Chill as the Scottish summer is reputed to be, we found it an awfully7 hot day, not a whit9 less so than the day before; but we sturdily adventured through the burning sunshine up into the town, inquiring our way to the residence of Burns. The street leading from the station is called Shakespeare Street; and at its farther extremity10 we read "Burns Street" on a corner-house, the avenue thus designated having been formerly11 known as "Mill-Hole Brae." It is a vile12 lane, paved with small, hard stones from side to side, and bordered by cottages or mean houses of whitewashed13 stone, joining one to another along the whole length of the street. With not a tree, of course, or a blade of grass between the paving-stones, the narrow lane was as hot as Topbet, and reeked14 with a genuine Scotch15 odor, being infested16 with unwashed children, and altogether in a state of chronic17 filth18; although some women seemed to be hopelessly scrubbing the thresholds of their wretched dwellings19. I never saw an outskirt of a town less fit for a poet's residence, or in which it would be more miserable21 for any man of cleanly predilections22 to spend his days.
We asked for Burns's dwelling20; and a woman pointed23 across the street to a two-story house, built of stone, and whitewashed, like its neighbors, but perhaps of a little more respectable aspect than most of them, though I hesitate in saying so. It was not a separate structure, but under the same continuous roof with the next. There was an inscription24 on the door, hearing no reference to Burns, but indicating that the house was now occupied by a ragged25 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 parlor26, 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-room27, 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 homely29 picturesqueness30 that contrasts favorably with the suburban32 sordidness33 of the abode35 before us. The narrow lane, the paving-stones, and the contiguity36 of wretched hovels are depressing to remember; and the steam of them (such is our human weakness) might almost make the poet's memory less fragrant37.
As already observed, it was an intolerably hot day. After leaving the house, we found our way into the principal street of the town, which, it may be fair to say, is of very different aspect from the wretched outskirt above described. Entering a hotel (in which, as a Dumfries guide-book assured us, Prince Charles Edward had once spent a night), we rested and refreshed ourselves, and then set forth38 in quest of the mausoleum of Burns.
Coming to St. Michael's Church, we saw a man digging a grave, and, scrambling39 out of the hole, he let us into the churchyard, which was crowded full of monuments. Their general shape and construction are peculiar40 to Scotland, being a perpendicular41 tablet of marble or other stone, within a framework of the same material, somewhat resembling the frame of a looking-glass; and, all over the churchyard, those sepulchral42 memorials rise to the height of ten, fifteen, or twenty feet, forming quite an imposing43 collection of monuments, but inscribed44 with names of small general significance. It was easy, indeed, to ascertain45 the rank of those who slept below; for in Scotland it is the custom to put the occupation of the buried personage (as "Skinner," "Shoemaker," "Flesher") on his tombstone. As another peculiarity46, wives are buried under their maiden47 names, instead of those of their husbands; thus giving a disagreeable impression that the married pair have bidden each other an eternal farewell on the edge of the grave.
There was a foot-path through this crowded churchyard, sufficiently48 well worn to guide us to the grave of Burns; but a woman followed behind us, who, it appeared, kept the key of the mausoleum, and was privileged to show it to strangers. The monument is a sort of Grecian temple, with pilasters and a dome49, 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 pane50 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 Armour51, before this monument was built. Displayed against the surrounding wall is a marble statue of Burns at the plough, with the Genius of Caledonia summoning the ploughman to turn poet. Methought it was not a very successful piece of work; for the plough was better sculptured than the man, and the man, though heavy and cloddish, was more effective than the goddess. Our guide informed us that an old man of ninety, who knew Burns, certifies52 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 vault53 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 eldest54 son of Burns. The poet's bones were disturbed, and the dry skull55, 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 coffin56, and restored to the vault. We learned that there is a surviving daughter of Burns's eldest son, and daughters likewise of the two younger sons,—and, besides these, an illegitimate posterity57 by the eldest son, who appears to have been of disreputable life in his younger days. He inherited his father's failings, with some faint shadow, I have also understood, of the great qualities which have made the world tender of his father's vices58 and weaknesses.
