do not now exist in the bosom of the earth, than the friends with whom we are now on the hobnob. Stolen waters are sweet-a profound and beautiful reflection-and no doubt originally made by some peripatetic philosopher at a Still. The very soul of the strong drink evaporates with the touch of the gauger's wand. An evil day would it indeed be for Scotland, that should witness the extinguishment of all her free and unlicensed mountain stills! The charm of Highland hospitality would be wan and withered, and the doch an dorras, instead of a blessing, would sound like a ban.

| Lamentations of Jeremiah over the siniul mul. titude of Small Stills! Hypocrisy! hypocrisy ! where shalt thou hide thy many-coloured sides? Whisky is found by experience to be, on the whole, a blessing in so misty and moun tainous a country. It destroys disease and banishes death; without some such stimulant the people would die of cold. You will see a fine old Gael, of ninety or a hundred, turn up his little finger to a caulker with an air of pa triarchal solemnity altogether scriptural; his great-grandchildren eyeing him with the mos respectful affection, and the youngest of them We have said that smugglers are never toddling across the floor, to take the quech from drunkards, not forgetting that general rules are his huge, withered, and hairy hand, which he proved by exceptions; nay, we go farther, and lays on the amiable Joseph's sleek craniology, declare that the Highlanders are the soberest with a blessing heartier through the Glenlivet, people in Europe. Whisky is to them a cor- and with all the earnestness of religion. There dial, a medicine, a life-preserver. Chief of the is no disgrace in getting drunk-in the Highumbrella and wraprascal! were you ever in lands-not even if you are of the above standthe Highlands? We shall produce a single day ing-for where the people are so poor, such a from any of the fifty-two weeks of the year that state is but of rare occurrence; while it is felt will outargue you on the present subject, in all over the land of sleet and snow, that a "drap half-an-hour. What sound is that? The rush-o' the creatur" is a very necessary of life, and ing of rain from heaven, and the sudden out- that but for its "dew" the mountains would be ery of a thousand waterfalls. Look through a uninhabitable. At fairs, and funerals, and chink in the bothy, and far as you can see for marriages, and suchlike merry meetings, sothe mists, the heath-covered desert is steaming briety is sent to look after the sheep; but, exlike the smoke of a smouldering fire. Winds cept on charitable occasions of that kind, sobiting as winter come sweeping on their invi- briety stays at home among the peat-reek, and sible chariots armed with scythes, down every is contented with crowdy. Who that ever glen, and scatter far and wide over the moun- stooped his head beneath a Highland hut would tains the spray of the raging lochs. Now you grudge a few gallons of Glenlivet to its poor have a taste of the summer cold, more dan- but unrepining inmates? The seldomer they gerous far than that of Yule, for it often strikes get drunk the better-and it is but seldom they "aitches" into the unprepared bones, and con- do so; but let the rich man-the monied mogeals the blood of the shelterless shepherd on ralist, who bewails and begrudges the Gael a the hill. But one glorious gurgle of the speerit modicum of the liquor of life, remember the down the throat of a storm-stayed man! and doom of a certain Dives, who, in a certain place bold as a rainbow he faces the reappearing that shall now be nameless, cried, but cried in sun, and feels assured (though there he may vain for a drop of water. Lord bless the Highbe mistaken) of dying at a good old age. landers, say we, for the most harmless, hospitable, peaceable, brave people that ever despised breeches, blue pibrochs, took invincible standards, and believed in the authenticity of Ossian's poems. In that pure and lofty region ignorance is not, as elsewhere, the mother of vice-penury cannot repress the noble rage of the mountaineer as "he sings aloud old songs that are the music of the heart;" while superstition herself has an elevating influence, and will be suffered, even by religion, to show her shadowy shape and mutter her wild voice through the gloom that lies on the heads of the remote glens, and among the thousand caves of echo in her iron-bound coasts dashed on for ever-night and day-summer and winterby those sleepless seas, who have no sooner laid their heads on the pillow than up they start with a howl that cleaves the Orcades, and away off in search of shipwrecks round the corner of Cape Wrath.

