30870 | (A Table of Contents; No illustrations) |
589 | (No illustrations and No Table of Contents) |
14133 | (An illustrated HTML file with a Table of Contents) |
MY DEAR CHARLES,
It is the fate of sequels to disappoint those who have waited for them;and, my David having been left to kick his heels for more than a lustre inthe British Linen Company's office, must expect his late reappearance to begreeted with hoots, if not with missiles. Yet, when I remember the days ofour explorations, I am not without hope. There should be left in our nativecity some seed of the elect; some long-legged, hot-headed youth must repeatto-day our dreams and wanderings of so many years ago; he will relish thepleasure, which should have been ours, to follow among named streets andnumbered houses the country walks of David Balfour, to identify Dean, andSilvermills, and Broughton, and Hope Park and Pilrig, and poor oldLochend--if it still be standing, and the Figgate Whins--if there be any ofthem left; or to push (on a long holiday) so far afield as Gillane or theBass. So, perhaps, his eye shall be opened to behold the series of thegenerations, and he shall weigh with surprise his momentous and nugatorygift of life.
You are still--as when first I saw, as when I last addressed you--in thevenerable city which I must always think of as my home. And I have come sofar; and the sights and thoughts of my youth pursue me; and I see like avision the youth of my father, and of his father, and the whole stream oflives flowing down there, far in the north, with the sound of laughter andtears, to cast me out in the end, as by a sudden freshet, on those ultimateislands. And I admire and bow my head before the ro