Archie Macnab

ON HUMOUR

I CAN enjoy a joke, when it's explained to me, maist as weel as onybody, an altho I mayna see't at the time, I hae lauched like to split, mibbie a week efter hearin a funny story. But losh preserve us! some folk geegle at onything ava; an I hae seen them, even on a Sunday, aye, an in the kirk! smirkin an smilin if they saw the prezentor soon' asleep while the minister wis gien oot the psalm. Noo, that's no very nice ony wey! Is it ever? But they say they canna help it, an we maun juist tak their wird for it. They're fashed wi whit's ca'd a sense o humour. That's whit's wrang wi them!

Noo, this sense o humour is a bad thing for onybody to hae, an mair especially the young. It mak's them watch for things they shoudna ken onything aboot; an whin we--their seniors--daes things we shoudna dae, they despise us, an lauch at us, an that's no very nice ony wey! Is it, noo? Scarcely! It shows there's a want o something, some place. For instance, when I gang at onytime to address the weans in a Band o Hope meetin, I can pick oot the laddie here an there that's fond o a joke. I ken him brawly! There's a queer, unbelievin twinkle in ane o his een, an he will leuk at my nose. While I'm daein a' I can to show the evil effects o oor drinkin customs, he keeps winkin up to me a' the time. I juist hate it. I min' yae wee chap cried oot in a meetin o that kin, "Ha, Airchie! yer nose wid mak a fine fizzin drink." I wis awfu angry. If I coud hae got him across my knee, in an oot o the wey place, I wid hae admonished him sairly, I warn ye. Housomever, the chairman pou'd his lug, an explained to me that the callan haed a strang sense o--whit's this he ca'd it?--O aye, the ludicrous. That's juist it, ye see I kent he haed a sense o something. But juist wi that, an the likes o that, I hae gien up gaun to thae kind o meetins a'thegither, for I thocht it wis hiech time to stop it, when yae day I wis insulted wi a wheen weans cryin in a public-hoose door, "Pit him oot; he's a teetotaller." Sic an insinuation!

I wid advise a' callans that wants to get on in this warl', to get rid o this sense o humour, an in a' things to be saerious. Thoroughly saerious. This sense o humour canna be profitable, an it's sair again' everybody, an mair sae them that taks to a profession. Noo, juist think for a meenit! Fancy to yersel a laddie wi a hiech sense o humour bein ordained bi his mither to the ministry! Whit a fine how-dae-ye-dae it wid be if he wis to burst oot lauchin when he saw whit a great awaukenin he coud bring aboot, juist wi gien the Bible an awfu daud whin he cam near the en' o his application? An then again, at a waddin, whit a consternation it wid cause, if, when the bride wis brocht in greetin to be mairit, he wis to say, "Cheer up, cheer up, ye'll mibbie no be sae wretched efter a'!"

An a doctor! Hoo, in a' the warl', wid a doctor dae ava, if he coudna keep his face straicht when he wis ca'd in to see a man that wis no-weel, because he haed jined the Ancient Order o Foresters? It wid be impossible for him to sustain the dignity o his profession if he coudna keep frae lauchin when his patients tell him hoo muckle guid his medicine haed duin them.

An then a lawyer, wi this sense o humour, wid scarcely be able to tak his six an aucht-pence for lauchin at folks' simplicity. Na, na; sic conduct disna become a lawyer, for my fegs ! there's naething lauchable aboot the law.

Wi a' thae things taen into accoont, ye see it's a very saerious thing this humour. There's little fun in it. An its no to edification! It's inconvenient! That's whit it is! A man that's troubled wi it wid raither get drookit into the skin, as tak shelter on the door step o an umberellae shop on a wet day. It maks men sae prood, an--whit they ca'--fastidious, that, raither than the wee things, they will dee. Noo, in these days o commercial enterprise an sugar for naething, to conquer we maun a' stoop.

Let them that haesna this sense o humour be awfu thankfu.

Accordin to oor freens across the Borders, Scotchmen enjoy an immunity frae it a' thegither. Let us be awfu thankfu. Juist let the Englishman gae on wi his humour, an we'll lauch if we can. Let him come amang us in the summer time, wi his kilts on, an the brans o his legs hingin like wee lumps in his stockins ower the backs o his siller-buckled shuin, an we'll jine in the fun. But dinna let him expect us to try on sic capers, as naething but a humorist wid gang aboot yon wey. Every man in his humour, sae to speak.

SHORTHAND EXERCISE

"OH ye careless loon," says Betty, as wi the corner o her apron she dichted a spittle I haed accidentally put on a polished bit o the grate; "whit's the guid o me clean, clean, cleanin, if ye're juist gaun to--"

"Haud on, Betty," says I, "afore ye gie me the uisual lecture. I micht tak advantage o this opportunity to practise my short-haun."

"Come on noo," says I, when I haed my note-beuk an pincil oot, "ca' awa."

Wid she? No her! I was awfu disappynted. Ye see, I hae taen to lairnin this uisefu science, short-haun, as I want to qualify mysel to tak doon a' oor great orators.

"I expect Mrs. Macrae to ca' on me the nicht, she promised as much."

"Oh, dae ye," says I; "weel, I'll get oot o the road--whaur's my buits?"

"There's nae uise o ye rinnin oot because she's comin. I hae put on a fire in the room, ye can gang ben there."

Juist wi that a knock cam to the door, sae I lifted my smokin utenshils an gaed ben the hoose. "Noo," thinks I, "I'll hae a gran' chance o takin doon a speech, for Mrs. Macrae is a talker o nae mean order."

I shut the door, drew my desk up near it, an began to listen. Mrs Macrae haed begun. Betty interjected noo an again--"Aye,"--"Umph,"--"Is that a fact?"--"Wha wad hae thocht it?"--"My fegs!"--"Juist that na"--but as it teuk me a' my time to keep up wi the principal speaker, I didna bather wi the ither.

Mrs. Macrae spak as follows:--"But that's no the wey wi some weemen, for what wi their rinnin here, an their rinnin there, I canna see hoo they can dae muckle else than talk aboot ither folks' affairs. There's Mrs. Bogie an Mrs. Dunn, my stairheid neebors, I've seen them staun' for a strucken oor, claverin an bletherin, an I'm shuir that a' the affairs o the toon coud be discussed in that time at the rate they speak at. O coorse, ye ken, I never haed onything to say to Dunn ever since we haed the habble aboot the washin hoose. Her day was the Tuesday--oh, aye; she aye claims the Tuesday; but, losh! I hae seen it the Wensday--aye, an even the Thursday afore she was duin. Her's is an awfu washin. O coorse, ye ken, her man's juist a common man, an she haes to dae her ain bit turns. Hooever, yae week, I ordered my wumman for the Wensday, an my bauld Mrs. Dunn said I haed a guid stock o impidence to pit dirty claes in the biler afore she haed taen her clean claes oot. But I made her bundle gey quick--an ye'll no guess what she did? Twa or three bits o coal that she intended to uise hersel, if she didna tak them awa, for fear my wumman wad uise them! The meanness o some folk is perfeckly scandelecious! But, o coorse, ye hivna the choice o neebors; an ye hae juist to pit up wi ony trash that haes the presumption to tak a hoose on the same stairheid wi ye. They're a perfect nuisance thae Dunns--I juist hate the leuk o them! They're awfu genteel wi their wey o't--refined, an a' that sort o thing; an every nicht ye're perfeckly deived wi their singin an playin the pianae--an auld trash o a thing that was a' she haed when she got mairit--belanged to her faither that was something or ither aboot a bank--no like oor pianae. When we got oot pianae, Jeanie Dunn cam ben wi her muisic, an a' her orders; sat doon, rattled up this side an doon that side, till I thocht she wad hae broken the instrument a' thegither.

"'What's that ye're playin?' says I.

"'The Patience Quadrille,' says she.

"'The Patience fiddlesticks!' says I.

"It micht hae been onything in 'Creation' for a' a body wad ken. But oor Margaret raither teuk her doon a peg. Margaret's juist gaun to get lessons frae a teacher. Margaret sat doon withoot muisic or onything, an played, 'We're a' noddin' sae naitely an exact, an, wid ye believe it, a' wi the yae finger! But Margaret haes it in her. Onybody, to see oor Margaret, wad ken she haed an ear for muisic, if no twa o them. She taks that aff o oor side o the hoose! My faither, ye ken, wis the cimbrel player in the Toon Ban' till he lost his hearin. But a' oor weans hae a kin o gift. William's a great ane for makkin things oot o his heid. He taks that aff his uncle William--him that brocht oot the patent to dae awa wi sweetie feet. But, o coorse, it disna dae for ane to bounce aboot their ain. In fact, it was aboot that that I an my ither neebor cuist oot. Mrs. Bogie, ye ken, thinks them's nae faimly like her faimly--nae weans like her weans. Sae yae day I lifted the windae to see if I coud see ane o oor laddies to send him for a Pope's ee stake for his pa's denner, an I saw ane o her callans, an I cries to him--

"'Jock, did ye see oor John?'

"'Na,' says he, 'I didna see yer John; but if it's yer son Sodaeheid that ye're wantin, some o the laddies hae him up the street tryin hoo mony pears he can haud in his mooth at ance, an whin I cam awa they haed managed to get in nine.'

"'I'll Sodaeheid ye,' says I, 'ye skemp; if ye were a son o mine I wid teach ye mainers, but it's no in ye.'

"His mither haed been near the windae, an, like her, teuk his pairt. 'I desairved a' I got, for her son's name wis John as weel as mine. Her son! But he'll ne'er come to ony guid, for there's no a time oor John comes in wi his nose bluidin but it's share to be Jock Bogie that did it, an if I speak to Mrs. Bogie, I get nae satisfaction, but juist this that my son is aulder an bigger, an shoud be able to tak his ain pairt. But Jock Bogie is aye feichtin, an oor John is o a finer an nobler naitur, an wid raither rin as feicht wi onybody. He taks that aff o me. Oor man wid feicht wi his ain shedow. His folks were a' that wey, an coud, therefore, never agree wi me ava, for I wis always for peace an tried to be as mild an cautious as I coud."

Mrs. Macrae didna en' here, but my fingers were sair, an my pincil blunt. Little did she ken, as she wis bletherin awa, that, only separated frae her bi a door, wis a recordin angel, wi a bald heid, takin doon her every wird. I pondered on the poet's wirds:--

An as I did sae, I said to mysel--"Weel, if that wish wis gratified, in yer ain experience, Airchie Macnab, ye wid see yersel sittin listenin to what ye werena intended to hear, an sic a position is onything but suggestive o a great mind." But I excuised mysel bi sayin--"For the sake o science, muckle disagreeable wark haes aften to be duin."

