[Girvan, same day, July 10.]

Thus far had I written before we set out this morning. Now we are at Girvan 13 Miles north of Belantree. Our Walk has been along a more grand shore to-day than yesterday-Ailsa beside us all the way.— From the heights we could see quite at home Cantire and the large Mountains of Annan, one of the Hebrides. We are in comfortable Quarters. The Rain we feared held up bravely and it has been "fu fine this day."To-morrow we shall be at Ayr.

[Kirkoswald, July 11.]

'Tis now the 11th of July and we have come 8 Miles to Breakfast to Kirkoswald. I hope the next Kirk will be Kirk Alloway. I have nothing of consequence to say now concerning our journey—so I will speak as far as I can judge on the Irish and Scotch-I know nothing of the higher Classes-yet I have a persuasion that there the Irish are victorious. As to the profanum vulgus I must incline to the Scotch. They never laugh-but they are always comparatively neat and clean. Their constitutions are not so remote and puzzling as the Irish. The Scotchman will never give a decision on any pointhe will never commit himself in a sentence which may be referred to as a meridian in his notion of things—so that you do not know him—and yet you may come in nigher neighbourhood to him than to the Irishman who commits himself in so many places that it dazes your head. A Scotchman's motive is more easily discovered than an Irishman's. A Scotchman will go wisely about to deceive you, an Irishman cunningly. An Irishman would bluster out of any discovery to his disadvantage. A Scotchman would retire perhaps without much desire for revenge. An Irishman likes to be thought a gallous fellow. A Scotchman is contented with himself. It seems to me they are both sensible of the Character they hold in England and act accordingly to Englishmen. Thus

K

the Scotchman will become over grave and over decent and the Irishman over-impetuous. I like a Scotchman best because he is less of a bore-I like the Irishman best because he ought to be more comfortable.—The Scotchman has made up his Mind within himself in a sort of snail shell wisdom. The Irishman is full of strongheaded instinct. The Scotchman is farther in Humanity than the Irishman-there he will stick perhaps when the Irishman will be refined beyond him—for the former thinks he cannot be improved the latter would grasp at it for ever, place but the good plain before him.

Maybole, [same day, July 11].

Since breakfast we have come only four Miles to dinner, not merely, for we have examined in the way two Ruins, one of them very fine, called Crossraguel Abbey-there is a winding Staircase to the top of a little Watch Tower.

Kingswells, July 13.

I have been writing to Reynolds-therefore any particulars since Kirkoswald have escaped me-from said Kirk we went to Maybole to dinner—then we set forward to Burness' town Ayr—the approach to it is extremely fine quite outwent my expectations-richly meadowed, wooded, heathed and rivuleted-with a grand Sea view terminated by the black Mountains of the isle of Annan. As soon as I saw them so nearly I said to myself "How is it they did not beckon Burns to some grand attempt at Epic?"

The bonny Doon is the sweetest river I ever saw— overhung with fine trees as far as we could see-We stood some time on the Brig across it, over which Tam o'Shanter fled—we took a pinch of snuff on the Key stone-then we proceeded to the "auld Kirk Alloway." As we were looking at it a Farmer pointed the spots where Mungo's Mither hang'd hersel' and "drunken Charlie brake's neck's bane." Then we proceeded to the Cottage he was born in--there was a board to that effect

by the door side-it had the same effect as the same sort of memorial at Stratford on Avon. We drank some Toddy to Burns's Memory with an old Man who knew Burns-damn him and damn his anecdotes-he was a great bore—it was impossible for a Southron to understand above 5 words in a hundred.-There was something good in his description of Burns's melancholy the last time he saw him. I was determined to write a sonnet in the Cottage-I did—but it was so bad I cannot venture it here.

Next we walked into Ayr Town and before we went to Tea saw the new Brig and the Auld Brig and Wallace tower. Yesterday we dined with a Traveller. We were talking about Kean. He said he had seen him at Glasgow "in Othello in the Jew, I mean er, er, er, the Jew in Shylock." He got bother'd completely in vague ideas of the Jew in Othello, Shylock in the Jew, Shylock in Othello, Othello in Shylock, the Jew in Othello, etc. etc. etc.-he left himself in a mess at last.-Still satisfied with himself he went to the Window and gave an abortive whistle of some tune or other-it might have been Handel. There is no end to these Mistakes-he'll go and tell people how he has seen Malvolio in the Countess "Twelfth night in Midsummer night's dream"Bottom in much ado about Nothing--Viola in Barrymore -Antony in Cleopatra-Falstaff in the mouse Trap.—

[Glasgow,] July 14.

