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for ever-here-there-everywhere-among the remoter woods. Northwards one fierce torrent dashes through the centre-but no vil lages-only a few woodmen's shielings wil. appear on its banks; for it is a torrent of precipices, where the shrubs that hang midway from the cleft are out of the reach of the spray of its cataracts, even when the red Garroch is in flood.

.he soiling earth, and glorying in his own cor- now a noise as of "thunder heard remote." ruption, sought to eternize here his very sins Waterfalls-hundreds of waterfalls sounding by naming the stars of heaven after heroes, conquerors, murderers, violators of the mandates of the Maker whom they had forgotten, or whose attributes they had debased by their own foul imaginations. They believed themselves, in the delusion of their own idolatries, to be "Lords of the world and Demigods of Fame," while they were the slaves of their own sins and their own sinful Deities. Should we have been wiser in our generation than they, but for the Bible? If in moral speculation we hear but little-too little-of the confession of what it owes to the Christian religion-in all the Philosophy, nevertheless, that is pure and of good report, we see that "the day-spring from on high has visited it." In all philosophic inquiry there is, perhaps, a tendency to the soul's exaltation of itself-which the spirit and genius of Christianity subdues. It is not sufficient to say that a natural sense of our own infirmities will do so-for seldom indeed have Deists been lowly-minded. They have talked proudly of humility. Compare their moral meditations with those of our great divines. Their thoughts and feelings are of the "earth earthy;" but when we listen to those others, we feel that their lore has been Godgiven.

"It is as if an angel shook his wings." Thus has Christianity glorified Philosophy; its celestial purity is now the air in which intellect breathes. In the liberty and equality of that religion, the soul of the highest Philosopher dare not offend that of the humblest peasant. Nay, it sometimes stands rebuked before it-and the lowly dweller in the hut, or the shieling on the mountain side, or in the forest, could abash the proudest son of Science, by pointing to the Sermon of our Saviour on the Mount-and saying, "I see my duties to man and God here!" The religious establishments of Christianity, therefore, have done more not only to support the life of virtue, but to show all its springs and sources, than all the works of all the Philosophers who have ever expounded its principles or its practice.

Many hours have we been in the wilderness, and our heart yearns again for the cheerful dwellings of men. Sweet infant streamlet, that flows by our feet without a murmur, so shallow are yet thy waters-wilt thou-short as hitherto has been thy journeying-wilt thou be our guide out into the green valleys and the blue heaven, and the sight once more of the bright sunshine and the fair fleecy clouds? No other clue to the labyrinth do we seek but that small, thin, pure, transparent thread of silver, which neither bush nor brier will break, and which will wind without entanglement round the roots of the old trees, and the bases of the shaggy rocks. As if glad to escape from its savage birthplace, the small rivulet now gives utterance to a song; and sliding down shelving rocks, so low in their mossy' verdure as hardly to deserve that name, glides along the almost level lawns, here and there disclosing a little hermit flower. No danger now of its being imbibed wholly by the thirsty earth; for it has a channel and banks of its own-and there is a waterfall! Thenceforwards the rivulet never loses its merry voice-and in an hour it is a torrent. What beautiful symptoms now of its approach to the edge of the Forest! Wandering lights and whispering airs are here visitants-and there the blue eye of a wild violet looking up from the ground! The glades are more frequentmore frequent open spaces cleared by the woodman's axe-and the antique Oak-Tree all alone by itself, itself a grove. The torrent may be called noble now; and that deep blue atmosphere-or say rather, that glimmer of purple air-lies over the Strath in which a great River rolls along to the Sea.

