advanced, Dr Burton
was excessively hospitable. He could not bear that any person, rich or
poor, should leave his house unrefreshed, and he made both servants and
children welcome to see their friends if these did not trespass on his
time. A nervous inquiry in later years, if he heard of any guest being
expected, was, "He, or she, will not meddle with me, will he?" Assured
that the privacy of his library would be respected, any one was free to
the rest of the house; and if they showed no disposition to intrude, Dr
Burton would gradually become tame to them, and in some few instances
appear to enjoy a temporary addition to the family circle. Such
instances were, however, rare and ever rarer. He was strongly attached
to his home and home circle, and preferred having no addition to it. A
very partial parent to all his children, his sons were his special pride
and happiness.

During the first years of Craighouse, his wife was able to accompany him
in those long rambles on the Pentlands which were his favourite
amusement. Afterwards, when she was unable for the exertion, he found
pleasant companions in his sons.

Several times during those years he spent some weeks on the Continent.
He generally wrote daily during all absences, but his letters, as
already said, were for the most part brief,--chiefly craving for news
from home, which was also written for him daily. If any accident
prevented his receiving his daily letter, he expressed agonies of
apprehension about all possible or impossible ills. In regard to the
health of his family he was painfully anxious and apprehensive.

The subjoined letters are offered as specimens of his correspondence.

"ATHENAEUM CLUB,
_29th June 1871_.

"MY DEAR WILLIE,[13]--As you and I have often gone geologising
together, I'll tell you how I got on at St Albans, where, I suppose
you know, I saw cousin William.[14] You know the conglomerates.
They are generally hard little stones in a casing of sandstone,
lime, or other soft matter. I have known for thirty years, in a
lapidary's window in Perth, a large piece of conglomerate, where
all is hard and flinty, taking a beautiful polish. After much
inquiry I found that this was got in Hertfordshire, where St Albans
is. I could get no account of any rock of it, however. But as there
was a committee of agriculturists smoking in the inn every evening,
I joined them, and got my informa