Then think, oh think, how miserably poor are most of those men who have fought our battles, and so often reddened their bayonets in defence of our liberties and our laws! Would you grudge them a little whisky? And, depend upon it, a little is the most, taking one day of the year with another, that they imbibe. You figure to yourself two hundred thousand Highlanders, taking snuff, and chewing tobacco, and drinking whisky, all year long. Why, one pound of snuff, two of tobacco, and two gallons of whisky, would be beyond the mark of the yearly allowance of every grown-up man! Thousands never taste such luxuries at all-meal and water, potatoes and salt, their only food. The animal food, sir, and the fermented liquors of various kinds, Foreign and British, which to our certain knowledge you have swallowed within the last twelve months, would have sufficed for fifty families in our abstemious region of mist and snow. We have known you drink a bottle of champagne, a bottle of port, and two bottles of claret, frequently at a sitting, equal, in prime cost, to three gallons of the best Glenlivet! And You (who, by the way, are an English clergyman, a circumstance we had entirely forgotten, and have published a Discourse against DrunkenDess, dedicated to a Bishop) pour forth the

In the third place, what shall we say of the poetical influence of STILLS? What more poetical life can there be than that of the men with whom we are now quaffing the barley. bree? They live with the moon and stars. All the night winds are their familiars. If there be such things as ghosts, and fairies, and apparitions-and that there are, no man who has travelled much by himself after sunset will

deny, except from the mere love of contradic-| attack your corpse from the worm-holes of the tion-they see them; or when invisible, which earth. Corbies, ravens, hawks, eagles, all the they generally are, hear them-here-there- feathered furies of beak and bill, will come everywhere-in sky, forest, cave, or hollow- flying ere sunset to anticipate the maggots, and sounding world immediately beneath their carry your remains-if you will allow us to feet. Many poets walk these wilds; nor do call them so-over the whole of Argyleshire in their songs perish. They publish not with many living sepulchres. We confess ourselves Blackwood or with Murray-but for centuries unable to see the solitude of this—and begin on centuries, such songs are the preservers, to agree with Byron, that a man is less often the sources, of the oral traditions that go crowded at a masquerade. glimmering and gathering down the stream of years. Native are they to the mountains as the blooming heather, nor shall they ever cease to invest them with the light of poetry-in defiance of large farms, Methodist preachers, and the Caledonian Canal.

People are proud of talking of solitude. It redounds, they opine, to the honour of their great-mindedness to be thought capable of living, for an hour or two, by themselves, at a considerable distance from knots or skeins of their fellow-creatures. Byron, again, thought he showed his superiority, by swearing as solemnly as a man can do in the Spenserian stanza, that

"To sit alone, and muse o'er flood and fell,"

has nothing whatever to do with solitude-and that, if you wish to know and feel what solitude really is, you must go to Almack's.

"This-this is solitude-this is to be alone!"

But the same subject may be illustrated less tragically, and even with some slight comic effect. A man among mountains is often surrounded on all sides with mice and moles. What cozy nests do the former construct at the roots of heather, among tufts of grass in the rushes, and the moss on the greensward! As for the latter, though you think you know a mountain from a molehill, you are much mistaken; for what is a mountain, in many cases, but a collection of molehills-and of fairy knolls?-which again introduce a new element into the composition, and show, in still more glaring colours, your absurdity in supposing yourself to be in solitude. The

Silent People" are around you at every step. You may not see them-for they are dressed in invisible green; but they see you, and that unaccountable whispering and buzzing sound one often hears in what we call the wilderness, what is it, or what can it be, but the fairies His Lordship's opinions were often peculiar-making merry at your expense, pointing out but the passage has been much admired; to each other the extreme silliness of your therefore we are willing to believe that the meditative countenance, and laughing like to Great Desert is, in point of loneliness, unable split at your fond conceit of being alone among to stand a philosophical, much less a poetical a multitude of creatures far wiser than your comparison, with a well-frequented fancy-ball. self. But is the statement not borne out by facts? Zoology is on its side-more especially two of its most interesting branches, Entomology and Ornithology.

But should all this fail to convince you, that you are never less alone than when you think yourself alone, and that a man never knows what it is to be in the very heart of life till he leaves London, and takes a walk in GlenEtive-suppose yourself to have been leaning with your back against that knoll, dreaming of the far-off race of men, when all at once the support gives way inwards, and you tumble head over heels in among a snug coterie of kilted Celts, in the very act of creating Glenlivet in a great warlock's caldron, seething to the top with the Spirit of Life!