Ha! what has brought thee hither, thou Nothing in all nature more beautiful than wide-antlered king of the red-deer of Braemar, the boundary of a great Highland Forest. from the spacious desert of thy hills of storm? Masses of rocks thrown together in magnifiEre now we have beheld thee, or one stately cent confusion, many of them lichened and as thee, gazing abroad, from a rock over the weather-stained with colours gorgeous as the heather, to all the points of heaven; and soon eyed plumage of the peacock, the lustre of the as our figure was seen far below, leading the rainbow, or the barred and clouded glories of van of the flight thou went'st haughtily away setting suns-some towering aloft with trees into the wilderness. But now thou glidest sown in the crevices by bird or breeze, and softly and slowly through the gloom-no watch-checkering the blue sky-others bare, black, fulness, no anxiety in thy large beaming eyes; abrupt, grim as volcanoes, and shattered as if and, kneeling among the hoary mosses, layest by the lightning-stroke. Yet interspersed, thyself down in unknown fellowship with one places of perfect peace-circles among the tali of those human creatures, a glance of whose heather, or taller lady-fern, smoothed into veleye, a murmur of whose voice, would send vet, it is there easy to believe, by Fairies' fee' thee belling through the forest, terrified by the-rocks where the undisturbed linnet hangs flash or sound that bespoke a,hostile nature her nest among the blooming briars, all float. wont to pursue thy race unto death.-The ing with dew draperies of honeysuckle alive hunter is upon thee-away-away! Sudden as a shooting-star up springs the red-deer, and in the gloom as suddenly is ost.

On-on-on! further into he Forest!-and

with bees-glades green as emerald, where lie the lambs in tempered sunshine, or haply a lovely doe reposes with her fawn; and further down, where the fields half belong to the moun

tain and half to the strath, the smoke of hidden huts-a log-bridge flung across the torrent-a hanging garden, and a little broomy knoll, with a few laughing children at play, almost as wildlooking as the wanderers of the woods!

Was there ever such a descriptive dream of a coloured engraving of the Cushat, Quest, of Ring-Dove, dreamt before? Poor worn-out and glimmering candle!—whose wick of light and life in a few more flickerings will be no more-what a contrast dost thou present with thyself of eight hours ago! Then, truly, wert thou a shining light, and high aloft in the room

Turn your eyes, if you can, from that lovely wilderness, and behold down along a milebroad Strath, fed by a thousand torrents, floweth the noblest of Scotia's rivers, the strong-gloaming burned thy clear crest like a starsweeping Spey! Let Imagination launch her canoe, and be thou a solitary steersman-for need is none of oar or sail; keep the middle course while all the groves go by, and ere the sun has sunk behind yon golden mountains-nay, mountains they are not, but a transitory pomp of clouds-thou mayest list the roaring, and behold the foaming of the Sea.

during its midnight silence, a memento mori of which our spirit was not afraid. Now thou art dying-dying-dead! Our cell is in darkness. But methinks we see another-a purer-a clearer light-one more directly from Heaven. We touch but a spring in a wooden shutterand lo! the full blaze of day. Oh! why should we mortal beings dread that night-prison-the Grave?

DR. KITCHINER.

FIRST COURSE.

here is the same as if one accustomed to drink water, should, all at once, begin to drink wine."

Had the Doctor been alive, we should have asked him what he meant by "long and violent jolting?" Jolting is now absolutely unknown in England, and it is of England the Doctor speaks. No doubt, some occasional

Ir greatly grieved us to think that Dr. Kitchiner should have died before our numerous avocations had allowed us an opportunity of dining with him, and subjecting to the test-act | of our experienced palate his claims to immortality as a Cook and a Christian. The Doctor jolting might still be discovered among the had, we know, a dread of Us-not altogether unallayed by delight; and on the dinner to Us, which he had meditated for nearly a quarter of a century, he knew and felt must have hung his reputation with posterity-his posthumous fame. We understand that there is an unfinished sketch of that Dinner among the Doctor's papers, and that the design is magnificent. Yet, perhaps, it is better for his glory that Kitchiner should have died without attempting to imbody in forms the Idea of that Dinner. It might have been a failure. How liable to imperfection the matériel on which he would have had to work! How defective the instruments! Yes-yes-happier far was it for the good old man that he should have fallen asleep with the undimmed idea of that unattempted Dinner in his imagination, than, vainly contending with the physical evil inherent in matter, have detected the Bishop's foot in the first course, and died of a broken heart!

