k that our desire for an English cicerone was quite superfluous.

And now we pass Gretna Green, famous in story--that momentous place
which marks the commencement of Scotland. It is a little straggling
village, and there is a roadside inn, which has been the scene of
innumerable Gretna Green marriages.

Owing to the fact that the Scottish law of marriage is far more liberal
in its construction than the English, this place has been the refuge of
distressed lovers from time immemorial; and although the practice of
escaping here is universally condemned as very naughty and improper,
yet, like every other impropriety, it is kept in countenance by very
respectable people. Two lord chancellors have had the amiable weakness
to fall into this snare, and one lord chancellor's son; so says the
guide book, which is our Koran for the time being. It says, moreover,
that it would be easy to add a lengthened list of _distingues_ married
at Gretna Green; but these lord chancellors (Erskine and Eldon) are
quoted as being the most melancholy monuments. What shall meaner mortals
do, when law itself, in all her majesty, wig, gown, and all, goes by the
board?

Well, we are in Scotland at last, and now our pulse rises as the sun
declines in the west. We catch glimpses of the Solway Frith, and talk
about Redgauntlet.

One says, "Do you remember the scene on the sea shore, with which it
opens, describing the rising of the tide?"

And says another, "Don't you remember those lines in the Young Lochinvar
song?--

'Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide.'"

I wonder how many authors it will take to enchant our country from Maine
to New Orleans, as every foot of ground is enchanted here in Scotland.

The sun went down, and night drew on; still we were in Scotland. Scotch
ballads, Scotch tunes, and Scotch literature were in the ascendant. We
sang "Auld Lang Syne," "Scots wha ha'," and "Bonnie Doon," and then,
changing the key, sang Dundee, Elgin, and Martyrs.

"Take care," said Mr. S.; "don't get too much excited."

"Ah," said I, "this is a thing that comes only once in a lifetime; do
let us have the comfort of it. We shall never come into Scotland for the
_first time_ again."

"Ah," said another, "how I wish Walter Scott was alive!"

While we were thus at the fusion point of enthusiasm, the cars stopped
at Lockerby, where the real Old Mortality is buried. All was dim and
dark outside, but we soon became conscious that t