Go to a desert and clap your back against a cliff. Do you think yourself alone? What a ninny! Your great clumsy splay feet are bruising to death a batch of beetles. See that spider whom you have widowed, running up and down your elegant leg, in distraction and despair, bewailing the loss of a husband who, however savage to the ephemerals, had always smiled sweetly upon her. Meanwhile, your shoulders have crushed a colony of small Such fancies as these, among many others, red ants settled in a moss city beautifully were with us in the Still. But a glimmering roofed with lichens-and that accounts for the and a humming and a dizzy bewilderment sharp tickling behind your ear, which you hangs over that time and place, finally dying keep scratching, no Solomon, in ignorance of away into oblivion. Here are we sitting in a the cause of that effect. Should you sit down glade of a birch-wood in what must be Gleno -we must beg to draw a veil over your hur--some miles from the Still. Hamish asleep, dies, which at the moment extinguish a fear- as usual, whenever he lies down, and all the ful amount of animal life-creation may be dogs yowffing in dreams, and Surefoot standsaid to groan under them; and, insect as you ing with his long beard above ours, almost the are yourself, you are defrauding millions of same in longitude. We have been more, we insects of their little day. All the while you suspect, than half-seas over, and are now are supposing yourself alone! Now are you lying on the shore of sobriety, almost a wreck. not, as we hinted, a prodigious ninny? But The truth is, that the new spirit is even more the whole wilderness-as you choose to call it dangerous than the new light. Both at first -is crawling with various life. London, with dazzle, then obfuscate, and lastly darken into its million and a half of inhabitants-includ- temporary death. There is, we fear, but one ing of course its suburbs-is, compared with word of one syllable in the English language it, an empty joke. Die-and you will soon be that could fully express our late condition. picked to the bones. The air swarms with Let our readers solve the enigma. Oh! those sharvers-and an insurrection of radicals will quechs! By

FLIGHT FOURTH-DOWN RIVER AND
UP LOCH.

"What drugs, what spells, What conjurations, and what mighty magic," was Christopher overthrown! A strange confusion of sexes, as of men in petticoats and women in breeches-gowns transmogrified into jackets-caps into bonnets-and thick naked hairy legs into slim ankles decent in hose all somewhere whirling and dancing by, dim and obscure, to the sound of something groaning and yelling, sometimes inarticulate-imagining that we had fired, have kept loading ly, as if it came from something instrumental, and then mixed up with a wild gibberish, as if shrieking, somehow or other, from living lips, human and brute-for a dream of yowling dogs is over all-utterly confounds us as we strive to muster in recollection the few last hours that have passed tumultuously through our brain-and then a wide black moor, sometimes covered with day, sometimes with night, stretches around us, hemmed in on all sides by the tops of mountains, seeming to reel in the sky. Frequent flashes of fire, and a whirring as of the wings of birds-but sound and sight alike uncertain-break again upon our dream. Let us not mince the matter-we can afford the confession-we have been overtaken by liquor-sadly intoxicated-out with it at once! Frown not, fairest of all sweet-for we lay our calamity, not to the charge of the Glenlivet circling in countless quechs, but at the door of that inveterate enemy to sobriety-the Fresh

Air.

But now we are as sober as a judge. Pity our misfortune-rather than forgive our sin. We entered that Still in a State of innocence before the Fall. Where we fell, we know not -in divers ways and sundry places-between that magic cell on the breast of Benachochie, and this glade in Gleno. But,

"There are worse things in life than a fall among heather."

Surefoot, we suppose, kept himself tolerably sober-and O'Bronte, at each successive cloit, must have assisted us to remount--for Hamish, from his style of sleeping, must have been as bad as his master; and, after all, it is wonder ful to think how we got here-over hags and mosses, and marshes and quagmires, like those in which "armies whole have sunk." But the truth is, that never in the whole course of our lives-and that course has been a strange one -did we ever so often as onee lose our way. Set us down blindfolded on Zahara, and we will beat the caravan to Timbuctoo. Something or other mysteriously indicative of the right direction touches the soles of our feet in the shape of the ground they tread; and even when our souls have gone soaring far away, or have sunk within us, still have our feet pursued the shortest and the safest path that leads to the bourne of our pilgrimage. Is not that strange? But not stranger surely than the flight of the bee, on his first voyage over the coves of the wilderness to the far-off heather-bells—or of the dove that is sent by some Jew stockjobber, to communicate to Dutchmen the rise or fall of the funds, from London to Hamburgh, from the clear shores of silver Thames to the muddy shallows of the Zuyder

Zee.

