with a landing-net; and when I stuck my knife into him, the pickle ran out of his body like wine out of a claret bottle, and I ate at least two pounds of the rascal, while he flapped his tail in my face. I never tasted such salmon as that. Worth your while to go to Scotland, if it's only for the sake of eating live pickled salmon. I'll give you a letter, any of you, to my friend. He'll be glad to see any of you; and then you may convince yourselves. Take my word for it, if once you eat salmon that way, you will never eat it any other."

An event occurred here, so singular as scarcely to be credible; but the fact is well attested, as there were others who witnessed it beside myself. The water was smooth, and the day remarkably fine; we were distant from the shore more than a mile and a quarter, when the captain, wishing to

try the range of the main-deck guns, which were long eighteen-pounders, ordered the gunner to elevate one of them and fire it towards the land. The gunner asked whether he should point the gun at any object. A man was seen walking on the white sandy beach, and as there did not appear to be the slightest chance of hitting him, for he was as thin as a lath, the captain desired the gunner to fire at him; he did so, and the man fell. A herd of bullocks, at this moment, was seen coming out of the woods, and the boats were sent with a party to shoot some of them for the ship's company. When we landed we found that the ball had cut the poor man in two; and what made the circumstance more particularly interesting was, that he was evidently a man of consequence. He was well dressed, had on black breeches and silk stockings; he was reading Ovid's Metamorphoses, and still grasped the book, which

I took out of his hand. We have often heard of the miraculous powers ascribed to a chance shot; but never could we have supposed that this devilish ball could have gone so true, or done so much mischief.

MEMOIRS OF A HAUNCH OF MUTTON.

THE sheep from which our hero, i. e. our haunch, was cut, drew breath in the pastures of Farmer Blewett, of Sussex, whose brother, Mr. William Blewett, of Great St. Helen's, London, is one of the most eminent indigo brokers in the metropolis. The farmer having a son, whom he was anxious to place in the counting-house of the said Billy, prudently began by filling his brother's mouth before he opened his own, and had accordingly sent him an enormous turkey at Christmas, a side of fat bacon at Easter, and at Midsummer the iden

tical haunch of Southdown mutton, whose dissection and demolition we have undertaken to immortalise. Ever attentive to the main chance, the broker began to calculate that if he asked three or four friends to dine with him he could only eat mutton for one, while he would have to find wine for the whole party; whereas, if he presented it to Alderman Sir Peter Pumpkin, of Broad-street, who was a dear lover of good mutton, and had besides lately received a consignment of indigo of which he was anxious to propitiate the brokerage, he might not only succeed in that object, but be probably asked to dinner, get his full share of the haunch, and drink that wine which he preferred to all others-videlicet, that which he tippled at other people's expense. Whether or not he succeeded in the former aim, our documents do not testify, but certain it is that he was invited to partake of the haunch in Broadstreet, (not being deemed a presentable personage