We listened readily enough to this paltry59 gossip, but found that it robbed the poet's memory of some of the reverence60 that was its due. Indeed, this talk over his grave had very much the same tendency and effect as the home-scene of his life, which we had been visiting just previously61. Beholding62 his poor, mean dwelling and its surroundings, and picturing his outward life and earthly manifestations63 from these, one does not so much wonder that the people of that day should have failed to recognize all that was admirable and immortal64 in a disreputable, drunken, shabbily clothed, and shabbily housed man, consorting65 with associates of damaged character, and, as his only ostensible66 occupation, gauging67 the whiskey, which he too often tasted. Siding with Burns, as we needs must, in his plea against the world, let us try to do the world a little justice too. It is far easier to know and honor a poet when his fame has taken shape in the spotlessness of marble than when the actual man comes staggering before you, besmeared with the sordid34 stains of his daily life. For my part, I chiefly wonder that his recognition dawned so brightly while he was still living. There must have been something very grand in his immediate68 presence, some strangely impressive characteristic in his natural behavior, to have caused him to seem like a demigod so soon.
As we went back through the churchyard, we saw a spot where nearly four hundred inhabitants of Dumfries were buried during the cholera69 year; and also some curious old monuments, with raised letters, the inscriptions70 on which were not sufficiently legible to induce us to puzzle them out; but, I believe, they mark the resting-places of old Covenanters, some of whom were killed by Claverhouse and his fellow-ruffians.
St. Michael's Church is of red freestone, and was built about a hundred years ago, on an old Catholic foundation. Our guide admitted us into it, and showed us, in the porch, a very pretty little marble figure of a child asleep, with a drapery over the lower part, from beneath which appeared its two baby feet. It was truly a sweet little statue; and the woman told us that it represented a child of the sculptor71, and that the baby (here still in its marble infancy) had died more than twenty-six years ago. "Many ladies," she said, "especially such as had ever lost a child, had shed tears over it." It was very pleasant to think of the sculptor bestowing72 the best of his genius and art to re-create his tender child in stone, and to make the representation as soft and sweet as the original; but the conclusion of the story has something that jars with our awakened73 sensibilities. A gentleman from London had seen the statue, and was so much delighted with it that he bought it of the father-artist, after it had lain above a quarter of a century in the church-porch. So this was not the real, tender image that came out of the father's heart; he had sold that truest one for a hundred guineas, and sculptured this mere74 copy to replace it. The first figure was entirely75 naked in its earthly and spiritual innocence76. The copy, as I have said above, has a drapery over the lower limbs. But, after all, if we come to the truth of the matter, the sleeping baby may be as fully8 reposited in the drawing-room of a connoisseur77 as in a cold and dreary church-porch.
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 aisle78. It is so situated79, that a sturdy pillar hid him from the pulpit, and from the minister's eye; "for Robin80 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 profane81 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 parasite82 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 worthy83 of record; and it ought to be noted84 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 conveyance85 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 sylvan87 or rural in the immediate village, and is as ugly a place as mortal man could contrive88 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 pinnacles89. In this sacred edifice90, 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" congregated91. 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,—though, seventy or eighty years ago, when Burns was conversant92 with it, I should fancy it might have been something better than a beggars' alehouse. The whole town of Mauchline looks rusty93 and time-worn,—even the newer houses, of which there are several, being shadowed and darkened by the general aspect of the place. When we arrived, all the wretched little dwellings seemed to have belched94 forth their inhabitants into the warm summer evening; everybody was chatting with everybody, on the most familiar terms; the bare-legged children gambolled95 or quarrelled uproariously, and came freely, moreover, and looked into the window of our parlor. When we ventured out, we were followed by the gaze of the old town: people standing96 in their doorways97, old women popping their heads from the chamber28-windows, and stalwart men idle on Saturday at e'en, after their week's hard labor—clustering at the street-corners, merely to stare at our unpretending selves. Except in some remote little town of Italy (where, besides, the inhabitants had the intelligible98 stimulus99 of beggary), I have never been honored with nearly such an amount of public notice.