ESSAY ON WUMMAN

THE Author's gallantry made it impossible that he shoud dae onything else than comply wi a request sent him bi the female leddies o the community, desirin frae his pen an "Essay on Wumman."

His great work, "An Essay on Man," that was read wi profound interest bi the intelligent public, that sat throu the lang summer days, on the porters barrows, doon the pier, an discussed bi the learned an weel-up, in every public hoose back room, generated a desire, that--afore he laid doon his immortal pen for ever an a day--he wid compensate, in a sma' wey, for a' the favours, the kindnesses, an the tender mercies, that it haed been his happy lot to receive at the hauns o the gentler sex--ootthrou the course o a lang, eventfu an checkered career--bi comin furrit, in the glory an ripeness o his geenus, in a day when chivilry wis oot o fashion, to champion the leddies, wi a pen that never wrote a single wird that micht bring a blush to the cheek o even the maist depraved.

Naething worth daein is ever duin in a hurry, sae the Author sat doon, an walked aboot, chowed his nails, thocht an thocht, an repeated ower to himsel, aften an aften--"Airchie Macnab, are ye a man worthy o this priviledge, this honour, this hiech office? Hae ye got the penetration, the intuitive insicht, an the delicacy required to perform this michty task? Hae ye got the geenus that'll keep ye frae bein rideeclous, when yet get fankelt up in the warp an waft o sic an intricate an complex fabrication as a wumman is? Great writer an a' as ye are, hae ye the courage to attack sic a kittlie subject?" The Author leuked in on himsel, his habits, an his history, an he wisna blate to ashuir himsel that he haed muckle o that wisdom that follows the folly o Solomon, an he saw that, baith as man an callant, he haed--in common wi Rabbie Burns, an a' ither great Scotchmen--dearly loe'd the lassies. Frae his inner consciousness cam at last this conclusion--"If devotion to, an love o, the subject, guarantees guid writin, an an 'Essay on Wumman' is wanted, to dae it, Airchie Macnab, ye are the man."

The Author then went into his study (the wee back bedroom), filled his pipe, an set to.

Seen frae afaur aff, the projected essay wis a cloud nae bigger than a man's haun, but, on nearer approach, it leuked like a lot o men's hauns, an every yin o them shut an shuckin, as muckle as sayin--"Noo, Airchie Macnab, nane o yer hunker-slidin. Mak it an oot an oot affair, dae a square thing, spare nane, or bi the hokey-pokey-pea-scones! we'll brand ye wi the desairved impeachment o bein yin that, in his day an generation, hid his licht to wink to the lassies. Tell the truith an shame the--damsels."

Noo, if there's a thing the Author haesna the courage for, it is--on certain maiters--to tell the truith. He haes observed that the men an weemen o history, that telt the truith, maistly always cam to a sudden an a fearfu en'. It mey be airgied that things are different noo-a-days, but the Author disna believe it. He thinks it a'maist suicidal at times to say even what he thinks, let alane tell the truith.

Some o his bachelor freens'll be sayin--"Noo, Airchie, ye're a man o experience, teach us." Wi a peety in his hert, an a contemptous curl on his lip, the Author asks--"Wha coud teach ye?" He likes yer conceits, an he watches hoo ye spen' on yersels the admiration that's the richt o mair gracefu craiters, an the conduct o yer unnerstaunin is a puzzler to him, for he kens fine ye want what ye'll no tak. Ye needna try to ashuir the Author that ye are quite happy, he'll no believe it. He kens perfeckly weel that ye dinna ken whether ye are happy or no. If ye haed a great an noble purpose in bein singular, then he wid bou wi a' reverence. An if he kent ye haed the remembrance o a sweet-lang-ago smile hung up in the chambers o yer hert, he wid proffer ye the haun o sorrowfu concern, an skail for ye ony tears he haed; but if it be that ye are waitin to see a lass that's better than yersel, then a' the Author haes to say, is, that yer sicht maun be very defective, an the suiner ye consult an ee doctor the better.

The mairied man kens fine he can trust the Author. If it happens, as it will, that noo an again attention is drawn to slicht differences between the angels an weemen in general, the mairied man'll unnerstaun that the exception to the rule is his wife in particular. Housomever, he can please himsel aboot that.

The Author wid caution mairied folk against quotin him to bowster up their ill-natured remerks to yin anither, for he kens fine that if they dae sae, when they become again like twa wee dous in a doucot, he'll get the warst wird oot o baith o their mooths.

The followin work is dedicated, withoot permission, to Her Maist Awfu Gracious Majesty the Queen, an every ither Female Wumman in the Lan'.

CHAIPTER I.

--Auld Sang.

--As Ye Like It.

To ken whit a wumman is we dinna need to gang back to the first pages o sacred or, whit they ca', profane history, we hae juist to cry "Betty," an--there ye are! Drest in antidaluvian fig leafs, or adorned in the hairness plaid an silk attire o oor sae cauld nineteenth century, the craiter inside, that we ca' a wumman, is the same the noo, yestreen, the morn, an the next day. Ever cheengin an eternally the same, is a paradox, is a fact, an is a Wumman!

My desire is to be clearly unnerstuid, sae I'll gie anither paragraph on this pynt.

If ye leuk back ootthrou the ages, ye'll notice that in times lang ago, men haed whit's ca'd characteristics. That is to say, men were men. They coud fecht an did fecht. But oh! they hae cheenged awfu. They hae nae characteristics noo worth speakin o, for in risin, as they say, to the occasion, they juist conform continually. If ye were to lift yer umberellae to gie them a clooner ower the lug, they wid cry "Poliss" like hey-my-nannie. Alace for the days when the insulted chiel wid draw his dirk an ram it into his enemy's stamach! But ye shoud see a wumman risin to the occasion! She haes a' the characteristics ever she haed, an if the truith maun be telt, she's addin to them every day.

But I maunna wanner awa into the metapheesical aspects o my subject. I maun be practical.

Before onybody can become a wumman, he or she maun, in the first place, be a lassie. This is requisite in a' cases. A lassie becomes a wumman juist as suin as she becomes a source o comfort, or a cause o concern. The common evidences o her hivin attained to her womanhood is when the lads in the kirk begin to neglect their sauls to gaze on her sweet face. When a mither sees her dochter chowin awa at soor draps, conversation lozengers, an things like that, it mak's her prood to ken her bairn's

My gentle reader, ye wid notice that I heidit this chaipter wi a poetic quotation or twa. I coudna help it! On sic a subject as I hae noo on haun, it taks me a' my time to write whit they ca' prose. I'm aye juist on the pynt o burstin oot into some sublime rapsoda, an, in fact, if I haed follaed my ain inclination in the maiter, this essay wid hae been an epic poem, something like Milton's "Paradise Lost," only different. But I kent the public wadna pit up wi the like o that aff o me. Housomever, for the sake o variety, I'll pit in a wee bit pottery noo an again, an at this pairt ye shall hae:--

Chorus

Chorus

Chorus

The unsophisticated innocence an simplicity o the foregaun, describes the sublime hicht o estatic delyte that the female mortal mey arise to on the eve o her nupsuals. The same feelins coudna be expressed in onything but bonnie wirds an sweet soun's. Coud they ever? I dinna think it!

But before a lass can be a bride, she maun be coorted. That's what we'll dae in the next chaipter.

CHAIPTER II.

The man that can despise an mak licht o the elevatin influence o female society, is--like him that haesna muisic in his saul--a cuddy. Him that haesna felt the sacred pouer o real love, is yet unconscious o the latent nobility that lies dormant in his ain breest, an the sel-sacrifice he is capable o. I hae kent a chiel staun at the trystin place--mibbie a lamp-post--on a cauld, snawy nicht for an oor on en', waitin on his lass, an never utter what they ca' a single ejaculation o impatience. An when she did come alang, wi a smile on her face that was calculated to melt a snawman, an said--

"Ye wad be thinkin I was like Ryal Chairlie, lang o comin?"

He wad gie a bit lauch, dicht the teir frae the pynt o his cauld beak, an say, "Na, I didna think it lang. I raither like waitin."

This is manly love! The fine feelin in his answer shows how saft a bonnie bit lassie's smile can mak a man's hert. Some wad say it was his heid was saft. But that'll no dae. The hert an the heid are no to be confoondit. Locality haes a lot to dae wi a wheen things. If the rose's hue is on the cheek, we ca' it beauty, but if the same hue is on the nose, we ca' it--booze. Strange!

The man that can philosophise aboot whit kin o wife he soud tak tae himsel is as faur awa frae feelin the divine pawshin as I am frae bein an angel. Chuisin a wife is a cauld, methodical, calculatin farce, an I aye peety the chuisen cratur, nae maiter wha she is. When love is the maister o ceremonies there's nae chuisin aboot it, an ye juist tak whit ye get, ca'in it yer Fate, yer Wife, yer Helpmate, "Oor Yin," the Guidwife, the Missus, an excetra.

The pouer o love gey aften upsets the plans o men an mice o mithers an faithers, an ithers--an whit we chuize to ca' its caprice haes gien us the plot an exploits o the warl's history.

If men question their feelins an ask themsels, "Whit wey dae I loe sae-an-sae sae weel?" the answer'll be various. Yae man mak's his bounce that his leddie love haes

while anither'll be content to say that his lass haes, a nice dimple on her elbow.

But efter a', it's that "Providence that shapes oor en's," it's it that pous the hert-strings, unless we tak to the makkin o a "Providence o oor ain an mairy siller, askin its possessor to the waddin."

Lassies are coorted in mony a strange fashion, but the maist common wey is to tak them oot for a walk on a Tuesday nicht.

An, oh! in thae walks whit dreams mey come! When we hae left the toon an a' the warl ahin', an wauner, like twa disembodied spirits, in the licht o the muin, an sich-sichs an vow-vows--wow! wow!! Draw a veil.

Coortships gey aften comes to an end wi a waddin; but that juist depends. I hae seen them kept on even efter that, an a' throu life. If ye saw me wi my airm roond Betty's neck, askin a bit saxpence to gang doon the toon wi like a man, ye wid think I wis the young chap o forty years syne, an she--Betty--wi the yellow coatie. Hech, sirse! for the days o auld lang syne, when the sun shone warmer, an the nichts werena sae lang!

