rise and sunset; leaving ourselves in doubt, when we had got home to bed, whether the sense of toil or of pleasure predominated. However, we saw much to remember and to think of—and of this not the least was the tomb of Southey, from which we brought home with us grass and wild-flowers. As the extent of our medical practice still remains undiminished, little leisure falls, (happily, it may be,) to my lot. That leisure I always devote to literature. My present task is a collected edition of Mrs Hemans' works, with notes, which will appear before the end of the year, in a companion form with the single-volume editions of Scott, Byron, Wordsworth and Crabbe. You are probably aware that the copyright of her poems belongs to the Blackwoods, for whom, some years ago, I edited the edition in seven volumes." To Myself, 13th August.-" Professor Wilson, Douglas Cheape, and Stephens, dined with me ten days ago. The Professor remained all night; and I had a long two-handed crack with him after all had left us. He retains all his original vigour. In spite of my wish to the contrary, I have, during the last three years, been drawn into several societies-the Medico-Chirurgical, the Harveian, the Antiquarian, and the Highland." Moir was also a member of the Musselburgh Golf Club. To the same, 19th November.-"I see you are all against me on the cholera question; but, unless I am a monomaniac, depend upon it you are all wrong. Every fact which has occurred since the new eruption forms a link in the chain of my evidence. To all the localities where cholera has appeared, the traces of its importation are nearly demonstrable; nor one whit less evident is its spread from one part of these localities to another by contact. Many thousand human lives, however, must, I fear, be sacrificed to the demon

of the air ere the real truth be acknowledged and acted I bide my time."

on.

66

In this "nation of shopkeepers," as Napoleon termed us, the purely literary man is looked upon as a sort of adventurer, and has no recognised status in society. The loose irregular lives of too many of our wits" of bygone generations, when it was thought that there could scarcely be spirit and genius without waywardness and unholy liberties-a folly of estimate which poor Burns was not altogether free from-have certainly not helped to mend the matter. Still, if a literary man behave properly, he will find himself in England no mere nomadic outcast. To make no exacting assertion of the claims of literature, on the one hand, and steadily to take his stand by it, on the other, as a worthy calling, and his sole fortune, is, for the literary man, to do right, and to take sufficient rank. And go where he will, in out-of-the-way places and odd corners of the country, he will always find something of personal affection, in people whom he has never seen before, mixed up with his public reputation. This is the best part of it, and may well make him happy. Such, in an interesting comparison of notes between Dickens and Moir in 1848, was stated by the former to be a rule and result of his professional life of literature. Like everything about him, the rule is a manful one, and the result honourable. It was the way with Moir, who was composite of business and letters, to take his place in general company as an ordinary professional person. If he was addressed, however, as a man of literature, and had additional attention paid to him as such, he never disclaimed the character and the honour. Unlike a certain set of gentlemen authors, who affect to be above their pursuit, he was too sincere for that. His

rule was the same manful rule as that of Dickens; and the result was equally honourable. Men like these, who hold the key of the human heart, may fear little, indeed, to take their stand upon literature.

In July of this same year (1848), the amateur company of players, of which Dickens was manager, played in Edinburgh, in furtherance of a scheme for the benefit of that veteran of the drama, Sheridan Knowles. Moir, be sure, was present. Writing to Dickens thereafter, on this and other topics, he says:-" Of theatricals, although a fond admirer, I do not pretend to be a great judge; but, so far as gratification went, I must say that I never sat to representations better sustained. To do Falstaff up to a reader's imagination, I should suppose, is utterly impossible; but Mr Lemon was anything but a failure. Even Pistol has become so much an individual picture in every man's mind, that he also is perhaps better as a 'Yarrow Unvisited.' Yet George Cruikshank did him well; although not up to his Caniphor, which was reality itself. Pardon me for saying that I never saw Slender represented before. Scarcely behind you was Costello's Dr Caius, than which it would be difficult to conceive anything better. It was past two o'clock in the morning' before my sides recovered from the scena between the two S's.-Some days after you left Scotland, I had the happiness of meeting George Cruikshank at dinner with Professor Wilson, the Sheriff, Blackwood, and Jay from America. Although I have had some pleasant letters from Cruikshank, I never had an opportunity before of taking his hand. We are very apt to form erroneous notions of the personal appearance of men who have particularly interested us, and in spite of ourselves the mind will— must, I fancy-form an ideal portrait; but with me

fancy and fact met in Cruikshank: the reality was exactly what I had expected. Could this be from the perfect truth and originality, which he has imparted to his creations, being only reflections of himself? We were friends in ten minutes; and he gave me some curious and most interesting details of his early life and progress. 'The Drunkard,' and 'The Drunkard's Children,' I had both admired and shuddered over; but I must say, in spite of this, that the only thing in him I was not prepared to meet with was-the Tee-totaller.You mention your enjoyment of Foster's Goldsmith. It is indeed a well-written and most interesting book, and gives us everything regarding Oliver that we could wish-perhaps more, sometimes; for, before reading the actual history of the man, I had so mixed up Goldsmith with the exquisite associations of 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' 'The Traveller,' and 'The Deserted Village,' that all were blent together. How such a harumscarum should have had his mind in such subjection as to write like an angel, while he often not only talked but acted like poor Poll, must ever remain a mystery. Even Mr Foster has not sufficiently solved it. Not one oddity of his person or circumstances has Goldsmith imparted to his writings, which, for taste and purity, are equalled by nothing in the English tongue, save the poetry of Campbell and the prose of Irving."

Being somewhat unwell in 1849, the author of Mansie took a 66 'June jaunt" into the Highlands with Professor Wilson, Mr Henry Glassford Bell, and one or two other friends. Thus he writes to his wife from Kinloch-Rannoch:"The Professor has just returned (seven o'clock) from a long day's fishing, and we dine at eight. He has brought home seven dozen of trouts. Mr Bell has not yet returned, so we do not know his sport: we have

bets about the numbers that can be taken in one day. The Professor and myself went to the parish church yesterday, and I was quite pleased to see such a devout and respectable congregation. Among the audience were Robertson of Struan and Lord Mexborough, in kilts. The scenery about us here is rich and beautiful, and the people all so decent-looking, sober, contented, and happy. The young lads in the evening put the stone, and the little girls dance in rings, so that one is almost inclined to sigh when he thinks of the strife, envy, and bustle of the great world. It is easy to account, from what I see around me, for the intense love with which a Highlander regards his native district. We have been rowing to-day for several hours on Loch Rannoch, and certainly everything around is magnificent."

Toward the end of July, Moir writes to me thus:"About a month ago I was for some days in the Highlands with Professor Wilson and another friend or two. Our headquarters were at Kinloch-Rannoch, at the foot of Schehallion. The change from my gin-horse circle was most exhilarating. The Professor was in great force, and up to the waist in water, day after day, for six or eight hours, fishing. We had also some good sailing, and many new sources for pleasant recollection were opened up to me. Before I set out, I felt worn out and unwell, without any complaint; but I had in a great measure given up eating and sleeping, without both of which no man can thrive. I am happy to say that the change has much benefited me, short although it was, and I feel again very much myself. Wilson never was finer than in his new series (Dies Boreales). He is now busy with No. III. Of course, these papers will want the piquancy which the Noctes possessed, in personal