You would see by papa’s letter about the carpenter who fell off the staging: I don’t think I was ever so much excited in my life. The man was back at his work, and I asked him how he was; but he was a Highlander, and—need I add it?—dickens a word could I understand of his answer. What is still worse, I find the people here-about—that is to say, the Highlanders, not the northmen—don’t understand _me_. I have lost a shilling’s worth of postage stamps, which has damped my ardour for buying big lots of ’em: I’ll buy them one at a time as I want ’em for the future. The Free Church minister and I got quite thick. He left last night about two in the morning, when I went to turn in. He gave me the enclosed.—I remain your affectionate son, R. L. STEVENSON. TO MRS. THOMAS STEVENSON _Wick_, September 5, 1868. _Monday_. MY DEAR MAMMA,—This morning I got a delightful haul: your letter of the fourth (surely mis-dated); Papa’s of same day; Virgil’s _Bucolics_, very thankfully received; and Aikman’s _Annals_, {17} a precious and most acceptable donation, for which I tender my most ebullient thanksgivings. I almost forgot to drink my tea and eat mine egg. It contains more detailed accounts than anything I ever saw, except Wodrow, without being so portentously tiresome and so desperately overborne with footnotes, proclamations, acts of Parliament, and citations as that last history. I have been reading a good deal of Herbert. He’s a clever and a devout cove; but in places awfully twaddley (if I may use the word). Oughtn’t this to rejoice Papa’s heart— ‘Carve or discourse; do not a famine fear. Who carves is kind to two, who talks to all.’ You understand? The ‘fearing a famine’ is applied to people gulping down solid vivers without a word, as if the ten lean kine began to-morrow. Do you remember condemning something of mine for being too obtrusively didactic. Listen to Herbert— ‘Is it not verse except enchanted groves And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines? Must purling streams refresh a lover’s loves? _Must all be veiled_, _while he that reads divines_ _Catching the sense at two removes_?’ You see, ‘except’ was used for ‘unless’ before 1630. * * * * * _Tuesday_.—The riots were a hum. No more has been heard; and one of the war-steamers has deserted in disgust. The _Moonstone_ is frightfully interesting: isn’t the detective prime? Don’t say anything about the plot; for I have only read on to the end of Betteredge’s narrative, so don’t know anything about it yet. I thought to have gone on to Thurso to-night, but the coach was full; so I go to-morrow instead. To-day I had a grouse: great glorification.