A great concern wi a wheen young folk is "Hoo to propose." Bosh! it's the easiest thing in the warl'. I ken for mysel, I coudna keep frae proposin wi the wey Betty wid leuk at me.

"I think," says I, "it's aboot time we were gettin up a waddin atween us, us twa."

"Mak fun o yer auld bauchles, Airchie Macnab, an dinna try yer nonsense on wi me."

"I'm in earnest, Betty,--as share as daith! sae help--. Excuise me, but I'm shuir ye're no unwillin?"

She didna say a wird till we cam to a quait place whaur naebody coud see us, an then she threw her airms roond my neck, an wi tears in her vice said--

Na, I'll no tell ye whit she said, for that wid be mean. Her wirds were in trust, an I respect them. Hooever, efter a gran' speech, that wid hae duin credit to the dochter o a Roman Patreecian, she wound up wi: "An yer kirk'll be my kirk (ye see, wi Betty's folk it wis a' Free Kirk, an wi oor folk it wis a' U.P.), an my people shall be yer people."

"Haud on there, Betty," says I; "ca' canny a wee. I hae nae intention that yer people shall be my people. It's ye I want, Betty--ye, yersel. As for yer people, that's anither thing a'thegither." An sae it was.

Writin love-letters is considered bi some folk a very dangerous practice. They calculate that the chiel that indulges in sic pastimes is the chiel likely to appear some day as ane o the principal characters in a breach o promise case. Noo, if I wis a young lass I wid hae naething to dae wi the chap that wis sae discreet, an sae very feart to commit himsel in a bit letter. I dinna like to see these breach o promise cases ava, an they shoud only be resorted to bi the puir lass that haesna a big brither that coud tak the life o the fause villain that deceives her wi his tickets for swarries an concerts, an things like that. O coorse, we shoud dae everything accordin to law an order, an the big brither shoud dae the same; sae I wid advise him to gang aboot the thing quietly, an no to let bug whit he's up to till he gets a chance. Murder is an awfu thing, an the takin awa o human life is nae joke; but it's only when its duin ugly that it leuks sae horrible. Daecent, respectable murder gangs on a' aroond us, an we never, or seldom, notice it. Herts can be broken wi ither than stanes, an mony a lingerin, languishin life is a prolonged tragedy.

But whaur am I noo? This chaipter aboot coortin, insteed o whit I thocht it wid be,--happy, an windin up wi a waddin,--is mair like to wind up in a shrood an a funeral.

Sae muckle for coortin.

CHAIPTER III.

OOR national band haes truly said, "Man was made to murn," an he haes left it for me to declare, that "Wumman was made tae merry." In a' her dreams o feleecity an happiness, mairage is the consummation devoutly to be wished, an her walk an conversation; in the mornin o life, is conducted in the licht o a future state. Yet for a' that there's a wheen o oor female sisters that never haes an never will be led to the hymenial halter, that's disappyntment is a veritable blessin in disguise. "A noble mither maun hae bred sae brave a son," is said o mony a chiel that awes his comfort, happiness, an success in life to the fact that he enjoyed the kindness, an profited bi the care o a "maiden auntie," an "unmairit sister," or some ither possible platonic freenship. "Auld maid" in the thochts o some is--whit the lairned wid ca'--a term o disparagement, but why it shoud be sae, clean baits me to unnerstaun. I mysel ken leddies--I coud name them--that, altho "auld maids," suffers nae reproach, an thats absence frae this cauld warl' wid be mair felt than the annihilation o a wheen o oor ring-fingered mistresses. I am an auld man, an my hat rises heich to the auld maid, an I loe her faur ower weel ever to peety her. Anither man's wife is a mixed personality; a sensible auld maiden leddie is ever an always--on her ain responsibility--a guid an kind craiter. Men that kens the warl'll subscribe their full name an address to these, my sentiments.

Yon's a real solemn bit o the mairage ceremony whaur the bride comes ben frae the ither room greetin to get mairied. "Dae ye tak this man to be yer lawfu husband?" says the minister; an she-hingin doon her abashed an muslin-covered face, like a criminal afore the baur o juistice--juist nods, or says, in a wee, faur-awa vice, "Aye." The mixed feelins that maun be hers, as she hauds oot her haun for the best maid to tak aff the glove, are ayont the pouer o my pen to describe. But the wumman in the craiter rises abuin a' the perplexities o her position, an I never heard o a bride yet that put oot the wrang finger to receive the gowden emblem o perpetual an never-endin love, or, as I yince heard a sacreligious joker ca' it, "the badge o slavery." Wisn't that an awfu thing to ca' a mairage ring? It juist shows ye hoo some folk can tak the poetry oot o the maist sentimental things. It's no fair!

The man an wife thus jined thegither, in what's ca'd the bonds o wedlock, commence frae that meenit the battle o life atween them. An whiles they hae an awfu fecht, an it's vexin to the poliss to interfere noo an again.

An noo we come to whit the foregaun wis juist, as it were, a preface. Noo we come to consider whit a wumman is when she haes a man o her ain, a hoose o her ain, a washin day, say, every fortnicht, an a' the ither concerns that gaes to constitute the glory o a domesticated female's gran' position.

There's a limit to human knowledge, an I--even I--dinna ken everything. If I did, I wid gang on to say, "Some weemen dae this, an some weemen dae that." The proper study o man is man, an, I suppose, the proper study o wumman is wumman. I think sae, for they ken mair aboot yin anither than we dae aboot onything. Housomever, the study o yae wumman haes been forced upon me, an if I shoud mak Betty the frequent local instance in illustration o my remerks, ye're to unnerstaun that it's mair in sorrow than in anger. As I hae aften said, she's no a bad body whin she gets a' her ain wey, an whit mair coud ye expect frae a wumman that's troubled every winter wi the rheumatisms?

The antiquarian that taks a peep into the Rosy pairish register'll see there that it wisna yesterday Betty Mackenzie led Airchie Macnab--I mean they got mairit. I wis the full chiel that day o oor kirkin, as we walked up the Hiech Street, me wi my lum hat on, white troosers, printed waistcoat, an Betty in her hairness plide, bocht in Paisley, her silk goon, an her cottage bunnet--that her bonnie face smiled oot o as if throu a pen close. Tam Glen an Jeanie Smith, the best man an best maid, brocht up the rear, while they were follaed bi a' the neebors bairns, an ithers.

The beadle was gaun up wi the beuks as we reached oor saits, amang the admirin an envious glances o a fou kirk, an Betty blushed as reid as a biled labster to hear the minister readin oot, for his first psalm, the paraphrase:--

Nae dout it wis ower bad o the minister to compliment us sae publicly, an I thocht Betty wid never hae forgien him for it; yet, wid ye believe me? notwithstaunin the perplexity o her critical circumstances, when we got hame, an were at oor denner, Betty was able to describe every new dress an bunnet to be seen in the kirk frae whaur we were sittin

In a very short time I haed laid aside my cauf-like demeanour, an wisna sae carefu to say sweet things nor minch my wirds. I got that I coud kick up a row aboot a button aff or a hole in my socks. An then it wis that I began to see an discern some very strange facts. For instance, if we haed a haud, say aboot the eggs for the brakfast bein hard biled, or the beef for the denner bein teuch, a life o the maist awfu misery wis mine till I got it southered up. Betty wid resort to her tantilisin silence. Silence did I ca' it? Weel, she wis silent wi her tongue, but, lod! she coud speak wi the bellaces, the poker an tangs, an even in steerin the parritch she wid be positively eloquent wi the spurkle. I wid discover a' at yince that my feet were sae fearfu big as to be in the road in every corner o the hoose, an that every noo an again I very nearly spat in the fryin pan or the broth pat, an in fact--oh! I hated that silence o Betty's. I wid far raither hae perpetual thunder in my ears. At last--in desperation--I wad gang awa doon the toun, get a gless o courage in me, an come back hame wi an awfu magnanimous hert in my breest, a smile on my lips, streetchin frae ear to lug, an pittin my airm roon' Betty's neck, sing--to a tune composed as I gaed alang--

Yince I got Betty to lauch, my sufferin were speedily at an en'.

It mey be very easy to deceive a young lass, but yince ye hae made her yer lawfu wife, I'll lay my lugs she's no lang o kennin ye better than ye ken yersel. For instance, I hae seen me comin into the hoose lettin on I wis fou. I wid stagger aboot, ram-stammin ower stuils, chairs, tables, an everything that cam in my road, hing my hat up whaur there wis nae nail, kick the cat, an bounce aboot hoo mony gless I haed in me, an a' that sort o thing. But it wadna dae. She wid juist lauch, an mibbie gie me a slap or twa wi the dishclout, sayin, "Oh, that's no ye ava." It seems that's no whit I dae ava when I'm fou. O coorse, I never saw mysel that wey, an sae dinna ken. She kens! She says I cairy on like a sou, an at the same time threep doon her throat that I hinna tasted a single drap. O coorse, Betty is a teatotaler, an whit coud ye expect? Gie her her drap o tea, an she disna care a preen for a' the whiskies, an the wines, an the brandies that are in the warl'. My oh! it's an awfu grup that tea taks o a body yince they yield themsels up to its seductive influences. I wis juist coontin up a' the cups o tea that body'll drink frae Ne'erday mornin to Hogmanay nicht; an guess ye whit the amoont is? Twa thoosan' nine hunner an twenty fou cups! Isn't that awfu? To say the least o't, it's preposterous. I tried to frichten Betty wi the statistics, but it didna pit her aboot a preen pint. "Ye can coont my cups o tea," says she, "but ye hinna taen mony o yer glesses o whiskey till ye loss coont o them." There ye are, ye see! That's yer temperance, teetotal, abstainin Guid Templar for ye! Aye sayin nesty, ill-natured things! Onybody that kens the wey Betty can haunle the airguments in favour o whit she ca's the Cause, wid be vexed for somebody.

CHAIPTER IV.

A' QUESTION aboot the equality o the sexes is stuff an nonsense. Ye mey airgy as ye like aboot it, an show this an show that, but ye'll come to nae mair reasonable conclusion than if the question afore ye haed been, "Whit mak's maist fizz in a Seidletz poother, the contents o the blue or the white paper?"

When I'm asked if I think the leddies capable o takin a haun in public affairs, I always say, "I hope no." Ye see, I still desire to hug the sentimental notion to my saul, that the leddies are quite abuin daein the mean things that gangs bi the name o "servin the public."

