have
really forgotten where or how this illustrious shrub has been
celebrated. We then turned into a rude gateway, and almost immediately
came to the farmhouse of Moss Giel, standing some fifty yards removed
from the high-road, behind a tall hedge of hawthorn, and considerably
overshadowed by trees.
The biographers talk of the farm of Moss Giel as being damp and
unwholesome; but I do not see why, outside of the cottage walls, it
should possess so evil a reputation. It occupies a high, broad ridge,
enjoying, surely, whatever benefit can come of a breezy site, and
sloping far downward before any marshy soil is reached. The high hedge,
and the trees that stand beside the cottage, give it a pleasant aspect
enough to one who does, not know the grimy secrets of the interior; and
the summer afternoon was now so bright that I shall remember the scene
with a great deal of sunshine over it.
Leaving the cottage, we drove through a field, which the driver told us
was that in which Burns, turned up the mouse's nest. It is the
enclosure, nearest to the cottage, and seems now to be a pasture, and a
rather remarkably unfertile one. A little farther on, the ground was
whitened with an immense number of daisies--daisies, daisies everywhere;
and in answer to my inquiry, the driver said that this was the field
where Burns ran his plowshare over the daisy. If so, the soil seems to
have been consecrated to daisies by the song which he bestowed on that
first immortal one. I alighted, and plucked a whole handful of these
"wee, modest, crimson-tipped flowers," which will be precious to many
friends in our own country as coming from Burns's farm, and being of the
same race and lineage as that daisy which he turned into an amaranthine
flower while seeming to destroy it. Prom Moss Giel we drove through a
variety of pleasant scenes, some of which were familiar to us by their
connection with Burns.
By and by we came to the spot where Burns saw Miss Alexander, the Lass
of Ballochmyle. It was on a bridge, which (or, more probably, a bridge
that has succeeded to the old one, and is made of iron) crosses from
bank to bank, high in air, over a deep gorge of the road; so that the
young lady may have appeared to Burns like a creature between earth and
sky, and compounded chiefly of celestial elements. But, in honest truth,
the great charm of a woman, in Burns's eyes, was always her womanhood,
and not the angelic mixture which other poets find in her.
Our driver pointed out the course taken by the Lass of Ballochmyle,
through the shrubbery, to a rock on the banks of the Lugar, where it
seems to be the tradition that Burns accosted her. The song implies no
such interview. Lovers, of whatever condition, high or low, could desire
no lovelier scene in which to breathe their vows: the river flowing over
its pebbly bed, sometimes gleaming into the sunshine, sometimes hidden
deep in verdure, and here and there eddying at the foot of high and
precipitous cliffs.
Our ride to Ayr presented nothing very remarkable; and, indeed, a cloudy
and rainy day takes the varnish off the scenery and causes a woeful
diminution in the beauty and impressiveness of everything we see. Much
of our way lay along a flat, sandy level, in a southerly direction. We
reached Ayr in the midst of hopeless rain, and drove to the King's Arms
Hotel. In the intervals of showers I took peeps at the town, which
appeared to have many modern or modern-fronted edifices; altho there are
likewise tall, gray, gabled, and quaint-looking houses in the
by-streets, here and there, betokening an ancient place. The town lies
on both sides of the Ayr, which is here broad and stately, and bordered
with dwellings that look from their windows directly down into the
passing tide.
I crossed the river by a modern and handsome stone bridge, and recrossed
it, at no great distance, by a venerable structure of four gray arches,
which must have bestridden the stream ever since the early days of
Scottish history. These are the "Two Briggs of Ayr," whose midnight
conversation was overheard by Burns, while other auditors were aware
only of the rush and rumble of the wintry stream among the arches. The
ancient bridge is steep and narrow, and paved like a street, and
defended by a parapet of red freestone, except at the two ends, where
some mean old shops allow scanty room for the pathway to creep
between....
The next morning wore a lowering aspect, as if it felt itself destined
to be one of many consecutive days of storm. After a good Scotch
breakfast, however, of fresh herrings and eggs, we took a fly, and
started at a little past ten for the banks of the Doon. On our way, at
about two miles from Ayr, we drew up at a roadside cottage, on which was
an inscription to the effect that Robert Burns was born within its
walls. It is now a public-house; and, of course, we alighted and entered
its little sitting-room, which, as we at present see it, is a neat
apartment, with the modern improvement of a ceiling. The walls are much
overscribbled with names of visitors, and the wooden door of a cupboard
in the wainscot, as well as all the other woodwork of the room, is cut
and carved with initial letters. So, likewise, are two tables, which,
having received a coat of varnish over the inscriptions, form really
curious and interesting articles of furniture. I have seldom (tho I do
not personally adopt this mode of illustrating my humble name) felt
inclined to ridicule the natural impulse of most people thus to record
themselves at the shrines of poets and heroes.