"Travelling," it is remarked by our poor dear dead Doctor in his Traveller's Oracle, "is a recreation to be recommended, especially to those whose employments are sedentary-who are engaged in abstract studies-whose minds have been sunk in a state of morbid melancholy by hypochondriasis, or, by what is worst of all, a lack of domestic felicity. Nature, however, will not suffer any sudden transition; and therefore it is improper for people accustomed to a sedentary life to undertake suddenly a journey, during which they will be exposed to long and violent jolting. The case

lanes and cross-roads; but, though violent, it could not be long: and we defy the most sedentary gentleman living to be more so, when sitting in an easy chair by his parlour fireside, than in a cushioned carriage spinning along the turnpike. But for the trees and hedgerows all galloping by, he would never know that he was himself in motion. The truth is, that no gentleman can be said, now-a-days, to lead a sedentary life, who is not constantly travelling before the insensible touch of M'Adam. Look at the first twenty people that come towering by on the roof of a Highflier or a Defiance. What can be more sedentary? Only look at that elderly gentleman with the wig, evidently a parson, jammed in between a brace of buxom virgins on their way down to Doncaster races. Could he be more sedentary, during the psalm, in his own pulpit?

We must object, too, to the illustration of wine and water. Let no man who has been so unfortunate as to be accustomed to drink water, be afraid all at once to begin to drink wine. Let him, without fear or trembling, boldly fill bumpers to the Throne-the Navyand the Army. These three bumpers will have made him a new man. We have no objection whatever to his drinking, in animated succession, the Apotheosis of the Whigs-the Angler's delight-the Cause of Liberty all over the World-Christopher North-Maga the Immortal. "Nature will not suffer any sudden transition!" Will she not? Look at our water drinker now! His very own mother

could not know him-he has lost all resem- ing that he should spend his honeymoon among blance to his twin-brother, from whom, two the gravel beds of Kinnaird or Moulenearn, or short hours ago, you could not have distin- the rocky sofas of the Tummel, or the green guished him but for a slight scar on his brow marble couches of the Tilt. What has be -so completely is his apparent personal iden- come now of "the sense of satiety in eating?" tity lost, that it would be impossible for him John-the castors!-mustard-vinegar-cay to establish an alibi. He sees a figure in the enne-catchup-peas and potatoes, with a very mirror above the chimney-piece, but has not little butter-the biscuit called "rusk”—and the slightest suspicion that the rosy-faced Bacchanal is himself, the water-drinker; but then | he takes care to imitate the manual exercise of the phantom-lifting his glass to his lips at the very same moment, as if they were both moved by one soul.

The Doctor then wisely remarks, that it is "impossible to lay down any rule by which to regulate the number of miles a man may journey in a day, or to prescribe the precise number of ounces he ought to eat; but that nature has given us a very excellent guide in a sense of lassitude, which is as unerring in exercise as the sense of satiety is in eating."

the memory of the hotch-potch is as that of Babylon the Great. That any gigot of mutton, exquisite though much of the five-year-old blackfaced must assuredly be, can, with any rational hopes of success, contend against a haunch of venison, will be asserted by no devout lover of truth. Try the two by alternate platefuls, and you will uniformly find that you leave off after the venison. That "sense of satiety in eating," of which Dr. Kitchinet speaks, was produced by the Tay salmon devoured above-but of all the transitory feelings of us transitory creatures on our transit through this transitory world, in which the We say the Doctor wisely remarks, yet not Doctor asserts nature will not suffer any sudaltogether wisely; for the rule does not seem den transitions, the most transitory ever expeto hold always good either in exercise or in rienced by us is "the sense of satiety in eateating. What more common than to feel one's- ing." Therefore, we have now seen it for a self very much fatigued-quite done up as it moment existing on the disappearance of the were, and unwilling to stir hand or foot. Up hotch-potch-dying on the appearance of the goes a lark in heaven-tira-lira-or suddenly Tay salmon-once more noticeable as the last the breezes blow among the clouds, who forth- plate of the noble fish melted away-extinwith all begin campaigning in the sky-or, guished suddenly by the vision of the venison quick as lightning, the sunshine in a moment-again felt for an instant, and but for an inresuscitates a drowned day-or tripping along, stant-for a brace and a half of as fine grouse all by her happy self, to the sweet accompani- as ever expanded their voluptuous bosoms to ment of her joy-varied songs, the woodman's daughter passes by on her way, with a basket in her hand, to her father in the forest, who has already laid down his axe on the meridian shadow darkening one side of the straight stem of an oak, beneath whose grove might be drawn up five score of plumed chivalry! Where is your "sense of lassitude now, nature's unerring guide in exercise?" You spring up from the mossy wayside bank, and renewed both in mind and body, "rejoicing in Nature's joy," you continue to pass over houseless moors, by small, single, solitary, straw-roofed huts, through villages gathered round Stone Cross, Elm Grove, or old Monastic Tower, till, unwearied in lith and limb, you see sunset beautifying all the west, and drop in, perhaps, among the hush of the Cottar's Saturday Night -for it is in sweet Scotland we are walking in our dream and know not, till we have stretched ourselves on a bed of rushes or of heather, that "kind Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep," is yet among the number of our bosom friends-alas! daily diminishing beneath fate fortune, the sweeping scythe-stroke of death, or the whisper of some one poor, puny, idle, and unmeaning word!

