Glapwell, who had just arrived. Mrs. Rookley's carriage was to be sent in the afternoon for Mesdames Dozey and Prosey.

Eunice Rookley was already equipped in her riding-habit of bottle-green cloth, without which she deemed it impossible to travel even a few miles: wearing it always by land and by water; in steamboat and in sailboat; in coach and chaise, as well as in stage or car. This habit, to be sure, was old-fashioned; but that is no rule with ridingdresses, as nobody is expected to get a new one every season. Luckily, as that of our heroine had never been designed to wear on horseback, the skirt did not trail either behind or before: but was of a very convenient length for walking. With this habit she wore a small close leghorn bonnet, and a green veil: and her feet were equipped for riding in the chaise with a pair of cork-soled laced boots. Miss Rookley had travelled so little that she could not imagine the possibility of going twenty or thirty miles without a regular travelling dress. Her big trunk and her little trunk were long since packed, strapped, and brought down into the entrance hall. She had, at first, thought of taking none of her new equipments; but Madam Rookley reminded her that country people were always (and very properly) offended when townspeople came to visit them with their worst clothes instead of their best: considering it a mark of disrespect to themselves and their neighbourhood.

Andrew Macrimmon was a stout, strong, healthy looking man, about fifty. He prided himself much and justly on the "land of his sires," of which he had heard so perpetually from his Caledonian parent, that he almost believed he had been born and brought up there himself. The reading of his youth had been chiefly confined to the few books brought over by his father. They were all by Scottish authors, and included the poetry of Allan Ramsay, and Robert Fergusson; afterwards reinforced by that of Burns,-"himself a host." The glorious works of Walter Scott afterwards became a mine of gold to Macrimmon and the reading part of his family. He concluded that any person who had read them all had read enough; and that it was better to go over them again and again, than to try any thing newer and consequently inferior. He had a most excellent little yankee wife, and three sons and two daughters: all smart, active, and well-looking. The farm was in high cultivation, very productive, and consequently very profitable. Altogether, the Macrimmons were a thriving, popular, and very happy family: the more so that they made no pretensions towards imitating city-customs, and city-fashions -things that always sit badly on plain countryfolks.

Though not later than ten in the morning, a copious déjeuner-a-la-fourchette had been prepared by Charty, in case the travellers should get hungry on the road. And "to make assurance doubly sure," a large basket of two-division-power was put into the chaise-box: one compartment furnish

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ed with smoked tongue, cold chicken, biscuits, and fresh rolls; and the other stored with tarts and cakes.

Previous to starting, Eunice held a long private conference with Charty at the head of the first stairs, (a very usual place for female confabulation,) giving her all sorts of directions as to the management of her department with regard to making Madam Rookley and her guests perfectly comfortable. She laid strict injunctions on Charty to treat Mrs. Dozey and Mrs. Prosey with the utmost respect; and to give them pleasure by having every thing on the table particularly nice during their stay.

Yes, yes, Miss Eunice-I understand"-said Charty- and I'll do my best to give them good wictuals. It will be all right to show off a little, and let them see what fine living we have here. All the better, of course, for the cook being brung up in Phildelphy. I an't sure I won't give them coker-nut puddings, and lemon ones too, for, poor old things, (that I should live to say such a word!) I have a notion that where they live they have not nothing better for a desart than punkin-pies and pan-dowdies."

"For shame, Charty!"-said Eunice-"take care not to let them hear you talking in this way. But treat them with the utmost consideration and respect."

"I warrant you, Miss Eunice, I'll give satisfaction"-answered Charty,-"When I'm put upon my pint of honour, and promise to consider about, and respeck people what an't much, I always does as I says, for I put them on a bar with myself, and I like to be respected. Since you wish it, I'll take these old folks under my own portection, and see that they live in clover while they are here: so that this wisit may be a thing for them to boast of all the rest of their forlorn and tedious lives. For my own entertainment, after you are gone, I shall depend upon Miss Gofirer Clapwell."

"Very well" said Eunice-"I know, Charty, I can trust you."

