Blisterscalpholine." Will the middle-aged neighbour purchase a bottle of the persistent hairdresser? Yes; the middle-aged neighbour will purchase a bottle, if the middle-aged neighbour has an account with the persistent hairdresser, and he (_i.e._ the persistent hairdresser) will put it (_i.e._ the bottle of "Blisterscalpholine") in his (_i.e._ the middle-aged neighbour's) bill. If the middle-aged neighbour uses "the Blisterscalpholine," what will he do in six months? The middle-aged neighbour will purchase a wig. * * * * * [Illustration: EN ROUTE FOR THE HORSE GUARDS. ["In assisting to carry out the plans of War Office reform sketched by the Hartington Commission, Lord WOLSELEY will have an unequalled opportunity of connecting his name with a monumental achievement, and, at the same time, of establishing upon a firmer foundation the efficiency and the welfare of the British Army, which, we are well assured, are the objects he has most sincerely at heart."--_Daily Paper._]] * * * * * ROBERT BURNS TO THE RESCUE. [The Falls of Foyers, near Loch Ness, are menaced by the projected proceedings of an Aluminium Company.] "_Among the heathy hills and rugged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods, Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening stream descends, And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. Dim-seen, thro' rising mists, and ceaseless show'rs The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding low'rs. Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils--_" The above never-finished fragment was written by BURNS, with a pencil, standing by the Fall of Fyers (now called Foyers), near Loch Ness. _Shade of_ ROBERT BURNS, _loquitur_:-- O "brither Scots," and is it thus, For all your patriotic fuss O'er names and sic-like trifles, Ye can stand by whilst soulless Trade, With greedy pick, and grubbing spade, Old Scotia's charms so rifles? How well the hour my heart recalls, When, fired by all the Muses, I strove to honour Foyers Falls! But now my song refuses Its singing, swift-springing, At sight of Scotia's charms, My song now is wrung now With patriot alarms.