LET us inspect the state of Brown Bess. Right barrel empty-left barrel-what is the meaning of this?-crammed to the muzzle! Ay, that comes on visiting Stills. We have been snapping away at the coveys and single birds all over the moor, without so much as a pluff, with the right-hand cock-and then, away at the bore to the left, till, see! the ram rod absolutely stands upright in the air, with only about three inches hidden in the hollow! What a narrow-a miraculous escape has the world had of losing Christopher North! Had he drawn that trigger instead of this, Brown Bess would have burst to a moral certainty, and blown the old gentleman piecemeal over the heather. "In the midst of life we are in death!" Could we but know one in a hundred of the close approachings of the skeleton, we should lead a life of perpetual shudder. Often and often do his bony fingers almost clutch our throat, or his foot is put out to give us a cross-buttock. But a saving arm pulls him back, ere we have seen so much as his shadow. We believe all this-but the belief that comes not from something steadfastly present before our eyes, is barren; and thus it is, since believing is not seeing, that we walk hoodwinked nearly all our days, and worst of all blindness is that of ingratitude and forgetfulness of Him whose shield is for ever over us, and whose mercy shall be with us in the world beyond the grave.

By all that is most beautifully wild in anı mated nature, a Roe! a Roe! Shall we slay him where he stands, or let him vanish in silent glidings in among his native woods? What a fool for asking ourselves such a question! Slay him where he stands to be in his leafy lairs, a life of leisure, delight, and sure-for many pleasant seasons hath he led love, and the hour is come when he must sink down on his knees in a sudden and unpainful death-fair silvan dreamer! We have drawn that multitudinous shot-and both barrels of Brown Bess now are loaded with ball-for Hamish is yet lying with his head on the rifle. Whiz! whiz! one is through lungs, and another through neck-and seemingly rather to sleep than die, (so various are the many modes of expiration!)

"In quietness he lays him down
Gently, as a weary wave

Sinks, when the summer breeze has died,
Against an anchor'd vessel's side."
Ay-Hamish-you may start to your feet-
and see realized the vision of your sleep.
What a set of distracted dogs! But O'Bronte
first catches sight of the quarry-and clear-
ing, with grasshopper spangs, the patches of
stunted coppice, stops stock-still beside the
roe in the glade, as if admiring and wondering
at the beauty of the fair spotted creature! Yes,
dogs have a sense of the beautiful. Else how
can you account for their loving so to lie
down at the feet and lick the hands of the
virgin whose eyes are mild, and forehead meek,
and hair of placid sunshine, rather than act
the same part towards ugly women, who,

coarser and coarser in each successive widowhood, when at their fourth husband are beyond expression hideous, and felt to be so by the whole canine tribe? Spenser must have seen some dog like O'Bronte lying at the feet and licking the hand of some virgin-sweet reader, like thyself-else never had he painted the posture of that Lion who guarded through Fairyland

"Heavenly Una and her milkwhite lamb."

A divine line of Wordsworth's, which we shall never cease quoting on to the last of our inditings, even to our dying day!

But where, Hamish, are all the flappers, the mawsies, and the mallards? What! You have left them-hare, grouse, bag, and all, at the Still! We remember it now-and all the distillers are to-night to be at our Tent, bringing with them feathers, fur, and hide-ducks, pussy, and deer. But take the roe on your stalwart shoulders, Hamish, and bear it down to the silvan dwelling at the mouth of Gleno. Surefoot has a sufficient burden in us-for we are waxing more corpulent every day-and erelong shall be a Silenus.

