Julia Griffiths to Frederick Douglass, July 30, 1856

FOR FREDERICK DOUGLASS' PAPER.

LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD.

NUMBER XXVII.

ISLINGTON, July 30th, 1856.

MY DEAR FRIEND:—You will have learnt ere this that I have re-crossed the border, and am again in England. You will also, have heard, with regret, that since coming to the neighborhood of the metropolis, I have been almost wholly confined to the sick bed of a beloved relative, who is suffering from a serious accident, as well as from illness of another kind. You will not, therefore, wonder that I have thus long, postponed giving you a sketch of two of the most interesting days I spent in Scotland, (viz:) the day on which I visited the birthplace of the immortal poet BURNS, and they day that I glided down the fairy LOCH KATRINE, and explored the beauties of the far-famed TROSSACHS.

I bade adieu to you, in my last, (if I remember aright,) at Perth, as I was en route for Glasgow, and Langside. My time being necessarily very limited every day during my stay there, previous to my departure for England, brought more that its wonted portion of business; but amidst that week's bustle, and hurrying, hither and thither; "from Dan to Beersheba," (of most of which I have now but a confused recollection,) two days are well remembered; their events are enshrined among the treasures of memory, and their soft and mellow sunshine, imparted by their remembrance, will, I would fain hope, gild the slight sketch which I shall endeavor (from a house of sickness and sorrow) to give you of the day I went to Ayr. To you, my dear friend, who are so enthusiastic an admirer of BURNS, and who have so often refreshed me with the sweet melodies of Scotia's greatest bard, or delighted me with the recital of his "Cotter`s Saturday Night," it will be no matter of surprize, that I accepted, with much pleasure, an invitation kindly given me by a valued friend, to make a pilgrimage to the birthplace of the poet we deem second only to Shakespeare.

The route to the Land of Burns, is by the Glasgow and South Western Railway; and on the morning of the 24th of June, at half past ten o'clock, we started for Ayrshire; the sky was grey, and dark clouds hung portentously above us; yet we hoped (as most travellers do) for a fine day, and considering how infelicitous the weather had previously been, we were highly favored in this respect, since it only rained a little Scotch mist, while were under cover. We had scarcely bade adieu to the tall chimneys of Glasgow, before we reached the town of Paisley, a large and busy place, renowned for its shawl manufactures, and having a population numbering sixty thousand. About three

miles farther, we reached Elderslie, famous as haying been the scene of several events in the life of the renowned Scottish chief, Sir William Wallace, and also for the venerable tree, lately blown down by a violent storm, in which it is said, that the patriot for some time found shelter from his merciless pursuers. Leaving Johnstone on the right, (a place chiefly occupied by colliers and cotton spinners,) we passed on to Lochwinnoch. The railway skirts the Lake for several miles, and on both sides the hills rise up in picturesque beauty.

Passing Beith, Kilbirne, and Dalry, (the centres of extensive coal and iron works,) we next came to Kilwinning, where there is a small fragment, still to be seen, of its once magnificent Abbey; and soon we were in sight of the Castle and grounds of that public-spirited nobleman, the Earl of Eglinton, a spot celebrated for the exhibition made by his Lordship a few years ago, of the revival of the feats of the Tournament.

We now come in view of the ocean on the Ayrshire coast. We pass Irvine, a neat, clean town, of about eight thousand inhabitants, and a small harbor, chiefly occupied by coasting vessels. Here I learned, to my astonishment, from my friend, that JAMES MONTGOMERY, usually termed "the Bard of Sheffield," was born.

No we reach Troon on the right, where there is an important harbor, admitting large sea-going vessels. A few miles distant to the left east, from Irvine, lie Dundonald Castle, Loudon Castle, (the Marquis of Hastings) with its "bonnie woods and braes,"

Kilmarnock, a large and flourishing town of twenty thousand inhabitants, and south of it, Ballochyle House and Bridge Manchline, and other scenery, immortalized by the bard of Scotland.

