wrote to me that you had paid her a visit, and then in great haste had gone to an invalid in Versailles.  I hope it is not your grandfather or grandchild, or one of your dear neighbours, the Rochanskis.  Here one hears as yet nothing of cholera, but in London it appears already here and there.

With your letter, which I received at Johnstone Castle, and in which you informed me that you had been with Soli [footnote:  I suppose Solange, Madame Clesinger, George Sand’s daughter.] at the Gymnase Theatre, there came at the same time one from Edinburgh, from Prince Alexander Czartoryski, with the news that he and his wife had arrived, and that he would be very glad to see me.  Although tired, I at once took the train and found them still in Edinburgh.  Princess Marcelline was as kind as she always is to me.  The intercourse with them reanimated me, and gave me strength to play in Glasgow, where the whole haute volee had gathered for my concert.  The weather was magnificent, and the princely family had even come from Edinburgh with little Marcel, who is growing nicely, and sings already my compositions, yes, and even corrects when he hears someone making mistakes.  It was on Wednesday afternoon, at 3 o’clock, and the princely couple did me the kindness to accept along with me an invitation to a dinner at Johnstone Castle (by the way, twelve English miles from Glasgow) after the concert; in this way, then, I passed the whole day with them.  Lord and Lady Murray and the old Lord Torphichen (who had come a distance of a hundred miles) drove also thither with us, and the next day all were quite charmed with the amiability of Princess Marcelline.  The princely pair returned to Glasgow, whence, after a visit to Loch Tamen, [footnote:  There is no such loch.  Could it possibly be Loch Lomond?  Loch Leven seems to me less likely.] they wished to go back at once to London, and thence to the Continent.  The Prince spoke of you with sincere kindness.  I can very well imagine what your noble soul must suffer when you see what is now going on in Paris.  You cannot think how I revived, how lively I became that day in the society of such dear countrymen; but to-day I am again very depressed.  O, this mist!  Although, from the window at which I write, I have before me the most beautiful view of Stirling Castle—­it is the same, as you will remember, which delighted Robert Bruce—­and mountains, lochs, a charming park, in one word, the view most celebrated for its beauty in Scotland; I see nothing, except now and then, when the mist gives way to the sun.  The owner of this mansion, whose name is Stirling, is the uncle of our Scotch ladies, and the head of the family.  I made his acquaintance in London; he is a rich bachelor, and has a very beautiful picture-gallery, which is especially distinguished by works of Murillo and other Spanish masters.  He has lately even published a very interesting book on the Spanish school; he has travelled much (visited also the East), and