of the most distinguished of that fair sisterhood who give by their genius, additional lustre to the genius of the present day, has paid her first visit to Scotland, that she might be present on this occasion, and whom I have myself seen moved even to tears by the glory of the gathering. She is one who has thrown additional light on the antiquities, manners, scenery, and beautiful traditions of Ireland-one whose graceful and truly feminine works, are known to us all, and whom we are proud to see among us-Mrs. S. C. Hall. (Great cheering.)

[The warm and cordial manner in which the name of Mrs. S. C. Hall was received under such circumstances, and at such a meeting, cannot fail to remain among the most cherished memories of her life-one that she must ever regard as a noble and liberal recompense, and a sure encouragement to such exertions as can alone secure to an author a place in the esteem of a thinking and upright people. The enthusiasm with which she was greeted from all parts of the building thoroughly astonished her. It was an honour for which she was totally unprepared, one for which she is deeply grateful, and one to become worthy of which is a high ambition.]

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Archibald Alison (the historian) proposed "The Men ories of Scott, Campbell, and Byron "-three illus.rious men-the far-famed successors Burns, who have drunk deep at the fountain of his genius, and proved themselves the worthy inheritors of his inspiration. (Applause.) And Scotland, he added, I rejoice to say, can claim them all as her own. For if the Tweed has been immortalized by the grave of Scott, the Clyde can boast the birthplace of Campbell, and the mountains of the Dee first inspired the muse of Byron. (Prolonged cheering.) I rejoice at that burst of patriotic feeling; I hail it as a presage that as Ayrshire has raised a fitting monument to Burns, and Edinburgh has erected a fitting structure to the author of Waverley, so Glasgow will, ere long, raise a monument to the bard whose name will never die while Hope pours its balm through the human heart; and Aberdeen will worthily commemorate the far-famed traveller who first inhaled the inspiration of nature amidst the clouds of Lochnagar, and afterwards poured the light of his genius over those lands of the sun where his descending orb set

"Not as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light."

W. Aytoun, Esq. (the distinguished Advocate), next proposed "The Memories of James Hogg and Allan Cunningham," in a speech full of hearty eloquence and true feeling. The former, he said

Was a man indeed cast in nature's happiest mould. True-hearted and brave, generous and sincere, alive to every kindly impulse, and fresh at the core to the last, he lived among his native hills the blameless life of the shepherd and the poet (cheers) and on the day when he was laid beneath the sod in the lonely kirk-yard of Ettrick, there was not one dry eye amongst the hundreds that lingered round his grave. Of the other

sweet singer, too-of Allan Cunningham, the leal-hearted and kindly Allan-I might say much, but why detain you further? Does not his name alone recall to your recollection many a sweet song that has stirred the bosom of the village maiden with an emotion that a princess need not blush to own? (Applause.) Proud, indeed, may be the district that can claim within herself the birthplaces of Burns and of Cunningham; and proud may we all be-and we are proud, from yourself, my lord, to the humblest individual here-that we have the opportunity of testifying our respect to the genius that will defy the encroachment of time; and which has stood, and will continue to stand, a splendour and a glory around the land that we love so well.

Sir D. H. Blair having proposed "The Health of the Ladies;" Colonel Mure gave "The Peasantry of Scotland;" Sir James Campbell followed with "The Land of Burns;" the Chairman with "The Provost of Ayr;" the Lord JusticeGeneral with "The Noble Chairman," who, after replying, gave that of "Professor Wilson:" immediately after which the meeting began to separate, and the proceedings of a most important day-a day that will be for ever distinguished in modern Scottish history-terminated.

