er take that walk by the Fisher's Tryst and Glencorse. I
shall never see Auld Reekie. I shall never set my foot again upon the
heather. Here I am until I die, and here will I be buried. The word is
out and the doom written. Or, if I do come, it will be a voyage to a
further goal, and in fact a suicide; which, however, if I could get my
family all fixed up in the money way, I might, perhaps, perform, or
attempt. But there is a plaguey risk of breaking down by the way; and I
believe I shall stay here until the end comes like a good boy, as I am.
If I did it, I should put upon my trunks: "Passenger to--Hades."

How strangely wrong your information is! In the first place, I should
never carry a novel to Sydney; I should post it from here. In the second
place, _Weir of Hermiston_ is as yet scarce begun. It's going to be
excellent, no doubt; but it consists of about twenty pages. I have a
tale, a shortish tale in length, but it has proved long to do, _The Ebb
Tide_, some part of which goes home this mail. It is by me and Mr.
Osbourne, and is really a singular work. There are only four characters,
and three of them are bandits--well, two of them are, and the third is
their comrade and accomplice. It sounds cheering, doesn't it? Barratry,
and drunkenness, and vitriol, and I cannot tell you all what, are the
beams of the roof. And yet--I don't know--I sort of think there's
something in it. You'll see (which is more than I ever can) whether
Davis and Attwater come off or not.

_Weir of Hermiston_ is a much greater undertaking, and the plot is not
good, I fear; but Lord Justice-Clerk Hermiston ought to be a plum. Of
other schemes, more or less executed, it skills not to speak.

I am glad to hear so good an account of your activity and interests, and
shall always hear from you with pleasure; though I am, and must
continue, a mere sprite of the inkbottle, unseen in the flesh. Please
remember me to your wife and to the four-year-old sweetheart, if she be
not too engrossed with higher matters. Do you know where the road
crosses the burn under Glencorse Church? Go there, and say a prayer for
me: _moriturus salutat_. See that it's a sunny day; I would like it to
be a Sunday, but that's not possible in the premises; and stand on the
right-hand bank just where the road goes down into the water, and shut
your eyes, and if I don't appear to you! well, it can't be helped, and
will be extremely funny.

I have no concern here but to work an