Afterward I entered the sitting-room of spirit Mary. Here the walls were draped with blue silken stuffs; the furnishings were more elaborate and elegant than the other parts of the house, and all arranged in exquisite taste. My hostess entertained us with her tender, soulful singing, striking a harp-shaped instrument, which sent forth a delicious accompaniment to the song.
In Mary’s apartment, or boudoir, I observed a pot of primroses in full bloom, the yellow petals of the flowers recalling old familiar scenes of earth; and the sight of these flowers recalled to me also that they were the only ones I had noticed within the dwelling. This seemed singular to me; with all that wealth of bloom and fragrance without, it would only be natural to find every room adorned with slips and cuttings. Of course the drift of my thought was perceived. Burns smiled, but Mary enlightened me. “Robbie will never pluck a flower,” said she, “for his own use; he does not think it right to bring them out of their native elements, and deprive them of life on the stalk. He thinks they are hurt when they are culled; he also leaves them all out to be enjoyed by anyone who comes along; but I have seen him often break the flowers for some wee lassie, or poor laddie, who luks at them wistfully. He knows by that they had none too many flowers and pleasures on earth.”
I looked at Burns; his kindly face lighted up with intelligence and spirit beauty; every feature aglow with goodness, and every member of his body filled with energy, with suppressed power, with concentrated activity, now in abeyance, but ready to spring forth for the well-being of another,—he who had risen above all earthly passions through his great love for and faith in humanity; and I thought how characteristic of the man is this abode of peace and rest,—the home, the shrine of his faith and love,—plain, simple, yet full of cheer and interest,—no glitter nor show,—like his own kindly heart, unpretentious, full of kindness, overflowing with interest in God, Nature, and man! Without, all is beauty and fragrance; yet the natural productions of life, refined by care and cultivation, typical of the rich, the beautiful expressions of his poet soul,—refined through love, cultured through sympathy, manifested in sweetest heart songs, exemplified in those peaceful homes I had seen, whose inmates rise up and call him blessed! Characteristic of the soul is this, who would cull a flower to give a poor heart cheer, yet who will pluck none for his own use, to deprive them of natural life,—who, when he had inadvertently uprooted the tiny, wayside flower with his plowshare, immortalized the humble daisy with—
“Thou bonny crimson-tipped flower,
Thou’st met me in an evil hour,
For I mun crush amang the stower
Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now ’twere past my power,
Thou bonny gem.”
Still the same good man, gentle alike to “mon and beastie,” tender to wayside flower and weed.