joyous refutation of the opinion, that the comfort and happiness of
this life depends on the wealth of worldly possessions."

"It is so," replied Mr. Snodgrass, "and I do often wonder, when I
see the blithe and hearty children of the cottars, frolicking in the

abundance of health and hilarity, where the means come from to
enable their poor industrious parents to supply their wants."

"How can you wonder at ony sic things, Mr. Snodgrass? Do they not
come from on high," said Mrs. Glibbans, "whence cometh every good

and perfect gift? Is there not the flowers of the field, which
neither card nor spin, and yet Solomon, in all his glory, was not

arrayed like one of these?"
"I was not speaking in a spiritual sense," interrupted the other,

"but merely made the remark, as introductory to a letter which I
have received from Mr. Andrew Pringle, respecting some of the ways

of living in London."
Mrs. Craig, who had been so recently translated from the kitchen to

the parlour, pricked up her ears at this, not doubting that the
letter would contain something very grand and wonderful, and

exclaimed, "Gude safe's, let's hear't--I'm unco fond to ken about
London, and the king and the queen; but I believe they are baith

dead noo."
Miss Becky Glibbans gave a satirical keckle at this, and showed her

superior learning, by explaining to Mrs. Craig the unbroken nature
of the kingly office. Mr. Snodgrass then read as follows:-

LETTER XXV
Andrew Pringle, Esq,, to the Rev. Charles Snodgrass

My Dear Friend--You are not aware of the task you impose, when you
request me to send you some account of the general way of living in

London. Unless you come here, and actually experience yourself what
I would call the London ache, it is impossible to supply you with

any adequate idea of the necessity that exists in this wilderness of
mankind, to seek refuge in society, without being over fastidious

with respect to the intellectual qualifications of your occasional
associates. In a remote desart, the solitary traveller is subject

to apprehensions of danger; but still he is the most important thing
"within the circle of that lonely waste"; and the sense of his own

dignity enables him to sustain the shock of considerablehazard with
spirit and fortitude. But, in London, the feeling of self-

importance is totally lost and suppressed in the bosom of a
stranger. A painfulconviction of insignificance--of nothingness, I

may say--is sunk upon his heart, and murmured in his ear by the
million, who divide with him that consequence which he unconsciously

before supposed he possessed in a general estimate of the world.
While elbowing my way through the unknown multitude that flows

between Charing Cross and the Royal Exchange, this mortifying sense
of my own insignificance has often come upon me with the energy of a

pang; and I have thought, that, after all we can say of any man, the
effect of the greatest influence of an individual on society at

large, is but as that of a pebble thrown into the sea.
Mathematically speaking, the undulations which the pebble causes,

continue until the whole mass of the ocean has been disturbed to the
bottom of its most secret depths and farthest shores; and, perhaps,

with equal truth it may be affirmed, that the sentiments of the man
of genius are also infinitely propagated; but how soon is the

physical impression of the one lost to every sensible perception,
and the moral impulse of the other swallowed up from all practical

effect.
But though London, in the general, may be justly compared to the

vast and restless ocean, or to any other thing that is either
sublime, incomprehensible, or affecting, it loses all its influence

over the solemn associations of the mind when it is examined in its
details. For example, living on the town, as it is slangishly

called, the most friendless and isolated condition possible, is yet
fraught with an amazingdiversity of enjoyment. Thousands of

gentlemen, who have survived the relish of active fashionable
pursuits, pass their life in that state without tasting the delight

of one new sensation. They rise in the morning merely because
Nature will not allow them to remain longer in bed. They begin the

day without motive or purpose, and close it after having performed
the same unvaried round as the most thoroughbred domestic animal

that ever dwelt in manse or manor-house. If you ask them at three
o'clock where they are to dine, they cannot tell you; but about the

wonted dinner-hour, batches of these forlorn bachelors find
themselves diurnally congregated, as if by instinct, around a cozy

table in some snug coffee-house, where, after inspecting the
contents of the bill of fare, they discuss the news of the day,

reserving the scandal, by way of dessert, for their wine. Day after
day their respective political opinions give rise to keen

encounters, but without producing the slightest shade of change in
any of their old ingrained and particular sentiments.

Some of their haunts, I mean those frequented by the elderly race,
are shabby enough in their appearance and circumstances, except

perhaps in the quality of the wine. Everything in them is regulated
by an ancient and preciseeconomy, and you perceive, at the first

glance, that all is calculated on the principle of the house giving
as much for the money as it can possibly afford, without infringing

those little etiquettes which persons of gentlemanly habits regard
as essentials. At half price the junior members of these

unorganised or natural clubs retire to the theatres, while the elder
brethren mend their potations till it is time to go home. This

seems a very comfortless way of life, but I have no doubt it is the
preferred result of a long experience of the world, and that the

parties, upon the whole, find it superior, according to their early
formed habits of dissipation and gaiety, to the sedate but not more

regular course of a domesticcircle.
The chief pleasure, however, of living on the town, consists in

accidentally falling in with persons whom it might be otherwise
difficult to meet in private life. I have several times enjoyed

this. The other day I fell in with an old gentleman, evidently a
man of some consequence, for he came to the coffee-house in his own

carriage. It happened that we were the only guests, and he proposed
that we should therefore dine together. In the course of

conversation it came out, that he had been familiarly acquainted
with Garrick, and had frequented the Literary Club in the days of

Johnson and Goldsmith. In his youth, I conceive, he must have been
an amusingcompanion; for his fancy was exceedinglylively, and his

manners altogether afforded a very favourable specimen of the old,
the gentlemanly school. At an appointed hour his carriage came for

him, and we parted, perhaps never to meet again.
Such agreeable incidents, however, are not common, as the

frequenters of the coffee-houses are, I think, usually taciturn
characters, and averse to conversation. I may, however, be myself

in fault. Our countrymen in general, whatever may be their address
in improving acquaintance to the promotion of their own interests,

have not the best way, in the first instance, of introducing
themselves. A raw Scotchman, contrasted with a sharp Londoner, is

very inadroit and awkward, be his talents what they may; and I
suspect, that even the most brilliant of your old class-fellows

have, in their professional visits to this metropolis, had some
experience of what I mean.

ANDREW PRINGLE.
When Mr. Snodgrass paused, and was folding up the letter, Mrs.

Craig, bending with her hands on her knees, said, emphatically,
"Noo, sir, what think you of that?" He was not, however, quite

prepared to give an answer to a question so abruptly propounded, nor
indeed did he exactly understand to what particular the lady

referred. "For my part," she resumed, recovering her previous
posture--"for my part, it's a very caldrife way of life to dine

every day on coffee; broth and beef would put mair smeddum in the
men; they're just a whin auld fogies that Mr. Andrew describes, an'

no wurth a single woman's pains." "Wheesht, wheesht, mistress,"
cried Mr. Craig; "ye mauna let your tongue rin awa with your sense

in that gait." "It has but a light load," said Miss Becky,
whispering Isabella Tod. In this juncture, Mr. Micklewham happened

to come in, and Mrs. Craig, on seeing him, cried out, "I hope, Mr.
Micklewham, ye have brought the Doctor's letter. He's such a funny

man! and touches off the Londoners to the nines."
"He's a good man," said Mrs. Glibbans, in a tone calculated to

repress the forwardness of Mrs. Craig; but Miss Mally Glencairn