home-like, that I would have
been glad to use the welcome that they gave me to their dwelling.

This day has been a strange phenomenon to me. In the first place, I have
seen in all these villages how universally the people read. I have seen
how capable they are of a generous excitement and enthusiasm, and how
much may be done by a work of fiction, so written as to enlist those
sympathies which are common to all classes. Certainly, a great deal may
be effected in this way, if God gives to any one the power, as I hope
he will to many. The power of fictitious writing, for good as well as
evil, is a thing which ought most seriously to be reflected on. No one
can fail to see that in our day it is becoming a very great agency.

We came home quite tired, as you may well suppose. You will not be
surprised that the next day I found myself more disposed to keep my bed
than to go out. I regretted it, because, being Sunday, I would like to
have heard some of the preachers of Glasgow. I was, however, glad of one
quiet day to recall my thoughts, for I had been whirling so rapidly from
scene to scene, that I needed time to consider where I was; especially
as we were to go to Edinburgh on the morrow.

Towards sunset Mr. S. and I strolled out entirely alone to breathe a
little fresh air. We walked along the banks of the Kelvin, quite down to
its junction with the Clyde. The Kelvin Grove of the ballad is all cut
away, and the Kelvin flows soberly between stone walls, with a footpath
on each side, like a stream that has learned to behave itself.

"There," said Mr. S., as we stood on the banks of the Clyde, now lying
flushed and tranquil in the light of the setting sun, "over there is
Ayrshire."

"Ayrshire!" I said; "what, where Burns lived?"

"Yes, there is his cottage, far down to the south, and out of sight, of
course; and there are the bonny banks of Ayr."

It seemed as if the evening air brought a kind of sigh with it. Poor
Burns! how inseparably he has woven himself with the warp and woof of
every Scottish association!

We saw a great many children of the poor out playing--rosy, fine little
urchins, worth, any one of them, a dozen bleached, hothouse flowers. We
stopped to hear them talk, and it was amusing to hear the Scotch of
Walter Scott and Burns shouted out with such a right good will. We were
as much struck by it as an honest Yankee was in Paris by the proficiency
of the children in speaking French.

The next day we b