_[Menton], March 1st, 1874._
MY DEAR MOTHER,--The weather is again beautiful, soft, warm, cloudy and
soft again, in provincial sense. Very interesting, I find Robertson; and
Dugald Stewart's life of him a source of unquenchable laughter. Dugald
Stewart is not much better than M^cCrie,[12] and puts me much in mind of
him. By the way, I want my father to find out whether any more of Knox's
Works was ever issued than the five volumes, as I have them. There are
some letters that I am very anxious to see, not printed in any of the
five, and perhaps still in MS.
I suppose you are now home again in Auld Reekie: that abode of bliss
does not much attract me yet a bit.
Colvin leaves at the end of this week, I fancy.
How badly yours sincerely writes. O! Madame Zassetsky has a theory that
"Dumbarton Drums" is an epitome of my character and talents. She plays
it, and goes into ecstasies over it, taking everybody to witness that
each note, as she plays it, is the moral of Berecchino. Berecchino is my
stereotype name in the world now. I am announced as M. Berecchino; a
German hand-maiden came to the hotel, the other night, asking for M.
Berecchino; said hand-maiden supposing in good faith that sich was my
name.
Your letter come. O, I am all right now about the parting, because it
will not be death, as we are to write. Of course the correspondence will
drop off: but that's no odds, it breaks the back of the trouble.--Ever
your affectionate son,