The grave of Burns owes to its uncouth monument the unsatisfactory feeling which it inspires in visitors. Alloway kirk is the place where the remains of the favorite Scottish poet should lie. Instead of artificial temples, badly copied from a clime and nation with which he had no sympathy or affinity, the young daisy and the fresh grass should mark his resting place.
'Alloway's kirk haunted wall' is preserved with such faithful care, that this year it looks very much the same as it did when Burns knew it. As a ruin, apart from the interest with which the poet has invested it, it possesses nothing to attract attention. Two end walls, which once supported a gable roof, and two low side walls, all without ornament of any kind—without gothic tracing or oriel wonders—without even graceful ivy flung over its ruggedness—are all that remain of Alloway, if we except the old bell, which yet hangs in the little belfry; a sign board below insulting visitors by requesting them not to throw stones at it!
The little churchyard of Alloway continues to be a burial place; but the gravestones seem, in many instances, sadly inconsistent with the poetical associations of the place. As at Dumfries, the business occupations of the deceased are mentioned; and we find here the family tombs of 'Robert Anderson, molecatcher,' of 'James Wallace, blacksmith,' and the like. David Watt Miller, who was buried here in 1823, was the last person baptized in the old Alloway kirk—his tombstone recording the fact. Near the entrance to the graveyard, and opposite the new gothic edifice which has taken the place of the old kirk, is the slab to the poet's father and sister, thus inscribed:
'Sacred to the memory of William Burns, farmer
in Lochie, who died February 13, 1784, in
the 63d year of his age.
Also of Isabella, relict of John Bell; his
youngest daughter, born at Mount Oliphant,
June 27, 1771; died December 4, 1858, much
respected and esteemed by a wide circle of
friends, to whom she endeared herself by her
life of piety, her mild urbanity of manner, and
her devotion to the memory of Burns.'
The reader is aware that Alloway's kirk, the Burns monument, the cottage where the poet was born, the elaborate temple, erected to his memory, and Tam O'Shanter's brig, are all within a few rods of each other, at about two miles' distance from Ayr. The view of the temple, kirk, and 'brig,' from the opposite side of the stream, is worthy of Arcadia. The temple is familiar from engravings; but the bridge, with its graceful arch, draped by low-hanging ivy, is far more beautiful. Yet this exquisite scene is identified with one of Burns's coarsest efforts—one which, with all its vividness and humor, cannot be read aloud in the family circle. Fortunately, however, for the poet, his fame by no means rests on this unequal mixture of the humorous, the beautiful, and the vulgar; and instead of admiring Tam O'Shanter's bridge itself, it is much more pleasant to stand upon it, and gaze therefrom at the river which laves the 'banks and braes o' bonnie Doon'—at the fields besprinkled with the 'wee, crimsoned-tipped flower'—at the cottages where once lived the 'auld acquaintance' of 'lang syne,' and where occurred the scenes of 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.' 'Highland Mary' has crossed this bridge, and this sanctifies it far more than the imaginary terrors of Tam O'Shanter.
An hour's railway ride takes the tourist from the land of Burns to the scenes rendered sacred by the genius of Scott.
Abbotsford, the favorite home, of course is still open to visitors, who are hurried though it with the most disgusting celerity, by the guide engaged by the family to 'do'—at a shilling a head—the hospitalities of the place. The home of Scott retains all the characteristics it did when he died; but is shown in such a heartless, museum-like manner, that the visitor need not expect much gratification from the inspection.
A few miles farther up the Tweed is Ashetiel, the former home of Walter Scott, a place seldom seen by tourists, though here he wrote his finest poems. Some time ago I was invited to spend a night with a farmer who resides on the estate. Those who have read Washington Irving's graphic description of his visit to Abbotsford, will remember Mr. Laidlaw, of whom he thus writes:
'One of my pleasant rambles with Scott, about the neighborhood of Abbotsford, was taken in company with Mr. William Laidlaw, the steward of his estate. This was a gentleman for whom Scott entertained a particular value. He had been born to a competency, had been well educated; his mind was richly stored with varied information, and he was a man of sterling moral worth. Having been reduced by misfortune, Scott had got him to take charge of his estate. He lived at a small farm on the hillside above Abbotsford, and was treated by Scott as a cherished and confidential friend, rather than a dependant.' My worthy host was the son of this old gentleman, who is still alive and in good health. Several years ago he emigrated to Australia, where he now resides, still taking a lively interest in literary affairs, and reading, though an octogenarian, all the new works, that are regularly sent to him by his son. The old gentleman was as intimately acquainted with Hogg as with Scott, and my host remembers both these personages, though he was but a boy when they died.
Early one September morning Mr. Laidlaw was kind enough to take me about the grounds of Ashestiel, where 'Sir Walter' (they never add the name of Scott, in speaking of him here) passed thirteen of the best years of his life, and where he wrote the greater parts of 'Marmion' and the 'Lay.' We walked over the dewy fields (romantic but damp), and down to the banks of the Tweed, where I was shown a large outspreading oak, under which Sir Walter was wont to sit and frame his ideas into fitting words. Under this tree, with Tweed rippling at his feet, he spent many an hour in communion with himself, quietly weaving those strains that have immortalized him. From this place we passed on to the house itself—Ashestiel—now the residence of Sir William Johnstone, from whose family Sir Walter had leased it during the building of Abbotsford. It is a fine old building; but much altered and improved since it was occupied by Scott. Lockhart says of this place: 'No more beautiful situation, for the residence of a poet, could be imagined. The house was then a small one; but, compared with the cottage of Lasswade, its accommodations were amply sufficient. The approach was through an old-fashioned garden, with holly hedges, and broad, green terrace walks. On one side, close under the windows, is a deep ravine, clothed with venerable trees, down which a mountain rivulet is heard, more than seen, on its progress to the Tweed. The river itself is separated from the high bank, on which the house stands, only by a narrow meadow, of the richest verdure; while opposite, and all around are the green hills. The valley there is narrow, and the aspect in every direction is that of perfect pastoral repose.' This picture still holds good, with the exception of the 'old-fashioned garden,' which has made way for a new lawn and carriage road. The proprietor was an intimate friend of Walter Scott, and an India officer of merit, who has now returned to his old home, having bidden farewell to the neighing steed and all the pomp and circumstance of war.