for three days, to
rest and work. The moral of all this is, that there is no place like
home; and that I thank God most heartily for having given me a quiet
spirit, and a heart that won't hold many people. I sigh for Devonshire
Terrace and Broadstairs, for battledoor and shuttlecock; I want to dine
in a blouse with you and Mac; and I feel Topping's merits more acutely
than I have ever done in my life. On Sunday evening, the 17th of July, I
shall revisit my household gods, please Heaven. I wish the day were
here. For God's sake be in waiting. I wish you and Mac would dine in
Devonshire Terrace that day with Fred. He has the key of the cellar.
_Do._ We shall be at Inverary in the Highlands on Tuesday week, getting
to it through the Pass of Glencoe, of which you may have heard! On
Thursday following we shall be at Glasgow, where I shall hope to receive
your last letter before we meet. At Inverary, too, I shall make sure of
finding at least one, at the post-office. . . . Little Allan is trying hard
for the post of queen's limner for Scotland, vacant by poor Wilkie's
death. Every one is in his favor but ----, who is jobbing for some one
else. Appoint him, will you, and I'll give up the premiership.--How I
breakfasted to-day in the house where Scott lived seven-and-twenty
years; how I have made solemn pledges to write about missing children in
the _Edinburgh Review_, and will do my best to keep them; how I have
declined to be brought in, free gratis for nothing and qualified to
boot, for a Scotch county that's going a-begging, lest I should be
thought to have dined on Friday under false pretenses; these, with other
marvels, shall be yours anon. . . . I must leave off sharp, to get dressed
and off upon the seven miles' dinner-trip. Kate's affectionate regards.
My hearty loves to Mac and Grim." Grim was another great artist having
the same beginning to his name, whose tragic studies had suggested an
epithet quite inapplicable to any of his personal qualities.

The narrative of the trip to the Highlands must have a chapter to itself
and its incidents of adventure and comedy. The latter chiefly were due
to the guide who accompanied him, a quasi-Highlander himself, named a
few pages back as Mr. Kindheart, whose real name was Mr. Angus Fletcher,
and to whom it hardly needs that I should give other mention than will
be supplied by such future notices of him as my friend's letters may
contain. He had a wayward kind of talent, which he