ht be seen over the dim outline of the Muirfoot Hills. After crossing
the border, we passed the scene of the encounter between Percy and
Douglass, celebrated in "Chevy Chase," and at the lonely inn of
Whitelee, in the valley below, took up our quarters for the night.

Travellers have described the Cheviots as being bleak and uninteresting.
Although they are bare and brown, to me the scenery was of a character
of beauty entirely original. They are not rugged and broken like the
Highlands, but lift their round backs gracefully from the plain, while
the more distant ranges are clad in many an airy hue. Willis quaintly
and truly remarks, that travellers only tell you the picture produced in
their own brain by what they see, otherwise the world would be like a
pawnbroker's shop, where each traveller wears the cast-off clothes of
others. Therefore let no one, of a gloomy temperament, journeying over
the Cheviots in dull November, arraign me for having falsely praised
their beauty.

I was somewhat amused with seeing a splendid carriage with footmen and
outriders, crossing the mountain, the glorious landscape full in view,
containing a richly dressed lady, _fast asleep!_ It is no uncommon thing
to meet carriages in the Highlands, in which the occupants are
comfortably reading, while being whirled through the finest scenery. And
_apropos_ of this subject, my German friend related to me an incident.
His brother was travelling on the Rhine, and when in the midst of the
grandest scenes, met a carriage containing an English gentleman and
lady, both asleep, while on the seat behind was stationed an artist,
sketching away with all his might. He asked the latter the reason of his
industry, when he answered, "Oh! my lord wishes to see every night what
he has passed during the day, and so I sketch as we go along!"

The hills, particularly on the English side, are covered with flocks of
sheep, and lazy shepherds lay basking in the sun, among the purple
heather, with their shaggy black dogs beside them. On many of the hills
are landmarks, by which, when the snow has covered all the trucks, they
can direct their way. After walking many miles through green valleys,
down which flowed the Red Water, its very name telling of the conflicts
which had crimsoned its tide, we came to the moors, and ten miles of
blacker, drearier waste I never saw. Before entering them we passed the
pretty little village of Otterburn, near the scene of the battle. I