sooner than usual, I have often very speedily | country looks dismal-nature is, as it were, got rid of colds, &c."

Why, there may be no great harm in acting as above; although we should far rather recommend a screed of the Epsoms. A teaspoonful of Epsom salts in half a pint of warm water, reminds one, somehow or other, of Tims. A small matter works a Cockney. It is not so easy and that the Cockneys well know-to move the bowels of old Christopher North. We do not believe that a tea-spoonful of any thing in this world would have any serious effect on old "Ironsides." We should have no hesitation in backing him against so much corrosive sublimate. He would dine out on the day he had bolted that quantity of arsenic; -and would, we verily believe, rise triumphant from a tea-spoonful of Prussic acid.

We could mention a thousand cures for "colds, et cetera," more efficacious than a broth diet, a warm room, a tea-spoonful of Epsom salts, or early roosting. What say you, our dear Dean, to half a dozen tumblers of hot toddy? Your share of a brown jug to the same amount? Or an equal quantity, in its gradual decrease revealing deeper and deeper still the romantic Welsh scenery of the Devil's Punch-Bowl? Adde tot smallbearded oysters, all redolent of the salt-sea foam, and worthy, as they stud the Ambrosial brodd, to be licked off all at once by the lambent tongue of Neptune. That antiquated calumny against the character of toasted cheese-that, forsooth, it is indigestible-has been trampled under the march of mind; and, therefore, you may tuck in a pound of double Gloucester. Other patients, labouring under catarrh, may, very possibly, prefer the roasted how-towdy-or the green goose from his first stubble-field-or why not, by way of a little variety, a roasted mawkin, midway between hare and leveret, tempting as maiden between woman and girl, or, as the Eastern poet says, between a frock and a gown? Go to bed-no need of warming pans—about a quarter before one;-you will not hear that small hour strike -you will sleep sound till sunrise, sound as the Black Stone at Scone, on which the Kings of Scotland were crowned of old. And if you contrive to carry a cold about you next day, you deserve to be sent to Coventry by all sensible people-and may, if you choose, begin taking, with Tims, a tea-spoonful of Epsom salts in a half-pint of warm water every half hour, till it moves your bowels twice or thrice; but if you do, be your sex, politics, or religion what they may, never shall ye be suffered to contribute even a bit of Balaam to the Magazine.

The Doctor then treats of the best Season for travelling, and very judiciously observes that it is during these months when there is no occasion for a fire—that is, just before and after he extreme heat. In winter, Dr. Kitchiner, wno was a man of extraordinary powers of observation, observed, "that the ways are generally bad, and often dangerous, especially in hilly countries, by reason of the snow and ice. The days are short-a traveller comes late to his lodging, and is often forced to rise befcie the sun in the morning-besides, the

half dead. The summer corrects all these in conveniences." Paradoxical as this doctrine may at first sight appear-yet we have verified it by experience-having for many years found, without meeting with one single exception, that the fine, long, warm days of summer are an agreeable and infallible corrective of the inconveniences attending the foul, short, cold days of winter-a season which is surly with out being sincere, blustering rather than boldan intolerable bore-always pretending to be taking his leave, yet domiciliating himself in another man's house for weeks together-and, to be plain, a season so regardless of truth, that nobody believes him till frost has hung an ice-padlock on his mouth, and his many-river'd voice is dumb under the wreathed snows.

"Cleanliness when travelling," observes the Doctor, "is doubly necessary; to sponge the body every morning with tepid water, and then rub it dry with a rough towel, will greatly con tribute to preserve health. To put the feet into warm water for a couple of minutes just before going to bed, is very refreshing, and inviting to sleep; for promoting tranquillity, both mental and corporeal, a clean skin may be regarded as next in efficacy to a clear conscience."

Far be it from us to seek to impugn such doctrine. A dirty dog is a nuisance not to be borne. But here the question arises-whowhat-is a dirty dog? Now there are men (no women) naturally-necessarily—dirty. They are not dirty by chance-or accidentsay twice or thrice per diem; but they are al ways dirty-at all times and in all places-and never and nowhere more disgustingly so than when figged out for going to church. It is in the skin, in the blood-in the flesh, and in the bone-that with such the disease of dirt more especially lies. We beg pardon, no less in the hair. Now, such persons do not know that they are dirty-that they are unclean beasts. On the contrary, they often think themselves pinks of purity-incarnations of carnationsimpersonations of moss-roses-the spiritual essences of lilies, "imparadised in form of that sweet flesh." Now, were such persons to change their linen every half hour, night and day, that is, were they to put on fortyeight clean shirts in the twenty-four hoursand it might not be reasonable, perhaps, to demand more of them under a government somewhat too whiggish-yet though we cheer. fully grant that one and all of the shirts would be dirty, we as sulkily deny that at any given moment from sunrise to sunset, and over again, the wearer would be clean. He would be just every whit and bit as dirty as if he had known but one single shirt all his life-and firmly believed his to be the only shirt in the universe.

