The scene, with this single dwelling, was melancholy and wild, but not dreary, though there was no tree nor shrub: the small streamlet glittered, the hills were populous with sheep, but the gentle bending of the valley, and the correspondent softness in the forms of the hills were of themselves enough to delight the eye.
A good story is told of one of the Armstrongs and the inn:
Once when Lord Kames went for the first time on the Circuit as Advocate-depute, Armstrong of Sorbie inquired of Lord Minto in a whisper "What long black, dour-looking Chiel" that was that they had broc'ht with them?
"That," said his lordship, "is a man come to hang a' the Armstrongs."
"Then," was the dry retort, "it's time the Elliots were ridin'."[Footnote: Elliot was the family name of Lord Minto.]
The effusions of one of the local poets whose district we had passed through had raised our expectations in the following lines:
There's a wee toon on the Borders
That my heart sair langs to see,
Where in youthful days I wander'd,
Knowing every bank and brae;