ting until I should have time for a good long epistle;
and it is astonishing what a number of trifles have
interfered to prevent my commencing on a great scale. The
last of these has been rather of an extraordinary kind, for
your little friend Walter has chose to make himself the town
talk, by taking what seemed to be the small-pox, despite of
vaccination in infancy, and inoculation with the variolous
matter thereafter, which last I resorted to by way of making
assurance double sure. The medical gentleman who attended
him is of opinion that he _has_ had the real small-pox, but
it shall never be averred by me--for the catastrophe of Tom
Thumb is enough to deter any thinking person from entering
into a feud with the cows. Walter is quite well again, which
was the principal matter I was interested in. We had very
nearly been in a bad scrape, for I had fixed the Monday on
which he sickened, to take him with me for the Christmas
vacation to Abbotsford. It is probable that he would not
have pleaded headache when there was such a party in view,
especially as we were to shoot wild ducks one day together
at Cauldshiels Loch; and what the consequence of such a
journey might have been, God alone knows.

{p.013} I am clear of The Lord of the Isles, and I trust you
have your copy. It closes my poetic labors upon an extended
scale: but I dare say I shall always be dabbling in rhyme
until the _solve senescentem_. I have directed the copy to
be sent to Portland Place. I want to shake myself free of
Waverley, and accordingly have made a considerable exertion
to finish an odd little tale within such time as will
mystify the public, I trust--unless they suppose me to be
Briareus. Two volumes are already printed, and the only
persons in my confidence, W. Erskine and Ballantyne, are of
opinion that it is much more interesting than Waverley. It
is a tale of private life, and only varied by the perilous
exploits of smugglers and excisemen. The success of Waverley
has given me a spare hundred or two, which I have resolved
to spend in London this spring, bringing up Charlotte and
Sophia with me. I do not forget my English friends--but I
fear they will forget me, unless I show face now and then.
My correspondence gradually drops, as must happen when
p