Returning to Troon, in ten miles more we reached Ayr,

"That famous town, whom none surpasses For the honest men, and bonnie lasses"—

and in five minutes' time, we were driving thro' it and crossing the "bonnie Doon," on our way to the birthplace of the poet, which is situated two miles south of Ayr. The town is a nice, neat, clean-looking place; but the modern erections of Ayr, and the elegant villas in its suburbs, had far less attractions, in my eyes, than those thatched buildings, of more ancient date, that had been looked on by the poet, and had constituted the Ayr of his time. The country, in the vicinity is rich and fertile; after a pleasant drive, we alighted at the door of the "Clay Biggin," which is immortalized as the birthplace of an immortal poet—and as such, is visited by travellers, from every part of the civilized world. You, my friend, who have stood on the clay floor of this humble tenement, and whose memory is so tenacious, may, possibly, recall some of the feelings you experienced as you crossed the threshold, and were pointed to the lowly corner, where stands the bed in which the ardent and impetuous poet, the coruscations of whose genius have irradiated not only his native land, but every country where the English lan-

guage is spoken, first opened his eyes on the erring world which "sinned against," as well as "sinning," he traversed for a brief space, his path beset with snares and dangers, and he sorely struggling with temptations, to which, alas! he finally succumbed! Montgomery has touchingly said of him:

"He passed thro' life's tempestuous night, A trembling, brilliant Northern light. Thro' years to come he shines from far, A fixed, unsettling, polar star."

Who does not sigh, "poor Burns!" as he turns slowly away from the lowly cot? This "Clay Biggin" was built by the Poet's father'; and the two rooms it contained are preserved in all their primitive simplicity. Windows, with small panes of glass and heavy frames—doors, clumsy and old fashioned—and above all, ancient corner cupboard, (on the door of which is painted a portrait of Burns that one, at once feels to be a good likeness,) all give evidence that it is the original of the bard—and we may well suppose that Burns had in his eye, this hallowed spot, when (in his Cotter's Saturday Night,") he wrote that touching verse:

"At length his lonely cot appears in view. Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee-things, todlin, stacher thro' To meet their dad wi flichterin chaterin noise and glee. His we bit ingle blinkin bonnille. His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wife's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile An' makes him quite forget his labor and his toil."

The chairs, tables, shutters, doors and walls are so thicky covered with names, that I saw no space unfilled. Distinguished people, from every part of the world, have here craved their names, and undistinguished people seem to have been eager thus to distinguish themselves, and here to carve out, for themselves, a name that shall be read by generations yet to come. I never remember to have seen but one room so industriously filled with names, and that was the room in which SHAKESPEARE was born.

A jolly company sat drinking ale in the little room, thus ornamented ; and one man looked to me much as one imagines the veritable "souier Johnny" to have looked when telling "his queerest stories." Content with modestly inscribing our names in the album of the house, (over the pages of which I looked with much interest,) we adjourned to the handsome Hall, that has been recently built at the end of the cottage, where while waiting for refreshments, I listened to some of Burns's sweetest poems, which I am inclined to believe my friend could have recited as readily without as with the book he had before him.

Passing from beneath this thatched roof, we pursued our pilgrimage, and in less than a quarter of a mile, were in Alloway Kirk-Yard, and walking by the side of the "auld haunted Kirk"—a place made memorable by Tam O` Shanter. In this church-yard the poet's father and mother are buried. I read, with much interest, the inscription on the tomb stone, writ ten by Burns, as his Father's Epitaph:

"O, ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father, and gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe; the dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man, to vice a foe; For e'en his failing lean'd to virtue's side."