Men again, on the other hand, there are-and thank God, in great numbers-who are natur ally so clean, that we defy you to make them bonâ fide dirty. You may as well drive down a duck into a dirty puddle, and expect lasting stains on its pretty plumage. Pope says the same thing of swans-that is, Poets-when speaking of Aaron Hill diving into the ditch

"He bears no tokens of the sabler streams,

But soars far off among the swans of Thames." Pleasant people of this kind of constitution you see going about of a morning rather in dishabille-hair uncombed haply-face and hands even unwashed-and shirt with a somewhat day-before-yesterdayish hue. Yet are they, so far from being dirty, at once felt, seen, and smelt, to be among the very cleanest of her Majesty's subjects. The moment you shake hands with them, you feel in the firm flesh of palm and finger that their heart's-blood circulates purely and freely from the point of the highest hair on the apex of the pericranium, to the edge of the nail on the large toe of the right foot. Their eyes are as clear as unclouded skies-the apples on their cheeks are like those on the tree-what need, in either case, of rubbing off dust or dew with a towel? What though, from sleeping without a nightcap, their hair may be a little toosey? It is not dim-dull-oily-like half-withered seaweeds! It will soon comb itself with the fingers of the west wind-that tent-like tree its toilette-its mirror that pool of the clear-flowing Tweed.

braided, and unbounded beauty, is the morning sky!

Irishmen are generally men of the kind thus illustrated-generally sweet-at least in their own green Isle; and that was the best argument in favour of Catholic Emancipation.-So are Scotsmen. Whereas, blindfolded, take a London, Edinburgh, or Glasgow Cockney's hand, immediately after it has been washed and scented, and put it to your nose-and you will begin to be apprehensive that some prac tical wit has substituted in lieu of the sonnetscribbling bunch of little fetid fives, the body of some chicken-butcher of a weasel, that died of the plague. We have seen as much of what is most ignorantly and malignantly denominated dirt-one week's earth-washed off the feet of a pretty young girl on a Saturday night, at a single sitting in the little rivulet that runs almost round about her father's hut, as would have served him to raise his mignionette in, or his crop of cresses. How beautifully glowed the crimson snow of the singing creature's new washed feet! First as they shone almost motionless beneath the lucid waters-and then, fearless of the hard bent and rough roots of Some streams, just like some men, are al- the heather, bore the almost alarming Fairy ways dirty-you cannot possibly tell why-dancing away from the eyes of the stranger; unproducible to good pic-nic society either in till the courteous spirit that reigns over all the dry or wet weather. In dry, the oozy wretches Highland wilds arrested her steps knee-deep in are weeping among the slippery weeds, infest-bloom, and bade her bow her auburn head, as ed with eels and powheads. In wet, they are blushing, she faltered forth, in her sweet Gaelic like so many common sewers, strewn with accents, a welcome that thrilled like a blessing dead cats and broken crockery, and threaten- through the heart of the Sassenach, nearly being with their fierce fulzie to pollute the sea. nighted, and wearied sore with the fifty glorious The sweet, soft, pure rains, soon as they touch mountain-miles that intermit at times their the flood are changed into filth. The sun sees frowning forests from the correis of Cruachan his face in one of the pools, and is terrified out to the cliffs of Cairngorm. of his senses. He shines no more that day. It will be seen from these hurried remarks, The clouds have no notion of being carica- that there is more truth than, perhaps, Dr. tured, and the trees keep cautiously away from Kitchiner was aware of, in his apothegm the brink of such streams-save, perchance, "that a clean skin may be regarded as next in now and then, here and there, a weak, well-efficacy to a clear conscience." But the Docmeaning willow-a thing of shreds and patches -its leafless wands covered with bits of old worsted stockings, crowns of hats, a bauchle, (see Dr. Jamieson,) and the remains of a pair of corduroy breeches, long hereditary in the family of the Blood-Royal of the Yetholm Gipsies.

