I held lovingly in my hands, wishing it had been the very house where once abode that spirit of immortal beauty. [The phrenological authorities were mistaken, it seems, in attributing this skull to Raphael.  I believe that it has been ascertained to be that of his friend, the engraver, Marc Antonio.] At the theater the play was “The Hunchback;” the house very good, and I played very well.

Saturday, 14th.—­My last day in Edinburgh for two years; and who can tell for how many more?  At eleven o’clock, Mr. Murray, Mr. Allen, Mr. Byrne, and myself sallied forth on horseback toward the Pentlands, having obtained half an hour’s grace off dinner-time, in order to get to Habbies How.  We went out by the Links, and up steep rises over a white and dusty road, with a flaring stone dyke on each side, and neither tree nor bush to shelter us from the scorching sunlight till we came to Woodhouseleigh, the haunted walk of a white specter, who, it seems, was fond of the shade, for her favorite promenade was an avenue overarched with the green arms of noble old elm trees; and we blessed the welcome shelter of the Ghost’s Haunt....  A cloud fell over all our spirits as we rode away from this enchanting spot, and Mr. Murray, pointing to the sprig of heather I had put in my habit, said they would establish an Order of Knighthood, of which the badge should be a heather spray, and they three the members, and I the patroness; that they would meet and drink my health on the 14th of July, and on my birthday, every year till I returned; and a solemn agreement was made by all parties that whenever I did return and summoned my worthies, we should again adjourn together to the glen in the Pentlands.  When we reached home, Mr. Allen, who cannot endure a formal parting, shook hands with me and bade me good-by as I dismounted, as if we were to ride again to-morrow. [And I never saw him again.  Peace be with him!  He was a most amiable and charming companion, and during these days of friendly intimacy, his conversation interested and instructed me, and his poetical feeling of Nature, and placid, unruffled serenity, added much to the pleasure of those delightful rides.] ...  At the theater the play was “The Provoked Husband,” for my benefit; the house was very fine, and I played pretty well.  After it was over, the audience shouted and clamored for my father, who came and said a few words of our sorrow to leave their beautiful city....  Mrs. Harry, Lizzie, and I were in my dressing-room, crying in sad silence, and vainly endeavoring to control our emotion.  Presently my father came hurriedly in, and folding them both in his arms, just uttered in a broken voice, “Good-by!  God bless you!” and I, embracing my dear friends for the last time, followed him out of the room.  It is not the time only that must elapse before I can see her again, it is the terrible distance, the slowness and uncertainty of communication; it is that dreadful America.