A few hundred yards from Alloway Kirk-Yard, on an elevated site of ground overlooking the stream he loved so well, and which he has rendered immortal, with view of the picturesque and celebrated Birg of Doon, a beautiful monument has been erected to Burns. It takes the form of a Grecian temple; the dome is supported by nine Corinthian columns indicating the muses, and surniounted by one central column, richly ornamented, which seems to be emblematic of the poet. The design is, at once, chaste and elegant, and does great credit to the architect, Mr. Playfair. Inside the monument is a hall, in which stands a most beautiful marble bust of Burns, by Patrick Park—The lofty brow, the noble head of the fine, intellectual forehead are here; but those wonderful dark eyes, that were wont to make an indelible impression on all on whom they lighted, are still and cold, and that sweet toned voice, which captivated all who listened to its eloquent music, is silent.

" He is gone! the bright star of the nation is hurled From its proud elevation—its lustre is dim; He is cold as the sod, where he sleeps—and the world, With its scorn and its laurels, is nothing to him."

Among the reminiscences of the poet, contained in a glass case, in this apartment, are the two bibles exchanged by Burns, and his Highland Mary, ere they parted to meet no more. On the first page is the lock of fair hair, fa- tened with a silken tie, and several verses from Leviticus, in the hand writing of the youthful lover, commencing with the words, "Thou shalt not swear falsely to the Lord thy God." The ink is faded, and the writing dim; but the touching romance of the story, the exquisitely beautiful lines of Burns to "highland Mary," and "To Mary in Heaven," have invested those bibles with an intense interest.

We climbed to the top of the monument, whence there is a lovely view of the bonnie Doon, its banks and braes, its green woods, and fair flowers, the bridges that here span it, and the surrounding country, which is rich and fertile, and diversified by gentle slope, as well as by gentlemen's seats, which here and there peep through the trees. To the south lies the residence of the Marquis of Ailsa; a little to the east, Doon House is seen, and farther to the

north, the beautiful mansion of Ballantine of Castlehill, formerly Lord Provost of Ayr, rises into view. The grounds in which the monument stands, are extensive, and thickly planted with evergreens, which are kept in fine order.—The laurel, the bay, the ivy, and the cypress (meet offerings at the poet's shrine) bloom here in ever verdant foliage. My kind friend procured for me some ivy and a bunch of wild thyme, and I plucked several daisies, (called in Scotland, "gowans,") in preference to finer flowers, in remembrance of Burns's poetical address to this "wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower." Our guide led us to the door of a small building in the grounds and now we were in the presence of "Tam O` Shanter and Souter Johnny," who, large as life, and intimitably sculpted, sit each in his arm chair, enjoying his glass, and almost as much as his ease, as if he were not made of stone. These figures, as works of art, of the highest king, might be placed among the wonders of the world. They are true, to the life, and the longer you look at them, the more you are impressed with this idea. The name of the sculptor is Thorn. I do not remember whether he is still alive. His patron, Mr. Auld, has a pretty place, with lovely grounds, close by the new bridge of Doon; and now we strayed down to the banks of the river, where Burns loved to roam, and where all things seem full of him—the gentle murmur of the stream, the soft sighing of the breeze, the sweet carolling of the birds, all seem to repeat his name; and the whispering wind in his favorite woods, echoed the sound, which was still re-echoed by the lofty rocks, and more distant ocean of his native shore. The "banks and braes of bonnie Doon" are, in truth, very lovely; the old trees overhang and weep into the stream; many of their grey stems are entwined with ivy, producing a picturesque appearance. The banks are covered with moss and wild flowers; the violet, the primrose, the wood anemone, the harabell, are here, and the gowan peeps out its modest head, and seems to say to its more aspiring companions, "I may be here, for he spoke kindly to me." Yes! here, all things speak of BURNS. Adieu to thee, fair Doon.—"How long delighted the stranger fair would linger on his way!" and how long we might have lingered in this lovely spot, had the sun shone, and the banks not been saturated by the recent heavy rains, I cannot tell. After indulging our poetical soarings, by copious recitations from our Poet, we slowly retraced our steps to Ayr, first crossing several bridges (which command a lovely river view,) and exploring some romantic country lanes, where the trees met overhead and the hedges were just beginning to bud with hawthorn; and beneath the shade of these trees Burns had often rambled; and watched with poet's rapture, the sport where "summer first unfald her robes," and sung,