The crowd was now fast gathering in the large field, in the midst of which the pavilion was situated.  We went down by the beautiful monument to Burns, to the “Auld Brig o’ Doon,” which was spanned by an arch of evergreens, containing a representation of Tam O’Shanter and his grey mare, pursued by the witches.  It had been arranged that the procession was to pass over the old and new bridges, and from thence by a temporary bridge over the hedge into the field.  At this latter place a stand was erected for the sons of Burns, the officers of the day, and distinguished guests.  Here was a beautiful specimen of English exclusiveness.  The space adjoining the pavilion was fenced around, and admittance denied at first to any, except those who had tickets for the dinner, which, the price being fifteen shillings, entirely prevented the humble laborers, who, more than all, should participate on the occasion, from witnessing the review of the procession by the sons of Burns, and hearing the eloquent speeches of Professor Wilson and Lord Eglintoun.  Thus, of the many thousands who were in the field, but a few hundred who were crowded between the bridge and the railing around the pavilion, enjoyed the interesting spectacle.  By good fortune, I obtained a stand, where I had an excellent view of the scene.  The sons of Burns were in the middle of the platform, with Eglintoun on the right, and Wilson on their left.  Mrs. Begg, sister of the Poet, with her daughters, stood by the Countess of Eglintoun.  She was a plain, benevolent looking woman, dressed in black, and appearing still active and vigorous, though she is upwards of eighty years old.  She bears some likeness, especially in the expression of her eye, to the Poet.  Robert Burns, the oldest son, appeared to me to have a strong resemblance of his father, and it is said he is the only one who remembers his face.  He has for a long time had an office under Government, in London.  The others have but lately returned from a residence of twenty years in India.  Professor Wilson appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene better than any of them.  He shouted and waved his hat, and, with his fine, broad forehead, his long brown locks already mixed with gray, streaming over his shoulders, and that eagle eye glancing over the vast assemblage, seemed a real Christopher North, yet full of the fire and vigor of youth—­“a gray-haired, happy boy!”

About half of the procession consisted of lodges of masons, all of whom turned out on the occasion, as Burns was one of the fraternity.  I was most interested in several companies of shepherds, from the hills, with their crooks and plaids; a body of archers in Lincoln green, with a handsome chief at their head, and some Highlanders in their most picturesque of costumes.  As one of the companies, which carried a mammoth thistle in a box, came near the platform, Wilson snatched a branch, regardless of its pricks, and placed it on his coat.  After this pageant,