“Others he himself found by the wayside, sunk in misery and degradation; he held to them the helping hand, kindled in their breasts contrition for wrong committed, which brought a desire to do better and be better. He found their loved and loving ones for them; and all reverence him with love and blessing. The children abiding here are little waifs cast off from earth, who have known no tender care before their spirit birth; here they are cared for and educated by those capable of giving instruction to opening minds.”
A group of merry children, laughing and shouting in glee, dashed by us as my companion ceased speaking, their faces radiant with joy and happiness.
We paused at the entrance of a magnificent garden, whose limits extended far and wide. The well-kept walks, the superb parterres of blooming flowers, the shrubs raising their graceful branches as if conscious of their beauty, the grand old trees rearing their mighty heads, and casting grateful shadows, the pond at the further end, gleaming and glittering in the sunlight, rustic seats scattered here and there, banks of velvet-like richness, bright with their vivid hue of emerald green, all betokened this place to be the property of one who loved Nature, and was a willing worker in beautifying and adorning her productions.
This immense garden was not enclosed from the public way, except by a low hedge of evergreens, whose tops were tufted with delicate, creamy-hued, fragrant blossoms, reminding me forcibly of our own native hawthorn. No gate barred the entrance way; it was open to the free admittance of all.
At the farther end of the principal walk arose a plain, unpretentious dwelling, its white walls gleaming with an appearance of purity and peace. So far had we come up the valley that this cottage appeared to us to rest at the base of the purple-crested mountain, like a bird’s nest securely fastened upon a rugged rock.
“Here,” said my guide, “you have the home of Robert Burns. I will now leave you to his care.” Ere he could proceed, a form issued from the open doorway of the house, and hastened down the path to meet us. That beaming countenance, those kindly eyes, and warm, cordial hands extended to greet us; that commanding, yet unassuming figure, clothed in simple, rustic garb, could belong to no man in God’s universe but Robert Burns. It needed no honeyed speech, no formal words of greeting, no conventionalities, to tell us we were welcome; the spirit of our host over flowed with hospitality, and his soul beamed with all the fervor of his joy at meeting us.
Oh, the pleasure that enwrapped my being when I first entered the sanctuary of that good man’s great heart, and felt that we were congenial companions! No constraint, no conventional formalities with him; all was freedom and perfect ease.
My guide pleaded necessities of business as an excuse for leaving me alone with my host, and as we both preferred to roam in his great treasure-garden to entering the house, and feeling refreshed and strong in spirit, as though I had just partaken of food (which was true, as I had been feeding my soul all the way on the many delights I had encountered), we turned down a by-path, and I began to examine the rare plants and elegant shrubbery of the place, my host displaying and explaining his treasures as we went.
“I am surprised,” said I, “at your wealth of luxuriant bloom, and the beauty as well as the delicacy of the perfume of these plants; they surpass everything I have yet seen; you must give them a great deal of attention.”
“Well, lad,” replied my companion, “it’s not that so much. I look after them every day, of course, give them water and just the right degree of light, and trim and train them when there’s muckle need; but I think its adaptability to surroundings that makes ’em fine. I love them,—every one,—and it’s real pleasure to care for them;” and it was with unfeigned fondness that he bent over a rare stock of geraniums, and lifted a magnificent bloom to my view. We wandered along, chatting about this shrub and that plant; the proper treatment of this stock, and the right degree of culture for that variety. Nature and time had made him a thorough floriculturist; it was the spiritual refining of that love of Nature, manifested in the farmer-boy, using the plough and spade, and weaving songs of richest beauty over his work.