Did ye ever meet the man that's a great contender for--whit he ca's--the superiority o the male sex? He is a geenus! Get him on to the crack, an, tak my wird for't, the hauf yin ye stan' him'll no be thrown awa. "We have nae female Shakespeare, have we?" he asks ye, as he shoves back his ravin lock wi his clawty fingers, "nor yet ony female Miltons?" Satisfied that his airguments are conclusive, he drinks to yer health, an a' ye can dae is to ring the bell, an tell Tam juist to "renew the dose."

I min' yince o bein in the company o yin o these "Lords o Creation," an he went a great length. "Weemen," says he, "are undoutedly the weaker vessels. That they are! That we shoud rule them is sanctioned bi the Scripturs (he wis weel up in the Scripturs this man, for he wis an infidel). They are only meant to be oor helpmates--oor haunmaidens. We shoud rule them." Hoo far he wid hae gane on I canna say, but he was interrupted bi the door o the room we were in openin. A face appeared, twa greedy grey een teuk in the situation at a glance, an a voice cried--wi a' the pouers o elocutionary declamation--"Is it there ye are, ye guid-for-naething, an ye promised to come straicht hame an keep the wean till I went ower to my mither's. Come awa, here!"

"Excuise me," says he, "that's the wife." I excuised him.

We read in the annals o history aboot weemen that led airmies to battle, an focht like teegers on the bluidy field. Sic conduct mey hae been very fine in the annals o history, but I raither dout some o us wadna be lang oot o the Asslum if oor wifes an dochters taen to the sodger business sae seriously. D'ye think I wid be Macnab the sociable, Macnab the gay an festive up to ten o'clock an the shuttin o the shops, if, efter that, I haed to gang hame an face a modern Joe Ann o Ark or a female Duke o Wellinton? Scarcely! I dinna think the sex is muckle complimented bi thae hussies that cairied on in the annals o history. If they haed steyed at hame an minded their wark, it wid hae been a hantle sicht wicer-like. Leadin on airmies! I wid raither lead on a hunner an fifty airmies, as keep yae yaumerin, greetin wean that wis newly spained, ootthrou the lang--eternally lang--oors o a washin day.

But (an here I maun write grandly) a wumman's sphere is the seek-room. Pictur the scene. Her puir man haes been at a meetin the nicht before, a late meetin, an noo he rowes back an furrit amang the blankets, like a door on its hinges. He feels his heid to be aboot the size o a fifty shillin pat, his spittles is as teuch as ju-jubes, an before his wattery een dances the black spots. Then, then dis the wumman play her pairt in the economy o natur. She'll mak him a drink. On gaes the wee pan. In gaes the meal; a wee tate o saut, to mak it saut; a wee tate o sugar to mak it sweet; a shake o pepper to season it--a drap or twa o spirits to gie it a flavour. She steers an steers, syne tastes it, smacks her lips, poors it into a bowle, on tip-tae brings it to the bedside o her puir man--helps him up on his elbow--hauds the delectable beverage to his parched lips. He turns frae it wi scunner, an she drinks it hersel. Coud human affection dae mair?

I defy onybody to explain hoo it is that I can tak aff an put on my claes a hunner-an-fifty times withoot onybody kennin, bi the least jingle, that I haed a bawbee aboot me, an Betty canna lift my waistcoat or troosers frae yae chair to anither withoot every blessed curdie o my pocket money trintlin oot on to the middle o the fluir. I hae asked Betty for an explanation o the thing, but she, puir body, can gie nane. It's no stupeedity I'm certain.

A wumman is never sae polite an sae guid-mainered as she is to that ither wumman that she hates wi a perfect hatred. She'll--but I maun stop, as ye see I'm beginnin to be juist raither deep. I'll draw to a close.

An, in conclusion, let me say, that the writin o this essay haes been a labour o love. That I hae been pairtial, I maun admit. The lassies hae my saft side, an what I said the week afore I got mairied, I say noo. "I wadna gie yae lass for a' the men I ever clapped een on."

An lastly, to my bachelor freens, ane wird: Dinna be ower cautious. Mairiage is a lottery, but, see here--

The man that gets a guid wife disna think there was ony chance aboot the gemme; the man that gets a bad wife kens wha to blame; an the man that haes nae wife ava thinks he haes the refuisin o every braw lass in the toon. We are a queer lot o human beins us mortals, arn't we?

The question, "Wha is the happy man?" is as open yet as it was in the days o Plato an Socrates; but ye'll easy get an answer to the query, "Wha is the happy wumman?" Ask ony unmairied female wumman, "Are ye quite happy?" an I'll lay my lugs the answer 'ill be, "O coorse, I am! wha said I wisna?"

But it'll be a' the same a hunner years hence.

HIS PORTRAIT

AS I wis gettin ready to gang to Glesca yae day, Betty put me in mind that I haed never yet got my portrait taen.

"Ye'll pit aff an pit aff," says she, "an if onything cam ower ye, we wid hae naething o ye ava."

"If onything cam ower me! Whit coud come ower me? I never wis better a' my days. That's a guid yin! is a body to gang an get their portrait taen, as if it wis the drawin up o their last will an testament. Whit put it in yer heid that onything coud gang wrang wi me; I'm as soon' as a bell, an a' oor folk leeved lang ayont my years, except yin or twa that fell into bad health."

"O Airchie," says she, "hae mair sense, man! Dinna be sic a fuil as to mak licht o solemn maiters. Wha kens but ye micht be taen awa ony day?"

This was, if possible, worse. "Me taen awa! Lod, I thocht ye haed mair confidence in me than that. But yer sae suspicious-minded that a body canna tell whit ye'll tak into yer heid next."

"But, man alive! ye ken we maun a' dee; but the day or the oor--"

"Och, I ken we maun a' dee! Everybody kens that! Pit it that wey, an I'm wi ye richt eneuch. There's naething personal nor impident in sayin that man is mortal, an that's a real fact. But to insinuate that I--me, mind ye--soud--I dinna like it! an that's juist tellin ye! It's ower pynted! It disna agree wi my ideas o the fitness o things ava. Commend me to braid sweepin assertions, an awa wi yer pernickity dabbin! General an comprehensive statements for me bi a' means. For instance, I like fine to hear the minister admit frae the poupit that 'we're a' sinners.' It's grand! It's quite gratifyin to ken there's sae mony o us. When he mak's the declaration, I aye tak a bit glint roon' the kirk, an when I see this yin an that yin, I'm aye ready to say,--'ye're aboot richt, minister, ye're juist aboot correct! we're a bad lot, an nae mistak.' But, at the same time, I raither think I wid be inclined to change my kirk, an tak awa my beuks, if the minister wis to speak aboot me ony day, or address me at ony time, as Mr. Macnab, the sinner."

"Whist, whist, an dinna haiver; ye hae promised a guid wheen o folk yer caird-de-veesit, an Auntie Jennie pits ye in mind o't aften eneuch, an tells ye that she's keepin a place in her album for ye."

"My certie, her kindness is nonsense! I warran' ye it'll be a hiech honour to me to hae my likeness stuck in amang a wheen representations o antiqated examples o dressmakin an big hoops, an hae mysel described to gantin an wearied veesiters, alang wi 'that's my uncle on my mither's side; there's oor Johnnie's wife's guid sister's mither; that's an auld neebor o mine, she haed an awfu bad man, puir body, altho he haed a guid pey; there's Colin, see hoo natral his shirt studs come oot; aye, that's oor auld minister. He wis a real nice man, that preached a gran' sermon, an never kept us ayont the hauf-oor ony day. See the wey he hauds his mooth. Ye wid ken fine he wis nae ordinary indiveedual bi his expression. He left a lot o siller ahint him, puir man. Ah! there's Airchie Macnab, ye wid ken him a mile aff! Leuk hoo nice his hair comes oot, an see hoo clean his bald heid is. He's an awfu --.'"

Betty lauched as if her sides wid split, an then she said, in a coaxin wey,--"Noo, Airchie, there's nae uise o haiverin; ye're aye talkin aboot gaun doon to--whit ye ca'--posterity; wid it no be real gran', noo, if folk coud see ye then as ye gaed aboot the toon in yer day an generation?"

Betty haed me that time. That cratur kens a lot, na. She's no sic a dolt efter a'! O coorse she haes been my bosom freen an companion for mony a lang year, an that mey accoont for a guid lot--for a wumman, as weel as a man, is kent bi the company she keeps.

Sae when I got to Glesca, I got my photograph taen, an I'll tell ye, noo, as weel as I can, hoo I passed throu that awfu ordeal.

Efter sclimmin up five lang, steep, an weary stairs, I reached the steudy oh! in a maist braithless an fentin' condition. The photographer gabbled awa like a sweetie-wife aboot the wather, the craps, the price o coals, the forrin policy, an things like that, an the first braith I coud tak wi freedom wis spent in askin him--in a wee vice--the ceevil questin--

"In the name o a' that's mercyfu, whit mak's ye stick yer place o business at the tap o sic a confoonded lang Jacob's lether?"

"For the licht, sir, the licht. Ye ken we photographers are, as it were, sun-worshippers."

"Is that whit ye are? Lod there's nae end to the religious denominations noo-a-days. Sun-worshippers! I thocht a' that nonsense belanged to the ancient Egyptians an the Hindus?"

Wi a herty lauch the chiel explained, "Oh! it's only as faur as oor profession gaes that we are devotees."

"Oh! I see," says I, "I see. Ye worship whit suits yer profession! In that case, ye mey be respectable eneuch atweel."

We leuked into yin anither's een for a meenit, an then we exchanged a very pronounced wink, the photographer haudin his forefinger up the side o his nose, an I becam quite satisfied that this man coud tak my likeness.

"Juidgin frae the length o thae stairs," says I, "ye seem to be gey faur up in yer profession."

"Ye are a veritable cynic," says the chiel, as he bow'd me into the place whaur I wis to be "teuk."

"An what sort o a portrait will ye be wantin?" says the photographer, "a heid, a hauf-length, or full length?"

"Hoo lang wid ye be o takin my heid?"

"Oh! I'll knock aff yer heid in a jiffy."

"Ye'll what? Knock aff my heid. Nae fears o ye! It teuk a gey lang time, an mony a sair focht battle wi the warl', to mak my heid the ornament it is, an I'll allou nae man--nor wumman aither, for that maiter o't--to even pap peas at it, faur less knock it aff."

"Exactly, sir! A' richt, sir! Sit here, please. Caird-de-veesit, sir? A heid!"

Sae sayin he brocht an airn affair, an stickin it up again my neck, he asked me if he wid tak "a profile, a front view, or what?"

