of the meanest thing that feels. Fair lady, we might give you a worse book than that!

As I sit here, beneath a fair sky, and listen to the sound of running waters; the everlasting hills, a shining circle around me, and an abounding ocean of deep purple heather about me, the keen air gives a sting to my blood, and sends it more buoyantly through my veins, and my regenerate spirit recoils from all this cockney babble in mockery of a robust emprise, the vicissitudes and triumphs of which have interested me so long, and given me such genuine delight.

But may not there be some luckless yet sympathetic soul, some tearful jester, some toiler within sound of St. Stephen's big bell, who (a stranger to this noble strath and its enchanting surroundings) may yet be able to extract amusement, I would fain have said solace, from my poor little sketch? If so, I thank him, but let him not come here to read it : this is the last spot on God's earth that he should choose.

Dear reader, if you are such a man, whoever or whatever you may be, I wish you well; and what better could I desire for you than that you should toss this volume into the kennel, and come and enjoy the sports about which I have so gracelessly jested?

A DAY'S SPORT.

I believe this was Thomas Hood's account of his

friend's day's shooting: What he hit is history, and what he missed is mystery'—(his story and my story).

A STRANGE NOISE.

Archdeacon M. was calling on one of his parishioners, who suffered grievously from a noise in his head. In reply to his sympathetic inquiries, the sufferer's wife told him that the noise was occasionally 'so bad,' that sometimes she 'thought it must be the people in the next public house!'

A CURIOUS PANACEA.

A woman who was not a physiologist, and whose husband had some internal malady, said to a friend of mine, 'You see, madam, I gives him a deal of bread and milk. It flies to the part, you know, and acts as a poultice.'

A BAPTISMAL DIFFICULTY.

A French priest was baptising an infant; he had a new livre d'office and he could not find the service,

and said, with irritability, 'C'est un enfant très difficile à baptiser.'

HEIRS.

A clergyman catechising a class in a village school, and speaking of their being heirs to the kingdom of heaven, asked a small boy, 'What is an heir?' Small boy: A little beastie, like a rabbut.'

PHOTOGRAPHING DOWN WEST.

An American newspaper states that a Nevada photographer takes very decided measures for turning out a good portrait. The sitter being in his place, the artist produces a navy revolver, cocks it, and levels it at the sitter's head, and says, 'Now, just you sit perfectly still, and don't move a hair; put on a calm pleasant expression of countenance, and look right into the muzzle of this revolver, or I'll blow the top of your head off. My reputation as an artist is at stake, and I don't want no nonsense about this picture.'

SETTLERS.

An Englishman met a party of American settlers journeying westward, and got into conversation with

their leader, a practical man. He said, 'We only take useful people with us. This,' pointing to a man, 'is Our joiner;' of another, 'this is our blacksmith ; ' of a third, 'this is our baker,' and so on. 'But,' said the Englishman, 'That very old fellow, surely he can't be of much use to you.' 'Oh yes,' says the man, 'he is. That's grandfather; we shall open our new cemetery with him.'

EPITAPH ON DENYS ROLLE, OF BICTON.
'His earthly part within this tomb doth rest,
Who kept a court of honour in his breast;
Birthe, Beauty, witt, and wisedome sate as Peeres,
Till Death mistook his virtues for his yeares,
Or else Heaven envied Earth so rich a treasure,
Wherein too fine the ware, too scant the measure.
His mournful wife, her love to show in part,

This tombe built here; a better in her heart.

Sweet Babe, his hopeful Heyre (Heaven grant this

boon),

Live but so well; but, oh, dye not so soon.'

Thomas Fuller (1608-1661).

INNATE IDEAS.

'Our ideas, like the children of our youth, often die

before us, and our minds represent to us those tombs

to which we are fast approaching-where, though the brass and marble may remain, the inscriptions are effaced by time and the imagery moulders away.'

John Locke (1632-1704).

THE MILLENNIUM IN INVERNESS.

Miss C, an old spinster lady of Inverness, tired of hearing some of her friends continually talking of the Millennium, and thinking, perhaps, they talked nonsense about it, indignantly broke forth one day in these words: 'What for are they always talkin' aboot the Millennium? I mind when there was a Millennium in Inverness; if ye met a friend in the street, it was always, "When are ye comin' to my hoos ?-ye maun fust cum to my hoos "-and balls and pairties, and the gentlemen comin' in sae merry after denner-that was a Millennium indeed!'

AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART.

A gentleman was seated in the stage coach opposite to a young lady who looked delicate, and appeared suffering. When the coach stopped, and the young lady alighted, the gentleman took the opportunity of asking her female attendant if she was consumptive. 'No, sir,' replied her nurse, 'it is her heart that is