The next forenoon my companion put me to shame by attending church, after vainly exhorting100 me to do the like; and, it being Sacrament Sunday, and my poor friend being wedged into the farther end of a closely filled pew, he was forced to stay through the preaching of four several sermons, and came back perfectly101 exhausted102 and desperate. He was somewhat consoled, however, on finding that he had witnessed a spectacle of Scotch manners identical with that of Burns's "Holy Fair," on the very spot where the poet located that immortal description. By way of further conformance to the customs of the country, we ordered a sheep's head and the broth103, and did penance104 accordingly; and at five o'clock we took a fly, and set out for Burns's farm of Moss Giel.
Moss Giel is not more than a mile from Mauchline, and the road extends over a high ridge105 of land, with a view of far hills and green slopes on either side. Just before we reached the farm, the driver stopped to point out a hawthorn106, growing by the wayside, which he said was Burns's "Lousie Thorn"; and I devoutly107 plucked a branch, although I have really forgotten where or how this illustrious shrub108 has been celebrated109. We then turned into a rude gateway110, and almost immediately came to the farm-house of Moss Giel, standing some fifty yards removed from the high-road, behind a tall hedge of hawthorn, and considerably111 overshadowed by trees. The house is a whitewashed stone cottage, like thousands of others in England and Scotland, with a thatched roof, on which grass and weeds have intruded112 a picturesque31, though alien growth. There is a door and one window in front, besides another little window that peeps out among the thatch86. Close by the cottage, and extending back at right angles from it, so as to enclose the farm-yard, are two other buildings of the same size, shape, and general appearance as the house: any one of the three looks just as fit for a human habitation as the two others, and all three look still more suitable for donkey-stables and pigsties113. As we drove into the farm-yard, bounded on three sides by these three hovels, a large dog began to bark at us; and some women and children made their appearance, but seemed to demur114 about admitting us, because the master and mistress were very religious people, and had not yet come back from the Sacrament at Mauchline.
However, it would not do to be turned back from the very threshold of Robert Burns; and as the women seemed to be merely straggling visitors, and nobody, at all events, had a right to send us away, we went into the back door, and, turning to the right, entered a kitchen. It showed a deplorable lack of housewifely neatness, and in it there were three or four children, one of whom, a girl eight or nine years old, held a baby in her arms. She proved to be the daughter of the people of the house, and gave us what leave she could to look about us. Thence we stepped across the narrow mid-passage of the cottage into the only other apartment below stairs, a sitting-room, where we found a young man eating broad and cheese. He informed us that he did not live there, and had only called in to refresh himself on his way home from church. This room, like the kitchen, was a noticeably poor one, and, besides being all that the cottage had to show for a parlor, it was a sleeping-apartment, having two beds, which might be curtained off, on occasion. The young man allowed us liberty (so far as in him lay) to go up stairs. Up we crept, accordingly; and a few steps brought us to the top of the staircase, over the kitchen, where we found the wretchedest little sleeping-chamber in the world, with a sloping roof under the thatch, and two beds spread upon the bare floor. This, most probably, was Burns's chamber; or, perhaps, it may have been that of his mother's servant-maid; and, in either case, this rude floor, at one time or another, must have creaked beneath the poet's midnight tread. On the opposite side of the passage was the door of another attic-chamber, opening which, I saw a considerable number of cheeses on the floor.
