HIGHLANDS OF GALLOWAY. ETJEKS. 61 



Kirkcudbright, which was to be our resting-place, if possible, 

 for the evening. But we learned that the road was wild, some- 

 what difficult, traversing the most uncultivated parts of Gallo- 

 way ; inns scarce ; accommodation for man and horse difficult to 

 be obtained ; the sun had crossed the high lands of Galloway ; 

 the valley of the lake was already becoming obscure. Yet it 

 was by this road we hesitated travelling, that Eobert Burns 

 journeyed on horseback when on a visit to the noble family of 

 Selkirk. On that wild and desolate heath he composed that 

 immortal ode, the Song of Liberty. 



But there was another inducement to travel by this road 

 which, yet strong as it was, prevailed not. A young friend, a 

 native himself of these wilds, had assured me that there lay 

 scattered over that mountain range or country, small lakes, 

 containing trout of estimable quality ; dark-spotted, of moderate 

 size, pink- coloured flesh, admirable to eat. Now I am fond of trout 

 with pink-coloured flesh. On reading this, some will affirm that 

 I cannot be a true sportsman. Nor am I ; I never viewed as a 

 sport the destruction of any animal. I wander by the banks of 

 lake and river, trying here and trying there, careless what be 

 the success or result. Latterly, I confess, my ideas on this 

 point occasionally underwent a change, the cause of which shall 

 appear in the sequel of this journey. 



Prudence prevailed, and we turned our horse's head towards 

 Castle Douglas, keeping therefore along the northern side of 

 Ken for many miles. And now it was nightfall, and we had to , 

 inquire our way of the first traveller we met. He proved to be 

 a friend and old acquaintance ; a short half-hour brought us to 

 Castle Douglas. How we sped there, I need not relate. The town 

 happened to be full of personal and esteemed friends, of whose 

 residence I was ignorant at the time. But declining all their kind 

 invitations, we left by break of day this friendly and pleasant town, 

 making our way with all convenient speed to Kirkcudbright. Of 

 that which I have neither seen nor touched, I can form no sure 

 idea, neither did I ever meet with any one who could. Yet never 

 was I accused of a defective imagination. St. Mary's Isle, Kirk- 

 cudbright, the Loch of Ken, and Paul Jones, were as familiar to me 

 as household words. They were household words. From the time I 

 could listen to anything, the first words I heard were, St. Mary's 