Some streams, just like some men, are always clean-you cannot well tell why-producible to good pic-nic society either in dry or wet weather. In dry, the pearly waters are singing among the freshened flowers-so that the trout, if he chooses, may breakfast upon bees. In wet, they grow, it is true, dark and drumly -and at midnight, when heaven's candles are put out, loud and oft the angry spirit of the water shrieks. But Aurora beholds her face in the clarified pools and shallows-far and wide glittering with silver or with gold. All the banks and braes re-appear green as emerald from the subsiding current-into which look with the eye of an angler, and you behold a Fish-a twenty pounder-steadying himself like an uncertain shadow; and oh! for George Scougal's leister to strike him through the spine! Yes, these are the images of trees, far down as if in another world; and whether you look up or look down, alike in all its blue,

tor had but a very imperfect notion of the meaning of the words "clean skin"—his observation being not even skin-deep. A washhand basin, a bit of soap, and a coarse towel, he thought would give a Cockney on Ludgatehill a clean skin-just as many good people think that a Bible, a prayer-book, and a long sermon, can give a clear conscience to a criminal in Newgate. The cause of the evil, in both cases, lies too deep for tears. Millions of men and women pass through nature to eternity clean-skinned and pious-with slight ex pense either in soap or sermons; while mil lions more, with much weekday bodily scrubbing, and much Sabbath spiritual sanctification, are held in bad odour here, while they live, by those who happen to sit near them, and finally go out like the stink of a candle.

Never stir, quoth the Doctor, "without paper, pen, and ink, and a note-book in your pocket. Notes made by pencils are easily ob literated by the motion of travelling. Commit to paper whatever you see, hear, or read, that is remarkable, with your sensations on ob serving it-do this upon the spot, if possible, at the moment it first strikes you-at all events do not delay it beyond the first convenient op portunity."

Suppose all people behaved in this wayand what an absurd world we should have of it-every man, woman, and child who could write, jotting away at their note-books! This committing to paper of whatever you see, hear, or read, has, among many other bad effects, this one especially-in a few years it reduces you to a state of idiocy. The memory of all men who commit to paper becomes regularly extinct, we have observed, about the age of thirty. Now, although the Memory does not bear a very brilliant reputation among the faculties, a man finds himself very much at a stand who is unprovided with one; for the Imagination, the Judgment, and the Reason walk off in search of the Memory-each in opposite directions; and the Mind, left at home by itself, is in a very awkward predicament-gets comatose-snores loudly, and expires. For our own part, we would much rather lose our Imagination and our Judgment-nay, our very Reason itself-than our Memory-provided we were suffered to retain a little Feeling and a little Fancy. Committers to paper forget that the Memory is a tablet, or they carelessly fling that mysterious tablet away, soft as wax to receive impressions, and harder than adamant to retain and put their trust in a bit of calf-skin, or a bundle of old

rags.

are easily obliterated by the motion of travel ling; but, then, Doctor, notes made by the Mind herself, with the Ruby Pen Nature gives all her children who have also discourse of Reason, are with the slightest touch, easilier far than glass by the diamond, traced on the tablets that disease alone seems to deface, death alone to break, but which, ineffaceable, and not to be broken, shall with all their mis cellaneous inscriptions endure for ever-yea, even to the great Day of Judgment.

If men will but look and listen, and feel and think-they will never forget any thing worth being remembered. Do we forget “our chil dren, that to our eyes are dearer than the sun?" Do we forget our wives-unreasonable and almost downright disagreeable as they sometimes will be? Do we forget our triumphs-our defeats-our ecstasies, our ago nies-the face of a dear friend, or "dearest foe"-the ghostlike voice of conscience at midnight arraigning us of crimes-or her seraph hymn, at which the gates of heaven seem to expand for us that we may enter in among the white-robed spirits, and

"Summer high in bliss upon the hills of God?"

What are all the jottings that ever were jotted down on his jot-book, by the most inveterate jotter that ever reached a raven age, in com. parison with the Library of Useful Know ledge, that every man who is a man-carries within the Ratcliffe-the Bodleian of his own breast?

SECOND COURSE.