On a panel, let into the wall in a corner of the room, is a portrait of
Burns, copied from the original picture by Nasmyth. The floor of this
apartment is of boards, which are probably a recent substitute for the
ordinary flagstones of a peasant's cottage. There is but one other room
pertaining to the genuine birthplace of Robert Burns: it is the kitchen,
into which we now went. It has a floor of flagstones, even ruder than
those of Shakespeare's house--tho, perhaps, not so strangely cracked and
broken as the latter, over which the hoof of Satan himself might seem to
have been trampling. A new window has been opened through the wall,
toward the road; but on the opposite side is the little original window,
of only four small panes, through which came the first daylight that
shone upon the Scottish poet. At the side of the room, opposite the
fireplace, is a recess, containing a bed, which can be hidden by
curtains. In that humble nook, of all places in the world, Providence
was pleased to deposit the germ of the richest human life which mankind
then had within its circumference.
These two rooms, as I have said, make up the whole sum and substance of
Burns's birthplace: for there were no chambers, nor even attics; and the
thatched roof formed the only ceiling of kitchen and sitting-room, the
height of which was that of the whole house. The cottage, however, is
attached to another edifice of the same size and description, as these
little habitations often are; and, moreover, a splendid addition has
been made to it, since the poet's renown began to draw visitors to the
wayside alehouse. The old woman of the house led us, through an entry,
and showed a vaulted hall, of no vast dimensions, to be sure but
marvelously large and splendid as compared with what might be
anticipated from the outward aspect of the cottage. It contained a bust
of Burns, and was hung round with pictures and engravings, principally
illustrative of his life and poems. In this part of the house, too,
there is a parlor, fragrant with tobacco-smoke; and, no doubt, many a
noggin of whisky is here quaffed to the memory of the bard, who profest
to draw so much inspiration from that potent liquor.
We bought some engravings of Kirk Alloway, the Bridge of Doon, and the
monument, and gave the old woman a fee besides, and took our leave. A
very short drive farther brought us within sight of the monument, and to
the hotel, situated close by the entrance of the ornamental grounds
within which the former is enclosed. We rang the bell at the gate of the
enclosure, but were forced to wait a considerable time; because the old
man, the regular superintendent of the spot, had gone to assist at the
laying of the corner-stone of a new kirk. He appeared anon, and admitted
us, but immediately hurried away to be present at the ceremonies,
leaving us locked up with Burns.
The enclosure around the monument is beautifully laid out as an
ornamental garden, and abundantly provided with rare flowers and
shrubbery, all tended with loving care. The monument stands on an
elevated site, and consists of a massive basement-story, three-sided,
above which rises a light and elegant Grecian temple--a mere dome,
supported on Corinthian pillars, and open to all the winds. The edifice
is beautiful in itself; tho I know not what peculiar appropriateness it
may have, as the memorial of a Scottish rural poet.
The door of the basement-story stood open; and, entering, we saw a bust
of Burns in a niche, looking keener, more refined, but not so warm and
whole-souled as his pictures usually do. I think the likeness can not be
good. In the center of the room stood a glass case, in which were
deposited the two volumes of the little Pocket Bible that Burns gave to
Highland Mary, when they pledged their troth to one another. It is
poorly printed, on coarse paper. A verse of Scripture, referring to the
solemnity and awfulness of vows, is written within the cover of each
volume, in the poet's own hand; and fastened to one of the covers is a
lock of Highland Mary's golden hair. This Bible had been carried to
America by one of her relatives, but was sent back to be fitly
treasured here.
There is a staircase within the monument, by which we ascended to the
top, and had a view of both Briggs of Doon; the scene of Tam O'Shanter's
misadventure being close at hand. Descending, we wandered through the
enclosed garden, and came to a little building in a corner, on entering
which, we found the two statues of Tam and Sutor Wat--ponderous
stonework enough, yet permeated in a remarkable degree with living
warmth and jovial hilarity. Prom this part of the garden, too, we again
beheld the old Briggs of Doon, over which Tam galloped in such imminent
and awful peril. It is a beautiful object in the landscape, with one
high, graceful arch, ivy-grown, and shadowed all over and around
with foliage.
When we had waited a good while, the old gardener came, telling us that
he had heard an excellent prayer at laying the corner-stone of the new
kirk. He now gave us some roses and sweetbrier, and let us out from his
pleasant garden. We immediately hastened to Kirk Alloway, which is
within two or three minutes' walk of the monument. A few steps ascend
from the roadside, through a gate, into the old graveyard, in the midst
of which stands the kirk. The edifice is wholly roofless, but the
side-walls and gable-ends are quite entire, tho portions of them are
evidently modern restorations. Never was there a plainer little church,
or one with smaller architectural pretension; no New England
meetinghouse has more simplicity in its very self, tho poetry and fun
have clambered and clustered so wildly over Kirk Alloway that it is
difficult to see it as it actually exists. By the by, I do not
understand why Satan and an assembly of witches should hold their revels
within a consecrated precinct; but the weird scene has so established
itself in the world's imaginative faith that it must be accepted as an
authentic incident, in spite of rule and reason to the contrary.
