little month ago, the
knife of that skilful chirurgeon pared it down to the dimensions of a
Christian proboscis. Again 'tis like a wart on a frost-reddened Swedish
turnip. Pretty Poll, with small delicate pale features, sits beside him
like a snowdrop. How shaggy since he returned from our last Highland
tour is Filho da Puta! His mane long as his tail--and the hair on his
ears like that on his fetlocks. He absolutely reminds us of Hogg's
Bonassus. Ay, bless these patent steps--on the same principle as those
by which we ascend our nightly couch--we are self-deposited in our
Drosky. Oh! the lazy luxury of an air-seat! We seem to be sitting on
nothing but a voluptuous warmth, restorative as a bath. And then what
furry softness envelopes our feet! Yes--Mrs Gentle--Mrs Gentle--thy
Cashmere shawl, twined round our bust, feels almost as silken-smooth as
thine own, and scented is it with the balm of thy own lips. Boreas blows
on it tenderly as a zephyr--and the wintry sunshine seems summery as it
plays on the celestial colours. Thy pelisse, too, over our old happy
shoulders, purple as the neck of the dove when careering round his mate.
Thy comforter, too, in our bosom--till the dear, delightful, delicious,
wicked worsted thrills through skin and flesh to our very heart. It
dirls. Drive away, Peter. Farewell Lodge--and welcome, in a jiffy, Moray
Place.

And now, doucely and decently sitting in our Drosky, behold us driven by
Peter, proud as Punch to tool along the staring streets the
great-grandson of the Desert-born! Yet--yet--couldst thou lead the
field, Filho, with old Kit Castor on thy spine. But though our day be
not quite gone by, we think we see the stealing shades of eve, and, a
little further on in the solemn vista, the darkness of night; and
therefore, like wise children of nature, not unproud of the past, not
ungrateful for the present, and unfearful of the future, thus do we now
skim along the road of life, broad and smooth to our heart's content,
able to pay the turnpikes, and willing, when we shall have reached the
end of our journey, to lie down, in hope, at the goal.

What pretty, little, low lines of garden-fronted cottages! leading us
along out of rural into suburban cheerfulness, across the Bridge, and
past the Oriental-looking Oil-Gas Works, with a sweep winding into the
full view of PITT Street (what a glorious name!) steep as some straight
cliff-glen, and an approach truly majestic--yea, call it at once
m