FOR FREDERICK DOUGLASS' PAPER.

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

NUMBER XXVII.

ISLINGTON, July 30th, 1856.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—You will have learnt ere this that I have re-crossed the border, and am again in England. You will also, have heard, with regret, that since coming to the neighborhood of the metropolis, I have been almost wholly confined to the sick bed of a beloved relative, who is suffering from a serious accident, as well as from illness of another kind. You will not, therefore, wonder that I have thus long, postponed giving you a sketch of two of the most interesting days I spent in Scotland, (viz:) the day on which I visited the birthplace of the immortal poet BURNS, and they day that I glided down the fairy LOCH KATRINE, and explored the beauties of the far-famed TROSSACHS.

I bade adieu to you, in my last, (if I remember aright,) at Perth, as I was for Glasgow, and Langside. My time being necessarily very limited every day during my stay there, previous to my departure for England, brought more that its wonted portion of business; but amidst that week's bustle, and hurrying, hither and thither; "from Dan to Beersheba," (of most of which I have now but a confused recollection,) days are well remembered; their events are enshrined among the treasures of memory, and their soft and mellow sunshine, imparted by their remembrance, will, I would fain hope, gild the slight sketch which I shall endeavor (from a house of sickness and sorrow) to give you of the day I went to . To you, my dear friend, who are so enthusiastic an admirer of BURNS, and who have so often refreshed me with the sweet melodies of Scotia's greatest bard, or delighted me with the recital of his "," it will be no matter of surprize, that I accepted, with much pleasure, an invitation kindly given me by a valued friend, to make a pilgrimage to the birthplace of the poet deem second only to Shakespeare.

The route to the Land of Burns, is by the Glasgow and South Western Railway; and on the morning of the 24th of June, at half past ten o'clock, we started for Ayrshire; the sky was grey, and dark clouds hung portentously above us; yet we hoped (as most travellers do) for a fine day, and considering how infelicitous the weather had previously been, we were highly favored in this respect, since it only rained a little Scotch mist, while were under cover. We had scarcely bade adieu to the tall chimneys of Glasgow, before we reached the town of , a large and busy place, renowned for its shawl manufactures, and having a population numbering sixty thousand. About three

miles farther, we reached , famous as haying been the scene of several events in the life of the renowned Scottish chief, Sir William Wallace, and also for the venerable tree, lately blown down by a violent storm, in which it is said, that the patriot for some time found shelter from his merciless pursuers. Leaving on the right, (a place chiefly occupied by colliers and cotton spinners,) we passed on to . The railway skirts the Lake for several miles, and on both sides the hills rise up in picturesque beauty.

Passing Beith, Kilbirne, and Dalry, (the centres of extensive coal and iron works,) we next came to Kilwinning, where there is a small fragment, still to be seen, of its once magnificent Abbey; and soon we were in sight of the Castle and grounds of that public-spirited nobleman, the Earl of Eglinton, a spot celebrated for the exhibition made by his Lordship a few years ago, of the revival of the feats of the Tournament.

We now come in view of the ocean on the Ayrshire coast. We pass Irvine, a neat, clean town, of about eight thousand inhabitants, and a small harbor, chiefly occupied by coasting vessels. Here I learned, to my astonishment, from my friend, that JAMES MONTGOMERY, usually termed "the Bard of Sheffield," was born.

No we reach Troon on the right, where there is an important harbor, admitting large sea-going vessels. A few miles distant to the left east, from Irvine, lie Dundonald Castle, Loudon Castle, (the Marquis of Hastings) with its "bonnie woods and braes,"

Kilmarnock, a large and flourishing town of twenty thousand inhabitants, and south of it, Ballochyle House and Bridge Manchline, and other scenery, immortalized by the bard of
Scotland.

