Dear Mister,—I come of to make a little voyage in Scotland. Ah, the beautiful country of Sir Scott, Sir Wallace, and Sir Burns! I am gone to render visit to one of my english friends, a charming boy—un charmant garÇon—and his wife, a lady very instructed and very spiritual, and their childs. I adore them, the dear little english childs, who have the cheeks like some roses, and the hairs like some flax, as one says in your country, all buckled—bouclÉs, how say you?

I go by the train of night—in french one says "le sleeping"—to Edimbourg, and then to Calendar, where I attend to find a coach—in french one says "un mail" or "un fourinhand." Nom d'une pipe, it is one of those ridicule carriages, called in french "un breack" and in english a char-À-banc—that which the english pronounce "tcherribaingue"—which attends us at the going out of the station! Eh well, in voyage one must habituate himself to all! But a such carriage discovered—dÉcouverte—seems to me well unuseful in a country where he falls of rain without cease.

Before to start I demand of all the world some renseignements on the scottish climate, and all the world responds me, "All-days of the rain." By consequence I procure myself some impermeable vestments, one mackintosch coat, one mackintosch cape of Inverness, one mackintosch covering of voyage, one south-western hat, some umbrellas, some gaiters, and many pairs of boots very thick—not boots of town, but veritable "shootings."

I arrive at Edimbourg by a morning of the most sads; the sky grey, the earth wet, the air humid. Therefore I propose to myself to search at Calender a place at the interior, et voilÀ—and see there—the breack has no interior! There is but that which one calls a "boot", and me, Auguste, can I to lie myself there at the middle of the baggages? Ah no! Thus I am forced to endorse—endosser—my impermeable vestments and to protect myself the head by my south-western hat. Then, holding firmly the most strong of my umbrellas, I say to the coacher, "He goes to fall of the rain, is it not?" He makes a sign of head of not to comprehend. Ah, for sure, he is scottish! I indicate the sky and my umbrella, and I say "Rain?" and then he comprehends. "Eh huile", he responds to me, "ah canna sÉ, mÉbi huile no hÉ meukl the dÉ." I write this phonetically, for I comprehend not the scottish language. What droll of conversation! Him comprehends not the english; me I comprehend not the scottish.

But I essay of new, "How many has he of it from here to the lake?" C'est inutile—it is unuseful. I say, "Distance?" He comprehends. "MÉbi oui taque toua hours", says he; "beutt yile no fache yoursel, its no sÉ lang that yile bi ouishinn yoursel aoua." Quelle langue—what language, even to write phonetically! I comprehend one sole word, "hours." Some hours! Sapristi! I say, "Hours?" He says "Toua" all together, a monosyllable. Sans aucune doute Ça veut dire "twelve"—douze. Twelve hours on a breack in a such climate! Ah, no! C'est trop fort—it is too strong! "Hold", I cry myself, "attend, I descend, I go not!" It is true that I see not how I can to descend, for I am entourÉ—how say you? of voyagers. We are five on a bench, of the most narrows, and me I am at the middle. And the bench before us is also complete, and we touch him of the knees. And my neighbours carry on the knees all sorts of packets, umbrellas, canes, sacks of voyage, &c. Il n'y a pas moyen—he has not there mean. And the coacher says me "Na, na, monne, yile no ghitt doun, yile djest baÏd ouar yer sittinn." Then he mounts to his place, and we part immediately. Il va tomber de la pluie! Douze heures! Mon Dieu, quel voyage!

Agree, &c.,

Auguste.

Saxon Tourist. "Been at the kirk?"

Celt. "Aye."

Saxon T. "How far is it?"

Celt. "Daur say it'll be fourteen mile."

Saxon T. "Fourteen miles!!"

Celt. "Aye, aw'm awfu' fond o' the preachin'"