They don't play goff at Deeside. They bicycle. Down the long avenue with spreading elm trees deftly trained to make triumphal arches, the bicycles come and go. WHIPSROOM, M.P., thinks opportunity convenient for acquiring the art of cycling. W. is got up with consummate art. Has had his trousers cut short at knee in order to display ribbed stockings of rainbow hue. Loose tweed-jacket, blood-red necktie, white felt hat with rim turned down all round, combine to lend him air of a Drury Lane bandit out of work. Determined to learn to ride the bicycle, but spends most of the day on his hands and knees, or on his back. Looking down avenue at any moment pretty sure to find W. either running into the iron fence, coming off sideways, or bolting head first over the handles of his byke. Get quite new views of him fore-shortened in all possible ways, some that would be impossible to any but a man of his determination. "Never had a man stay in the house," says FINGEN, M.P., ruefully, "who so cut up the lawn with his head, or indented the gravel with his elbows and his knees." Evidently I was mistaken about goff. Cycling's the thing in Scotland. _Goasyoucan, Inverness-shire, Saturday._--Wrong again. Not goff nor cycling is the thing to do in Scotland. It's stalking. Soon learn that great truth at Goasyoucan. The hills that encircle the house densely populated with stags. To-day three guns grassed nine, one a royal. This the place to spend a happy day, crouching down among the heather awaiting the fortuitous moment. Weather no object. Rain or snow out you go, submissive to guidance and instruction of keeper; by comparison with whose tyranny life of the ancient galley-slave was perfect freedom. Consummation of human delight this, to lie prone on your face amid the wet heather, with the rain pattering down incessantly, or the snow pitilessly falling, covering you up flake by flake as if it were a robin and you a babe in the wood. Mustn't stir; mustn't speak; if you can conveniently dispense with the operation, better not breathe. Sometimes, after morning and greater part of afternoon thus cheerfully spent, you may get a shot; even a stag. Also you may not; or, having attained the first, may miss the latter. At any rate you have spent a day of exhilarating delight. Stalking is evidently the thing to do in Scotland. It's a far cry to the Highlands. Happily there is Arthur's Seat by Edinburgh Town where beginners can practise, and old hands may feign delight of early triumphs. * * * * * WHAT THE SULTAN HAS A STRONG OBJECTION TO DO.--"Send round the Hatt." * * * * * OUR NEW KNIGHT HOSPITALLER. ["We must regard it (Guy's Hospital) as an institution aiming at the most Christian ends, of elementary necessity, never too rich for the work it had to do, and now, through no fault of its own, cut down to one half of its means."--_Mr. Gladstone's Letter on Guy's Hospital._]