Dear Mister,—I have spoken you of my departure from Calendar on the breack. Eh, well, he rained not of the whole of the whole—du tout du tout! Il faisait un temps superbe—he was making a superb time, the route was well agreeable, and the voyage lasted but two hours, and not twelve. What droll of idea! In Scottish twa is two, not twelve. I was so content to arrive so quick, and without to be wetted that I gave the coacher a good to-drink—un bon pourboire—though before to start all the voyagers had paid him a "tipp", that which he called a "driver's fee." Again what droll of idea! To give the to-drink before to start, and each one the same—six pennys.

My friend encountered me and conducted me to his house, where I have passed fifteen days, a sojourn of the most agreeables. And all the time almost not one sole drop of rain! J'avais beau—I had fine—to buy all my impermeable vestments, I carry them never. One sole umbrella suffices me, and I open him but two times. And yet one says that the Scotland is a rainy country. It is perhaps a season tout À fait—all to fact—exceptional. But fifteen days almost without rain! One would believe himself at the border of the Mediterranean, absolutely at the South. And I have eaten of the "porridg", me Auguste! Partout I essay the dish of the country. I take at first a spoonful pure and simple. Oh la, la! My friend offers me of the cream. It is well. Also of the salt. Quelle idÉe! But no, before me I perceive a dish of confiture, that which the Scottish call "marmaladde." A la bonne heure! With some marmaladde, some cream, and much of sugar, I find that the "porridg" is enough well, for I taste him no more.

One day we make an ascension, and we see many grouses. Only we can not to shoot, for it is not yet the season of the huntings. It is but a hill that we mount. The name appears me to be french, but bad written. "Ben Venue", that is to say, "Bienvenu"—soyez le bienvenu. She is one of the first of the Scottish hills, and she says "welcome" in french. It is a pretty idea, and a politeness very amiable towards my country. I salute the hospitable Scotland and I thank her. It is a great country, of brave men, of charming women—ah, I recall to myself some eyes so beautiful, some forms so attracting!—of ravishing landscapes, and, at that epoch there, of a climate so delicious. She has one sole and one great defect. The best Scottish hotels cost very dear, and, my faith, the two or three that I visited are not great thing like comfortable—ne sont pas grand'chose comme comfortable!

One day we make a little excursion on the Lake of Lomond. The lake is well beautiful, and the steamboat is excellent. But in one certain hotel, in descending from a breack, and before to embark, we take the "lunch." We bargain not, we ask not even the price, we eat at the table d'hÔte like all the world in Swiss, in France, even in Germany, when there is but one half hour before the departure of the train or of the boat. Oh la, la! I have eaten in the spanish hotels, on the steamboats of the italian lakes, even in the restaurants—mon Dieu!—of the english railways, but never, never—au grand jamais—have I eaten a dÉjeuner like that! One dish I shall forget never; some exterior green leaves of lettuce, without oil or vinegar, which they called a "salad." Parbleu—by blue! In all the history of the world there has been but one man who would have could to eat her with pleasure—Nabuchodonosor!

Agree, &c.,

Auguste.

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---