Without, "the common people" had been pursuing their sports; bagpipes and violins came to the aid of merry dancers, and the several bands paraded about the field and roads. The rain, which descended grievously towards the close of the day, materially abridged the enjoyments of the crowd, but in tents erected on the ground they contrived, no doubt, to obtain as large a share of pleasure as the guests who were housed in the pavilion; and, all matters considered, this was an object of even higher importance than the festival within doors; to a stranger, indeed, it must be described as the principal achievement of the day, for the accomplishment of the main purpose was the bringing together a mass of persons of humble stations, who saw in the homage rendered to one of their own class, the surest acknowledgment of genius, and the most direct encouragement to honourable efforts on the part of the "meaner sort." Of these, indeed, as we have intimated, there was no lack; but it is to be deplored, that of the aristocracy, in rank and in letters, the gathering was infinitely less numerous than we were led to expect it would have been. Moreover, the attendance from Edinburgh was miserably poor; and the absence of some of its leading characters ought to have been accounted for. The assembly was, in truth, rescued from the reproach of failure, because Wilson was there with his sound heart, high intellect, and delicious voice; and Alison, a master-mind of the age, whose manly person and eloquent countenance indicate the searching inquiry after truth, and the earnest resolve to establish it, which characterise the produce of his powerful pen. There were indeed others present whose presence would give importance to, and confer dignity upon, any meeting; but upon these two great men the glory of the occasion mainly rests. It cannot be denied that if Scotland

"repentant Scotland "-has discharged its debt to its poet, that debt has been paid by the " mon people" of the country.

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We are by no means sure that even now, the poet, Robert Burns, if he lived again to sing his immortal songs, "wandering unknown (to quote a fine sentence from the speech of Lord Eglintoun, who did his devoirs nobly) along the banks of Fail," would receive a whit more homage from the higher classes, than he did, when, struggling with poverty, he roamed about, a depressed gauger-sunk in his own esteem-because of the wretched "calling" to which necessity compelled him to resort.

Alas! how true it is that men of letters are valued only during the moments of pleasure they bestow; and that in this country the lucky dealer in "soft goods" is a man of far higher importance than he who enlightens a world, and makes all mankind his debtors?

Yet Scotland will be for ever proud of this "great gathering;" for fifty thousand of its people met in honour of their bard!

The

To us the movement seemed the most united and fervent we had ever witnessed. We were unprepared for the steady resolve to honour the poet's memory, which however fixed, was animated ever and anon by an uncontrollable impulse that uncovered the heads of the multitude, and sent their shouts into the sky, peal after peal, taken up and repeated again and again, as company after company of the various "trades," "archers," and "shepherds" waved their banners above the "Auld Brig o' Doon." As we looked upon the heaving multitude, we could not avoid thinking, that if all the preparations for the banquet had suddenly disappeared, the manifestation of respect on the part of the people towards their poet, would have been accomplished-the heart-beatings of Scotland as thoroughly exhibited, as if no pavilion, with its tasteful draperies and elevated galleries, had been planted on the banks of the river that waters the land of Burns. arrangements of the day, as far as the processions went, were perfect: but it must not be forgotten that those were the PEOPLE's arrangements, and if the literati of the United Kingdom had but manifested the same unanimity, assembling to evince their honour to the dead, and their sympathy with the living, as it was hopod they would have done, the "gathering" would have then been in all respects the most extraordinary ever witnessed in Great Britain. Yet, while we regret what it was not, we shall always rejoice that we witnessed what it was. Who that has done so can cease to remember the fervent looks of the old and middle-aged-the tearful eyes and exclamations of the young, the eagerness with which parents pointed out to their children the grey-haired sons of the poet, whom they delighted to honour? On, and on, and on they came-in peace and harmony-disturbed by no jarring feelings, moved by no political object-warmed by the genial influence of the tenderest and most elevated patriotism-the shouts of the people echoed by the as enthusiastic cheers of the nobleman and gentlemen who were on the platform,

while the tears of the fairer portion of the assembly proved how deeply they sympathised with the great purpose they had met to commemorate! As long as the procession was in progress, the men who composed it abstained from any manifestation of their feelings, beyond lowering their banners, uncovering their heads, and gazing upon the poet's sons; but when the gigantic thistle, the emblem of their native country, closed the procession, and had been not only honoured, but divided and borne off, blossom by blossom, and leaf by leaf, by the company, as mementos of the "field of Burns," there was a fearful rush of human beings back towards the platform, and eager hands were upstretched from below to grasp the hands of the children of the poet. Their rapture knew no bounds; it could not be controlled, and certainly Professor Wilson came in for a fair share of the popular applause, and his hands were eagerly shaken by many, while mothers lifted up their infants to be touched by the sons of their bard; if the platform had not been strongly built, it must have given way, for the pressure against the supporters was immense; but it was well constructed, and bore up bravely.