"A front view," says I, "bi a' means. It wadna be like me ava unless it leuked folk fair in the face. But whit's this up again' my heid for? This airn affair?"

"To haud it steady, sir."

"Haud whit steady?"

"Yer heid, o course."

"Ca' canny, my man," says I, "an dinna be sae cantie. Mibbie if we were tryin I coud juist haud my heid as steady as ye. Nae dout ye thocht I wisna a'thegither at mysel. Smell my braith, an awn ye're wrang. To haud my heid steady! Tak it awa, tak it awa! I need naething to haud my heid steady."

"We generally uise this," says the chiel. "In fact, I mey say we always uise it."

"Is that a fact," says I, "weel it's real peety that fowk noo a days are sae faur left to themsels as to gang an get their portraits taen at a time when they canna haud their heids steady. The wife aften tells me that if I saw mysel whin I hae a dram in me, I wad throw the bowle awa; but, as I dinna want to dae that, I cam here this mornin, a strict teateetotal abstainer. Sae ca' awa, for, to tell the truith, sel-denial is a virtue I canna lay muckle claim to. I'm wearyin!"

"An we winna uise this, ye say?"

"We will nut," says I. "It's ower suggestive! There's sic a thing as the association o ideas, ye ken, an that thing again' my neck feels awfu like a polissman's haun, or the 'iron heel o oppression.'"

"Very well, sir, very well; if ye think ye can keep steady we will dae ithoot it. Nou, sit roond, sir, this wey, face the camra."

The camra that he talked aboot was a square box affair, staunin on the tap o a stuil wi a brass tube in front o't, pynted streicht, like a cannon, at my nose.

Efter he haed opened an shut some windae blinnds, an danced back an furrit, leukin at me, an muivin my heid, airms, an hauns, till he got me into a maist awfu position, he went ahin' the box, put a clout ower his heid, an began, as I thocht, to tak my likeness. I sat--for a meenit or twa, as if I haed been hewn oot o whit they ca' everlestin merble, an then, says I--

"Whit pairt are ye at the noo?"

"Beg pardon," says he, as his heid popped up like a Jake abuin the Box.

"I was askin whit ye were at the noo, for I wid like to get scartin my ankle, as there's something batherin me."

"Oh, I hivna begun yet. I will tell ye when I want ye to keep perfeckly steady."

Efter sortin mysel, an blawin my nose, I teuk up my position again as weel as I coud, an, says I--

"Will that dae, think ye?"

"Capital, ye have assumed a very gracefu position."

"A what! a gracefu position? Yer bletherin; I hae twisted mysel up mair even than ye haed me. If it's a gracefu position that's wanted, whit dae ye think o that?"

Wi this I struck an attitude, an when the photographer leuked at me, he held his sides, roared an lauched. "By golly! Cromwell refuisin the Croun o England!"

"Juist that, na. Weel I dinna care suppose it shoud be Rab Ha' refuisin the Croon o Scotland. That's my habeetual mainer, an, if it's a' the same to ye, I wid raither be taen as mysel--as Airchie Macnab--than as a man that haed sat doon on a needle--in the company o some maiden leddies--an was tryin to leuk pleased."

"Sae be it, then, pleasure yersel, sir. It's a' the same to Sam. We'll get ye photographed sometime or never. Yer bluid be on yer ain heid! Nou steady, please."

"Losh," thinks I, "this is gettin--saerious!" He went ahin' the box again, an began to pouter wi his fingers aboot the bress tube affair.

"Hae ye ony objections to me haein a bit smoke?" says I, for I felt I wis gettin kin o excited, an needin ane.

"A smoke? why, my dear sir, ye dinna want yer portrait taen wi a pipe in yer mooth, d'ye?"

"An whit for no?" says I; "fegs the pipe's a bit o me. I'm very much attached to it. Gae on wi yer show. Draw ye my likeness, an I'll draw my pipe. Dae ye see the joke? Draw. It's a play on the wird 'draw'. I thocht ye wid hae been up to that, ye that's sae--"

"Keep yer mooth shut, sir, please."

"A' richt," says I, as I struck a match, lichted my pipe, an sat as steady as I coud, while the photographer ran back an forrit--shovin oot an in drawer affairs, an openin an shuttin slides the same as if he wis settin a bird trap. He then cam furrit, stuid aside the camra, an said, "Nou sir, if ye're ready."

I blew oot a moothfu o reek, composed my face, an gied him a nod.

"Nou sir, leuk at this." He pynted at the camra as he spak, an as I haed always wondered hoo the photographer's business wis duin, on this invitation to "leuk," I raise frae my sait, an gaed furrit to see the thing wirkin.

"No at a', sir! Ye dinna understand. I wish ye to keep yer chair, to keep steady, an at the same time leuk fixedly at this till I tell ye. I will only keep ye a few saiconts. Steady!"

He teuk a lid aff the tube. I held in my braith, an felt my hert bump, bump, bumpin up again' my waistcoat, an I wis juist aboot gien in for want o puff, when, on he claps the lid again, sayin--

"Thanks! A' correct, sir. Ye're taen, sir, ye're taen."

"Is that a'?" says I. "Losh, that's easy! I coud sit for my portrait even on, at that rate."

"Oh, it's easy eneuch ance ye ken."

"Ah, I unnerstaun things noo, an I see I hae gien ye a lot o bather, but ye maun juist excuise me, an mibbie I'll bring Betty up some day to get teuk; but afore I dae sae I'll pit her throu her facin, sae as ye'll no hae muckle trouble wi her. We hae a big stuil in the hoose yonner, juist aboot the size o that thing ye ca' a camra, an I'll pit it up on the coal-bunker, an keek throu the hole in it at Betty, till she can sit as steady as a bronze statue."

The photographer lauched, an said, "I believe yours will turn oot a very characteristic portrait. Wad ye object to me pittin a copy o it in my show-case doun at the front?"

"Nane whitever," says I, "nae fears o me! Ye can pit twa o them in if ye like, aye three, or even mair if ye want. Onything I can dae for ye I'll be maist happy. Will ye hae a hauf?"

"Thanks! No; I am much obliged. The busy pairt o the day comes on aboot this time."

"Ye ken yersel," says I. "Sen the cairds to that address. I dinna want them to cairy the noo. Guidbye."

But, losh bless me! A month went ower afore I ever saw mysel. I maun hae been ill to tak. But it was worth while waitin, they were real nice.

THE HUSBANDS' BOAT

IT wis in the kirk that the notion to gang abroad cam into my heid. The minister haed been tellin us in his sermon that life wis juist a journey--a tale that is telt, ye ken--an he drew oor attention to the solemn fact that every meenit micht be oor next, an altho we are here the day, the morn we micht be some ither place. Bit it wis while he wis at that bit o the public worship they ca' "readin the intimations" that I made up my mind to gang yince mair an see Glesca. When I got hame I telt Betty my plan an intention.

"Oh! Airchie, Airchie," says she, "surely ye are demented; ye'll likely be steyin ower the nicht, an here I'll be left a' my lane."

"Dry up," says I, "yer tearfu ee lassie, an see whit I'll bring ye frae far ayont the sea, lassie." This wis said in a tender tone, as Betty's no ane to pit up wi bouncin.

That nicht I wis in my bed lang afore elders' oors, sae that I wadna sleep ower lang.

At the scriech o day I wis up, cleaned mysel, got on my Sunday claes, teuk brakfast, an wis biddin "guidbye" to Betty, when she expressed a desire to come doon to the boat an see me oot o sicht.

"Ye're haiverin, wumman," says I; "ye'll need gey faur-seein specks to see me oot o sicht."

"Ye ken what I mean, ye callous wretch," says she. "Is this a time for cairyin on like Punch an Judy?"

"No, Betty," says I, "ye'll no come to the boat if ye loe me. Dae ye want to unman me before folk? Na (an here I made my vice to trimmle), na, let us hae oor pairtin here bi oorsels, whaur naebody can see oor saut tears, nor hear the vice o oor sorrows."

I didna want her comin doun to the key bletherin to everybody aboot me gaun to Glesca. No very likely!

The first boat on the Monday mornin, in the simmer time, frae Rossy is a Weemsbay ane at 6.40 (D. V.) It taks up a' the Glesca chiels that's been doon frae the Setturday. They ca' it the Husbands' Boat, an it's weel named. Some o the chiels are sae familiar wi it, ye wid think it belanged to them. Weel, this wis the boat I teuk.

At a quarter-past six I wis staunin on the deck o the steamer, an, losh me! it wis a fou boat. A wheen o the passengers' wifes were doon wi them to bid them guidbye. The wifes were dressed in printed gouns, plides, an auld hats stuck on their heids, juist the same as if they haed come oot to the soor-milk cairt to get cream for the brakfast. The steamer's bell wis rung, but the cry wis "still they come." Yeng men, auld men, an men o middle age, some wi overcoats doon to their heels, an ithers wi overcoats up to their knees, cam rinnin alang, maistly everyane cairyin a bag, an maistly everyane smokin. I saw some o the chiels tak the pipe oot o their jaw an gie the wife a bit cheeper. (Noo, I like to see yon, it shows there's nae animosity left.)

At last the captain leuked his watch, scanned the key wi his haun abuin his een, an cried "Pul awa the gangwey." Wi a maist awfu clank an a bang, the gangwey wis bumped doon on the key. A' at yince there wis a steer, an a chiel near me cried, "Haud on! here's the last man."

"The last man!" thinks I. "Wha mey he be that bears sic a name?" I wisna lang o finndin oot, for everybody wis cryin "Hurry up." "Heist ye quick!" "Gae on, M'levy!" "Ye'll catch it yet!" to a wee man, wi a big bag, that wis rinnin in the direction o the boat, his face poorin o sweet, an as reid as a nor'-wast muin. The gangwey wis put on the steamer again, an the wee man wis hauled on deck as if he haed been a stubborn coo. He stuid gaspin at my side like as if he haed the asmatics. The gangwey wis clanked doon again, the captain leuked frae en' to en' o the key, syne gied a dunt wi a thing like the haunle o a door, an the paidles began to steer the watter up into saipie sapples. A' at ance there wis anither roarin an yellin, an what wis this but anither "last man." "Stop, stop!" he cried, but the captain, I think, was attacked at that meenit wi yin o thae fits o "dull o hearin" that we a' hae noo an again; for he kept leukin oot intae the Bay, an the steamer follaed the direction o his gaze. The wee fat man at my side haed got his braith bi this time, an wis able to say, "I'm astonished that people will be sae late when they ken the advertised time. Some folk seem to think the boat can wait a' day." It wis a sensible remark, an showed the wee man to be a keen observer o his fellowmen.

