Sir,—­In the St. James’s Gazette of Thursday week there was a quotation from Mr. BUCHANAN’s Modern Review, where, in support of his opinions, he quotes “Pope passim.”  Whatever may be the outward and visible form of Mr. BUCHANAN’s religion, it is discourteous, at least, even for an ultra-Presbyterian Scotchman, to spell the name of a Pope without making the initial letter a capital, and it is unlike a Scotchman not to make capital out of anything.  Here, I may say, that Mr. BUCHANAN’s contributions to recent journalistic literature have been mostly capital letters.  But to return.  Why POPE passim, and not POPE Passim, or POPE PASSIM?  Is it not mis-spelt?  In vain have I searched history for the name of this Pope. Searchimus iterum.  But I must protest, in the mean time, of this particularly mean way of Bu-chananising a Roman Pontiff.  Please accept this as a MEMO FROM NEMO.

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SOMETHING IN A NAME.—­“MOIR TOD STORMOUTH DARLING” (any other names?) “Esq., Advocate, Q.C., H.M.’s Solicitor-General for Scotland”—­phew!—­a good mouthful all this, almost as great as “JOHN RICHARD THOMAS ALEXANDER DWYER,” of Rejected Addresses—­has been elevated to the Scottish Judicial Bench.  Good.  The MOIR the Merrier!  TOD is the first half of Tod-dy which is the foundation of whiskey.  Your health, More Toddy!  STOR-MOUTH is as good a mouth as any other, whatever mouth may be chosen to store away more Toddy.  And finally, “DARLING” is a term sometimes lawful, rarely legal, of endearment, and henceforth in Scotland STORMOUTH not “CHARLIE” is “our DARLING, our gay Cavalier!”

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IN OUR GARDEN.

[Illustration:  Illuminated ‘A’]

A very odd thing.  Just as we had got into Our Garden, were, so to speak, turning up our sleeves to hoe and dig, I have been called away.  It is Mr. G. who has done it.  The other day the Member for Sark and I were out weeding the walk—­at least he was weeding, and I was remarking to him on the healthfulness of out-door occupation, more especially when pursued on the knees.  Up comes the gardener with something on a pitchfork.  Thought at first it was a new development of the polyanthus. (We are always growing strange things.  The Member for Sark says, “In Our Garden it is the unexpected that happens.”) Turned out to be a post-card.  Our gardener is very careful to keep up our new character.  If the missive had been brought to us in the house, of course it would have been served up on a plate.  In the garden it is appropriately handed about on a pitch-fork.

“My dear TOBY” (this is the post-card), “I’m just going up to Edinburgh; another Midlothian Campaign; You have been with me every time; don’t desert me now; have something quite new and original to say on the Irish Question; would like you to hear it.  Perhaps you never heard of Mitchelstown?  Been looking up particulars.  Mean to tell the whole story.  Will be nice and fresh; come quite a shock on BALFOUR.  Don’t fail; Yours ever, W.E.G.”