The observer who instantly jots down every object he sees, never, properly speaking, saw an object in his life. There has always been in the creature's mind a feeling alien to that which the object would, of its pure self, have What are you grinning at in the corner excited. The very preservation of a sort of there, you little ugly Beelzebub of a Printer's style in the creature's remarks, costs him an Devil? and have you dropped through a seam effort which disables him from understanding in the ceiling? More copy do you want! what is before him, by dividing the small at-There, you imp-vanished like a thought! tention of which he might have been capable, between the jotting, the jotter, and the thing jotted. Then your committer to paper of whatever he sees, hears, or reads, forgets or has never known that all real knowledge, either of men or things, must be gathered up by operations which are in their very being spontaneous and free-the mind being even unconscious of them as they are going on while the edifice has all the time been silently rising up under the unintermitting labours of those silent workers-Thoughts; and is finally seen, not without wonder, by the Mind or Soul itself, which, gentle reader, was all along Architect and Foreman-had not only originally planned, but had even daily superintendel the building of the Temple.

Were Dr. Kitchiner not dead, we should just put to him this simple question-Could you, Doctor, not recollect all the dishes of the most various dinner at which you ever assisted, down to the obscurest kidney, without committing every item to your note-book? Yes, Doctor, you could. Well, then, all the universe is but one great dinner. Heaven and earth, what a show of dishes! From a sun to a salad-a moon to a mutton-chop-a comet to a curry-a planet to a pâté! What gross ingratitude to the Giver of the feast, not to be able, with the memory he has given us, to remember his bounties! It is true, what he Doctor says, that notes made with pencils

ABOVE all things, continues Dr. Kitchiner, "avoid travelling through the night, which, by interrupting sleep, and exposing the body to the night air, is always prejudicial, even in the mildest weather, and to the strongest constitu tions." Pray, Doctor, what ails you at the night air? If the night air be, even in the mildest weather, prejudicial to the strongest constitutions, what do you think becomes of the cattle on a thousand hills? Why don't all the bulls in Bashan die of the asthma-or look interesting by moonlight in a galloping con. sumption? Nay, if the night air be so very fatal, how do you account for the longevity of owls? Have you never read of the Chaldean shepherds watching the courses of the stars! Or, to come nearer our own times, do you not know that every blessed night throughout the year, thousands of young lads and lasses meet, either beneath the milk-white thorn-or on the lea-rig, although the night be ne'er sae wet, and they be ne'er sae weary-or under a rock on the hill-or-no uncommon casebeneath a frozen stack-not of chimneys, but of corn-sheaves-or on a couch of snow-and that they are all as warm as so many pies while, instead of feeling what you call "the

Have you, our dear Doctor, no compassion for those unfortunate blades, who, nolentesvolentes, must remain out perennially all night -we mean the blades of grass, and also the flowers? Their constitutions seem often far from strong; and shut your eyes on a frosty night, and you will hear them-we have done so many million times-shivering, ay, absolutely shivering under their coat of hoar-frost! If the night air be indeed what Dr. Kitchiner has declared it to be-Lord have mercy on the vegetable world! What agonies in that field of turnips! Alas, poor Swedes! The imagination recoils from the condition of that club of winter cabbages-and of what materials, pray, must the heart of that man be made, who could think but for a moment on the case of those carrots, without bursting into a flood of

tears!

