, took us in his carriage
across the Nith, through a scene of natural luxuriance and beauty not
to be surpassed, and under a sun of as intense brilliancy as ever
shone in these climes. Passing into a high side-valley, we soon left
the glowing plains of Nithsdale behind. We passed under the farmstead
of Laggan of Dunscore, and thought of Burns and Nicol coming there to
seduce the worthy farmer away to partake of their festivities at
Minniehive. By and by we came to Dunscore kirk, which Burns used to
attend with his family while resident at Ellisland--a gloomy-looking
man, the people thought him, all the time that he, with his generous,
benevolent nature, was in reality groaning over the stern Calvinistic
theology of the preacher. It is a tract of country which has but
recently been reclaimed from a marshy and moorish state, and which
still shews only partial traces of decoration and high culture. In a
gloomy recess among the hills, we caught a glimpse of the situation of
the old castle of Lagg, a fortalice surrounded by bogs, the ancient
residence of the persecutor Grierson of Lagg, and fit scene to be
connected with the history of a man who could coolly stand to see
innocent women drowned at a stake in the sea for conscience' sake. The
name of the place is pure Norwegian, expressing simply _water_, such
being, no doubt, the predominating feature of the scenery in its
original state--while Laggan merely gives the article _en_ (the) in
addition. Soon after passing Dunscore, we entered the valley of the
Cairn, which, with its chalet-like farmhouses far up the slopes on
both sides, reminded us much of Switzerland. Here, a few miles onward,
we saw Maxwellton House, surrounded by those slopes so warmly spoken
of in Scottish song--

Maxwellton braes are bonnie,
Where early fa's the dew;
Where I and Annie Laurie,
Made up the promise true, &c.

Of this estate, the Laggan of William Nicol was originally a part,
being sold in 1790 by Sir Robert Laurie of Maxwellton, a gentleman
whom Burns has celebrated in his famous poem of 'The Whistle.' Even in
this splendid summer-day, the whole vale has a rude and triste
appearance, somewhat at issue with the declaration of the old song
just quoted, and not likely, one would have thought, to attract the
regard of such men as William Nicol and Robert Burns.

We had inquired, as we came along, as to the place of which we were in
quest; and finding nobody with a very cle