We enter'd Glasgow last Evening under the most oppressive Stare a body could feel. When we had crossed the Bridge Brown look'd back and said its whole population had turned out to wonder at uswe came on till a drunken Man came up to me I put him off with my Arm-he returned all up in Arms saying aloud that, "he had seen all foreigners bu-u-ut he never saw the like o' me." I was obliged to mention the word Officer and Police before he would desist. The City of Glasgow I take to be a very fine

one I was astonished to hear it was twice the size of Edinburgh. It is built of Stone and has a much more solid appearance than London. We shall see the Cathedral this morning-they have devilled it into " High Kirk." I want very much to know the name of the ship George is gone in-also what port he will land in -I know nothing about it. I hope you are leading a quiet Life and gradually improving. Make a long lounge of the whole Summer-by the time the Leaves fall I shall be near you with plenty of confab-there are a thousand things I cannot write. Take care of yourself -I mean in not being vexed or bothered at anything. God bless you!

JOHN

LX.--TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS.

Maybole, July 11 [1818].

My dear Reynolds-I'll not run over the Ground we have passed; that would be merely as bad as telling a dream-unless perhaps I do it in the manner of the Laputan printing press-that is I put down Mountains, Rivers Lakes, dells, glens, Rocks, and Clouds, with beautiful enchanting, Gothic picturesque fine, delightful, enchanting, Grand, sublime-a few blisters, etc.—and now you have our journey thus far: where I begin a letter to you because I am approaching Burns's Cottage very fast. We have made continual inquiries from the time we saw his Tomb at Dumfries-his name of course is known all about his great reputation among the plodding people is, "that he wrote a good mony sensible things." One of the pleasantest means of annulling self is approaching such a shrine as the Cottage of Burns—we need not think of his misery—that is all gone, bad luck to it-I shall look upon it hereafter with unmixed pleasure, as I do upon my Stratford-on-Avon day with Bailey. I shall fill this sheet for you in the Bardie's country, going no further than this till I get into the town of Ayr which will be a 9 miles' walk to Tea.

[Kingswells, July 13.]

We were talking on different and indifferent things, when on a sudden we turned a corner upon the immediate Country of Ayr-the Sight was as rich as possible. I had no Conception that the native place of Burns was so beautiful- the idea I had was more desolate, his 'rigs of Barley' seemed always to me but a few strips of Green on a cold hill-O prejudice! it was as rich as Devon-I endeavoured to drink in the Prospect, that I might spin it out to you as the Silkworm makes silk from Mulberry leaves-I cannot recollect it-Besides all the Beauty, there were the Mountains of Arran Isle, black and huge over the Sea. We came down upon everything suddenly-there were in our way the 'bonny Doon,' with the Brig that Tam o' Shanter crossed, Kirk Alloway, Burns's Cottage, and then the Brigs of Ayr. First we stood upon the Bridge across the Doon; surrounded by every Phantasy of green in Tree, Meadow, and Hill,— the stream of the Doon, as a Farmer told us, is covered with trees from head to foot-you know those beautiful heaths so fresh against the weather of a summer's evening-there was one stretching along behind the trees. I wish I knew always the humour my friends would be in at opening a letter of mine, to suit it to them as nearly as possible. I could always find an egg shell for Melancholy, and as for Merriment a Witty humour will turn anything to Account-My head is sometimes in such a whirl in considering the million likings and antipathies of our Moments-that I can get into no settled strain in my Letters. My Wig! Burns and sentimentality coming across you and Frank Fladgate in the officeO scenery that thou shouldst be crushed between two Puns-As for them I venture the rascalliest in the Scotch Region-I hope Brown does not put them punctually in his journal-If he does I must sit on the cutty-stool all next winter. We went to Kirk Alloway-"a Prophet is no Prophet in his own Country"-We went to the Cottage