A friend of mine (says Mr. Lambert, in his Travels,) was once present at the house of a French lady in Canada, when a violent thunder storm commenced.  The shutters were immediately closed, and the room darkened.  The lady of the house, not willing to leave the safety of herself and company to chance, began to search her closets for the bottle of holy water, which, by a sudden flash of lightning, she fortunately found.  The bottle was uncorked, and its contents immediately sprinkled over the ladies and gentlemen.  It was a most dreadful storm, and lasted a considerable time; she therefore redoubled her sprinklings and benedictions at every clap of thunder or flash of lightning.  At length the storm abated, and the party were providentially saved from its effects; which the good lady attributed solely to the precious water.  But when the shutters were opened, and the light admitted, the company found, to the destruction of their white gowns and muslin handkerchiefs; their coats, waistcoats, and breeches, that instead of holy water, the pious lady had sprinkled them with ink.  W.P.

* * * * *

QUID PRO QUO.

Louis XVIII. asked the Duke of Wellington familiarly, how old he was; the latter replied, “Sire, I was born in the year 1768.”  “And so was Buonaparte,” rejoined the king; “Providence owed us this compensation.”  C.F.E.

* * * * *

NAUTICAL EPITAPHS.

In the west part of Fife, in the churchyard of the village of Torryburn, part of an epitaph remains, which deserves notice.  A part was very absurdly erased by the owner of the burying ground, to make way for the names of some of his kindred.  The whole epitaph formerly stood thus: 

  At anchor now, in Death’s dark road,
    Rides honest Captain Hill,
  Who served his king, and feared his God,
    With upright heart and will: 
  In social life, sincere and just,
    To vice of no kind given;
  So that his better part, we trust,
     Hath made the Port of Heaven.

Another, in the parish of Duffus (Morayshire), runs thus: 

Though Eolus’ blasts and Neptune’s waves have toss’d me to and
fro,
Yet now, at last, by Heaven’s decree, I harbour here below;
Where at anchor I do lie, with others of our fleet,
Till the last trump do raise us up our Admiral Christ to meet. 
CHARLES STUART.

* * * * *

ON A DRUNKEN COBBLER.

Enclosed within this narrow stall,
Lies one who was a friend to awl;
He saved bad souls from getting worse,
But d——­n’d his own without remorse;
And tho’ a drunken life he pass’d,
Yet say’d his soul, by mending at the last! E.L.I.