THE LAND OF BURNS.
English Railway Coaches—Millionaires, Crowned Heads, and Fools—A
Conductor Caught on a Cow-catcher—Last Rose of Summer—Off on
Foot to the Land of Burns—Appearance of Country and Condition of
People—Destination Reached—Doctor Whitsitt and Oliver Twist—The
Ploughman Poet—His Cottage—His Relics—His Work and Worth—His Grave
and Monument—A Broad View of Life.
I AROSE this morning at an early hour, and, after partaking of a hearty
breakfast, I at once repair to the Grand Central Depot in Glasgow
where, a few minutes later, I seat myself in an English railway car.
These cars are, of course, made on the same general plan as ours, yet
they are in some respects quite different. The coaches are of about
the same length as those used in America, but not so wide by eighteen
inches or two feet. Each coach is divided into five compartments, each
being five and one-half or six feet long. Each of these compartments
has two doors, one on either side of the car, also two seats. Persons
occupying these different seats must face each other, so one party or
the other must ride backwards. They have no water or other conveniences
on the train, as we Americans are accustomed to; no bell-rope to
pull, in case of accident; no baggage-checks—each passenger must
look after his own baggage. As for myself, I have no baggage, save
what I can carry in the car with me. They have first, second, and
third-class compartments, the fare per mile being four, three, and two
cents respectively. I have examined closely, and can not detect one
particle of difference between the first and second-class compartments,
either one being fully as good as our first-class car. The English
first and second-class compartments are slightly superior to the
third-class. It is a saying among the Europeans that only millionaires,
soreheads (crowned heads), and fools ride first-class. Being neither a
millionaire nor a crowned head, and, as I am unwilling to be classed as
a fool, I always take third-class passage.
I believe in talking, asking questions, and exchanging ideas with every
man I meet, be he high or low, rich or poor. So, while standing at
the depot this morning, amid a great crowd of people, looking at the
engines, I remark to a pleasant-looking conductor standing near me,
that there is quite a difference in the engines used in this country
and those used in America. He wants to know what that difference is.
I tell him that our engines have cow-catchers before them and his
has none. “A cow-catcher,” says he, “and what is that?” I explain to
him that a cow-catcher is an arrangement fastened on in front of the
engines to remove obstructions from the road, to knock cows from the
track, etc. “Ah, indeed! We never need those in this country, and can
you tell me,” he continues, “why we do not need them?” “Well, sir,” I
reply, “I can see only one reason.” “And what is that, pray?” I answer,
“It must be, sir, that you do not run fast enough to overtake a cow.”
This creates quite a laugh at the conductors expense, though none seems
to enjoy it more heartily than he. Just at this moment, the train
starts, and I am off for Ayr, some forty miles away.
[Illustration: CLARENCE P. JOHNSON.]
As I step from the train in Ayr, the hack-drivers gather around me like
bees around the “Last Rose of Summer.” “Carriage, carriage, sir?” they
cry. “I’ll be glad to show you through the city, and take you to Burns’
Monument—carriage, carriage?” Tipping my hat, I reply, “No, gentlemen,
I will take a carriage some other time, when I have more leisure. I
prefer walking to-day, as I am in a great hurry.” So, each with a
cane in his hand and a portmanteau strapped on his back, Johnson, my
pleasant traveling companion, and I set out on foot for “The Land of
Burns.”
Luckily, we meet with some intelligent farmers who cheerfully give us
much valuable information about the country. They, in turn, ask many
questions concerning far-off America. Land in this part of Scotland
is worth from two hundred to three hundred dollars per acre, and the
annual rent is twenty to twenty-five dollars per acre. Most of the land
in this country is owned by a few “lords” and “nobles,” and the “common
people” are in bondage to them. They are in poverty and rags, as might
naturally be expected from the exorbitant rents which they have to pay.
“Man’s inhumanity to man,
Makes countless millions mourn.”
The principal crops raised by the farmers of this country are wheat,
oats, rye, barley and Irish potatoes. They grow no Indian corn. They do
not know what corn-bread is—many of them have never heard of it.
[Illustration: BURNS’ COTTAGE.]
After a walk of an hour and a half through a most charming country,
we reach our destination. I am now sitting in the room where was
born Robert Burns who, Dr. Whitsitt says, was the most important
personage that the British Isles have produced since the time of Oliver
Twist—oh, excuse me, I should have said, since the time of Oliver
Cromwell. I would have had it right at first, if that “twist” had
not gotten into my mind. This important personage was born 128 years
ago. How long this cottage was standing before that time, we do not
know; but, as you may imagine, it is now a rude and antique structure.
It is built of stone, and the walls are about six feet high. It has
an old-fashioned straw or thatched roof and a stone floor. A hundred
years ago, this room had only one window. That is only eighteen inches
square, and is on the back side of the house. In the time of Burns, the
cottage had only two rooms, though some additions have since been made.
The entire place is now owned by the “Ayr Burns’ Monument Association,”
and the original rooms are used only as a museum, wherein are collected
the furniture, books, manuscripts and other relics of the illustrious
bard.
I have, for a long time, been somewhat familiar with the history and
writings of the “Peasant Poet,” whose birthplace I now visit, and I
have often read Carlyle’s caustic essay on Burns. I have just finished
reading his life, written by James Currie. I have read, to-day, “The
Holy Fair,” “Tam O’Shanter,” “Man Was Made to Mourn,” and “To Mary,
in Heaven,” and now, as I sit in the room where this High Priest of
Nature first saw light, as I sit at the table whereon he used to write,
and view the relics which once belonged to him, I am carried back for
a hundred years and made to breathe the atmosphere of the eighteenth
century. As I sit within these silent walls, a strange feeling comes
over me. I hear, or seem to hear, the lingering vibrations of that
golden lyre, whose master indeed is dead, but whose music still finds a
responsive echo in every human heart. Robert Burns, the man, was born
of a woman but Robert Burns, the poet, was born of Nature! He stole the
thoughts of Nature and told them to man. It was believed long ago that
Burns was the High Priest, the interpreter, of Nature, and
“Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.”
The multitudes who hither come, prove by their coming that
“Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines,
Shrines to code nor creed confined—
The Delphic vales, the Palestines—
The Meccas of the mind.”
Some three hundred yards beyond the cottage, we come to the “Burns’
Monument,” beautifully situated on “The braes and banks o’bonnie Doon,
Tugar’s winding stream.” A more appropriate location could not have
been selected for this monument, as near by are the “Alloway Kirk,” the
“Wallace Tower,” the “Auld Mill,” and the “Auld Hermit Ayr,” and other
localities rendered famous by the muse of the ploughman poet. I stand
on the “Brig o’ Doon” before reaching the keystone of which Meg, Tam
O’Shanter’s mare, “left behind her ain grey tail.”
[Illustration: BURNS’ MONUMENT.]
From the top of this towering monument, which stands in the midst of
a beautiful flower-garden, I for once take a “broad view of life.”
With one sweep of the eye, I see the Doon, the Ayr, the Clyde, the
ocean! The scene is made more grand and inspiring, more picturesque and
beautiful, by the lakes, plains, hills and mountains which lie between,
overhang, and tower above, these laughing rivers. Ah! me, how my spirit
is stirred! Like Father Ryan, I have thoughts too lofty for language
to reach. In describing what I now see and feel, silence is the most
impressive language that can be used. Thought is deeper than speech.
Feeling is deeper than thought.