I begin to grow weary of talking about myself; and as I have ob served that listeners and readers, generally get tired before speakers and authors, will here conclude my story. Its moral is completed, and I hope cannot be mistaken. I committed to paper the result of my experience, not for the purpose of ridiculing the infirmities of my fellow creatures, or laughing at the miseries of human life. I wished, if possible, to persuade them that a large portion of the cares of this world, from which we are so anxious to escape, are nothing more than blessings in disguise, and thus to diminish that inordinate love of riches, which is founded on the silly presumption that they are the sources of all happiness. It is under the dominion of this mistaken idea, that money becomes indeed the root of all evil, by being sought with an insatiable appetite, that swallows up all our feelings of brotherhood, and causes men to prey upon each other like the wild beasts of the forest; nay, more-for even their instinct teaches them to spare their own species. Were mankind aware of the total inability of wealth to confer content, or to make ease and leisure delightful, they would perchance seek it with less avidity, and fewer sacrifices of that integrity, which is a far more essential ingredient in human happiness, than the gold for which it is so often sacrificed. My history may also afford a useful example to those whose situations entail on them the necessity of labour and economy, by teaching them the impossibility of reconciling a life of luxury and ease, with the enjoyment of jocund spirits, lusty health, and rational happiness.

"But what has become of your DYSPEPSY all this time?" the reader will ask.

Faith, I had forgot that entirely!

THE SPANISH NOVICE.

A LETRILLA

OH! I am sick of laughing day,

And the summer's murmuring shades
She is crowned with flowers, and they
Tell me in their swift decay,

How my own youth fades.

Time, whom revellers chide for flying,
Mocks me with his tardy flight,
And I waste the hours in sighing

All the long night.

VIEW OF THE CLYDE FROM ERSKINE FERRY,

OLD GLASGOW THEATRE.

THE View of the Clyde from Erskine Ferry, with Dumbarton Castle in the distance, is one of the finest scenes of a river rich in fine scenes. Sweeter or more sylvan points of the stream may be found, but none in which beauty is so delightfully blended with majesty. The plate, herewith given, comes recommended as the mutual production of WILLIAMS, and MILLER-the one eminent in landscape painting, as the other is in landscape engraving.

Standing at the threshold of the western Highlands, the scene must be familiar to many readers, especially since steam boats began, with clanking din, to open up the recesses of Nature, and lay bare her beauties. But it is in a particular manner interesting to the people of Glasgow, not only from its comparative proximity to that city, but from the theatrical associations with which it is connected. It has long been a favourite point of illustration with the dramatic painters of the west of Scotland, and from its manifold merits and the force of habit, is now exclusively recognized as the regular classical subject for a drop-scene to the Glasgow stage. We know not if old Nasmith was the first to introduce the subject, but his painting of it in the Queen Street Theatre was universally admired, and indeed admitted to be one of the finest water colour paintings on a large scale ever exhibited. Tempting sums, we have been told, were offered for it by gentlemen or noblemen who wished to have it in their gallery, but it was rightly considered to be too intimately connected with the Glasgow stage to be readily parted with, and its removal would have been resented by the people as a desecration. It often formed, we are forced to admit, the principal attraction of the theatre, and never appeared to more advantage than when, unrolling itself, it extended its merciful wing over a miserable performance. But often as this melancholy duty devolved on it-often as it hid from further exposure the serious endeavours at comedy and tragedy for which the stage of Glasgow has long been renowned-it was yet its happier lot at times to reveal, in succession, the "bright particular stars" which have, in the present century, illumined the dramatic horizon. Let us indulge in a momentary reminiscence connected with this subject.

The Theatre in Queen Street-now, alas! no more--was a large substantial building, more remarkable for the extent of its side-walls than its architectural beauty. Such a mass of stone and lime, unenlivened by window-light, could scarcely be met with; and you mar,