There is a certain something in the waters that gives vigour to the whole frame, and expands every heart with rapture and benevolence.

They drink! good gods! how they do drink! and then, how they sleep! Pray, my dear Baron, were you ever at the falls of Niagara ?" "Yes, my lady," replied I, surprised at such a strange association of ideas; "I have been, many years ago, at the Falls of Niagara, and found no more difficulty in swimming up and down the cataracts than I should to move a minuet." At that moment she dropped her nosegay.

"Ah," said she, as I presented it to her, "there is no great variety in these polyanthuses.

I do assure you, my dear Baron, that there is taste in the selection of flowers as well as everything else, and were I a girl of sixteen I should wear some rosebuds in my bosom, but at five-and-twenty I think it would be more _apropos_ to wear a full-blown rose, quite ripe, and ready to drop off the stalk for want of being pulled--heigh-ho!" "But pray, my lady," said I, "how do you like the concert ?" "Alas!" said she, languishingly, while she laid her hand upon my shoulder, "what are these bodiless sounds and vibration to me?
and yet what an exquisite sweetness in the songs of the northern part of our island:--'_Thou art gone awa' from me, Mary!_' How pathetic and divine the little airs of Scotland and the Hebrides! But never, never can I think of that same Doctor Johnson--that CONSTABLE, as Fergus MacLeod calls him--but I have an idea of a great brown full-bottomed wig and a hogshead of porter! Oh, 'twas base! to be treated everywhere with politeness and hospitality, and in return invidiously to smellfungus them all over; to go to the country of Kate of Aberdeen, of Auld Robin Gray, 'midst rural innocence and sweetness, take up their plaids, and dance.

Oh! Doctor, Doctor!" "And what would you say, Fragrantia, if you were to write a tour to the Hebrides ?" "Peace to the heroes," replied she, in a delicate and theatrical tone; "peace to the heroes who sleep in the isle of Iona; the sons of the wave, and the chiefs of the dark-brown shield! The tear of the sympathising stranger is scattered by the wind over the hoary stones as she meditates sorrowfully on the times of old! Such could I say, sitting upon some druidical heap or tumulus.