solved not to lose another post.

and tell Jace, with a kiss, that I

Love to all, will write to

her again when she does to her and your most loving father.

NORMAN MACLEOD TO HIS SON.

GLASGOW, August 4, 1862.

I am so glad you are in Morven, and so happy there. I never was so happy in all my life as I used to be when I was a boy there. I think of you as if you were myself young again. For I fished with Sandy and Uncle John for cod among the rocks in the bay, and in the burn for trout, and went to the Byre for warm milk, just as you are doing. But then all the old terriers are dead. There were Cuilag and Gasgach-oh, such dogs! If you saw them worry an otter or wild-cat! They would never give in. Ask your Uncle John about them, and ask him to show you the otter's den at Clachoran. O Nommey, be happy! for when you are old like me you will remember Fiunary as if it was the Garden of Eden, without the serpent.

I wish you could remember, as I can, all the dear friends who were once there, and who

would have loved you as they loved me-my grandpa, with his white hair and blind eyes, and my grandmamma so kind and loving, and aunts Margaret, Mary, Grace, Archy, Jessy. I see all their faces now before me. They were all so good, and loved God and everybody. Dockie, dear! thank God for good friends, and for having so many of them.

Did they show you where I lived when I was a boy, and the school I used to be in? . . .

NORMAN MACLEOD TO HIS DAUGHTER (UPON HER FIRST LEAVING HOME TO GO TO SCHOOL).

GLASGOW, April 30, 1865.

So you were very sorry, old girl, when we left you that day? You thought you would not care. Hem! I knew better.

And so the poor lassie cried, and was so lonely the first night, and would have given worlds to be at home again! And your old dad was not a bit sorry to leave you, not he— cruel-hearted man that he is! Nor was your mother, wretched old woman that she is! And yet "you would wonder" how sorry we both were, and how often the old man said "Poor dear darling!" But no tear filled our eye.

Are you sure of that? I'm not. And the old father said: "I'm not afraid of my girl. I'm sure she will prove herself good, kind, loving, and obedient, and won't be lazy, but do her work like a heroine, and remember all her old dad told her!" and her mammy said the same. And then the mammy would cry, and the old dad would call her a fool (respectfully). And so we reached London, and then we got your letter, which made us very happy, and then the old man said: "Never fear! she will do right well, and will be very happy, and Miss will like her, and she will like Miss !" and "We shall soon meet again!" chimed in the mammy. "If it be God's will we shall," said the dad, "and won't we be happy!"

God bless you, my darling! May you love your own Father in heaven far more than you love your own father on earth, and I know how truly you love me, and you know how truly I love you; but He loves you infinitely more than I can possibly do, though I give you my whole heart.

Will you write a line to the old man? And, remember, he won't criticise it, but be glad to hear all your chatter.

THOMAS DE QUINCEY TO MISS MARY RUSSEL MITFORD.

LASSWADE, 1842.

More pleasant it must be if I try to give you some clue to the motive, the how and the why, of my residence in this place. My companions, as you know, are my three daughters, who, if it should be found that they had no other endowment from the bounty of nature, have this one, perhaps better than all that I could ask for them from the most potent of fairies, viz. that they live in the most absolute harmony I have ever witnessed. Such a sound as that of dissension in any shade or degree I have not once heard issuing from their lips. And it gladdens me beyond measure that all day long I hear from their little drawing-room intermitting sounds of gayety and laughter, the most natural and spontaneous. Three sisters more entirely loving to each other, and more unaffectedly drawing their daily pleasures from sources that will always continue to lie within their power-viz.: books and music,--I have not either known or heard of. Our dwelling is a little cottage, containing eight rooms only, one of which (the largest), or what in London is called the first floor, is used as a drawing

Vol. I.

room, and one about half the size, on the ground-floor, a dining-room, but for a party of ten people at the utmost. Our garden gate is exactly seven measured miles from the Scott Monument in Princes Street, Edinburgh. Lasswade, to which nominally we allocate ourselves, is in fact one mile and a half distant; but, as it is the nearest town possessing a market and a regular post-office (Dalkeith, which is very much larger, being distant three and a half miles or more), and as our means of communicating with Lasswade, though imperfect enough, are better than with any other place, it follows that Lasswade is the best address. We keep only two servants (female servants), a housemaid and a cook, and with so narrow a command of labor, we are unable to send for our letters, the journey to and fro making a clear total of three miles' walking.

JULIUS HARE TO FRANCIS HARE.

HURSTMONCEAUX, March 6, 1834. It is very, very long since I wrote to you. I began a letter to you indeed this day two months, but I could not finish it. All other feelings of late have been swallowed up in anx