In which case the Parcel, _without_ any Letter, must
have seemed a little enigmatic to you! The reason was this: I
miscounted the day of the month, unlucky that I was. Sitting
down one morning with full purpose to write at large, and
all my tools round me, I discover that it is no longer
the third of November; that it is already the _fourth,_
and the American Mail-Packet has already lifted anchor!
Irrevocable, irremediable! Nothing remained but to wait for
the 18th;--and now, as you see, to take Time by the forelock,--
_queue,_ as we all know, he has none.
My visit to Scotland was wholesome for me, tho' full of sadness,
as the like always is. Thirty years mow away a Generation of
Men. The old Hills, the old Brooks and Houses, are still there;
but the Population has marched away, almost all; it is not there
any more. I cannot enter into light talk with the survivors and
successors; I withdraw into silence, and converse with the old
dumb crags rather, in a melancholy and abstruse manner.--Thank
God, my good old Mother is still there; old and frail, but still
young of heart; as young and strong _there,_ I think, as ever.
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