Returning to Troon, in ten miles more we reached Ayr,

"That famous town, whom none surpasses
For the honest men, and bonnie lasses"—

and in five minutes' time, we were driving thro' it and crossing the "bonnie Doon," on our way to the birthplace of the poet, which is situated two miles south of Ayr. The town is a nice, neat, clean-looking place; but the erections of Ayr, and the elegant villas in its suburbs, had far less attractions, in my eyes, than those thatched buildings, of more ancient date, that had been looked on by the poet, and had constituted the Ayr of his time. The country, in the vicinity is rich and fertile; after a pleasant drive, we alighted at the door of the "Clay Biggin," which is immortalized as the birthplace of an immortal poet—and as such, is visited by travellers, from every part of the civilized world. You, my friend, who have stood on the clay floor of this humble tenement, and whose memory is so tenacious, may, possibly, recall some of the feelings you experienced as you crossed the threshold, and were pointed to the lowly corner, where stands the bed in which the ardent and impetuous poet, the coruscations of whose genius have irradiated not only his native land, but every country where the English lan-

guage is spoken, first opened his eyes on the erring world which "," as well as "," he traversed for a brief space, his path beset with snares and dangers, and he sorely struggling with temptations, to which, alas! he finally succumbed! Montgomery has touchingly said of him:

"He passed thro' life's tempestuous night,
A trembling, brilliant Northern light.
Thro' years to come he shines from far,
A fixed, unsettling, polar star."

does not sigh, "poor Burns!" as he turns slowly away from the lowly cot? This "" was built by the Poet's father'; and the two rooms it contained are preserved in all their primitive simplicity. Windows, with small panes of glass and heavy frames—doors, clumsy and old fashioned—and above all, ancient corner cupboard, (on the door of which is painted a portrait of Burns that one, at once to be a good likeness,) all give evidence that it is the original of the bard—and we may well suppose that Burns had in his eye, this hallowed spot, when (in his Cotter's Saturday Night,") he wrote that touching verse:

"At length his lonely cot appears in view.
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wee-things, todlin, stacher thro'
To meet their dad wi flichterin chaterin noise and glee.
His we bit ingle blinkin bonnille.
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wife's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee
Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile
An' makes him quite forget his labor and his toil."

The chairs, tables, shutters, doors and walls are so thicky covered with names, that I saw no space unfilled. Distinguished people, from every part of the world, have here craved their names, and distinguished people seem to have been eager to distinguish themselves, and to carve out, for themselves, a that shall be read by generations yet to come. I never remember to have seen but so industriously filled with names, and that was the room in which SHAKESPEARE was born.

A jolly company sat drinking ale in the little room, thus ornamented ; and one man looked to me much as one imagines the veritable "" to have looked when telling "." Content with modestly inscribing our names in the album of the house, (over the pages of which I looked with much interest,) we adjourned to the handsome Hall, that has been recently built at the end of the cottage, where while waiting for refreshments, I listened to some of Burns's sweetest poems, which I am inclined to believe my friend could have recited as readily as the book he had before him.

Passing from beneath this thatched roof, we pursued our pilgrimage, and in less than a quarter of a mile, were in , and walking by the side of the ""—a place made memorable by . In this church-yard the poet's father and mother are buried. I read, with much interest, the inscription on the tomb stone, writ ten by Burns, as his Father's Epitaph:

"O, ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend!
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
The tender father, and gen'rous friend.
The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
the dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride;
The friend of man, to vice a foe;
For e'en his failing lean'd to virtue's side."

A few hundred yards from Alloway Kirk-Yard, on an elevated site of ground overlooking the stream he loved so well, and which he has rendered immortal, with view of the picturesque and celebrated Birg of Doon, a beautiful monument has been erected to Burns. It takes the form of a Grecian temple; the dome is supported by Corinthian columns indicating the , and surniounted by central column, richly ornamented, which seems to be emblematic of the poet. The design is, at once, chaste and elegant, and does great credit to the architect, Mr. Playfair. Inside the monument is a hall, in which stands a most beautiful marble bust of Burns, by Patrick Park—The lofty brow, the noble head of the fine, intellectual forehead are here; but those wonderful dark eyes, that were wont to make an indelible impression on all on whom they lighted, are still and cold, and that sweet toned voice, which captivated all who listened to its eloquent music, is silent.

" He is gone! the bright star of the nation is hurled
From its proud elevation—its lustre is dim;
He is cold as the sod, where he sleeps—and the world,
With its scorn and its laurels, is nothing to him."

Among the reminiscences of the poet, contained in a glass case, in this apartment, are the exchanged by Burns, and his , ere they parted to meet no more. On the first page is the , fa- tened with a silken tie, and several verses from Leviticus, in the hand writing of the youthful lover, commencing with the words, "Thou shalt not swear falsely to the Lord thy God." The ink is faded, and the writing dim; but the touching romance of the story, the exquisitely beautiful lines of Burns to "highland
Mary," and "To Mary in Heaven," have invested those bibles with an intense interest.

