and tumbled about as loosely as an emptied sugar-basin; some hanging by a corner, and others resting on a casual fragment; I am sure of one logan-stone, if a little impertinent bit of rock were only moved away; and I walked under and between more Titanic architecture than Stonehenge can show:  the Druids, for my part, shall have their due, but not where they don’t deserve it.  At nine, after a substantial fried-fish tea, I mounted the night coach to Falmouth,—­outside, as there was no room in, and so, through respectable Helstone, remarkable for a florid Gothic arch erected to some modern worthy of the town, to decent Penryn, and then by midnight, to the narrowest of all towns, Falmouth.  I longed to get back to my darlings, and resolved to see them by next morning, so booked an outside (no room inside, as before) for an immediate start.  Now, you can readily imagine that I was by no means hot, and though the night of Thursday last was rather mild, still it was midwinter:  accordingly I conceived and executed a marvellous calorificating plan, which even the mail-coachman had never heard of.  Haying comforted my interiors with hot grog of the stiffest, I called for another shillingsworth of brandy, and deliberately emptied it, to the astonished edification of beholders, into my boots! literal fact, and it kept my feet comfortable all night long.  And so, wrapped all in double clothing, sped I my rapid way, varying what I had before seen by passing through desolate Bodmin, and its neighbourhood of rock, moor, and sand:  hot coffee at Liskeard, morning broke soon after, then the glorious sun over the sea.  Hamoaze, the ferry, and Devonport at 1/2 past 8.  Much as I longed to get home, I went forthwith into a hot bath at 102, to boil out all chills, and thence went spick and span to my happy rest, having within 48 hours seen the best part of Cornwall and its wonders, and rode or walked 250 miles.  And so, brother David, commend me for a traveller.  HERE ends my Cornish expedition.  Does it recall to thee, O sire, thine own of old time, undertaken (if I remember rightly) with Dr. Kidd?—­Mails then did not travel like the Quicksilver, averaging 12 miles an hour, and few people go 40 miles before breakfast.  Now, I feel able to get nearer my Albury destination, and in a week or so, shall hope to be residing at Dorchester, near the Blandford of paternal recollections.  Did you, dear mother, get a letter from me directed to Albury?  I hope so, for it sets all clear:  and if not, I’ll set the nation against cheap postage.  I don’t feel the least confidence now in the Post Office, forasmuch as they have no interest in a letter after it is paid, and many will be mislaid from haste and multiplicity.  Please to say if it came safely to hand, as I judge it important.  If you, dear mother, got my last, I have nothing more to say, and if not, I’ll blow up the Post Office:  unpopularity would send all the letters by carriers:  but whether or not, I can’t write any more, so with a due proportion of regards rightly broadcast around, accept the remainder from—­Your affectionate son,

M.F.T.