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wrong. The man gave him his word that he was not Jamie Sword. "O, but that's naething," said Aedie, "I give you my word that you are, and I think my word's as good as yours ony day." Finally, he told the man, that if he would not acknowledge that he was wrong, and confess that he was Jamie Sword, he would fight him. He did so, and got himself severely thrashed.

The following is a copy of a letter, written by Aedie to a great personage, dated Aberlosk, May 27th 1806.^[1]

Dear Sir,—I went thirty miles on foot yesterday to pay your taxes, and, after all, the bodies would not take them, saying, that I was too late, and that they must now be recovered, with expenses, by regular course of law. I thought if your Majesty was like me, money would never come wrong to you, although it were a few days too late; so I enclose you £27 in notes, and half-a-guinea, which as the amount of what they charge me for last year, and fourpence halfpenny over. You must send me a receipt when the coach comes back, else they will not believe that I have paid you.

Direct to the care of Andrew Wilson, butcher in Hawick.

I am, dear sir, your most humble servant, A* * * B* * * *.

To the King.

P.S.—This way of taxing the farmers will never do; you will see the upshot."

It has been reported over all that country, that this letter reached its destination, and that a receipt was returned in due course of post; but the truth is (and for the joke's sake, it is a great pity it should have been so), that the singularity of the address caused some friends to open the letter, and return it, with the money, to the owner; but not before they had taken a copy of it, from which the above is exactly transcribed. H.

———— "This season it had not rained in Catalonia for six months together. The country was burnt up and parched like an African desert, and the peasants were crowding in numerous groups to the churches, to supplicate the mercy of Heaven. The priesthood, with their usual craft and adroitness, had observed the signs of the times, and anticipating that the change of the moon in April would probably produce rain, announced that a procession to the Virgin would take place on the very day of change. It did take place: all Barcelona was in motion. Ere next morning the rain fell in torrents—and, behold! a miracle!—Next day, while it continued to rain, a Spanish officer was conversing with a lady of his acquaintance in a public coffee-house—(for here, as well as over the Continent, the most respectable ladies frequent these places as publicly as they do the theatre or opera: such is the fashion)—the lady spoke of the miracle—of the blessed Virgin—of the sanctity of the priesthood, &c. with rapture. The officer, on the contrary, though quite aware how dangerous it was to controvert such opinions, smiled at her exclamations, and, confiding in the honour and discreetness of his friend, simply said, "Surely you do not believe it was the Virgin that sent the rain!"—The lady went to confession—acknowledged that she had heard such a one speak disrespectfully of "the mother of God" without reproving him and, in a few hours afterwards, the officer was seized in the public street, and lodged in the Inquisition. We heard no more of him.

Mr C———, an eminent Spanish merchant in Barcelona, informed me, that at one time having purchased an English Bible, some of his friends denounced him to the holy office for having such a heretical book in his possession. He was summoned before them, and told, that he must either instantly deliver up the book to the Holy Tribunal, or—"walk in."—Mr C., aware of the consequences of such a step, submitted to the other altrnative, but begged they would let him have a Spanish Bible in its stead. He told