We climbed to the top of the monument, whence there is a lovely view of the , its , its green woods, and fair flowers, the bridges that here span it, and the surrounding country, which is rich and fertile, and diversified by gentle slope, as well as by gentlemen's seats, which here and there peep through the trees. To the south lies the residence of the Marquis of Ailsa; a little to the east, is seen, and farther to the

north, the beautiful mansion of Ballantine of Castlehill, formerly Lord Provost of Ayr, rises into view. The grounds in which the monument stands, are extensive, and thickly planted with evergreens, which are kept in fine order.—The , the , the , and the (meet offerings at the poet's shrine) bloom here in ever verdant foliage. My kind friend procured for me some ivy and a bunch of wild thyme, and I plucked several , (called in Scotland, ",") in preference to finer flowers, in remembrance of Burns's poetical address to this "wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower." Our guide led us to the door of a small building in the grounds and now we were in the presence of " and ," who, large as life, and intimitably sculpted, sit each in his arm chair, enjoying his glass, and almost as much as his ease, as if he were not made of stone. These figures, as works of art, of the highest king, might be placed among the wonders of the world. They are true, , and the longer you look at them, the more you are impressed with this idea. The name of the sculptor is . I do not remember whether he is still alive. His patron, Mr. Auld, has a pretty place, with lovely grounds, close by the new bridge of Doon; and now we strayed down to the banks of the river, where Burns loved to roam, and where all things seem full of him—the gentle murmur of the stream, the soft sighing of the breeze, the sweet carolling of the birds, all seem to repeat his name; and the whispering wind in his favorite woods, echoed the sound, which was still re-echoed by the lofty rocks, and more distant ocean of his native shore. The "banks and braes of bonnie Doon" are, in truth, very lovely; the old trees overhang and weep into the stream; many of their grey stems are entwined with ivy, producing a picturesque appearance. The banks are covered with moss and wild flowers; the violet, the primrose, the wood anemone, the harabell, are here, and the peeps out its modest head, and seems to say to its more aspiring companions, "I may be here, for spoke kindly to me." Yes! , all things speak of BURNS. Adieu to thee, fair Doon.—"How long delighted the stranger fair would linger on his way!" and how long we might have lingered in this lovely spot, had the sun shone, and the banks not been saturated by the recent heavy rains, I cannot tell. After indulging our poetical soarings, by copious recitations from our Poet, we slowly retraced our steps to Ayr, first crossing several bridges (which command a lovely river view,) and exploring some romantic country lanes, where the trees met overhead and the hedges were just beginning to bud with hawthorn; and beneath the shade of these trees Burns had often rambled; and watched with poet's rapture, the sport where "summer first unfald her robes," and sung,

"How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk!
How richly the hawthorn's blossom!"

It was impossible to do any thing, but recite Burns in such a spot!

At length we reached the town of Ayr, of which I now took a more attentive survey than I had previously done. The population of Ayr, and of its suburbs on the north bank of the river Ayr, is about fifteen thousand. "," the curious fort, and the barns of Ayr, (one of the scenes of the Scottish hero's exploits,) are among the places peculiarly interesting to the stranger. We walked over both the "Auld Brig" and the "New Brig," (that one might not be jealous of the other!) and as we were crossing the narrow , we felt, more strongly than we had heretofore done, the of the taunt addressed to the venerable erection, by its younger brother, —

"Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street,
Where two wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o'stane an' lime,
Compare wi' bonnie brigs o' modern time?

Still, as many years have passed since the dispute arose between these famous Brigs, and many winters have come and gone,

"When heavy, dark continued, a day rains,
Wl' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;
When from the hills where springs the brawling
,
Or stately moss of fountains boil,
Or where the winds his moorland course,
Or haunted draws his feeble source,
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes,
In monie a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes;
While crashing ice, borne the roaring speat,
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate;
And from , down to the Ratton-key,
And is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea;".

and yet Brigs defy the elements. We cannot tell or , the prophecy of the will ever come to pass—