"It's the same every time," says anither chiel; "an whiles the last man is a wumman."

I leuked at this speaker for a guid while, mair in sorrow than in anger, sayin to mysel, "puir chiel, yer education haes been much neglected." Yet he seemed quite happy.

An noo we were oot on the open sea, an losh! I leuked aboot me as sad as sad coud be. O coorse, I wis on pleasure bent, but I hae a sympathetic natur, an I wis smitten wi the prevailin melancholy. Wi few exceptions every man's face leuked the same as if he haed promised himsel a dose o castorile. I ken the immensity o the sea haes a depressin effect on some minds, but it wisna that, it wis "smoke, steam, grind, grind, auld claes an purrich."

As I leuked ower the side o the boat into the michty deep, I said to mysel, "Here are hunners o men, the breed-winners o hunners o faimlies, faithers, brithers, freens, an dear anes, what wid the loss o this boat mean?" A vision o the shattered happiness o mony a merry holiday, the cry o the weedae an orphan, an the murners gaun aboot the streets, raise afore my mental ee, an, oh, sirse the day! mine were the awfu feelins. But, consolin thochts cam, an I minded that, altho there wis sae muckle traffic on the Clyde, accidents were very rare, for the reason, that the captains an officers o the steamers are men ye coud risk yer life an yer traivellin bag wi, ony day.

Ye ken the classic story o the lover that swam across the Hellispond (is that the name o it?) to see his lass. That, in the auld times, mey hae been thocht a great thing, but here wis a boat load o Leandars that wis prepared to wauken themsels every mornin, kinnle their ain fires, mask their ain tea, bile their ain eggs, an eat their brakfasts in meeserable solitude, a' that their wifes an weans micht hae a few weeks in the balmy air o "doon the watter," wadin in the saut sea or knittin stockins on the quay heid. Brave herts!

Will it be ony pleasure to the Glesca wifes to ken that when the steamer reached Weemsbay every chiel wis as lively an as happy as a cuddy in a back green? To see the wey they flew up to the train wis as guid as seein a fit race.

"What is a' the race aboot?" says I to a chiel.

"To catch the train, o course!" says he.

"To catch the train I" says I, in astonishment. "They're no feart; that's the wey folk meet wi accidents."

The smokin cairages were easily kent, they were smokin as if on fire. I got into ane o them, an saw a' my fellow traivellers leukin ower papers, to see whit their neebors were daein. If I happened to leuk at ony o them, I aye catched them leukin at me. An they did smoke! I dinna ken whit yon chaps intend to dae in the next warl', but, my fegs, they smoke in this ane. I hae aften been asked whit I smoke for mysel, but the fact is, if I haedna been able to smoke in sel defence, I wid hae been put oot at Paisley for a deid man.

Every ane seemed to be in an awfu funk to reach his journey's en'. Watches were oot continually, an leuked at lang an earnestly.

On oor arrival at Glesca, the croud o my fellow traivellers melted awa like mist on the mountains, an I saw them nae main for ever. (This last sentence leuks awfu like as if comin frae a minister, still, for a' that, it's true.)

In a meenit or twa I cam to mysel, staunin on the Jamaicae Brig, a' lanely, leukin aboot me like a waunert wean.

GRAMMAR AN COMPOSITION

I WIS a young chap at the time, an he wis my uncle on my mither's side. We sat thegither yae nicht oot on the green, an in a meenit o confidential weakness I read him some o my litery efforts. He wis a man o cultur an education, haein been a collector o Puirs Rates to the Barony Perish o Glesca at yae time. Sae I thocht he micht advise me to sen some o my things to the papers; but, insteed o that, he stoppit me, an said,--

"That's eneuch! Ca' canny! Hae ye studied grammar an English composition?"

"Me? Na! Whit wey?" says I.

"Dae sae, an at ance," says he; an withoot anither wird, up he got, went into the hoose, an awa to his bed.

His cauld remerks made me shiver an sneeze, altho I wier flannel next the skin winter an simmer, an for days an days, an nichts an nichts, I coudna get these wirds oot o ony heed, "grammar an composition." Juist aboot that time a class started to teach these things, sae I gaed alang wi the lave, got enrolled--as they ca' it--peyed the fee, an becam a scholar.

The teacher talked awa aboot nine different pairts o speech, ca'in ane a noun, anither a--whit wis this ?--I forget noo; a body canna min' everything! The teacher wis ane o thae kin o chaps that thinks they ken an awfu lot; but if I haed haen him oot in the back green for a few meenits, I wid hae let him ken if I wis sae stupid or no. Him an his "I love, ye love, he or she loves," the mealy-mooth sowel; an if ye haed seen the slee winks he wid gie to the rest o the class as he wid cry me up--

"Airchie Macnab."

"Here, sir."

"How can ye send in an exercise like this?"

"Quite easy."

Then, as uisual, the hale class wid lauch, an I wid lauch looder an langer than them a', while the teacher wid say,--

"The lood lauch denotes the vacant mind."

Ye can see he haed the advantage o me wi his grammar an his composition. If I haed him noo, I wid grind him gey sma', I warn ye!

Ane o the exercises we got to dae, wis the paraphrase--as they ca' it--some lines o Gowdsmith's "Deserted Village." We were to read the poem, an then write doon its meanin in plain language, withoot makkin it poetical, dae ye see! Paraphrasin it's ca'd.

Losh! that wis a job! I leuked at the verses, an I thocht the chiel Gowdsmith haed duin as muckle for the forsaken clachan as mortal man coud. Ither wirds I coudna get to hae the same effect ava. I gied it up. The next class nicht the ithers haunit in their "deserted villages," an when I heard them read, I kent fine, then, whit wis wanted, sae insteed o--

I wrote, "Auburn, say what they like, ye're sweet. Amang the plain, ye'll pass for lovely. Yer sanitary arrangement maun be first-class, for a wheen folk gang to ye for health--mair especially them that's labourin swains, whitever that is."

When I haunit in this--an muckle mair--the teacher leuked ayont me, an said,--

"Airchie Macnab, I despair o yer ever becomin a luminary in the warld o literatur. Are ye at the cou-feedin?"

My answer was drouned in the lauchter that follaed this sally o wit an wisdom. At last the teacher awned that he coud teach me naething.

"Ye're beyon' me, Macnab,--quite beyon' me."

Here is hoo the thing cam aboot. "Gentlemen," says the teacher, yae nicht as we were leavin the class, "as an exercise in composition, I wish ye to write oot frae memory the story o Androclus. He was a slave, ye remember, that ran awa, met wi a lion in the forest, extracted a cause o pain frae its fit--efterward haed to fecht a lion--how it was the same lion--it kent him--he was saved--ye ken the story? I wadna have ye read it up, but juist write it oot in detail frae the leadin facts I have mentioned."

Noo, to tell the truith, up to that time I haed never heard o sic a body as ane ca'd Androclus, but whit I haed noo heard seemed to me quite sufficient for the fundation o a guid story. I went hame, gied orders that, for yae nicht, the gas wisna to be screwed aff at the meter. I sat up throu the silent watches wi the man an the animal, an on the followin class-nicht I haed the pride an pleasure o haunin in the followin. This it frae the original manuscript:--

ANDY LOWKUS AN THE LION

CHAIPTER I.

The story o Andy Lowkus taks us awa back to the past ages--as they ca' them--lang afore the cattle plague wis introduced into this country, or the franchise wis extended to the lower orders o humanity--sae to speak--that peys a ten poun' rental.

Andy wis a slave. No a slave to drink--that the temperance lecturer ta'ks aboot--but a rale slave, that got lashes if he didna dae whit he wis telt. That wis the kin o slave he wis. He haed to get up afore the sun raise, brush buits, hew wud, draw watter, an kinnle fires, a' before he got his brakfast, altho, mibbie, he wad eat a soda scone or twa an a daud o cheese, for his mornin chit. Wisn't that awfu? But that wis naething. Juist haud on. If ye hae ony tears aboot ye, prepare to skail them noo. His maister began to throw oot hints that meal oors warna sae muckle needit as mibbie Andy thocht they were, an he wis also on the quee vee as to whether he shoudna mak him work a nicht-shift as weel. This wis awfu! Sae ye'll no hinner my brave boy Andy frae kickin up a row. An whit happened next, think ye? Naething less nor this, that he was ordered to tak oot the weans, in the prambulator, when the sun wis shinin. This wis makkin waur worse. "This is ower much o the monkey," says Andy to himsel, "this'll no dae at a'," qo he.

Sae in his leesyur meenits--that wis few an far atween--an in the kirk while the sermon wis gaun on, he thocht the thing oot. He compared his position wi that o the queen, the aristocracy, the shop-keepers, an ither gey weel aff fowk, an he said to himsel, "it's a gran' ham a haddy." Sae he made up his min' he wad rin awa. He didna care a spittle whaur he gaed, sae be's he wadna be catched. An he planned the thing oot. He niver lot bug. He juist wirkit awa as if he wis quite contentit--whistlin an singin choruses o comic sangs, and things like that--but a' the time he kent what he wis up to, altho naebody else did. Juist allou him, he wisna sae blate. When ither fowk were sittin wi their een shut, Andy wis keekin throu his fingers. At last he haed his arrangements complete. His bag wis packed. An extrae collar, cuffs an a dickey, a curran' dumplin, a sma' moud o pottit heid, an some ither preserves, wis a' in't--as snug, as snug coud be.

The watch dowg wonered whit wey Andy forgot to lowse its chain yae nicht, but my gentle reader kens brawly whit that meant.

CHAIPTER II.

At the peacefu midnicht oor, Andy crowled frae the back door like a snake, ower the dyke, an awa afore ye coud coont Jake Robbison. Wi his bag in his yae haun an his umberellae in the ither, he walked on an on, an never stoppit till he saw the mornin--in russit mantle clad, as the poet says--an then he sat doon to hae a rest. He listen'd to hear if there wis ony polissman's whustle birlin, but no a birl coud he hear, altho he held his haun ahint his lug. Sae far sae guid. He went into a wud, sae be's he wadna be seen bi ony passers by, sat doon aside a bit burn an taen some o his curran' dumplin an a wee nip o his pottit heid. Then he haed a smoke an a think. He wis free! Free! Whit's in that wird? Fower letters. But oh! whit a wealth o meanin! It's only them that hae been in the Poliss Office that ken the blissedness an the sweetness o freedom. Andy began to recite potery aboot freedom to the trees, while the wee bit burn murmured a' the time.

