the inherent virtues, as to human ailments, of roots and herbs and "flowers of the field." An old lady in our neighbourhood, shrewd and intelligent beyond most of her class, told us not long ago as she was cutting nettles by the roadside, as an evening bonne bouche for her cow, that Stewart of Invernahyle, Sir Walter Scott's friend, made it a point every spring to have nettle broth or soup on three consecutive days about the season of the vernal equinox, which he religiously believed acted as a safe and efficient diuretic for the remainder of the year. From Mairi Bhàn, Invernahyle's sister, the "Mhairi Bhàn gur barrail thu" of Macintyre's well-known song, are descended at least two Presbyterian clergymen, though the Invernahyles themselves were strongly Episcopalian--ourselves, namely, and the Rev. Mr. Cameron, Free Church minister of Ardersier. And the writing of the word "Episcopalian" above reminds us of the fact that the titular dignity of the Bishopric of Argyll and the Isles is at present vacant. The late Bishop, Dr. Ewing, with whom we had the honour of being on most intimate and friendly terms, was an unostentatiously pious, thoroughly good, and really very able man, whom nine-tenths of the clergy of his own Church would not or could not understand. Thank God that in the enumeration of the good men whom we have known, the fingers of both hands do not suffice; and of the really good men whom we have been privileged to know and honour with affectionate regard was the late Bishop Ewing. Some months ago we wrote to an old college chum, now farming in New Zealand, advising him, as some occupation for his idle hours, to pick up and send us such scraps of songs and poems as he might find among the Maori race around him. No uncivilised people that we had read or heard of seemed to us, in many respects, so like our ancient Highlanders--the Fingalians, so called, of our older ballad poetry--and we thought that so much of their poetry and folk-lore as could be gathered could not fail to be interesting. Our correspondent says:--"The Maoris, as you so shrewdly guessed, have a good deal of poetry among them; short songs, however, for the most part, and rhymed proverbs, and "wisdom words," as they call them, very much like the Welsh "Triads," for they generally teach some three particular doctrines, or state historically some three particular facts. A few weeks ago I got an old man who came this way to sing me some aboriginal songs, and the one that most struck my fancy I now send to you. It is perfectly literal, for I know the native language well, and as you are fond of rhyming, you may put it into verse if you like. I can only send a true translation, line for line. Maori Song.--(Translation.) Fish in the pool? No fish in the pool; And the women are sad because of it. The men, too, are sad; but to-morrow The fish will be big, and fat, and many.