ose of Bruar into a cocked hat!" (such was the curious metaphor
he employed). I told him he could take me to both if there was time, but
Bruar I must see. He landed me at the Tummel, and drove on recklessly
himself a mile further to see his sweetheart. The desire to pay a visit
to his Bonnie Jean was the sole cause of his gibes at the poet. Back he
came in an hour, chanting merrily, and we drove to Bruar. I found the
varlet had lied most expansively: the Falls are gloriously fine, and
worth walking a good many miles to see. On the homeward road, I could
see he was ill at ease: he was dreadfully afraid that his amorous flight
would be discovered by his master. He said to me once every minute,
"_Falls of Bruar, only, please: keep your thumb on Tummel!_" Latterly he
set these words to a kind of rough music, and sang them continuously in
my ear, winking the while and smiling roguishly. I obeyed him.

A BAD CASE OF NERVES.

While I was sitting alone in the smoking-room of the hotel, a tall,
thin, restless-eyed, aristocratic young fellow came quietly in. He went
up to the sideboard, poured out half a tumbler of water, and carefully
measured out about ten drops of phospherine therein. He swallowed the
mixture, smacked his lips, and sighed. He then remarked that it was a
nice evening and that he was very ill with a nervous complaint. "I
suppose, now," he said, "you would actually tell me not to worry, to
take everything easy, and, above all, to firmly believe there is nothing
whatever the matter with me?" "Most certainly," I said, "you ought to
consider yourself in perfectly good health; by and by you would come to
be so in reality. The Christian Scientists say you might even learn to
hold fire in your hand by thinking of the frosty Caucasus." "I suppose,
too, you would recommend me to have a hobby, such as golf, or gardening,
or amateur photography." "Yes, I believe a harmless hobby such as you
mention would relieve the mental strain and take you out of yourself."
"Well, I essayed golf, but, alas! I massacred a ram; I tried gardening,
and tired of it before the flowers began to show; and as to photography,
it only increased the number of my enemies." "What about cycling or
horse-riding?" "These won't do--I can _think_ at both of them. Now, I
_don't want to think: in fact, I mustn't_." "Fishing? wouldn't that be a
reposeful diversion?" "No, no," he said, "I could not stand the sight of
an animal enduring pain." "Well, you sur