458 MEMOIR OF GEORGE WILSON. CHAP. XI. 



ing for rest. " We have been here," he tells his brother, " for 

 more than a month, beside the rippling Tweed and the quiet 

 hills, singularly well off in some respects ; nevertheless, I have 

 not felt moved to write to you, being too tired after a summer's 

 engrossing work to feel a pen a welcome instrument, and com- 

 pelled notwithstanding to keep it going for some hours each 

 day. A holiday without any heavy writing is one of the 

 delights I look forward to. Lots of continuous reading in the 

 open air, with many musings over what is read ; perhaps a verss 

 or two spun, but the brain upon the whole lying fallow, or get- 

 ting only a mild top-dressing of intellectual guano, is my lazy 

 notion of a rustical month of holidays. I would have written 

 to you if I had had anything to write, but I had nothing in the 

 way of business, and the reflection on paper of my monotonous 

 life here would give no amusement. I had a faint purpose of 

 going to Leeds to the British Association meeting, which comes 

 off ten days hence, but I don't feel strong enough for the excite- 

 ment, and won't go. I paid for my Dublin journey last autumn 

 with a sharp attack of splenitis, which pulled me down all the 

 winter ; and my weary lungs bleed on the least provocation. 

 It makes me smile grimly to find that I must avoid a volume of 

 ' Punch/ as he makes me laugh at a rate of which my wind 

 organ by no means approves. Here I am resting these trouble- 

 some bellows, so as to make them serviceable for winter's work." 

 A volume of 'Punch' was a frequent addition to the books 

 selected for country reading. On one occasion a large parcel, 

 brought to the railway station when starting, was found to con- 

 sist of four volumes of that periodical. A niece, about five or 

 six years old, shared the pleasure of this study one autumn. 

 Each day after dinner were the illustrations admired by the two 

 together, clear ringing laughter testifying to the appreciation of 

 them, till at last the child declared as her settled conviction, 

 "Oh! Uncle George, I think 'Punch' is the most delightful 

 book in the world !" and that Uncle George was of the same 

 mind she could not doubt. 



While at Innerleithen the comet of 1858 began to show itself 

 distinctly to the naked eye, and was often watched from the 

 cottage door as it appeared above a hill directly opposite. At 



