passage; and cost but little short of two millions, and does not pay its own repairs Steamers pass through it in the great rout of the tender legged, tender skinned, tender stomached tourists, who require well aired flea-less sheets-chicken broth-and no trouble. Thy maiden aunt might make this tour nowt without a squeak, or any offence to her fastidiousness; yea, and bring her many coloured Poll with her, without fear of its being pined to death. Its lions are the parallel roads ; supposed to be of Roman origin, (which is ridiculous)-Benevis-(which is not ridiculous,) -Glengary Castle-(and mayhap Glengary himself,)—and the Falls of Foyers-But the goose, and the paper and ink maker, will tell thee how many pretty things have been said about them. But I forget, I told thee all before, nor does it suit my surly pen to twiddle twaddle over the same ground as your half-women-men who cannot "take the hill." There is a scientific institution here, whose great object is to discuss Highland antiquity. The memorable field of Culloden too, from which (like other fools) I got a bone two years ago, which cost me a cool sovereign; thou mayest now take it from its silver paper, and ship it to Hull, to be sold with the immortal bones from Waterloo, to manure Yorkshire land, and to raise food for us. It is an awkward sensation, in anticipation, to be devoured by our fellow man! Had they any Jews killed at Waterloo? I am thinking that their reproduction would choak the man-eater of whatever country. There is a vitrified fort on a hill near here, which some suppose to be of volcanic origin, others anti-Christian origin; others, to be wiser than they, to be of anti-deluvian; and the wisest of all say that it has no origin at all. To be sure these, with their twin companion in folly, the Druidical circle, have occupied the niff-naff time of those sapients, who fancy all profundity lays in date and memory, who might have been pursuing meaner, for want of the capacity to grasp nobler subjects. I have met some of these antiquarians, and stone-gathering fraternity! They seem a race of themselves; and generally dead to social action, and as ignorant of what concerns happiness here, or salvation hereafter, as the ass who never thought about it at all. Man should be concerned about what is more than what was. What does it matter to us whether the Druidical circles were places of worship, places of judicature; or what is a more romantic speculation, the doll, or playhouses of the young giant druids? Let man explore the dark vista of time to collect the gold dust from the rubbish of a Plato or a Socrates, all well-because it may pass the moral crucible, and circulate through the vein of the heart and mind, and benefit mankind: will the other ever do that? Learn to divide thy time universally, for at best, the one-object man, is but a millhorse, who gives enjoyment to a very small portion of mankind, while he grinds all his own away, and passes in his daily round, unheeded, and unheeding. Had we not been born Jews we could have lent to the world that gold of happiness, which cost us nothing, and been made rich in joy from its returning interest. The new Jerusalem of reason and humanity is at hand! Wait with patience, for patience is the main key of happiness; and be content', is the prayer of EXILE. N.B. Don't grumble at treble postage, for it is impossible to wedge it closer. Look to my Esquimaux dog-for“ a merciful man shews mercy unto his beast"-and wipe his half-human eye, when the dewdrops of remembrance overflow for me! LETTER IV. A BLESSING to the inventors of pen, ink, and paper; and to Sir Francis Freeling, for being my mouth-piece! The man in the moon might laugh at this, our slow mode of communicating our ideas; but Chacktipacti, the Cherokee, would not. Talking of the moon, I have had a dream, which, from being something better in health, the image had a pleasanter character, the same as when we are awake. I will give it thee, for the sensations are the same as reality; and the poet who is not a good dreamer, will never electrify the soul when he wakes. I was sitting on the top of a high mountain, wrapped in one of those placid reveries, when cogitation is no trouble. The sun was setting, and teeming forth its golden lava upon the sheets of mist mid-mountain below me, till it became a gilded sea. The waterfall was full, but appeared to make no noise: the light mist |