be devoured by hungry love! Sense of satiety in eating, indeed! If you please, my dear friend, one of the backs-pungent with the most palate-piercing, stomach-stirring, heartwarming, soul-exalting of all tastes-the wild bitter-sweet.

But the Doctor returns to the subject of travelling-and fatigue. "When one begins," he says, "to be low-spirited and dejected, to yawn often and be drowsy, when the appetite is impaired, when the smallest movement occasions a fluttering of the pulse, when the mouth becomes dry, and is sensible of a bitter taste, seek refreshment and repose, if you wish to PREVENT ILLNESS, already beginning to take place." Why, our dear Doctor, illness in such a deplorable case as this, is just about to end, and death is beginning to take place. Thank Heaven, it is a condition to which we do not remember having very nearly approximated! Who ever saw us yawn? or drowsy? cr with our appetite impaired, except on the withdrawal of the table-cloth? or low-spirited, but when the Glenlivet was at ebb? Who dare declare that he ever saw our mouth dry? or sensible of a bitter taste, since we gave over munching rowans? Put your finger on our wrist, at Then, as to "the sense of satiety in eating." any moment you choose, from June to JanuIt is produced in us by three platefuls of hotch-ary, from January to June, and by its pulsation potch-and, to the eyes of an ordinary ob- you may rectify Harrison's or Kendal's chroserver, our dinner would seem to be at an end. nometer. But no strictly speaking, it is just going to begin. About an hour ago did we, standing on the very beautiful bridge of Perth, see that identical salmon, with his back-fin just visible above the translucent tide, arrowing up the Tay, bold as a bridegroom, and nothing doubt

But the Doctor proceeds-" By raising the temperature of my room to about 65°, a broth diet, and taking a tea-spoonful of Epsom salts in half a pint of warm water, and repeating i' every half hour till it moves the bowels twic or thrice, and retiring to rest an nour or tw

sooner than usual, I have often very speedily | country looks dismal-nature is, as it were, got rid of colds, &c." half dead. The summer corrects all these in Why, there may be no great harm in acting conveniences." Paradoxical as this doctrine 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 't 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, who 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 before the sun in the morning-besides, the

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 contribute 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—who— what-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 earnationsimpersonations 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 hours→ and it might not be reasonable, perhaps, to demand more of them under a government somewhat too whiggish-yet though we cheerfully 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 litch

"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 denomi nated 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 dry or wet weather. In dry, the oozy wretches are weeping among the slippery weeds, infested with eels and powheads. In wet, they are like so many common sewers, strewn with dead cats and broken crockery, and threatening with their fierce fulzie to pollute the sea. The sweet, soft, pure rains, soon as they touch the flood are changed into filth. The sun sees his face in one of the pools, and is terrified out 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 bok up or look down, alike in all its blue,

till the courteous spirit that reigns over all the Highland wilds arrested her steps knee-deep in bloom, and bade her bow her auburn head, as blushing, she faltered forth, in her sweet Gaelic accents, a welcome that thrilled like a blessing through the heart of the Sassenach, nearly benighted, and wearied sore with the fifty glorious mountain-miles that intermit at times their frowning forests from the correis of Cruachan to the cliffs of Cairngorm.

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 scrub. bing, and much Sabbath spiritual sanctifica tion, 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."

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