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8, 1863.] constant employment of a magnifying-glass is strenuously recommended by the initiated. The Swiss are noted forgers, and have circulated with impunity several kinds of spurious early Zurichs. There are likewise in circulation good imitations of the Danish stamps. Some issues are wholly fictitious. Of this class are the “Verein Hamburgers,” designed and issued by no higher authority than an unscrupulous and enterprising engraver.

The stamp mania, or timbromanie, is not always viewed in a purely business or scientific aspect; it has its absurd and amusing relations with life. Of such was the ridiculous display lately made at a Parisian bal masquemasqué [sic], by a gentleman who might have found a better employment for his money. This reckless individual attracted universal attention by presenting himself in a costume entirely covered with postage-stamps, about a third of which were “immaculate.” The original texture of his hat was concealed by a quantity of French ten and fifteen centimes à percevoir: a stamp answering to our double postage, levied on unpaid or underpaid letters.

A new galop may be seen in the window’s of any music-shop in London, the title-page of which is ornamented with fac-similes of foreign postage-stamps, in all their various colours. The galop itself is entitled “Arthur O’Leary’s Stamp-Galop.” Down in the City an enterprising tradesman displays behind his glittering plate-glass panes an assortment of curious breast-pins, consisting of imitations of foreign stamps, enamelled in their several delicate hues, and set in gold.

Some postage-stamp collectors, especially in private life, devote their energies to storing up vast numbers of stamps of a particular issue, trusting to the good offices of time to render them exceedingly scarce, and consequently valuable. We cannot accord our entire approbation to a few individuals among these far-seeing speculators, who are engaged in collecting and hoarding common English penny stamps: acting with a greedy eye to future profit in what every truly loyal subject of our beloved Queen trusts is still a remote period,—that when the present feminine portraiture on our current stamps will necessitate a new issue, bearing the likeness of our then Gracious Sovereign and Defender of the Faith, King Edward the Seventh.

the least interesting among the many retired corners of Great Britain is the island of Innismurray. It is situated in Donegal Bay, about five miles from the main land of Sligo on the North-west coast of Ireland, where the Atlantic breaks with extreme violence on some of the finest rock-scenery of that country. Though not in itself picturesque, the peculiar superstitions and half savage customs of the natives render it remarkable. These are little known even in the immediate neighbourhood. Visitors at the rising sea-side village of Bundoran, on the mainland, hear of them with astonishment, and it seems to us that a short account of the island would interest a large circle of readers. It will serve, at all events, to show a point at which the spheres of primitive and civilised life touch each other, where ancient institutions and modern manners coalesce at no great distance from all the boasted marvels of science.

Innismurray forms one of that fringe of islands skirting the west coast of Ireland, which is evidently a continuation of the Hebrides. It is a mere speck of a mile long and half a mile in breadth, round which the wild waters of the Atlantic are continually chafing themselves into foam. The rocky shores fall back upon patches of cultivation, which, when manured with kelp obtained from burning the sea-weed, produce oats, barley, and, needless to say, potatoes. Lobsters are found in great abundance round the coast. The population used to be large, some sixteen families; but half of them sailed for America in 1847, and the ship was lost with all on board. The remaining eight families are governed by a local sovereign. Lord Palmerston is nominally owner of the island, but his rental is not much increased by the revenues of this distant part of his property, as the inhabitants claim complete immunity from all rents and taxes. In common with all the Keltic tribes of Great Britain, they have likewise lax views on the subject of custom-house duties, and a great hatred of “gaugers.” The name of the last king was Herity. His widow, the present sovereign of the island, actually made a journey to London in the lifetime of her husband to ask Lord Palmerston to obtain pardon for him, that monarch being then in prison (by no means for the first time) for having infringed Queen Victoria’s laws relating to illicit distilling. His subjects follow his example still, and, spite of all laws and gaugers, annually make large quantities of “potheen.”

The religion of the island is supposed to be Roman Catholic, but as in temporal so in spiritual matters, this eccentric community takes the liberty of differing from orthodox views. They have two grave-yards, one for men, the other for women. In the former, which is of course the more honourable situation, is a small ruinous chapel of very old masonry, and in a cell off this chapel is enshrined a half-length figure of a monk, the dress and features unmistakeably Spanish. The natives treat this image with almost divine adoration, deeming it a likeness of one “Father Malash,” an old priest who once lived on the island, was very good to the people, and, after his death, sent them this image to take care of them. He sent it by sea, and it landed several hundred years ago at a certain point which is still shown. This figure is considered to have been the figurehead of one of the vessels of the Spanish Armada, several of which were wrecked on the north-west coast of Ireland. The following anecdote seems a confirmation of this: A few years ago, a gentleman, who had been cruising off the island in his yacht, wished to play the natives a trick, and perhaps break them of their idolatrous habits. He landed a body of sailors, who carried off the image, and when the yacht was well out to sea it was thrown overboard. Curiously enough, the Rev. Father was once more washed ashore at his