"I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless cairn."—

Amusing ourselves with divers speculations on these knotty points, we wended our way to the sea shore, that I might have a good view of the fine sweeping Bay and harbor or Ayr.—In the circuit of this Bay, you have a view of the seaport towns of Ardrossan, Saltcoats, Irvine and Troon. Opposite the latter, lies the Isle of May, with its Light-house. Down the Firth, about twelve miles to the South, rises the famous , of which I have so often head you speak, and as often longed to explore. Towards the south west, may be seen, at a distance of sixteen miles, , forming, within it, a break-water to , in , a place of shelter, said by my friend, to be "fit to hold the Navy of Great Britain." Away in the distance the romantic is visible, stretching out in length about twenty-four miles; in the centre of the isle, the sharp, chiselled peaks of tower their lofty heads to the height of three thousand feet. (I cannot add "," which would make the picture more poetical; but these Scotch skies will, generally, in , instead of bright, ethereal blue.)—I have omitted an important feature in this magnificent panorama. To the left, at the farthest extremity of the Bay, stand "" grand old rocks, that look like sentinels on watch, or giant guardians of Ayr. And more grand, more vast more magnificent than

aught beside, stretches out to the "deep and dark blue ocean." Our evening's walk upon its shores found a fitting close to the day spent in Ayrshire. The theme of our conversation naturally changed from the to the , for who that feels his spirit stir within him, as he watches the rolling of the never-ceasing ever-restless billows, and listened to their roar, does not hold communion with who, when a boy, "wantoned with the breakers," and to whom that war was ""

In some of their moods of mind I trace great similarity betwen and . It is said of the Ayrshire poet, that "more elevated still was his delight to ascend some eminence during the agitations of nature, to stride along its summit while the lightning flashed around him, and amidst the howlings of the tempest, to apostrophize the spirit of the storm. Such situations he declares most favorable to devotion. ' HIM .' I other proofs are wanting (adds his biographer) of the character of his genius, might determine it. The heart of the poet is peculiarly awake to every impression of beauty and sublimity; but with the order of poets, the beautiful is less attractive than the sublime." And that Byron was, also, of that "," must be admitted by all conversant with his magnificent description of the on the Lake of Geneva, of which I bring to mind the following passage:

"Most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! Let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight—
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black—and how, the glee
Of the loud hill shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoyce o'er a young earthquake's
birth."

Here is a picture of sublime terror, that few but could have painted, and yet, that it would have been appreciated by who can doubt. Kindred spirits were these two poetic children—and "," was the equality the "" of both. While I compared my two favorite poets, as we walked on the sea-shore, my friend, who is an admirable critic, contrasted them.—"Burns," he said, "was the poet of the million —the popular favorite. His poetry lives in the hearts of the people. Byron's poetry would never be universally read, nor generally popular." This is true. Burns possessed simplicity was well as sublimity. His is familiar, as well as dignified; and the scenes that he depicted were those in which he lived and moved. "The gowany glen, the nibbling sheep, the warbling birds, the running streams," are all made the

subject of his song. "I have listened to a country girl, singing one of these songs," says an enthusiastic love of Burns, "while she spread her webs to bleach a running stream—ignorant of her audience—with such feeling and effect as were quite overpowering. will keep the fame of Burns high among us. Should the printer's ink dry up, "

* * * * *

Refreshing ourselves with the ever grateful beverage, , we quitted the realms of Romance and entered the dominions of the inexorable , we were hurried rapidly away in to the material regions of tall chimneys.

Somewhat wearied in body was I when I reached Landside, late that night; but wholly delighted with my days excursions, and extremely grateful to the kinds friend who planned it, and whose high appreciation of Burns rendered him a fitting fellow-pilgrim to the shrine of the poet. While in Scotland, my friend, I have on many occasions, wished you could have been present with me and my friends, amidst some of the grand and interesting scenery it has been my privilege to enjoy; but I never so much wished for your company as during the day I spent in Ayr.

I must tell you of the Loch Lomond expedition by the next mail.

Begging to be kindly remembered to all my Rochester friends who bear me in mind, I remain,

Always your's truly,

JULIA GRIFFITHS.

P. S.—I thank the printers generally for their attention, and I know that they patience must be sorely tried with thin, foreign paper, written on both sides; but they sometimes make me say curious things. For instance—when I write from Edinburgh, on the "" they turn it into a ";" and by the omission of the word "pistols," in my Abottsford letter, they make it appear that "" was found in Napoleon's travelling carriage after the battle of Waterloo; which mistake has, ere this, greatly upset the gravity of those among my Scotch friends, who are . Do your best, ye printers from the land of Burns, and

J. G.