lack of vigour attendant on the loss of sleep, his mouth so deranged by tippling that h. which is as enfeebling and as distressing as simultaneously snorts, stutters, slavers and the languor that attends the want of food," snores-pot-bellied-shanked like a spindlethey are, to use a homely Scotch expression, strae-and bidding fair to be buried on or be "neither to haud nor bind;" the eyes of the fore Saturday week ;-Be it a half-drunk horseyoung lads being all as brisk, bold, and bright cowper, swinging to and fro in a wraprascal as the stars in Charles's Wain, while those of on a bit of broken-down blood that once won the young lasses shine with a soft, faint, ob- a fifty, every sentence, however short, having scure, but beautiful lustre, like the dewy but two intelligible words, an oath and a liePleiades, over which nature has insensibly his heart rotten with falsehood, and his bowels been breathing a mist almost waving and burned up with brandy, so that sudden death wavering into a veil of clouds? may pull him from his saddle before he put spurs to his sporting filly that she may bilk the turnpike man, and carry him more spec lily home to beat or murder his poor, paie, industrious char-woman of a wife;-Be it-not a beggar, for beggars are prohibited from this parish-but a pauper in the sulks, dying on her pittance from the poor-rates, which altogether amount in merry England but to about the paltry sum of, more or less, six millions a year-her son, all the while, being in a thriving way as a general merchant in the capital of the parish, and with clear profits from his business of £300 per annum, yet suffering the mother that bore him, and suckled him, and washed his childish hands, and combed the bumpkin's hair, and gave him Epsoms in a cup when her dear Johnny-raw had the bellyache, to go down, step by step, as surely and as obviously as one is seen going down a The Doctor avers that the firm health and stair with a feeble hold of the banisters, and fine spirits of persons who live in the country, stumbling every footfall, down that other are not more from breathing a purer air, than flight of steps that consist of flags that are from enjoying plenty of sound sleep; and the mortal damp and mortal cold, and lead to most distressing misery of "this Elysium of nothing but a parcel of rotten planks, and bricks and mortar," is the rareness with which overhead a vault dripping with perpetual mois we enjoy "the sweets of a slumber unbroke." ture, green and slobbery, such as toads delight Doctor-in the first place, it is somewhat in crawling heavily through with now and doubtful whether or not persons who live in then a bloated leap, and hideous things more the country have firmer health and finer spirits worm-like, that go wriggling briskly in and out than persons who live in towns-even in Lon- among the refuse of the coffins, and are heard, don. What kind of persons do you mean? by imagination at least, to emit faint angry You must not be allowed to select some dozen sounds, because the light of day has hurt their or two of the hairiest among the curates-a eyes, and the air from the upper world weakfew chosen rectors whose faces have been but ened the rank savoury smell of corruption, lately elevated to the purple-a team of pre- clothing, as with a pall, all the inside walls of bends issuing sleek from their golden stalls- the tombs ;-Be it a man yet in the prime of a picked bishop-a sacred band the élite of the life as to years, six feet and an inch high, and squirearchy-with a corresponding sprinkling measuring round the chest forty-eight inches, of superior noblemen from lords to dukes-(which is more, reader, than thou dost by six, and then to compare them, cheek by jowl, with an equal number of external objects taken from the common run of Cockneys. This, Doctor, is manifestly what you are ettling atbut you must clap your hand, Doctor, without discrimination, on the great body of the rural population of England, male and female, and take whatever comes first-be it a poor, wrinkled, toothless, blear-eyed, palsied hag, tottering horizontally on a staff, under the load of a premature old age, (for she is not yet fifty,) brought on by annual rheumatism and perennial poverty-Be it a young, ugly, unmarried woman, far advanced in pregnancy, and sullenly trooping to the alehouse, to meet the overseer of the parish poor, who, enraged with the unborn bastard, is about to force the parish bully to marry the parish prostitute;-Be it a landlord of a rural inn, with pig eyes peering over his ruby cheeks, the whole machinery of

we bet a sovereign, member although thou even be'st of the Edinburgh Six Feet Club,) to whom Washington Irving's Jack Tibbuts was but a Tims-but then ever so many gamekeepers met him all alone in my lord's pheasant preserve, and though two of them died within the month, two within the year, and two are now in the workhouse-one a mere idiot, and the other a madman-both shadows

so terribly were their bodies mauled, and so sorely were their skulls fractured ;—yet the poacher was taken, tried, hulked; and there he sits now, sunning himself on a bank by the edge of a wood whose haunts he must thread no more-for the keepers were grim bone. breakers enough in their way-and when they had gotten him on his back, one gouged him like a Yankee, and the other bit off his nose like a Bolton Trotter-and one smashed his os frontis with the nailed heel of a two-pound

pal part-and sense, feeling, memory, imagination, and reason, were all felled by one blow of fear-as butcher felleth ox-while by one of those mysteries, which neither we, nor you, nor anybody else, can understand, life remained not only unimpaired, but even in vigorated; and there she sits, like a clock wound up to go a certain time, the machinery of which being good, has not been altogether deranged by the shock that sorely cracked the case, and will work till the chain is run down, and then it will tick no more;-Be it that tall, fair, lovely girl, so thin and attenuated that all wonder she can walk by herself—that she is not blown away even by the gentle summer breeze that wooes the hectic of her cheek-dying all see

and yet herself thoughtless of the coming doom, and cheerful as a nest-building birdwhile her lover, too deep in despair to be be trayed into tears, as he carries her to her couch, each successive day feels the dear and dreadful burden lighter and lighter in his arms. Small strength will it need to support her bier! The coffin, as if empty, will be lowered unfelt by the hands that hold those rueful cords!

