I see you
indeed, at times, in the _Literary Journal_; I see you
in _Blackwood_, fighting, and reaping a harvest of
beautiful black eyes from the fists of Professor John
Wilson. I see you in songs, in ballads, in calendars. I
see you in the postern of time long elapsed. I see you
in the looking-glass of my own facetious and
song-recalling memory--but I should wish to see you in
the real, visible, palpable, smellable beauty of your
own person, standing before me in my own house, at my
own fireside, in all the halo of your poetical
radiance! Come over, then, if possible, my dear
Shepherd, and stay a night or two with us. You may
tarry with your friend, Mr Bald, one afternoon or so by
the way, and explore the half-forgotten treasures of
the Shakspeare cellars[42]--but you may rest yourself
under the shadow of the Ochil Hills a longer space,
and enjoy the beauties of our scenery, and, such as it
is, the fulness of our hospitality, which, believe me,
will be spouted out upon you freely and rejoicingly.
"To be serious in speech, I really wish you would take
a trip up this way some time during the summer. I
understand you are settled in Edinburgh, and in that
thought have now addressed you. If I am wrong, write
me.
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