The whole house was pervaded115 with a frowzy116 smell, and also a dunghill odor; and it is not easy to understand how the atmosphere of such a dwelling can be any more agreeable or salubrious morally than it appeared to be physically117. No virgin118, surely, could keep a holy awe119 about her while stowed higgledy-piggledy with coarse-natured rustics120 into this narrowness and filth. Such a habitation is calculated to make beasts of men and women; and it indicates a degree of barbarism which I did not imagine to exist in Scotland, that a tiller of broad fields, like the farmer of Mauchline, should have his abode in a pigsty121. It is sad to think of anybody—not to say a poet, but any human being—sleeping, eating, thinking, praying, and spending all his home-life in this miserable hovel; but, methinks, I never in the least knew how to estimate the miracle of Burns's genius, nor his heroic merit for being no worse man, until I thus learned the squalid hindrances122 amid which he developed himself. Space, a free atmosphere, and cleanliness have a vast deal to do with the possibilities of human virtue123.
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 marshy124 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 remarkably125 unfertile one. A little farther on, the ground was whitened with an immense number of daisies,—daisies, daisies everywhere; and in answer to my inquiry126, the driver said that this was the field where Burns ran his ploughshare over the daisy. If so, the soil seems to have been consecrated127 to daisies by the song which he bestowed128 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.
From Moss Giel we drove through a variety of pleasant scenes, some of which were familiar to us by their connection with Burns. We skirted, too, along a portion of the estate of Auchinleck, which still belongs to the Boswell family,—the present possessor being Sir James Boswell [Sir James Boswell is now dead], a grandson of Johnson's friend, and son of the Sir Alexander who was killed in a duel129. Our driver spoke130 of Sir James as a kind, free-hearted man, but addicted131 to horse-races and similar pastimes, and a little too familiar with the wine-cup; so that poor Bozzy's booziness would appear to have become hereditary132 in his ancient line. There is no male heir to the estate of Auchinleck. The portion of the lands which we saw is covered with wood and much undermined with rabbit-warrens; nor, though the territory extends over a large number of acres, is the income very considerable.
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 gorge133 of the road; so that the young lady may have appeared to Burns like a creature between earth and sky, and compounded chiefly of celestial134 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 accosted135 her. The song implies no such interview. Lovers, of whatever condition, high or low, could desire no lovelier scene in which to breathe their vows136: the river flowing over its pebbly137 bed, sometimes gleaming into the sunshine, sometimes hidden deep in verdure, and here and there eddying138 at the foot of high and precipitous cliffs. This beautiful estate of Ballochmyle is still held by the family of Alexanders, to whom Burns's song has given renown139 on cheaper terms than any other set of people ever attained140 it. How slight the tenure141 seems! A young lady happened to walk out, one summer afternoon, and crossed the path of a neighboring farmer, who celebrated the little incident in four or five warm, rude, at least, not refined, though rather ambitious,—and somewhat ploughman-like verses. Burns has written hundreds of better things; but henceforth, for centuries, that maiden has free admittance into the dream-land of Beautiful Women, and she and all her race are famous. I should like to know the present head of the family, and ascertain what value, if any, the members of it put upon the celebrity142 thus won.
We passed through Catrine, known hereabouts as "the clean village of Scotland." Certainly, as regards the point indicated, it has greatly the advantage of Mauchline, whither we now returned without seeing anything else worth writing about.
There was a rain-storm during the night, and, in the morning, the rusty, old, sloping street of Mauchline was glistening143 with wet, while frequent showers came spattering down. The intense heat of many days past was exchanged for a chilly144 atmosphere, much more suitable to a stranger's idea of what Scotch temperature ought to be. We found, after breakfast, that the first train northward145 had already gone by, and that we must wait till nearly two o'clock for the next. I merely ventured out once, during the forenoon, and took a brief walk through the village, in which I have left little to describe. Its chief business appears to be the manufacture of snuff-boxes. There are perhaps five or six shops, or more, including those licensed146 to sell only tea and tobacco; the best of them have the characteristics of village stores in the United States, dealing147 in a small way with an extensive variety of articles. I peeped into the open gateway of the churchyard, and saw that the ground was absolutely stuffed with dead people, and the surface crowded with gravestones, both perpendicular and horizontal. All Burns's old Mauchline acquaintance are doubtless there, and the Armours among them, except Bonny Jean, who sleeps by her poet's side. The family of Armour is now extinct in Mauchline.