Look and listen far and wide through a sunshiny day, over a rich wooded region, with hedgerows, single trees, groves, and forests, and yet haply not one bird is to be seen or heard-neither plumage nor song. Yet many a bright lyrist is there, all mute till the harb inger-hour of sunset, when all earth, air, and heaven, shall be ringing with one song. Almost even so is it with this mountain-wilderness. Small bright-haired, bright-eyed, brightfaced children, come stealing out in the morn ing from many hidden huts, each solitary in its own site, the sole dwelling on its own brae or its own dell. Singing go they one and all, alone or in small bands, trippingly along the wide moors; meeting into pleasant parties at cross paths, or at fords, till one stated hour sees them all gathered together, as now in the small Schoolhouse of Gleno, and the echo of the happy hum of the simple scholars is heard soft among the cliffs. But all at once the hum now ceases, and there is a hurry out of doors, and exulting cry; for the shadow of Hamish, with the roe on his shoulders, has passed the small lead-latticed window, and the SchoolAy, travel all the world over, and a human room has emptied itself on the green, which is dwelling lovelier in its wildness shall you now brightening with the young blossoms of life. nowhere find, than the one that hides itself in "A roe-a roe-a roe!"-is still the the depth of its own beauty, beneath the last chorus of their song; and the Schoolmaster of the green knolls besprinkling Gleno, dropt himself, though educated at college for the down there in presence of the peacefulest bay kirk, has not lost the least particle of his of all Loch-Etive, in whose cloud-softened passion for the chase, and with kindling eyes bosom it sees itself reflected among the con- assists Hamish in laying down his burden, and genial imagery of the skies. And, hark! a gazes on the spots with a hunter's joy. We murmur as of swarming bees! "Tis a Gaelic leave you to imagine his delight and his sur school-set down in this loneliest of all places, prise when, at first hardly trusting his optics, by that religious wisdom that rests not till the he beholds CHRISTOPHER ON SUREFOOT, and seeds of saving knowledge shall be sown over then, patting the shelty on the shoulder, bows all the wilds. That grayhaired minister of affectionately and respectfully to the Old Man, God, whom all Scotland venerates, hath been and while our hands grasp, takes a pleasure here from the great city on one of his holy in repeating over and over again that celebrated pilgrimages. And, lo! at his bidding, and surname-North-North-North. that of his coadjutors in the heavenly work, a Schoolhouse has risen with its blue roof--the pure diamond-sparkling slates of Ballahulish -beneath a tuft of breeze-breaking trees. But whence come they-the little scholars-who are all murmuring there? We said that the shores of Loch-Etive were desolate. So seem they to the eye of Imagination, that loves to gather up a hundred scenes into one, and to breathe over the whole the lonesome spirit of one vast wilderness. But Imagination was a liar ever-a romancer and a dealer in dreams. Hers are the realms of fiction,

"A boundless contiguity of shade!" But the land of truth is ever the haunt of the heart-there her eye reposes or expatiates, and what sweet, humble, and lowly visions arise before it, in a light that fadeth not away, but abideth for ever! Cottages, huts, shielings, she sees hidden--few and far between indeed -but all filled with Christian life-among the hoilows of the hills-and up, all the way up the great glens-and by the shores of the loneliest lochs-and sprinkled, not so rarely, among the woods that enclose little fields and meadows of their own-all the way down-more animated-till children are seen gathering before their doors the shells of the contiguous sea.

All slates are in

After a brief and bright hour of glee and merriment, mingled with grave talk, nor marred by the sweet undisturbance of all those elves maddening on the Green around the Roe, we express a wish that the scholars may all again be gathered together in the Schoolroom, to undergo an examination by the Christian Philosopher of Buchanan Lodge. 'Tis in all things gentle, in nothing severe. stantly covered with numerals, and 'tis pleasant to see their skill in finest fractions, and in the wonder-working golden rule of three. And now the rustling of their manuals is like that of rainy breezes among the summer leaves. No fears are here that the Book of God will lose its sanctity by becoming too familiar to eye, lip, and hand. Like the sunlight in the sky, the light that shines there is for ever dear

and unlike any sunlight in any skies, never is it clouded, permanently bright, and undimmed before pious eyes by one single shadow. We ought, perhaps, to be ashamed, but we are not so we are happy that not an urchin is there who is not fully better acquainted with the events and incidents recorded in the Old and New Testaments than ourselves; and think not that all these could have been so faithfully committed to memory without the perpetual operation of the heart.

Words are forgotten unless they are embalmed in spirit; and the air of the world, blow afterwards rudely as it may, shall never shrivel up one syllable that has been steeped into their souls by the spirit of the Gospel-felt by these almost infant disciples of Christ to be the very breath of God.

folk baa-and the hairy hordes bellow on a thousand hills. All the beauty and sublimity on earth-over the Four Quarters of the World is not worth a straw if valued against a good harvest. An average crop is satisfactory; but a crop that soars high above an average-a golden year of golden ears-sends joy into the heart of heaven. No prating now of the degeneracy of the potato. We can sing now with our single voice, like a numerous chorus, of

"Potatoes drest both ways, both roasted and boiled;" Sixty bolls to the acre on a field of our own of twenty acres--mealier than any meal-Perth reds-to the hue on whose cheeks dull was that on the face of the Fair Maid of Perth, when she blushed to confess to Burn-y-win' that hand-over-hip he had struck the iron when

