y better, and more precious than they ever
did in town. Brought together in country light and air, they really are
quite a baby collection and very pretty.

I direct this to Rockingham, supposing you to be there in this summer
time. If you are as leafy in Northamptonshire as we are in Kent, you are
greener than you have been for some years. I hope you may have seen a
large-headed photograph with little legs, representing the undersigned,
pen in hand, tapping his forehead to knock an idea out. It has just
sprung up so abundantly in all the shops, that I am ashamed to go about
town looking in at the picture-windows, which is my delight. It seems to
me extraordinarily ludicrous, and much more like than the grave portrait
done in earnest. It made me laugh when I first came upon it, until I
shook again, in open sunlighted Piccadilly.

Pray be a good Christian to me, and don't be retributive in measuring
out the time that shall pass before you write to me. And believe me
ever,

Your affectionate and faithful.

[Sidenote: Mr. W. Wilkie Collins.]

OFFICE OF "ALL THE YEAR ROUND,"
_Wednesday, Aug. 28th, 1861._

MY DEAR WILKIE,

I have been going to write to you ever since I received your letter from
Whitby, and now I hear from Charley that you are coming home, and must
be addressed in the Rue Harley. Let me know whether you will dine here
this day week at the usual five. I am at present so addle-headed (having
hard Wednesday work in Wills's absence) that I can't write much.

I have got the "Copperfield" reading ready for delivery, and am now
going to blaze away at "Nickleby," which I don't like half as well.
Every morning I "go in" at these marks for two or three hours, and then
collapse and do nothing whatever (counting as nothing much cricket and
rounders).

In my time that curious railroad by the Whitby Moor was so much the more
curious, that you were balanced against a counter-weight of water, and
that you did it like Blondin. But in these remote days the one inn of
Whitby was up a back-yard, and oyster-shell grottoes were the only view
from the best private room. Likewise, sir, I have posted to Whitby.
"Pity the sorrows of a poor old man."

The sun is glaring in at these windows with an amount of ferocity
insupportable by one of the landed interest, who lies upon his back with
an imbecile hold on gr