My dear Rossetti,
Where I most enjoy myself is along the solitary banks of the Nithan: it is a true mountain stream, now rushing along in broken falls, now rippling over shallows of exquisite golden-brown hues—now slipping with slow perfect grace of motion under the overhanging boughs of willow, pine, or mountain-ash—and ever and again resting in deep dark linns and pools in deliciously dreamful fashion, the only signs of life being a silver flash from its depths as some large trout or grilse stirs from the shelter of mottled boulders banking the sides, or when a dragonfly like a living flame flashes backward and forward after the gray gnats. Indeed, I never saw such a place for dragonflies—I think there must be vast treasures of rubies and emeralds under these lonely moors, and that somehow the precious stones dissolve and become permeated with the spirit of life, and rise up living green fires or crimson and purple flames to flash upon the unseen hill-winds instead of upon a woman’s bosom or in the Holy of Holies in an idolater’s temple....
After the gloaming has dreamed itself into night the banks and woods along the stream seem to become a part of a weird faeryland. The shadows are simply wonderful. White owls come out and flit about on silent ghostly wings with weird uncanny cries, and bats begin to lead a furiously active existence. The other night I was quite startled by seeing a perfectly white animal slowly approaching me: it looked remarkably like the ghost of a fox or wild-cat, but I am afraid it was only a white hare.
So much for my surroundings. As for the few people hereabout they are all charmingly of the old time. After dinner, and while the claret, port, and sherry (the latter, oh so brandied!) are in process of consumption, large toddy goblets with silver spoon-ladles and smaller tumblers are handed round to ladies and gentlemen alike. Then come the large silver flagon with the hot water, the bowl with the strictly symmetrical lumps of sugar, three of which go to this large tumbler, and the cut crystal decanter of pure Glenlivet. The custom has great advantages, but it certainly does not conduce to the safe driving of the dogcart home again.
Here is a specimen of a purely Scotch Bill of Fare, for some especially noteworthy occasion:
BILL OF FARE
A wee drappie Talisher.
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Callipee Broth.————Hotch Potch.
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Saumon à la Pottit Heed.——Pomphlet à la Newhaven.
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Anither Drappie.
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Mince Collops.————Doo Tairt.
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Haggis.
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An Eek.
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Stuffed Bubbly Jocks an Hawm.
Gigot of Mutton wi’ red curran jeelie.
Sheep’s Heed an’ Trotters.
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Tatties Biled & Champit.
Bashed Neeps.
Jist a wee Donal’.
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Glesky Magistrates.————Sma’ peas.
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Grozet Pies.————Aiple Dumplins.
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Ice Puddin wi’ cookies.
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A Guid Dram to keep a’ doon.
When I have a house of my own I shall give such a dinner some day, and the Sassenach hearts present shall admit there is no dinner like a Scotch one and no whiskey like the heavenly Celtic brew.
And now, au revoir,
Ever yours affectionately,