It has turned out one of the sweetest and serenest afternoons that ever breathed a hush over the face and bosom of August woods. Can we find it in our mind to think, in our heart to feel, in our hand to write that Scotland is now even more beautiful than in our youth! No-not in our heart to feel-but in our eyes to see for they tell us it is the truth. The people have cared for the land which the Lord their God hath given them, and have made the wilderness to blossom like the rose. The same Arts that have raised their condition have brightened their habitation; Agriculture, it was hot, and that she was no more the by fertilizing the loveliness of the low-lying vales, has sublimed the sterility of the stupendous mountain heights-and the thundrous tides, flowing up the lochs, bring power to the cornfields and pastures created on hillsides once horrid with rocks. The whole country laughs with a more vivid verdure-more pure the flow of her streams and rivers-for many a fen and marsh have been made dry, and the rainbow pictures itself on clearer cataracts.

The Highlands were, in our memory, overspread with a too dreary gloom. Vast tracts there were in which Nature herself seemed miserable; and if the heart find no human happiness to repose on, Imagination will fold her wings, or flee away to other regions, where in her own visionary world she may soar at will, and at will stoop down to the homes of this real earth. Assuredly the inhabitants are happier than they then were better off-and therefore the change, whatever loss it may comprehend, has been a gain in good. Alas! poverty-penury-want-even of the necessaries of life are too often there still rife; but patience and endurance dwell there, heroic and better far, Christian-nor has Charity been slow to succour regions remote but not inaccessible, Charity acting in power delegated by Heaven to our National Councils. And thus we can think not only without sadness, but with an elevation of soul inspired by such example of highest virtue in humblest estate, and in our own sphere exposed to other trials be induced to follow it, set to us in many "a virtuous household, though exceeding poor." What are all the poetical fancies about "mountain scenery," that ever fluttered on the leaves of albums, in comparison with any scheme, however prosaic, that tends in any way to increase human comforts? The best sonnet that ever was written by a versifier from the South to the Crown of Benlomond, is not worth the worst pair of worsted stockings trotted in by a small Celt going with his dad to seek for a lost sheep among the snow-wreaths round his base. As for eagles, and ravens, and red-deer, "those magnificent creatures so stately and bright,” let them shift for themselves--and perhaps in spite of all our rhapsodies-the fewer of them the better-but among geese, and turkeys, and poultry, let propagation flourish-the fleecy

Glover's. Oh bright are potato blooms!-Oh green are potato-shaws!-Oh yellow are potato plums! But how oft are blighted summer hopes and broken summer promises! Spare not the shaw-heap high the mounds-that damp nor frost may dim a single eye; so that all winter through poor men may prosper, and spring see settings of such prolific vigour, that they shall yield a thousand-fold-and the sound of rumble-te-thumps be heard all over the land.

Let the people eat-let them have food for their bodies, and then they will have heart to care for their souls; and the good and the wise will look after their souls, with sure and certain hope of elevating them from their hovels to heaven, while prigs, with their eyes in a fine frenzy rolling, rail at railroads and all the other vile inventions of an utilitarian age to open up and expedite communication between the Children of the Mist and the Sons and Daughters of the Sunshine, to the utter annihilation of the sublime Spirit of Solitude. Be under no sort of alarm for Nature. There is some talk, it is true, of a tunnel through Cruachan to the Black Mount, but the general impression seems to be that it will be a great bore. A joint-stock company that undertook to remove Ben Nevis, is beginning to find unexpected obstructions. Feasible as we confess it appeared, the idea of draining Loch Lomond has been relinquished for the easier and more useful scheme of converting the Clyde from below Stonebyres, to above the Bannatyne Fall, into a canal-the chief lock being, in the opinion of the most ingenious speculators, almost ready-made at Corra Linn.

Shall we never be done with our soliloquy? It may be a little longish, for age is prolix-bu every whit as natural and congenial with circumstances, as Hamlet's "to be or not to be, that is the question." O beloved Albin! our soul yearneth towards thee, and we invoke a blessing on thy many thousand glens. The man who leaves a blessing on any one of thy solitary places, and gives expression to a good thought in presence of a Christian brother, is a missionary of the church. What uncomplaining and unrepining patience in thy solitary huts! What unshrinking endurance of physical pain and want, that might well shame the Stoic's