"And now, Miss Eunice"-pursued Charty— "as you're going to a farm, I wish you a great deal of pleasure and plenty of cream. Yes, and a sweetheart besides-that's the main pint. For, as soon as ever Miss Merial got married, I was took with a notion that, now a beginning was made, the rest of the family would go off soon. So now, good-bye, and a happy journey to you. Though that last is rather dubious; for I dreamt of cooked meat last night; a bad sign for them what's a going to travel, as it brings misfortin. I wish my dream had been raw meat, for that's a sign of nothing worse than fighting and quarreling."

At length all was ready. The last words of Miss Glapwell to Eunice were strict injunctions how, when she wore her curls, to fix them on so as to insure their stability. She had previously enjoined her friend to believe nothing she might

NEXT to Abbottsford, the most interesting spot in Scotland to a stranger, is Ayrshire. These were the two chosen spots where Scottish genius loved to dwell: and departing, has left every tree, and stream, and flower around a hallowed thing. The interest which hangs around both, is deeply melancholy; and I doubt if there be any two places on earth which recall the recollections of so much pride and glory, mingled with so much of pain, and of sorrow.

The second day I passed in Scotland was passed at Abbottsford, and as soon as I arrived in the western part of the kingdom, I hastened down to the land of Burns. A fine railroad now leads directly from Glasgow to Ayr. It certainly seemed rather unpoetical to be dragged to the shrine of poetic genius by a locomotive; but I remembered that our American Stephens had rode from Athens to the Pireus in an omnibus, and I should not be surprised, if myself, or some of my readers should one day be hauled up the Mount of Olives by a stationary engine, or float over the cities of the plain in a high-pressure steamer. The cars left early in the morning, and when I arrived, they were all in a bustle of preparation; the liveried porters were running to and fro the superintendents in stiff collars and laced coats, were strutting about with a sham military air, and the porters, superintendents and locomotive too, were warning us by many puffs and shouts that the time was up, and we had better take our places. These are regulated generally by caste. In the rear of the train, far removed from the noise, the "gentility" were reclining on sumptuous cushions with pillows behind their heads, for all which, they pay an extra price. In the middle, the "respectability" are disposed of in more unpretending and less expensive carriages; while close to the engine, the hard-fisted "democracy" were clam

bering over into portable pens, called "standups," where they are all ranged on end after the fashion of a pincushion. But the time is up!-the bell rings and we emerge slowly upon a line of double rails running off as far as the eye can reach, straight as an arrow.

At some distance ahead, stands a man waving a green signal, which intimates to the locomotive, that the track is clear, and he may travel as fast as he chooses. As soon as he sees it, he draws a long breath, gives an exulting whistle, and away he flies on the wings of the wind. The signal man darts by us like lightning-another and another, and another is passed, until we see a red flag waving far ahead to tell us we are approaching a stopping place. The lurid cloud hanging in the air, and the tall chimneys vomiting forth black smoke, betoken a place of manufactories. As our train moves slowly through the streets, the creaking of machinery, and the writhing of wheels, and the roaring of furnaces-to my mind, no unfit emblems of the agonies endured by living men within these darkened walls-fall upon our ears, and make us shudder. The cars stop at the "station" amidst a crowd of half naked beggars, who gather around us imploring charity for themselves, and their starving families. Poor wretches! what can be done for them? Every day they are increas. ing, with no proportionate increase of means for their support; and every day the question comes up with louder and more fearful import into the ears of their astounded rulers-what can be done for them? They are asking with open mouths and bleeding hearts for bread, and thus far, their rulers have only given them bayonets. How long they will endure the substitute, is known only to Him who sent them here upon His footstool.

But we have no time to speak of the many villages by the wayside, or of the sufferings of their

miserable operatives. It is always to us, a harrowing subject. After a flight of two hours, we found ourselves in sight of

-"Auld Ayr-whom ne'er a town surpasses

For honest men, and bonnie lasses."

