I AROSE this morning at an early hour, and, after partaking of a hearty breakfast, I at once repair to the Grand Central Depot in Glasgow where, a few minutes later, I seat myself in an English railway car. These cars are, of course, made on the same general plan as ours, yet they are in some respects quite different. The coaches are of about the same length as those used in America, but not so wide by eighteen inches or two feet. Each coach is divided into five compartments, each being five and one-half or six feet long. Each of these compartments has two doors, one on either side of the car, also two seats. Persons occupying these different seats must face each other, so one party or the other must ride backwards. They have no water or other conveniences on the train, as we Americans are accustomed to; no bell-rope to pull, in case of accident; no baggage-checks—each passenger must look after his own baggage. As for myself, I have no baggage, save what I can carry in the car with me. They have first, second, and third-class compartments, the fare per mile being four, three, and two cents respectively. I have examined closely, and can not detect one particle of difference between the first and second-class compartments, either one being fully as good as our first-class car. The English first and second-class compartments are slightly superior to the third-class. It is a saying among the Europeans that only millionaires, soreheads (crowned heads), and fools ride first-class. Being neither a millionaire nor a crowned head, and, as I am unwilling to be classed as a fool, I always take third-class passage.

I believe in talking, asking questions, and exchanging ideas with every man I meet, be he high or low, rich or poor. So, while standing at the depot this morning, amid a great crowd of people, looking at the engines, I remark to a pleasant-looking conductor standing near me, that there is quite a difference in the engines used in this country and those used in America. He wants to know what that difference is. I tell him that our engines have cow-catchers before them and his has none. “A cow-catcher,” says he, “and what is that?” I explain to him that a cow-catcher is an arrangement fastened on in front of the engines to remove obstructions from the road, to knock cows from the track, etc. “Ah, indeed! We never need those in this country, and can you tell me,” he continues, “why we do not need them?” “Well, sir,” I reply, “I can see only one reason.” “And what is that, pray?” I answer, “It must be, sir, that you do not run fast enough to overtake a cow.” This creates quite a laugh at the conductors expense, though none seems to enjoy it more heartily than he. Just at this moment, the train starts, and I am off for Ayr, some forty miles away.

As I step from the train in Ayr, the hack-drivers gather around me like bees around the “Last Rose of Summer.” “Carriage, carriage, sir?” they cry. “I’ll be glad to show you through the city, and take you to Burns’ Monument—carriage, carriage?” Tipping my hat, I reply, “No, gentlemen, I will take a carriage some other time, when I have more leisure. I prefer walking to-day, as I am in a great hurry.” So, each with a cane in his hand and a portmanteau strapped on his back, Johnson, my pleasant traveling companion, and I set out on foot for “The Land of Burns.”

Luckily, we meet with some intelligent farmers who cheerfully give us much valuable information about the country. They, in turn, ask many questions concerning far-off America. Land in this part of Scotland is worth from two hundred to three hundred dollars per acre, and the annual rent is twenty to twenty-five dollars per acre. Most of the land in this country is owned by a few “lords” and “nobles,” and the “common people” are in bondage to them. They are in poverty and rags, as might naturally be expected from the exorbitant rents which they have to pay.

“Man’s inhumanity to man,

Makes countless millions mourn.”

The principal crops raised by the farmers of this country are wheat, oats, rye, barley and Irish potatoes. They grow no Indian corn. They do not know what corn-bread is—many of them have never heard of it.

After a walk of an hour and a half through a most charming country, we reach our destination. I am now sitting in the room where was born Robert Burns who, Dr. Whitsitt says, was the most important personage that the British Isles have produced since the time of Oliver Twist—oh, excuse me, I should have said, since the time of Oliver Cromwell. I would have had it right at first, if that “twist” had not gotten into my mind. This important personage was born 128 years ago. How long this cottage was standing before that time, we do not know; but, as you may imagine, it is now a rude and antique structure. It is built of stone, and the walls are about six feet high. It has an old-fashioned straw or thatched roof and a stone floor. A hundred years ago, this room had only one window. That is only eighteen inches square, and is on the back side of the house. In the time of Burns, the cottage had only two rooms, though some additions have since been made. The entire place is now owned by the “Ayr Burns’ Monument Association,” and the original rooms are used only as a museum, wherein are collected the furniture, books, manuscripts and other relics of the illustrious bard.

I have, for a long time, been somewhat familiar with the history and writings of the “Peasant Poet,” whose birthplace I now visit, and I have often read Carlyle’s caustic essay on Burns. I have just finished reading his life, written by James Currie. I have read, to-day, “The Holy Fair,” “Tam O’Shanter,” “Man Was Made to Mourn,” and “To Mary, in Heaven,” and now, as I sit in the room where this High Priest of Nature first saw light, as I sit at the table whereon he used to write, and view the relics which once belonged to him, I am carried back for a hundred years and made to breathe the atmosphere of the eighteenth century. As I sit within these silent walls, a strange feeling comes over me. I hear, or seem to hear, the lingering vibrations of that golden lyre, whose master indeed is dead, but whose music still finds a responsive echo in every human heart. Robert Burns, the man, was born of a woman but Robert Burns, the poet, was born of Nature! He stole the thoughts of Nature and told them to man. It was believed long ago that Burns was the High Priest, the interpreter, of Nature, and

“Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.”

The multitudes who hither come, prove by their coming that

“Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines,
Shrines to code nor creed confined—
The Delphic vales, the Palestines—
The Meccas of the mind.”

Some three hundred yards beyond the cottage, we come to the “Burns’ Monument,” beautifully situated on “The braes and banks o’bonnie Doon, Tugar’s winding stream.” A more appropriate location could not have been selected for this monument, as near by are the “Alloway Kirk,” the “Wallace Tower,” the “Auld Mill,” and the “Auld Hermit Ayr,” and other localities rendered famous by the muse of the ploughman poet. I stand on the “Brig o’ Doon” before reaching the keystone of which Meg, Tam O’Shanter’s mare, “left behind her ain grey tail.”

From the top of this towering monument, which stands in the midst of a beautiful flower-garden, I for once take a “broad view of life.” With one sweep of the eye, I see the Doon, the Ayr, the Clyde, the ocean! The scene is made more grand and inspiring, more picturesque and beautiful, by the lakes, plains, hills and mountains which lie between, overhang, and tower above, these laughing rivers. Ah! me, how my spirit is stirred! Like Father Ryan, I have thoughts too lofty for language to reach. In describing what I now see and feel, silence is the most impressive language that can be used. Thought is deeper than speech. Feeling is deeper than thought.