We lay three months in Paris. All that time I saw very little of it: I did not care to ask leave from the camp. At length we were marched to Flanders, to winter quarters; and I got my discharge. I left my comrades with regret; but the service with joy. I came down to the coast to embark, with light steps and a joyful heart, singing, “When wild war’s deadly blast was blawn.” I was poor as poor could be; but I had hope before me, and pleasing dreams of home, I had saved nothing this campaign; and the money I had before was all gone. Government found me the means of getting to Edinburgh. Hope and joy were my companions, until I entered the Firth. I was on deck; the morning began to dawn; the shores of Lothian began to rise out of the mist. “There is the land of cakes,” said the captain. A sigh escaped me,--recollections crowded upon me--painful recollections. I went below to conceal my feelings, and never came up until the vessel was in the harbour. I ran from her, and hid myself in a public-house. All the time I had been away was forgot. I felt as if I had been in Leith the day before. I was so foolish as to think I would be known, and laughed at. In about half an hour, I reasoned myself out of my foolish notions, but could not bring myself to go up the Walk to Edinburgh. I went by the Easter Road. Every thing was strange to me, so many alterations had taken place; yet I was afraid to look any person in the face, lest he should recognise me. I was suffering as keenly, at this moment, as when I went away: I felt my face burning with shame. At length, I reached the door of the last house I had been in, before leaving Edinburgh. I had not power to knock: happy was it for me, that I did not. A young girl came into the stair. I asked her if Mrs. ---- lived there. “No,” she said, “she has flitted long ago.” “Where does she live?” “I do not know."--Where to go I knew not. I came down stairs, and recognised a sign which had been in the same place before I went away. In I went, and inquired. The landlord knew me. “Tom,” said he, “are you come back safe? Poor fellow! give me your hand.” “Does my mother live?"--“Yes, yes; come in, and I will send for her,--not to let the surprise be too great.” Away he went. I could not remain, but followed him; and, the next minute, I was in the arms of my mother. * * * * * I have been with my mother, these fourteen months. She is sinking fast to the grave. I am happy I am here to lay her head in it.--Jeanie has been married, these five years, and goes between her own and her mother’s house, to take care of her.--John is in London, following out his business.--William has been in Glasgow. _Letter by the Writer of the Journal to his Friend, inclosing the last part of the manuscript._ _Edinburgh, May, 1818._ DEAR JOHN,