Possibly, some carnal minister, some priest of pious aspect and hidden
infidelity, had dispelled the consecration of the holy edifice, by his
pretense of prayer, and thus made it the resort of unhappy ghosts and
sorcerers and devils.
The interior of the kirk, even now, is applied to quite as impertinent a
purpose as when Satan and the witches used it as a dancing-hall; for it
is divided in the midst by a wall of stone masonry, and each compartment
has been converted into a family burial-place. The name on one of the
monuments is Crawfurd; the other bore no inscription. It is impossible
not to feel that these good people, whoever they may be, had no business
to thrust their prosaic bones into a spot that belongs to the world, and
where their presence jars with the emotions, be they sad or gay, which
the pilgrim brings thither. They shut us out from our own precincts,
too--from that inalienable possession which Burns bestowed in free gift
upon mankind, by taking it from the actual earth and annexing it to the
domain of imagination.
Kirk Alloway is inconceivably small, considering how large a space it
fills in our imagination before we see it. I paced its length, outside
of the wall, and found it only seventeen of my paces, and not more than
ten of them in breadth. There seem to have been but very few windows,
all of which, if I rightly remember, are now blocked up with mason-work
of stone. One mullioned window, tall and narrow, in the eastern gable,
might have been seen by Tam O'Shanter, blazing with devilish light, as
he approached along the road from Ayr; and there is a small and square
one, on the side nearest the road, into which he might have peered, as
he sat on horseback. Indeed, I could easily have looked through it,
standing on the ground, had not the opening been walled up. There is an
odd kind of belfry at the peak of one of the gables, with the small bell
still hanging in it. And this is all that I remember of Kirk Alloway,
except that the stones of its material are gray and irregular.
The road from Ayr passes Alloway Kirk, and crosses the Doon by a modern
bridge, without swerving much from a straight line. To reach the old
bridge, it appears to have made a bend, shortly after passing the kirk,
and then to have turned sharply toward the river. The new bridge is
within a minute's walk of the monument; and we went thither, and leaned
over its parapet to admire the beautiful Doon, flowing wildly and
sweetly between its deep and wooded banks. I never saw a lovelier scene;
altho this might have been even lovelier, if a kindly sun had shone upon
it. The ivy-grown, ancient bridge, with its high arch, through which we
had a picture of the river and the green banks beyond, was absolutely
the most picturesque object, in a quiet and gentle way, that ever blest
my eyes. Bonny Doon, with its wooded banks, and the boughs dipping into
the water! The memory of them, at this moment, affects me like the song
of birds, and Burns crooning some verses, simple and wild, in accordance
with their native melody.... We shall appreciate him better as a poet,
hereafter; for there is no writer whose life, as a man, has so much to
do with his fame, and throws such a necessary light upon whatever he has
produced. Henceforth, there will be a personal warmth for us in
everything that he wrote; and, like his countrymen, we shall know him in
a kind of personal way, as if we had shaken hands with him, and felt the
thrill of his actual voice.
HIGHLAND MARY'S HOME AND GRAVE [Footnote: From "A Literary Pilgrimage."
By arrangement with, and by permission of, the publishers, J. B.
Lippincott Co. Copyright, 1895.]
BY THEODORE F. WOLFE.
There is no stronger proof of the transcending power of the genius of
Burns than is found in the fact that, by a bare half-dozen of his
stanzas, an humble dairy servant--else unheard of outside her parish and
forgotten at her death--is immortalized as a peeress of Petrarch's Laura
and Dante's Beatrice, and has been for a century loved and mourned of
all the world. We owe much of our tenderest poesy to the heroines whose
charms have attuned the fancy and aroused the impassioned muse of
enamoured bards; readers have always exhibited a natural avidity to
realize the personality of the beings who inspired the tender
lays--prompted often by mere curiosity, but more often by a desire to
appreciate the tastes and motives of the poets themselves. How little is
known of Highland Mary, the most famous heroine of modern song, is shown
by the brief, coherent, and often contradictory allusions to her which
the biographies of the plowman-poet contain. This paper--prepared during
a sojourn in "The Land of Burns"--while it adds a little to our meager
knowledge of Mary Campbell, aims to present consecutively and
congruously so much as may be known of her brief life, her relation to
the bard, and her sad, heroic death.