A' that day Andy wandert throu the wud, aye takin his bag an his umberellae wi him--like as if he was a commercial traiveller in the pipe-cley line--listenin to the birds whustlin, leukin for birds' nests, an cuttin his name on trees. This last was raither a dangerous thing to dae, for if the bluidhoun's wis efter him they micht see it. But Andy didna think on that, he was sae owerjoyed. That's the wey wi us a', when we get owerjoyed, mibbie at a waddin or a funeral, we whiles forget oorsel's.

When six o'clock bells at nicht wur ringin, an the works wur skailin, Andy sat doon on the fa'n trunk o a tree, to sherpen his pincil to tak stock o whit he haed eat that day, an syne to calculate hoo lang his provisions wid haud oot, when, on leukin up, what d'ye think he saw? Guess. A lion. As shuir's daith!--a rale forest lion!

"Losh me the day," says Andy, "what's this ava?"

He put oot his haun to feel if he was in his bed, an thinkin mibbie he was in a nichtmare, he tried to wauken himsel, but it wadna dae--it was nae dream! The lion cam nearer. Andy glowered at it wi his richt hand abuin his een, an his left hand grabbin his bag an umberellae. He coudna move. He was glued to the spot wi fear an consternation. The lion cam nearer.

"Murder!" cried Andy, as lood as he coud. "Poliss!" he cried louder still. The lion cam nearer.

"Keep back, ye bruit, or it'll be waur for yin o us if ye dinna," yelled Andy in desperation, while his legs sheuk an trembled, an the cauld sweat ran doon his jaws.

"Haud aff! Help!"

Still the lion cam nearer. Scenes in the past life o puir Andy Lowkus began to parade themsels afore the mind's ee o that hapless chiel, hairbreedth 'scapes bi flude an field, an amang his fears, conjectures, an anticipations, cam that awfu question, "Wha wad leuk efter his life inshuirance money?" Still the lion cam nearer, an when it was a hap, stap, an jump aff o him, Andy fell back in--what they ca'--a swoon.

CHAIPTER III.

Hoo lang Andy lay in the swoon, he coud never tell, hivin negleckit to leuk the time at the commencement o it, but when he cam to himsel, the lion was beside him, wi its paw on his knee-cap.

Andy asserted his innocence, an said--

"As shuir's daith! it wisna me; an I'll never dae the like again, if I'm spared;" but when he leuked the lion fair in the face for the first time, he was astonished to see a big teir aboot the size o a plunker trickle doon its haggard cheek.

Andy teuk the lion's paw in his haun to wish it a happy-new-year, an began to sing--

When he was claspin the lion's paw, what d'ye think he shoud feel stickin in it but a carpet-tack.

"Hullo! what's this?" says Andy, " a hauf-inch tack, or I'm a Dutchman!"

He pou'd it oot, an as he was a kind o carefu chap that haed a place for everything, he put it in his tabaccae-box, thinkin it micht come in handy some day. Little did he ken. But juist haud on, an ye'll see.

The lion smiled, taen doon its paw aff o Sandy's knee, an began to lick the lappels o his waistcoat. It hung aboot for awhile, an then went awa, ever an anon leukin back an wavin its tail, as much as to say, "I'll min' ye for that some day, mibbie."

Andy teuk a lang braith, sorted his grauvit, an coonted his studs.

CHAIPTER IV.

Lang years hae passed, an again we see Andy Lowkus. But ye wad scarcely ken him! Time works wonders. The slave o the past is noo a great man in a circus. He gangs aboot wi a fur collar on his coat, weirin his hair cut lang, an a big moustache. He haes a' the accomplishments o a rale gentleman, or he smokes, chews, drinks, an swiers as nice as ye like.

Big bills are posted up a' ower the toon, tellin hoo "Androno Lowkusso (that's his professional name) will fecht a rale forest lion; prices as uisual! doors open at 7.15, Cairiages to be ordered in time for the shops shuttin." Sic a thing as a man fechtin a lion is no to be seen every day. Sae, lang afore the doors opened, a croud wis gaithered aboot the circus as if it was gaun to be an execution.

At last the door opened, an the mass o human beins, wi their admission money sweatin in their haun's, rushed forward to the pey-box--every ane eager to get a front sait.

The circus performance commenced wi a young lass daein a dance on the tap o a horse's back, while the horse was rinnin roon' an roon' the ring. Then a hen-taed clown cam oot an cairied on a lot o capers that made the folk lauch like to split their sides. Says he to the ring-maister--

"I'll gie ye a guess."

"Very well," says the ring-maister, "what is it?"

"Can ye tell me," says the clown, "why a chicken crosses the road on a rainy day?"

"I gie it up," says the ring-maister.

"Well," says the clown, "the reason why a chicken crosses the road on a rainy day, is because it wants to the ither side."

Efter this sally o wit an wisdom, the ban' struck up a lively tune, the horse startit again, an the young lass jumpit ower some ribbons that were held doon to her. A wheen mair things were duin, an then cam on the great affair oor hero wis to play his pairt in. But I'll need anither chaipter for that.

CHAIPTER V.

When the ban' played "See the conquerin hero comes," Andy Lowkus mairched into the ring, an threw--whit they ca'--a somersait.

When the applause haed subsided, Andy explained to the folk that the salary he received didna keep him in saut for his kail, an he further stated that he depended on the generosity o the audience to fill to owerflowin a box that he wid haun roon'.

He taen roon' the box himsel an went amang the common fowk as if he wis juist an ordinary man, an naebody ava. He kept sayin, "Thanks, thanks," to every ha'penny that jingled in, an he even wis sae polite as to gie change to them that haed naethin less on them nor a thripenny bit. When he haed gaen ower a' the folk, he teuk a bit glint into the box, to see if he haed got as muckle as wid compensate him for the possible loss o his praecious life, an the scrutiny didna seem to please him, for he spat ower his shouther an muttered to himsel, "Puir Scotland."

Noo for the combat, noo for the awfu struggle. Andy stuid in the middle o the ring waitin, while the ban' played gaist muisic an everybody held in their braith. Puir Andy, I wadna like to be ye!

The suspense wis something awfu. The yin desire wis, that the lion wid come oot an en' the thing at yince. Weemen fentit, strang men leukit yin upon the ither, an said, "Hech, sirse the day." At last a hole in the side o the ring opened, an in the gaze o that vast assembly stuid a monster lion. Them that was fair opposite coud see that the lion wis bein egged on bi men that haed lang sticks wi nails on the en' o them. At last the lion left its den, an wi a roar like twa steam whustles, boundit into the ring.

Leuk at Andy noo! See him staunin a' laney! Oh, but he wis gemme! He pou'd his lum hat doon ower his lugs, tugged up his collar, buttoned his coat, grabbed his umberellae the opposite en' frae the haunle, an cried in broken English, "Kum on, ye spalpin!"

The lion leukit at Andy for a meenit or twa, an then began to lick its lips. Then it began to rin roon' the ring. Sae did Andy. It wis a race for life. Andy wis first.

CHAIPTER VI., AN LAST.

They ran, an they ran, till the lion got a haud o Andy's coat tail wi its teeth, an then the folk cried oot, "That's no fair; ye're haudin him back." Andy stoppit a' in a sudden, an said, "Haud on till I lace my buit." In stoopin to dae sae, his tabaccae-box fell frae his waistcoat pootch, an in the fa' opened, when a carpet tack rowed oot amang the sawdist. The lion saw it, startit back in astonishment, an raised its fower paws hiech in air. Pausin in that position the audience saw a wee hole in the lion's fit, that the tack fittit into exackly. Andy threw a chester cake to the lion, an then informed the folk o the circumstances o their former meetin, adornin the tale o the lion wi this moral, that "when ye hae a waistcoat pootch, ye shoud aye keep a carpet tack in yer tabaccae-box."

THE END.

THE GLESCA "KEELIES"

I HAE aften been telt that a stranger is as weel kent in Glesca as ony ither body, an bi nane better than the rogues an scoonrals, that gangs aboot--like their auld faither, the Deil--seekin wha they mey devoor. As I was leukin ower the Jamaicae Brig at the wee steamboats scuddin alang, a sailor-like chiel nidges me on the elbow an says--

"Can ye gie us a match?"

Matches are cheap eneuch noo-a-days, an I ken what it is to want ane; sae I haunit him my box o spunks to tak twa or three.

"I'm on the spree, auld pal, properly duin up, wad ye buy a meercham pipe? Seasoned it mysel; dinna like to pairt wi it, but when a fellow is on the ran-dan, he'll pairt wi onything, ye ken. Will gie it ye for two bob."

Wi that he rammed a pipe-case into my haun, that, when I haed opened, was seen to contain a highly-coloured pipe, mounted wi siller.

"Is it real?" says I.

"Upon my saul, it is," says the fellow; "dae ye think I wad impose on ye?"

"I'm shuir ye'll no impose on me," says I, "Here's a polissman comin alang; we'll see what he thinks o the thing, an if he says its worth--"

"Oh, the deevil ye will!" an wi that he grabs the pipe oot o my hand, gies me my matches, an walks awa as if he haed juist minded that he haed some place else to gang.

Alang at the Jile Brig anither o the same kind says--

"What time is it, please?"

Wi a shake o the heid, I made to pass on.

"Leuk here," he whispers in my ear, "I've got a watch in pawn--a guid thing--worth three pounds; only twenty-five shillins on it--will gie ye the ticket for ane-an-six."

"Speak oot," says I, "ye were sayin something if I'm no mistaen."

He leuked this wey an that wey,to see if onybody was within hearin, an then he says very loodly into my lug, "A watch in pawn, worth three pounds, only twenty-five shillins on it: ye can have the ticket for ane-an-six."

"Looder," says I.

He tried hard, but I coudna unnerstaun the bargain that was offered me. He went awa cleid in aiths an curses--I suppose he haes a habit o sweerin.

It's uisefu to point a moral when ye can, an the moral here is--"When a man intends to dae ye a guid turn, he disna whisper aboot it."

