60 TWEED. 



hand, to those of our friends who are departing 

 from our shores, perhaps alas ! for ever. What 

 is this earth, and all it gives us, unless we 

 cultivate, and have friendships, without which, 

 as Shakespear says, we become ' Blocks and 

 stones, and worse than senseless things ; ' and 

 Sterne says, l He would go fifty miles a-foot to 

 kiss the hand of the man who pretended not to 

 criticise his author.' By the same rule, he 

 would now go five hundred. Thus do our senses 

 change our ideas, and they, in their turn, lead 

 us up to higher ones still, l Till to perfection we 

 arrive.' 



I remember, a few years ago, leaving London 

 by the Great Northern at nine P.M., and being 

 at Berwick-on-Tweed by a little after six A.M., 

 quite wonderful ; and getting to ' our cottage ' 

 at Thornilee, I rested the Sabbath-day, far 

 away from the busy haunts of men, and literally 

 without an address, for no one knew of my 

 whereabouts. Here I w T as far beyond the post- 

 man's knock, my address known only to my- 

 self. I remember a Cockney friend of mine 

 graphically giving me an account of his feel- 

 ings at being without an address. He had 

 been wandering among the Highlands of Scot- 



