CHAPTER ELEVENTH.Baron of Bucklivie,
May the foul fiend drive ye,
And a' to pieces rive ye,
For building sic a town,
Where there's neither horse meat,
Nor man's meat,
Nor a chair to sit down.
Scottish Popular Rhymes on a bad Inn.
The night was pleasant, and the moon afforded us good light for our journey. Under her rays, the ground over which we passed assumed a more interesting appearance than during the broad daylight, which discovered the extent of its wasteness. The mingled light and shadows gave it an interest which naturally did not belong to it; and, like the effect of a veil flung over a plain woman, irritated our curiosity on a subject which had in itself nothing gratifying.
The descent, however, still continued, turned, winded, left the more open heaths, and got into ste