wooden clog, a Preston Purrer;-so that Master | pectation of the Tailor who played the princi Allonby is now far from being a beauty, with a face of that description attached to a head wagging from side to side under a powerful palsy, while the Mandarin drinks damnation to the Lord of the Manor in a horn of eleemosynary ale, handed to him by the village blacksmith, in days of old not the worst of the gang, and who, but for a stupid jury, a merciful judge, and something like prevarication in the circumstantial evidence, would have been hanged for a murderer-as he was-dissected, and hung in chains;-Be it a red-haired woman, with a pug nose, small fiery eyes, high cheekbones, bulging lips, and teeth like swinetusks,-bearded-flat-breasted as a man-tall, scambling in her gait, but swift, and full of wild motions in her weather-withered arms, all—and none better than her poor old motherstarting with sinews like whipcord-the Pedestrian Post to and fro the market town twelve miles off-and so powerful a pugilist that she hit Grace Maddox senseless in seven minutestried before she was eighteen for child-murder, but not hanged, although the man-child, of which the drab was self-delivered in a ditch, was found with blue finger-marks on its windpipe, bloody mouth, and eyes forced out of their sockets, buried in the dunghill behind her father's hut-not hanged, because a surgeon, originally bred a sow-gelder, swore that he believed the mother had unconsciously destroyed her offspring in the throes of travail, if indeed it had ever breathed, for the lungs would not swim, he swore, in a basin of water-so the incestuous murderess was let loose; her brother got hanged in due time after the mutiny at the Nore-and her father, the fishmonger-why, he went red raving mad as if a dog had bitten him-and died, as the same surgeon and sowgelder averred, of the hydrophobia, foaming at the mouth, gnashing his teeth, and some said cursing, but that was a calumny, for something seemed to be the matter with his tongue, and he could not speak, only splutter-nobody venturing, except his amiable daughter-and in that particular act of filial affection she was amiable to hold in the article of death the old man's head ;-Be it that moping idiot that would sit, were she suffered, on, on, on-night and day for ever, on the selfsame spot, whatever that spot might be on which she happened to squat at morning, mound, wall, or stone-motionless, dumb, and, as a stranger would think, also blind, for the eyelids are still shut-never opened in sun or storm;-yet that figure that which is now, and has for years been, an utter and hopeless idiot, was once a gay, laughing, dancing, singing girl, whose blue eyes seemed full of light, whether they looked on earth or heaven, the flowers or the stars-her sweet-heart-a rational young man, it would appear-having leapt out upon her suddenly, as she was passing through the churchyard at night, from behind a tomb-stone in a sack which she, having little time for consideration, and being naturally superstitious, supposed to be a shroud, and the wearer thereof, who was an active stripling of sound flesh and blood, to be a ghost or skeleton, all one horrid rattle of bones; so that the trick

eded far beyond the most sanguine ex

In mercy to our readers and ourselves, we shall endeavour to prevent ourselves from pursuing this argument any further-and perhaps quite enough has been said to show that Dr. Kitchiner's assertion, that persons who live in the country have firmer health and finer spirits than the inhabitants of towns-is exceedingly problematical. But even admitting the fact to be as the Doctor has stated it, we do not think he has attributed the phenomenon to the right cause. He attributes it to "their enjoying plenty of sound sleep." The worthy Doctor is entirely out in his conjecture. The working classes in the country enjoy, we don't doubt it, sound sleep-but not plenty of it. They have but a short allowance of sleep-and whether it be sound or not, depends chiefly on themselves; while as to the noises in towns and cities, they are nothing to what one hears in the country-unless, indeed, you perversely prefer private lodgings at a pewterer's. Did we wish to be personal, we could name a single waterfall who, even in dry weather, keeps all the visiters from town awake within a circle of four miles diameter; and in wet weather, not only keeps them all awake, but impresses them with a constantly recurring conviction during the hours of night, that there is something seriously amiss about the foundation of the river, and that the whole parish is about to be overflowed, up to the battlements of the old castle that overlooks the linn. Then, on another point, we are certain-namely, that rural thunder is many hundred times more powerful than villatic. London porter is above admiration-but London thunder below contempt. An ordinary hackney-coach beats it hollow. But, my faith! a thunder-storm in the country-especially if it be mountainous, with a few fine Woods and Forests, makes you inevitably think of that laud from whose bourne no traveller returns; and even our town readers will acknowledge that country thunder much more frequently proves mortal than the