Ayrshire and on the banks of the Stinchar. Agnes was the reputed flower of her own and the neighboring parishes, and that her personality was striking and lovable to a degree is witnessed by the fact that even among the crowds of stalwart manhood and the bevies of comely feminity she engrossed the attention of Burns; but it is stated that they never spoke together, and it is not known that he ever addressed her otherwise than in this exquisitely simple, tender, and untarnished Arcadian song. In its composition there is evidence of its inspiration at a time when Burns's mind was in the condition of a pure and early manhood, emancipated from the immature utterances of the boy who wrote "Handsome Nell," and not yet emerged into the whirl of passion which produced "I love my Jean." A BURNS PILGRIMAGE AND REMINISCENCE. BY CHARLES O. STICKNEY. What heart that feels and will not yield a tear, To think life's sun did set ere well begun "I DON'T wonder your eyes have an incredulous twinkle, and you think what a Munchausen I am, after telling you that the poet Burns and I lay in the same bed in the Ayr cottage; but it's a fact all the same. "How do I make that out? Easily enough. For, don't you see, there was the trifling interval of three-quarters of a century, or that matter, between the two acts. At the time I lay in Burns's bed its illustrious former occupant had slept many a year with his kindred in the old Alloway Kirk burial place. "Ah, wasn't it a happy day in my life's calendar a day fraught with tender memories, with sentimental, hallowed richness when after a lapse of a third of a century, I again found myself treading the once familiar grounds of Ayr!" And the blue eyes of the honest old Scotchman fairly glowed with emotion. The speaker was a worthy townsman of mine in Bridgton, Me., a well-educated, intelligent gentleman, Mr. Robert Gilfillan, just returned from a visit to his native land. Like his noted poetical namesake, he, too, dearly loved his " Ain Countree." "And when I once more, and probably for the last time in my life, entered the thatched cottage in which Bobbie Burns first saw the light," he continued, a flood of memory filled my soul, and for the moment I stood as one o'erwhelmed. But my day dream was soon broken by the voice of my guide: "Dinna ye ken we've nae ower much time to waste?' "Yes, there was the same humble room, and the little alcove containing the poet's bed, and everything about the interior pretty much the same as when I had last visited the cottage, thirty-two years before. The two rooms, floored with loose, flat stones, remain much the same as when young Robbie lived there. "I saw in the chimney side the pots and kettles which his mother Agnes used; and near the window a wooden stand, that in later years stood in the tavern, curiously marked all over by Burns and his cronies." "But about Burns's bed?" 66 Well, would you believe it, I had the audacity, or vandalism, or whatever you may please to call it, in the brief absence of the guide in the next room, to fulfil my ardent wish to lie down on the self-same bed in which the great poet was born. "And how did the bed seem? Well, to tell the truth, it was very hard, typical, indeed, of the lot in life of Scotia's greatest bard. I didn't occupy it long, for I heard the guide coming, and I was on my feet again before his sharp eye could discover my act of sacrilege. But I count it as something to boast of that the great Robert Burns and humble Robert Gilfillan both occupied the same bed. "Then I visited the Burns monument. But I must say that when I gazed at this monument, which was built in 1820, at a cost of sixteen thousand dollars, I couldn't help thinking of the epigram, half sadly, half reproachfully uttered by his doting mother when the movement to erect this enduring testimonial to his genius was consummated : "Ah, Robbie, ye asked for bread and they gie ye a stane!' "And then, as within the circular apartment on the ground floor of the monument, I feasted my eyes on the memorials of the poet, and saw the ancient Bible which he gave to his Highland Mary, I found myself involuntarily repeating the familiar lines: "Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips And closed for aye the sparkling glance แ Shortly after, with two other visitors-an oldish man and a young fellow-I crossed the 'Auld Brig o' Doon,' where Tam's gray mare, Maggie, lost her tail in the witch's grasp. "Next, to ancient, roofless Alloway Kirk, and saw the window Tam looked in at when he so hugely enjoyed the witches' dance. But Tam, no doubt, was rather fu' that night. Tam lies close beside the church, and a very gray old stone marks the spot. His real name was Douglas Graham. "And as the shades of night were about to gather, and the glow of the setting sun lighted up with crimson tints the western sky, I turned my footsteps Ayr-ward, my mind reverting to the now renowned thatched cottage, as I unconsciously repeated to myself the words of the poet, picturing, in the Cottar's Saturday Night,' the famous scene of which Burns's own parental home was the prototype: "The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; His bonnet reverently laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; And 'Let us worship God,' he says, 'with solemn air.'" "Of course, Mr. Gilfillan, you have many interesting recollections of Burns-land and its people?" "Yes," said he; "but it was so very long ago that I lived there. There was one affair, I recall, however, in which thousands of Burns's enthusiastic fellow countrymen took part, that was of special interest by reason of the presence of Burns's sons and aged sister, to say nothing of 'Kit North' and several other of the poet's famous contempo raries. This was a grand celebration of the poet's birthday. And I venture to say that, could the parents of the bard have been alive to see this, the latest embodiment of Scot-land's grateful devotion to the memory of her distinguished son, I am quite sure that Burns's mother would never have uttered the reproachful remark about the nation's alleged ingratitude." Mr. Gilfillan then went on to tell of the elaborate decorations in the field and about the pavilion where the literary exercises took place; how the bell of old Alloway, so dear to the inhabitants, tolled its familiar sounds; of the companies of shepherds, with crooks and plaids; the picturesque Highlanders in full costume; the long line of citizens, representing every social, professional, and business department of life; and how at last the column was massed around the stand; and then the reënactment of the Tam O'Shanter scene-the gray mare, her terrified rider, the witches and all. On a platform, in a monster pavilion erected for the great occasion in a field near the Burns monument, sat the Earl of Eglintoun, chairman of the day; on his left were the sons of Burns; on the left of them was the vice-chairman, Professor Wilson ("Christopher North "); close at hand Mrs. Begg, sister of the poet, and her daughter, standing beside the Countess of Eglintoun; and grouped about them all a brilliant gathering of British authors, poets, dramatists, theologians and men eminent in other departments of letters and professions. Seated within this pavilion were two thousand persons; outside of it, tens of thousands; and in the road from the Brigs of Ayr was the rear guard of a procession over two miles long. Mrs. Begg, the poet's sister, was a plain, benevolent looking woman, dressed in black, and appearing still active and vigorous, though at that time upwards of eighty years old. She bore some likeness, especially in the eyes, to the poet. Robert Burns, the oldest son, had a strong resemblance to his father, and it is said he was the only one of the children who remembered his face. He eloquently responded to the speech of happy, enthusiastic, youthful-acting Professor Wilson, and closed with this significant passage: "The sons of Burns have grateful hearts, and up to the last day of their existence they will remember the honor that has been paid them by the noble, the lovely and talented of this, their native land-by men of genius and kindred from our sister land; and lastly, they owe their thanks to the inhabitants of the far distant West, a country of a great, a free, and kindred people!" REV. DR. WALTER SMITH ON BURNS. THE Rev. Dr. Walter Smith recently delivered a lecture on the Ayrshire bard in the City Hall, Glasgow, before a very large audience. In the course of his remarks, the reverend lecturer said that we claimed for Burns a place among the chosen few who were at once national and universal, moving with absolute mastery the hearts of their countrymen, yet no less touching the whole heart of man. That was the front rank of the immortals, and naturally their number was but small. Burns had not written an 66 Iliad," or a "Divina Comedia," or a 66 Hamlet," or a "Faust." He had not the opportunity in that brief, stormy life of his, and its weary wrestle with hunger, alike of body and mind. He (Dr. Smith) did not say he was a Homer, a Dante, a Shakespeare, or a Goethe, or that he could ever have done what they did; yet it was among them that they pictured him now, for he had flashes at least of a light which could only be found in them, notes of tender melody that only such as they awakened, and he roused the echoes with a large mirth which only one of them could rival. A Pope, with neat finish, provided couplets for common sense to quote; a Byron had his day, and was supreme with moody youth; a Wordsworth formed a school that sat reverently at the master's feet; a Tennyson sang fitly to a cultured world of refined taste; a Browning rough-drafted pictures which had all the sparkle and fertility of genius, but lacked the patient industry that perfected inspiration. All these had an abiding place amongst us, and possibly, too, some of them had done, in some sense, greater work than it was given Burns to do; for their furnaces were kept steadily ablaze, while his was damped down before it had been well kindled. Yet none of them might stand where he stood as the representative of their nation among the world's select singers. In speaking of the characteristics |