is called Shakspeare Street; and at its farther extremity we read
"Burns Street" on a corner house,--the avenue thus designated having
been formerly known as "Mill Hole Brae." It is a vile lane, paved with
small, hard stones from side to side, and bordered by cottages or mean
houses of white-washed stone, joining one to another along the whole
length of the street. With not a tree, of course, or a blade of grass
between the paving-stones, the narrow lane was as hot as Tophet, and
reeked with a genuine Scotch odor, being infested with unwashed
children, and altogether in a state of chronic filth; although some
women seemed to be hopelessly scrubbing the thresholds of their
wretched dwellings. I never saw an outskirt of a town less fit for a
poet's residence, or in which it would be more miserable for any man
of cleanly predilections to spend his days.

We asked for Burns's dwelling; and a woman pointed across the street
to a two-story house, built of stone, and white-washed, like its
neighbors, but perhaps of a little more respectable aspect than most
of them, though I hesitate in saying so. It was not a separate
structure, but under the same continuous roof with the next. There was
an inscription on the door, bearing no reference to Burns, but
indicating that the house was now occupied by a ragged or industrial
school. On knocking, we were instantly admitted by a servant-girl, who
smiled intelligently when we told our errand, and showed us into a low
and very plain parlor, not more than twelve or fifteen feet square.

A young woman, who seemed to be a teacher in the school, soon
appeared, and told us that this had been Burns's usual sitting-room,
and that he had written many of his songs here.

She then led us up a narrow staircase into a little bed-chamber over