of his sat by his bed-side, and who personally informed me) he, taking a glass of it in his hand, held it between him and the light, and eyed it for some time with a peculiarly exhilarated expression of countenance, even at such a crisis;—­then, while pleasure sparkled in his eyes, he took his friend by the hand, and pressing it warmly, exclaimed, “This is the last whisky I, in all probability, will ever drink, and many and often is the times I have felt its power.  Here’s to thee, Jamie, and may thou never want a drap when thou art dry!” He died the next morning, about eight o’clock.

J.R.S.

* * * * *

THE SKETCH-BOOK.

* * * * *

RECOLLECTIONS OF A WANDERER.  NO.  V.

Dawlish’s Hole:—­An Incident.

  The eye looked out upon the watery world—­
  With fearful glance looked east and west, but all
  Was wild and solitary, and the surge
  Dashed on the groaning cliff, and foaming rose
  And roared, as ’twere triumphing.

  N.T.  CARRINGTON.

The coast scene near Landwithiel[3] was of so varied and interesting a character that I was irresistibly led on to examine it very fully in detail.  My sojourn therefore at Mr. Habbakuk Sheepshanks’, of the “Ship-Aground’; (whom I have formerly introduced to the reader) was prolonged to an extent which sometimes surprised myself, and the various local stories and traditions of times past, with which mine host, especially when under the exciting influence of an extra glass of grog, almost nightly entertained me, essentially contributed to while away the time.  The spot too was so secluded—­comparatively unknown:  there is something inseparable from a temperament like mine in so deep a retirement.  To its inhabitants the world and its busy haunts are but as a tale; yet man in all his varieties is essentially the same.  Many a day have I wandered along the sea-beaten coast—­dining perhaps on a headland stretching far into the sea—­or in some secluded little bay, by the side of a gushing spring; the ocean spread out before me—­what object is so boundlessly or beautifully inspiring?  It may be mighty fine philosophy for those who have passed through the current of life in one untroubled and unvaried stream, and who have no perception or idea of the deeper (if I may so express it) feelings of our nature, to call all this romance; but those who have tasted bitterly of the ills of this world, and who look back upon times past as doth the traveller in the desert on viewing from afar the oasis he has left—­upon their transitory existence as a troubled dream—­these can feel how deeply solitude amidst the sublimities of Nature will heal the troubled mind.  Is there not a responsive chord in the hearts of such of my readers?  Early one morning, soon after my arrival at Landwithiel, I proceeded over land to a distant