Again we paused, this time by the side of a parterre of the most beautiful garden-lilies I ever beheld. The creamy, cup-shaped blossoms, which crowned the slender stems, rose tall and straight from a low mass of deep, dark, and glossy leafage; while the regal flowers, with their tints of snowy richness, flecked with tiny bars of golden hue, emitted a fragrance of the most exquisite yet subtle of delicate odors. There were dozens upon dozens of these royal blossoms, filling the air with their rich perfume, and inviting the honey-bee to visit them in his search for sweets.
As I paused to admire this magnificent group of beauties—mentally likening them to a bevy of pure-souled, white-robed angels—and to drink in the full richness and glory of the scene spread out before me, there came, wafted upon the scent-laden air, a strain of sweetest music,—such as I have often heard in spirit, but which is never produced by any but highly-cultivated or advanced souls,—accompanied in this instance by a female voice in singing; and such singing—so full of melody, of expressive tenderness, with a rich under-current of harmony—mortal tongue or pen is inadequate to describe. I looked at my companion inquiringly. Said he: “It is my Highland Mary, the sainted soul who passed on before me, and who has made me what I am. This patch of lilies is her especial pride. I have named them for her, and call them ‘The Snaw Mary.’ We shall soon be with her, and you will see her for yourself.” I was delighted at the prospect of meeting “Highland Mary,” which delight of course he perceived.
We moved on past beds of beautiful verdure and bloom of every hue, and arrived at the lake, a superb sheet of water, clear as crystal, and extending over a large area, its margin laid with tiny, white cobblestones, presenting a neat, pretty appearance. A fairy-like boat was moored at a landing-place, upon the side of which I observed painted a large, thrifty-looking thistle.
A rustic bridge extended across the lake, over which we passed. At the farther side were a number of tiny arbors, around and above which twined and clung flowering vines, some of which were very familiar to me. Toward the nearest of these flower-wreathed pavilions my companion turned. The sound of singing had ceased, but through the swinging leaflets of the vines I could perceive the white drapery of female garments.
In a moment more we were in the presence of that sweet, long-loved, immortalized “Highland Mary;” and well might Robert Burns have mourned her loss, and well might the poet soul have sung his sweetest song “To Mary in Heaven.” The features of this sainted maiden were almost transparent; a halo of celestial beauty shone about her form as she moved; her beautiful eyes emitted a radiance that must have been dazzling to those not fitted to enter her sphere of purity; her bonny hair rippled down her back in waves of golden light. The beauty of mind, the purity of an innocent heart, the tenderness of soul, expressing itself in sympathy toward the weak and erring, combined with traces of experience in human suffering, manifested themselves in the chastened refinement of that lovely countenance, and the sphere of purity surrounding that angelic being.
I stood before her abashed and humbled; but a moment more, the sweet voice of Burns’ Mary bade me welcome, and I was made to feel at home.
Years of experience in the higher life had been of inestimable value to that maiden; she had had the teaching of highly-developed spirits, and the beauty, brilliancy and grace of a cultured mind, that was accustomed to deep thinking, were plainly discernible in her remarks. I was content to be a listener, and to drink deeply of the living waters of truth that flowed from the gifted mind of my host, and from the tender, loving soul of his companion.
But our stay in the pavilion was short; I would fain have lingered far longer, but the lady, “on hospitable thoughts intent,” after the fashion of woman everywhere, seemed anxious that I should be conducted to the house and have refreshments. My protestations were overruled, and we accordingly started for the abode,—not by the way my host and I had come, but on the outer side of the garden. On our journey I made a new discovery: Mary had turned to me previously, and said: “I would like you to see my aviary, the place where I keep my pets; in fact, their shelterhouse;” and soon I understood to what she referred. We were approaching a thicket of bushes; I recognized furze, gorse, and hawthorn among them. Passing through this thicket, we entered an extension of the garden, still laid out in beds of beautiful flowers. A grove of trees, in the center of which a pretty fountain sent up its jets of crystal water, arrested my attention, and beyond that, the sparkling roof of a large glass building. The bushes and trees resounded with the melody issuing from the gaily-feathered throats of numerous songsters, of every size and variety. It was a bird kingdom upon a small scale. As we entered, the birds surrounded us, alighting upon the heads and shoulders of my companions; but while they flew close to and around me, only one, a tiny white warbler, would alight upon my person. This perched upon my shoulder, and chirped and nodded as pert as possible.
We entered the glass building. Within were planted shrubs and trees, some of them bearing fruit, others seeds. There were no cages, but I observed numerous nests attached to the bushes and trees. The floor was the natural earth; the sun shone warmly, and all was beautiful. There were no doors, but here and there entrance-ways, always open for the convenience of the feathered denizens of the place, who came and went of their pleasure. A stream of water gushed from a rock, and gurgled and plashed over a heap of stones. This was the bird-house belonging to the estate, and the especial pride of “Highland Mary.”
We tarried a few moments, and then continued our way to the house, which we soon reached. How different the scene! A plain, unpretentious, white dwelling, with no attempt at ornamentation, the sun shining down upon it, fully displaying all its simplicity. Within was the same; neat and cheerful, suggestive of comfort and repose, but nothing finical, nothing tawdry; no glitter, no display. There was no covering to the cool, white floors, excepting here and there a rug or mat of green rushes. The walls of the apartment into which I was ushered were draped with a snowy gossamer-like fabric; the chairs round, wide, and comfortable, the tables oval and plain. Here we were served with refreshments,—fruit of various kinds, sweet cake formed of honey and the meat of nuts, and sparkling water.