We are this morning at Carlisle. After Skiddaw, we walked to Treby the oldest market town in Cumberland--where we were greatly amused by a country dancing-school holden at the Tun, it was indeed "no new cotillon fresh from France." No, they kickit and jumpit with mettle extraordinary, and whiskit, and friskit, and toed it, and go'd it, and twirl'd it, and whirl'd it, and stamped it, and sweated it, tattooing the floor like mad. The difference between our country dances and these Scottish figures is about the same as leisurely stirring a cup o' Tea and beating up a batter-pudding. I was extremely gratified to think that, if I had pleasures they knew nothing of, they had also some into which I could not possibly enter. I hope I shall not return without having got the Highland fling. There was as fine a row of boys and girls as you ever saw; some beautiful faces, and one exquisite mouth. I never felt so near the glory of Patriotism, the glory of making by any means a country happier. This is what I like better than scenery. I fear our continued moving from place to place will prevent our becoming learned in village affairs: we are mere creatures of Rivers, Lakes, and Mountains. Our yesterday's journey was from Treby to Wigton, and from Wigton to Carlisle. The Cathedral does not appear very fine--the Castle is very ancient, and of brick. The City is very various--old white-washed narrow streets--broad red-brick ones more modern--I will tell you anon whether the inside of the Cathedral is worth looking at. It is built of sandy red stone or Brick. We have now walked 114 miles, and are merely a little tired in the thighs, and a little blistered. We shall ride 38 miles to Dumfries, when we shall linger awhile about Nithsdale and Galloway. I have written two letters to Liverpool. I found a letter from sister George; very delightful indeed: I shall preserve it in the bottom of my knapsack for you. [Dumfries, evening of same day, July 1.] ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS. The Town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, The Clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem, Though beautiful, Cold--strange--as in a dream, I dreamed long ago, now new begun. The short-liv'd, paly Summer is but won From Winter's ague, for one hour's gleam; Though sapphire-warm, their stars do never beam: All is cold Beauty; pain is never done: For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise, The Real of Beauty, free from that dead hue Sickly imagination and sick pride Cast wan upon it! Burns! with honour due I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.