Arriving at the railway-station, we found a tall, elderly, comely148 gentleman walking to and fro and waiting for the train. He proved to be a Mr. Alexander,—it may fairly be presumed the Alexander of Ballochmyle, a blood relation of the lovely lass. Wonderful efficacy of a poet's verse, that could shed a glory from Long Ago on this old gentleman's white hair! These Alexanders, by the by, are not an old family on the Ballochmyle estate; the father of the lass having made a fortune in trade, and established himself as the first landed proprietor149 of his name in these parts. The original family was named Whitefoord.
Our ride to Ayr presented nothing very remarkable150; and, indeed, a cloudy and rainy day takes the varnish151 off the scenery and causes a woful diminution152 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 intervals153 of showers I took peeps at the town, which appeared to have many modern or modern-fronted edifices154; although there are likewise tall, gray, gabled, and quaint-looking houses in the by-streets, here and there, betokening155 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 auditors156 were aware only of the rush and rumble157 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 scanty158 room for the pathway to creep between. Nothing else impressed me hereabouts, unless I mention, that, during the rain, the women and girls went about the streets of Ayr barefooted to save their shoes.
The next morning wore a lowering aspect, as if it felt itself destined159 to be one of many consecutive160 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 wood-work 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 (though I do not, personally adopt this mode of illustrating161 my bumble name) felt inclined to ridicule162 the natural impulse of most people thus to record themselves at the shrines163 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 flag-stones of a peasant's cottage. There is but one other room pertaining164 to the genuine birthplace of Robert Burns: it is the kitchen, into which we now went. It has a floor of flag-stones, even ruder than those of Shakespeare's house,—though, perhaps, not so strangely cracked and broken as the latter, over which the hoof165 of Satan himself might seem to have been trampling166. A new window has been opened through the wall, towards the road; but on the opposite side is the little original window, of only four small panes167, through which came the first daylight that shone upon the Scottish poet. At the side of the room, opposite the fireplace, is a recess168, containing a bed, which can be hidden by curtains. In that humble169 nook, of all places in the world, Providence170 was pleased to deposit the germ of the richest, human life which mankind then had within its circumference171.
These two rooms, as I have said, make up the whole sum and substance of Burns's birthplace: for there were no chambers172, nor even attics173; 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 vaulted174 hall, of no vast dimensions, to be sure, but marvellously large and splendid as compared with what might be anticipated from the outward aspect of the cottage. It contained a bust175 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 whiskey is here quaffed176 to the memory of the bard177, who professed178 to draw so much inspiration from that potent179 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 ornamental180 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 superintendent181 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 concluding 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; though 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 niche182, looking keener, more refined, but not so warm and whole-souled as his pictures usually do. I think the likeness183 cannot be good. In the centre of the room stood a glass case, in which were reposited the two volumes of the little Pocket Bible that Burns gave to Highland184 Mary, when they pledged their troth to one another. It is poorly printed, on coarse paper. A verse of Scripture185, 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 ascended186 to the top, and had a view of both Briggs of Doon; the scene of Tam O'Shanter's misadventure being close at hand. Descending188, 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 stone-work enough, yet permeated189 in a remarkable degree with living warmth and jovial190 hilarity191. From this part of the garden, too, we again beheld192 the old Brigg of Doon, over which Tam galloped193 in such imminent194 and awful peril195. It is a beautiful object in the landscape, with one high, graceful196 arch, ivy-grown, and shadowed all over and around with foliage197.
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 ascend187 from the roadside, through a gate, into the old graveyard198, in the midst of which stands the kirk. The edifice is wholly roofless, but the side-walls and gable-ends are quite entire, though portions of them are evidently modern restorations. Never was there a plainer little church, or one with smaller architectural pretension199; no New England meeting-house has more simplicity200 in its very self, though 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 revels201 within a consecrated precinct; but the weird202 scene has so established itself in the world's imaginative faith that it must be accepted as an authentic203 incident, in spite of rule and reason to the contrary. Possibly, some carnal minister, some priest of pious204 aspect and hidden infidelity, had dispelled205 the consecration206 of the holy edifice by his pretence207 of prayer, and thus made it the resort of unhappy ghosts and sorcerers and devils.
