My dear Fanny--I intended to have written to you from Kirkcudbright, the town I shall be in to-morrow--but I will write now because my Knapsack has worn my coat in the Seams, my coat has gone to the Tailor's and I have but one Coat to my back in these parts. I must tell you how I went to Liverpool with George and our new Sister and the Gentleman my fellow traveller through the Summer and autumn--We had a tolerable journey to Liverpool--which I left the next morning before George was up for Lancaster--Then we set off from Lancaster on foot with our Knapsacks on, and have walked a Little zig-zag through the mountains and Lakes of Cumberland and Westmoreland--We came from Carlisle yesterday to this place--We are employed in going up Mountains, looking at strange towns, prying into old ruins and eating very hearty breakfasts. Here we are full in the Midst of broad Scotch "How is it a' wi' yoursel"--the Girls are walking about bare-footed and in the worst cottages the smoke finds its way out of the door. I shall come home full of news for you and for fear I should choak you by too great a dose at once I must make you used to it by a letter or two. We have been taken for travelling Jewellers, Razor sellers and Spectacle vendors because friend Brown wears a pair. The first place we stopped at with our Knapsacks contained one Richard Bradshaw, a notorious tippler. He stood in the shape of a [Symbol: ounce] and ballanced himself as well as he could saying with his nose right in Mr. Brown's face "Do--yo--u sell spect--ta--cles?" Mr. Abbey says we are Don Quixotes--tell him we are more generally taken for Pedlars. All I hope is that we may not be taken for excisemen in this whisky country. We are generally up about 5 walking before breakfast and we complete our 20 miles before dinner.--Yesterday we visited Burns's Tomb and this morning the fine Ruins of Lincluden. [Auchencairn, same day, July 2.] I had done thus far when my coat came back fortified at all points--so as we lose no time we set forth again through Galloway--all very pleasant and pretty with no fatigue when one is used to it--We are in the midst of Meg Merrilies's country of whom I suppose you have heard. Old Meg she was a Gipsy, And liv'd upon the Moors: Her bed it was the brown heath turf, And her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants pods o' broom; Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her book a churchyard tomb. Her Brothers were the craggy hills, Her Sisters larchen trees-- Alone with her great family She liv'd as she did please. No breakfast had she many a morn, No dinner many a noon, And 'stead of supper she would stare Full hard against the Moon. But every morn of woodbine fresh She made her garlanding, And every night the dark glen Yew She wove, and she would sing.