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sent state of the families about Glenburnie, you should nevertheless be so ignorant of the history of Jean MacClarty, as not to know that she some years ago married a cousin of her own, and that they keep a well-known inn on the ——— road. As their circumstances are, I fear, in a declining state, and as it may be in your power to avert their utter ruin, by inducing travellers to give a preference to their house, at which none, alas! now stop but from dire necessity, I shall be at pains to furnish you with such an exact description of it, as cannot fail to be instantly recognized.
I might begin by mentioning the slovenliness apparent about the entrance, the dirty state of the door-steps, &c.; but as this is not altogether peculiar to this inn, it might serve to mislead you. I shall, therefore, conduct you into the passage, the walls of which seem to have been painted at the time the colour called Paris mud was so much in fashion. The pavement and the stairs have a still blacker ground-work, over which lies a coat of sand, which answers the purpose of a register, and enables them to measure the size of every foot that treads the carpets of the adjoining rooms, as you will perceive on entering the best dining-room, into which you will of course be conducted. You
