Abbotsford, September 26th, 1883

1. I can never hear the whispering and sighing of the Tweed among his pebbles, but it brings back to me the song of my nurse, as we used to cross by Coldstream Bridge, from the south, in our happy days.

Those two possessions, you perceive, my poor Euryclea felt to be the chief wealth of Scotland, and meant the epithet “barefooted” to be one of praise.

In the two days that have past since I this time crossed the Border, I have seen but one barefooted lassie, and she not willingly so,—but many high-heeled ones:—who willingly, if they might, would have been heeled yet higher. And perhaps few, even of better minded Scots maidens, remember, with any due admiration, that the greater part of Jeanie Deans’ walk to London was done barefoot, the days of such pilgrimage being now, in the hope of Scotland, for ever past; and she, by help of the high chimneys built beside Holyrood and Melrose, will henceforward obtain the beatitude of Antichrist,—Blessed be ye Rich.

2. Nevertheless, it is worthy of note that in the village where Bruce's heart is buried, I could yesterday find no better map of Scotland than was purchaseable for a penny,—no clear sign, to my mind, either of the country's vaster wealth, or more refined education.