oured by being asked to say grace. In the process, he
soared to such heights of oratory and supplicatory fervour, that the
uniform opinion of the guests, as evinced by looks, demeanour, and even
congratulation, was that James had at last been beaten on his own
ground. Supreme dejection settled on the thatcher, and neither bite nor
sup could dislodge the settled melancholy of his soul. After long
pondering with chin on chest in a corner of that pious throng, he had an
idea. Sidling up to the matron of the house, he, with a terrible whisper
of earnestness, addressed her in these words: "Mistress, before we gang
hame, doon wi' a whang o' cheese and a farl o' cake--it'll no' cost ye
much--and _I'll ha'e a tussle wi' him for't yet_." She gladly complied
with his request. His excitement gave him inspiration, and over that
cheese and oatcake, he delivered himself of such a grace as had never
before proceeded from his lips. A murmur of involuntary admiration
greeted the conclusion. James was comforted, and once more held his head
erect.

To talk of the Evolution of Religion to men like James would be a
complete waste of time. Such men regard themselves as the acme of the
process: whatever modifications may supervene after their day will be
deteriorations. It is quite impossible to persuade an enthusiast that he
is a mere phenomenon of development, and not, actually and now, the roof
and crown of things. Even if persuasion were possible, it would be a
cruelty to disillusionise these happy wights,--men who, with such
sublime confidence, can read their title clear to mansions in the sky.
They have a complete key to the universe, and are as happy as if they
had seen the whole vast circle of truth.

DRIMNIN IN MORVEN.

How many of my readers know where Drimnin is? If I should say, "In the
parish of Morven," it is possible the majority of them would not be
greatly edified, unless they had acquaintance with the saintly Macleod's
_Reminiscences of a Highland Parish_. Well, Drimnin is on the mainland,
nearly opposite the entrance to the haven of Tobermory. The _Chevalier_
nears into the coast when anyone wishes to land, and two boatmen,
obeying a signal, pull out from shore into the open, and the passenger
leaps, as gracefully as circumstances permit, into their arms--amid the
cheers of those left on the steamer.

The clergyman of Morven ministers to a parish that has over a hundred
miles of seaboard, and, strange to say, there ha