My dear Fanny;

　　I intended to have written to you from Kirkudbright the town I shall be in tomorrow—but I will write now because my knapsack has worn my coat in the Seams, my coat has gone to the Taylors and I have but one coat to my back in these parts.

　　We are employed in going up mountains, looking at Strange towns prying into old ruins and eating very hearty breakfasts. Here we are full in the full Midst of broad Scotch ‘How is it a’wi yoursel’—the girls are walking about bare footed and in the worst cottages the smoke finds its way out of the door—I shall come home full of news for you and for fear I should choke you by too great a dose at once I must make you used to it by a letter or two.

　　We are in the midst of Meg Merrilies’ country of whom I suppose—you have heard.