Allan Water and the Forth, we climbed Stirling Castle and looked on the purple peaks of the Ochill Mountains, the far Grampians, and the battle-fields of Bannockburn and Sheriff Muir.  Our German comrade, feeling little interest in the memory of the poet-ploughman, left in the steamboat for Edinburg; we mounted an English coach and rode to Falkirk, where we took the cars for Glasgow in order to attend the Burns Festival, on the 6th of August.

This was a great day for Scotland—­the assembling of all classes to do honor to the memory of her peasant-bard.  And right fitting was it, too, that such a meeting should be hold on the banks of the Doon, the stream of which he has sung so sweetly, within sight of the cot where he was born, the beautiful monument erected by his countrymen, and more than all, beside “Alloway’s witch-haunted wall!” One would think old Albyn would rise up at the call, and that from the wild hunters of the northern hills to the shepherds of the Cheviots, half her honest yeomanry would be there, to render gratitude to the memory of the sweet bard who was one of them, and who gave their wants and their woes such eloquent utterance.

For months before had the proposition been made to hold a meeting on the Doon, similar to the Shakspeare Festival on the Avon, and the 10th of July was first appointed for the day, but owing to the necessity of further time for preparation, it was postponed until the 6th of August.  The Earl of Eglintoun was chosen Chairman, and Professor Wilson Vice-Chairman; in addition to this, all the most eminent British authors were invited to attend.  A pavilion, capable of containing two thousand persons, had been erected near the monument, in a large field, which was thrown open to the public.  Other preparations were made and the meeting was expected to be of the most interesting character.

When we arose it was raining, and I feared that the weather might dampen somewhat the pleasures of the day, as it had done to the celebrated tournament at Eglintoun Castle.  We reached the station in time for the first train, and sped in the face of the wind over the plains of Ayrshire, which, under such a gloomy sky, looked most desolate.  We ran some distance along the coast, having a view of the Hills of Arran, and reached Ayr about nine o’clock.  We came first to the New Bridge, which had a triumphal arch in the middle, and the lines, from the “Twa Brigs of Ayr:” 

    “Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street,
    Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,
    Your ruin’d, formless bulk o’ stane and lime,
    Compare wi’ bonnie brigs o’ modern time?”

While on the arch of the ‘old brig’ was the reply: 

    “I’ll be a brig when ye’re a shapeless stane.”