My companion and myself journeyed along—he interesting me on the way, by relating bits of history or incidents concerning places we passed, together with anecdotes of the people and their customs—until we arrived at the entrance of a natural basin or valley, that lay like a great emerald between two ranges of towering mountains. Upon the right, the mighty pile reared its lofty head in solemn grandeur; the morning shadows resting upon it, only serving to deepen the impressiveness of its height and power. Its base of a dark brown hue supported the rugged pile, which deepened in color as it arose, until its apex presented the appearance of a gigantic amethyst, glittering beneath the light of morning in an indescribable purple splendor. Upon the left arose a range of polished stone, as white as sculptured marble, which gleamed and glistened in the sunlight like a mountain of frost work. Its numerous crags and peaks shone like so many spears of frozen snow, the rosy light resting upon its sparkling surface causing it to present an appearance at once marvelous and bewitching to the beholder. In the hollow formed by these mountain ranges nestled the valley I have mentioned, covered with a luxuriant growth of vegetation and verdure. Fields of ripening grain, blooming gardens, delighting the senses with their fragrance and beauty, waving trees, in all the glory of exuberant foliage, were to be seen in every direction, while the white cottages of the dwellers gleamed here and there, and in their delightful locality bore every indication of home comfort. The people whom we saw busy about their gardens, or caught glimpses of between the open doorways of their houses, appeared happy and contented; their dress was simple, and seemingly worn for comfort; their countenances betokened peace and liberty. Songs of innocence and mirth arose upon the balmy air, mingling with the tones of children’s merry laughter. In short, here was an Arcadia in real life, such as any poet might be proud to dream of, and to picture out to the delight of his fellow-men. “These,” said my friend, “are the people who have gathered about Robbie Burns, as a flock of sheep gather around a beloved shepherd; or better, as a group of children gather about a beloved and venerated father, to listen to his advice, and follow his counsel, knowing it is for their good. “Robert Burns has made these people what they are. They have come to spirit life one by one, worn and weary from the cares of earth; some of them even sin-sick and degraded from unnatural lives, led while in the body. He has gathered them together, taught them self-reliance, preached to them through the opening flower, the running stream, and the songs of birds. He has taught them to forget their cares, and to desire a nobler existence. He has set them at work to cultivate their gardens and build themselves homes. In doing this they have grown happy and found rest.