Here an omnibus was waiting to take us down to the birth-place of the Poet. I clambered upon the top of the vehicle and rode along in silence, trying to realize that I was among the scenes consecrated by his muse. Suddenly, on reaching a slight elevation, they all broke upon me. His monument-his cottage-Alloway kirk, the scene of the inimitable Tam O'Shanter-and behind them all, the "banks and braes of Bonny Doon." It was in the midst of the harvest, and the fields on either side were filled with the reapers. Among the sunburnt faces turned up to us as we passed, I fancied that I could distinguish the fatal Jeanies, and Nannies, and Peggies, such as once led captive the wayward affections of our poet.

I went first to the monument, a chaste group of columns on a pedestal about twelve feet high, surmounted by a lyre. The structure is surrounded with beautiful walks, and flowers sloping off to the Doon. Within it, on a centre table, is the Bible (in two vols.) given by Burns to Highland Mary, when they "lived one day of parting love" beneath the hawthorne of Coilsfield. One of the volumes contains in Burns' handwriting, the inscription, "Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shall perform unto the Lord thine oath ROBERT BURNS, Mossgiel." A lock of Mary's hair, of a light brown colour-given at the same time to the poet-is preserved in the leaves of the treasured volume. Simple milkmaid tho' she was-and although she came to that celebrated interview in a russet gown, and without shoes or stockings, yet, who would not rather have this memento of the barefooted lassie of Robert Burns, than a lock from the brow of Victoria!

A few steps from the monument is Alloway kirk. It is now a small ruin of some thirty feet in length, without roof or windows, and filled with the tombs of some neighbouring families. The old sexton was standing by the grave of Burns' father, and came to us to describe the church, and point out the route of Tam O'Shanter. He showed us the chinks in the sides through which the kirk seemed "all in a bleeze," and he pointed out the identical place in the wall, where "Old Nick" was sitting, and presiding over the midnight revels of the beldames when

"Louder and louder, the piper blew,
Swifter and swifter, the dancers flew."

After the old man had finished his recital, which

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he delivered with much enthusiasm and a fine Scotch brogue, I asked him if he had ever seen the poet.

"Only once," he replied, "and that was one day when he was riding on a neighbouring road, and met a friend who told him to hurry along, for Robert Burns, the poet, was just ahead. He said that he whipped up his horse and soon overtook a shabbily dressed man riding slowly along, with his blue bonnet drawn over his forehead, and his eyes bent towards the ground."

"And did'nt you speak to him?” said I.

"Nae," replied the old man, in a tone of deep reverence. "He was Robie Burns, I dare'na speak to him! if he had been ony other man, I wad hae said, 'Good morrow to ye.'

Beautiful and elegant tribute paid by an unlettered peasant-not to rank, or to wealth, but to a SOUL, altho' clad in "hodden grey" like himself!

Throughout all Scotland, I found the same fervent admiration for his works. The greater portion of the peasantry have his songs at their tongues' ends, and often astonished me by the aptness of their criticisms upon them, and by the nice appreciations of their hidden beauties. Sir Walter Scott is, of course, more read in the mansions of the great, but he cannot compete with Burns in cottage fireside popularity. "The Shirra was a clever mon," said one of his neighbours, "but he was nothing to Robie Burns!"

The most interesting object was yet to be visited -the cottage of his birth. We approached the spot with reverence, and a well-dressed old woman welcomed us in. "This is the room," said she. I looked around on the rough stone walls, and could not believe that they had ever contained such a soul. His parents must have been very poor, for the cottage, with all its subsequent repairs, is hardly equal to the generality of our log cabins. The old woman was intelligent and affable. "Rabie was a funny fellow," said she, "I kenned him weel; he stappit at my house on his way to Edinbro, to see the lairds." I asked her if he was not always humorous.

"Nae," she replied, "He used to sit with his hands on his lap like a bashful country lad, until he got a drap o' whiskey, or heard a good story, and then he was off. He was very puirly in his latter days."

Poor fellow! what might not self-restraint have done for that gifted, but wayward spirit, or rather what might not religious influence have been on a mind wrought in the finest mould, and formed for a higher being.

After collecting a few relics of the spot, and entering our names in the never failing album, we set off for the bonnie banks of Ayr, and crossing one of the "Twa brigs," returned to Glasgow.