The interior of the kirk, even now, is applied208 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 compartment209 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 prosaic210 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 thither211. They slant212 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 annexing213 it to the domain214 of imagination. And here these wretched squatters have lain down to their long sleep, after barring each of the two doorways of the kirk with an iron grate! May their rest be troubled, till they rise and let us in!
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 swerving215 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 towards 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; although this might have been even lovelier, if a kindly216 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 blessed my eyes. Bonny Doon, with its wooded banks, and the boughs217 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.
It was impossible to depart without crossing the very bridge of Tam's adventure; so we went thither, over a now disused portion of the road, and, standing on the centre of the arch, gathered some ivy-leaves from that sacred spot. This done, we returned as speedily as might be to Ayr, whence, taking the rail, we soon beheld Ailsa Craig rising like a pyramid out of the sea. Drawing nearer to Glasgow, Bell Lomond hove in sight, with a dome-like summit, supported by a shoulder on each side. But a man is better than a mountain; and we had been holding intercourse218, if not with the reality, at least with the stalwart ghost of one of Earth's memorable219 sons, amid the scenes where he lived and sung. 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.
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1
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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5
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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15
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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21
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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picturesqueness
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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contiguity
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| n.邻近，接壤 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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44
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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45
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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48
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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49
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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50
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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51
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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52
certifies
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| （尤指书面）证明( certify的第三人称单数 )； 发证书给…； 证明（某人）患有精神病； 颁发（或授予）专业合格证书 | |
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53
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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54
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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55
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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56
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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57
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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58
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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59
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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60
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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62
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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64
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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consorting
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| v.结伴( consort的现在分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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gauging
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| n.测量[试]，测定，计量v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的现在分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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68
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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69
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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70
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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72
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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73
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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74
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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76
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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80
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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81
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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82
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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83
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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84
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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85
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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86
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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91
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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93
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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gambolled
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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98
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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99
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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100
exhorting
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的现在分词 ) | |
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101
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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102
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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103
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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104
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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105
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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106
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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107
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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108
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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109
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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110
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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111
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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112
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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113
pigsties
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| n.猪圈，脏房间( pigsty的名词复数 ) | |
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114
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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115
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
frowzy
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| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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117
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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118
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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119
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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120
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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121
pigsty
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| n.猪圈，脏房间 | |
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122
hindrances
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| 阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 )； 障碍物； 受到妨碍的状态 | |
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123
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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124
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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125
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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126
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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127
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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128
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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130
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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131
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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132
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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133
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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134
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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135
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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136
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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137
pebbly
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| 多卵石的，有卵石花纹的 | |
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138
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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139
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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140
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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141
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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142
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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143
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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144
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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145
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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146
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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147
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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148
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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149
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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150
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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151
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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152
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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153
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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154
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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155
betokening
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的现在分词 ) | |
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156
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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157
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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158
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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159
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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160
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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161
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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162
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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163
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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164
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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165
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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166
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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167
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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168
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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169
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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170
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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171
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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172
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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173
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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174
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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175
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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176
quaffed
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| v.痛饮( quaff的过去式和过去分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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177
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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178
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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179
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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180
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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181
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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182
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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183
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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184
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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185
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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186
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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188
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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189
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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190
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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191
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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192
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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193
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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194
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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195
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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196
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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197
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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198
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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199
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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200
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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201
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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202
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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203
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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204
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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205
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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207
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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208
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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209
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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210
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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211
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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212
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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213
annexing
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| 并吞( annex的现在分词 )； 兼并； 强占； 并吞（国家、地区等） | |
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214
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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215
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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216
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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217
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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218
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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219
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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