“My dear Sir,—­The acccompanying billet from my daughter, short at any rate under the pressure of instant engagements, has been cut shorter by a sudden and very distressing headache; I, therefore, who (from a peculiar nervousness connected with the act of writing) so rarely attempt to discharge my own debts in the letter-writing department of life, find myself unaccountably, I might say mysteriously, engaged in the knight-errantry of undertaking for other people’s.  Wretched bankrupt that I am, with an absolute refusal on the part of the Commissioner to grant me a certificate of the lowest class, suddenly, and by a necessity not to be evaded, I am affecting the large bounties of supererogation.  I appear to be vaporing in a spirit of vainglory; and yet it is under the mere coercion of ‘salva necessitas’ that I am surprised into this unparalleled instance of activity.  Do you walk?  That is, do you like walking for four hours ’on end’—­(which is our archaic expression for continuously)?  If I knew that, I would arrange accordingly for meeting you.  The case as to distance is this.  The Dalkeith railway, from the Waverley station, brings you to Esk Bank.  That is its nearest approach,—­its perihelion, in relation to ourselves; and it is precisely two and three-quarters miles distant from Mavis Bush,—­the name of our cottage.  Close to us, and the most noticeable object for guiding your inquiries, is Mr. Annandale’s Paper-Mills.

“Now, then, accordingly as you direct my motions, I will—­rain being supposed absent—­join you at your hotel in Edinburgh any time after 11 A.M. and walk out the whole distance, (seven miles from the Scott monument,) or else I will meet you at Esk Bank; or, if you prefer coming out in a carriage, I will await your coming here in that state of motionless repose which best befits a philosopher.  Excuse my levity; and believe that with sincere pleasure we shall receive your obliging visit.

     “Ever your faithful servant,

     “THOMAS DE QUINCEY.”

In order to appreciate the physical powers of him who proposed a walk of the distance indicated in the letter, we must remember that he was then just sixty-six years plus ten days old.  He was now living with his daughters, in the utmost simplicity.  On his arrival, Mr. F. found De Quincey awaiting him at the door of his cottage,—­a short man, with small head, and eyes that were absolutely indescribable as human features, with a certain boyish awkwardness of manner, but with the most urban-like courtesy and affability.  From noon till dark, the time is spent in conversation, continued, various, and eloquent.  What a presence is there in this humble, unpretending cottage!  And as the stream of Olympian sweetness moves on, now in laughing ripples, and again in a solemn majestic flood, what a past do we bring before ourselves! what a present!  For this is he that