When the fever of our own excitement had subsided-when the day was past, and the grey twilight of the succeeding morning crept slowly into our window, we asked ourselves how it was that such a multitude were moved in these days of utilitarianism, at a time too when much discontent, consequent upon the want of employment, was so largely felt and talked of-we asked, we say, how it was that such a number of a cool and calculating nation assembled to pay tribute to the memory of a poet? Does it not prove that the feelings of the Scot, however guarded by conventional usages, are warm and earnest, that his nature is fervent, that he throws himself passionately into a cause, when that cause is connected with either of the two great main-springs of his heart-his religion or his country.

The cottage where Mrs. Begg, the only surviving sister of the poet, resides, is a model of neatness. One window of the little parlour looks into a small garden, where flowers and vegetables are trained and cultivated; and another commands a view of the high road. Within, when we visited it, all was cheerfulness; a fire sparkled warmly, and not unseasonably, although the month was August; the venerable lady was surrounded, not only by her own children and grand-children, but by the sons of that brother, to whose memory thousands had paid homage during the past day.

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Mr. Robert Burns, the eldest of the poet's sons, bears a strong personal resemblance to his father. His eyes are large, dark, and intelligent; and his memory is stored with legends, poems, and historical records of great value; materials are not only abundant, but well arranged and ordered, and when a question is asked, the intelligent reply is ready. His conversation is rich in illustration, and, though he most gracefully said, that "the mantle of Elijah had not

It was most pleasant to meet Colonel and Major Burns beneath this humble roof, when we knew how much their society was coveted by those who had stately halls, wherein to receive them; but neither the luxury of Eastern life nor the brilliancy of London society, had rendered their true hearts insensible to the delightful and natural feelings which hallow the Scotsman's HOME. Although an absence of three-and-thirty years from "kith and kin" had elevated (mainly by their own honourable exertions) the poet's sons to a much higher "caste," in the world's estimation, than is allotted to their cousins, they were not, therefore, the less eager to enjoy the "cracks" and memories of the days, when they sported, in innocent childhood, amid the "braes of Doon"-gazed with reverence, and it might be awe, through the chinks of the walls of Alloway Kirk-clustered around the stone, which the piety of the poet's son had placed at the head of his father's grave-or gathered wild flowers upon the spot, where thousands assembled, and which

will be known and hallowed to posterity not as the battle-fields of Scotland are known, but as the PEACEFUL FIELD-the FIELD OF BURNS-the "POET'S FIELD "- -over which his plough, no doubt, had passed; and where, after a lapse of fifty years, the titled, and honoured, and wealthy, of his own and other lands, met to render homage to the "Poet of the People." The memory of their boyish days and the excitement of the past day struggled together upon their lips; while the "auld lady's" quiet voice was heard at intervals, giving a word or two of information, or setting something right that had been imperfectly stated.

There was also a very old man, a brother of Mrs. Burns, present during a portion of our visit; but the interests of this world do not seem to have much charms for him. He reminded us somewhat of his sister's picture, the one published in Cunningham's "Life of Burns."

These various members of so interesting a family met together but for a few days, and are now dispersed again to their various homes and occupations; but they will carry the memory of that day with them to the very brink of a new existence.

[This is one of the earliest of the poet's recorded compositions; it was written before the death of his father, and is called by Gilbert Burns, "a juvenile production." To walk by a river while flooded, or through a wood on a rough winter day, and hear the storm howling among the leafless trees, exalted the poet's thoughts. "In such a season," he said, "just after a train of misfortunes, I composed Winter, a Dirge."]

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"1
The joyless winter day

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join ;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

[This tale is partly true; the poet's pet ewe got entangled in her tether, and tumbled into a ditch; the face of ludicrous and awkward sorrow with which this was related by Hughoc, the herd-boy, amused Burns so much, who was on his way to the plough, that he immediately composed the poem, and repeated it to his brother Gilbert when they met in the evening; the field where the poet held the plough, and the ditch into which poor Mailie fell are still pointed out.]

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc1 he cam doytin by.
Wi' glowing een an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide but naething spak—
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

"O thou, whose lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu' case! My dying words attentive hear, An' bear them to my master dear.

“Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!

(1) A neebor herd-callan.

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