ON DOCTORS

WE hae a' oor ailments noo an again, an the men an weemen are gey scarce thats life wis never sae muckle in jeopardy as to be under the haun's a' a medical man. Whit wi hoopin coughs, hives, measles, watter-brash, tuithache, the whuttle, ingrowin nail, ex ceetra, an things like that, we a', mair or less, rin back an forrit to the doctor, an hae the doctor rinnin back an forrit to us. Frae the time we are rocked in the cradle to the oor we are taen awa frae a' oor sufferin, the doctor is--as it were--continually in waitin, ready to practeese. Practeese, ye'll mind; an ye're no to think a practeesin physeecian is a beginner at the trade. Na, na; they practeese--as they ca' it--a' their days, even the maist skilfu o them.

Some wice body haes said, "When doctors differ, the patient dees." O course, the patient dees in the lang-run onywey; but doctors dis differ, an that's a fact. Some are guid--some are bad.

Frae a wumman's point o view, a guid doctor is ane that orders her complete rest, port an sherry wine, chicken soup, calf-fit jelly, an things like that, o the very best quality, an bocht oot o the dearest shops. He--the guid doctor--never forgets to tell her--the wumman--that she haes been owerwirkin hersel, an that an organism like hers (an organism is whit he ca's her heid, body, airms, an legs)--an organism like hers requires that she shoud be protected frae a' worry an annoyance, an that she shoudna attempt to dae a haun's turn o the hoose-wark for at least six months to come, an at the en' o that time she's to gang doon-the-watter, an stey there till the cauld wather begins to come on again--when she's to come hame an keep her room, cheer hersel up wi readin novels, keep her mind easy, her heid cool an her feet warm; to keep on that wey, an--as he says an she believes--nae dout she'll get alang fine. That's a guid doctor for ye, an a real nice man.

A guid doctor frae a man's point o view, is ane that-when he's ca'd in to see the wife--gies her a blawin-up aboot aetin ower muckle, tellin her if she disna gie hersel mair exercise she'll fa' intae a gallopin consumption. But when a man ca's in a doctor for himsel, he expects a guid ane to advise him to be kind to himsel, an tak a wee taste noo an again, for his stamack's sake, an to warm his bluid; an also to get, as quick as possible, a new set o flannels to keep it het.

A guid doctor maun be a man that studies folk, up an doon, an throu an throu.

It's a great peety, still it's a fact a' the same, that doctors, as weel as ministers an members o a' ither professions, hae to tell a guid wheen o lees to earn an honest liveliheid. Folk like to be telt whit pleases them, whether it's true or no. For instance, if onybody taks it into their heid that they're nervous, they wid get quite ill-naturt an agitated if a doctor wis to tell them that they were nae mair nervous than he is. Folk maun be treated for the disease they want to hae, an that's a' that's aboot it. The doctor that telt his patient up to his cheek that he haed been fuddlin or smokin ower muckle, wid be telt to sen in his bill, an it wid be settled at ance.

Some doctors gie real nice bottles, while to tak thae o ithers nearly mak's ye girn yer face aff a' thegither, an hae ye grewin an shiverin doon to yer tae nails. There's a nephew o mine in a doctor's shop in Paisley, an he wis tellin me that o a' the medicines in a doctor's shop, the safest is a clear, colourless liquid they ca' aqua. I think that's whit he ca's it, an he's a clever chiel the same chap, an a gran' Latin scholar; an ye'll no hinner the callan frae keepin himsel in claes wi drawin teeth when the doctor's no in.

A doctor juist needs to see ye to ken whit's wrang wi ye. O course ye mauna expect him to blutter oot a' at ance the name o yer trouble; but when he leuks yer tongue, feels yer pulse, an asks ye if yer mither haed ony mair like ye, ye mey confide in that man, tak his medicine, an follow up his instructions to the very last. An believe me, he'll no be the least blate to pit doon the full name a' yer trouble on the registration paper. Juist allo him. He'll no see ye stuck for that. Some folk think that because they gie a doctor hauf-a-croon for his skill, he shoud juist start a college wi them, an tell them, in a single consultation, a' that it teuk him years o clesses, an mony a nicht sittin up wi the midnicht ile or the caunle, to acquire. Catch the doctor daein sic a thing! He's no sae saft as a' that!

I hae said naething again the doctors, an it wid be far frae me to dae sae. Ye see, like a' ither great Scotchmen, I'm awfu bathert wi my stamack, an if, at an odd time, I juist happen to tak mair than a quarter a' a stane o new tatties, hauf a poun' o stewin meat, twa slice o breid, an a sma' plate o rhubarb an milk,--if I juist gang the least ayont that, I'm shuir to be tormented wi that awfu stamack o mine. Noo, dae ye see the situation? If I wis to say onything again the doctors, whit wid oor ain doctor think? Think ye, whit wid he dae to me-whit wid he gie me to tak when I went to him awfu bad wi the bile? In my weakness, he micht tak me treacherous! In a spirit o revenge, he micht gie me a dose o--dear kens what!

But it's a great shame hoo the doctors is treated. A minister canna gae to a waddin, nor can a lawyer defend a prisoner at the bar, withoot their names bein put in the papers, an the puir doctor, thats patients mey be deein a' aroon' him, never gets the least public recognition ava.

It's no fair! Is it? Scarcely!

A SCRAPE

"IS there a barber's shop aboot here?" I asked a callant in the streets o Glesca yae day, "whaur a body micht get a clean shave."

I was directed to gang up a loan, that when I did, I saw the reid, white, an blue pole, an the brass-plate, that's the heraldic embellishments to a' hair-cuttin saloons.

"Guid mornin," says the barber, as I entered.

"Guid mornin, sir," says I, imitatin as weel as I coud his Glesca English.

My entrance haed evidently interrupted a conversation gaun on between the barber an his customers, for noo an again an attempt was made to get him on to the crack, but he was evidently very much preoccupied wi something that he teuk occasion to whisper aboot to the soap-boy noo an again.

I wisna the least surprised that the barber an the likes o him that sees sae mony different folk shoud be impressed wi my appearance. I hae--in a remarkable degree--a "presence," mair especially if I hae a dram in me--(an if the truith maun be telt, I haed mair nor ane in me that forenuin). Whether it's the wey I haud my heid, or my cairiage, or what, I dinna ken, but I aften see folk leukin sideweys at me, an hear them sayin, "Is that onybody in particular?"

Thinks I to mysel, "This barber kens I'm somebody, an he's makkin a bit fuss."

Efter a wee the barber opened a door, an, addressin me, said--

"Step this wey, sir, please."

I follaed his direction, gaed into a wee room, an sat doon on a chair. The soap-boy cam in, put a towel roon' my neck, an began to soap me. He soaped an rubbed sae lang, that I thocht he wad rub a' the skin aff his icy-cauld fingers. I sat leukin up at the ruif, watchin a speeder weavin a web, an when the rubbin stoppit, the laddie laid his haun heavily on my broo, an--ministers an angels defend us! What's this ava? He haed begun to shave!--I felt it!--I smelt it!--I heard it!--I saw it! There was nae mistak aboot it, he haed begun.

"Is it easy?" asked the callant, in a saft whisper, while the haun that held an open razor abuin my nose sheuk an tremmlt like an aspen leaf.

"Oh, aye!" says I (meanin to be sarcastic, while the tears cam unbidden to my een), "awfu easy."

The callant held his apron again' my jaw for a meenit, an then--aff a' the ills that hair is flesh to--"Murder! Poliss!" I yelled, "is this a slauchter-hoose?"

The scene that then ensued was something awfu. The laddie tried to soap me while I was staunin up leukin at my bluid on the towel that hung frae my neck: but wi yae smash I sent him heid ower heels into the faur-awa corner o the room. I flung a chair that stuid afore me on the tap o a gas-stove, an wi yae bound I reached the door--to finnd it locked.

"Help! fire!" I cried, as wi the strength o a Samson I banged up against the door, an sent it aff its hinges, richt oot into the middle o the shop-fluir.

There was a general scamper on the pairt o the customers, the laddie ran past me oot on to the street, wi his bannet in his yae haun, an his jaiket in the ither, while the barber stuid haudin a chair up between me an him, sayin--"Be calm, be calm!"

A leukin-gless in front a' me revealed my face, covered wi white saipie sapples, bluid oozin frae each cheek, an a' thegither an awfu pictur.

"Lod bless me I" says I, "Airchie Macnab, illustrated wi cuts!"

"The next for shavin," says the barber, an the coolness o the remark brocht me back to my senses.

We haed some wirds, an while he sorted me up the barber explained.

"Ye see, he's a raiglar duffer. He haes no genius for the business, but his auld people keep askin me, 'when is oor son gaun to get lairnin his trade--when is he gaun to get to the shavin? 'when ye cam in--I'm very sorry, sir-I saw ye were a stranger--I'll mak ye a' richt--I said to him, 'nou's yer chance or never, shave that man!'"

"He obeyed yer order," says I, "the callant, an a queer shaver he is!"

Customers began to drap in, but when I was ready to gang, the barber left them to watch the shop, an him an I went roon' to the front street, whaur he stuid a dram like a man an a brither. O coorse, he coudna wait lang, but as we pairted, to show I was o a forgiein spirit, I cried efter him up the lane, "The next for shavin!"

HIS ENTERTAINMENT

SITTIN yae day bi the pairlor windae, haein a smoke, I wis unintentionally entertained bi Mrs. Macrae an Mrs. Dunn, oor stairheid neebors, wi the follaein dialogue. They didna ken they were bein owerheard, an I didna like to tell them.

"Ay, ay, Macrae, an ye warna lettin on that ye were gaun to hae a waddin amang ye?"

"A waddin! a wheen nonsense! But it's no gien me muckle concern. Amang them be it, as Davie danced."

"Come, come, Macrae, that'll dae ye for a lang time. It's no every day ye hae a son gettin mairied, that ye shoud think it naethin. But, mey I spier, is it true?"

"True! ay, an ower true. Did ye ever ken the like o't? To think that he wid be sae easily led, the gommeral."

"Losh me, the day! I'm surprised at ye. I thocht ye wid be quite prood to see yer son settlin doon. I'm shuir it's naethin bit whit a' body micht leuk for. The chiel haes reached to man's estate--I'm shuir he'll be weel on for twenty-five noo."

"He's auld eneuch, as ye say; an ane wid hae thocht that he micht hae haed mair sense. It's five-an-twenty years last Hallowe'en nicht since I began my fecht wi him, an it wis nae sma' battle to bring him up the length he is,--an noo, whit is a' my recompense, but awa he gangs an gets mairied!"

"An, Mrs. Macrae, my dear wumman, whit coud ye expect? Maistly every wumman's son get's mairied suiner or later."

"Every wumman's son gets mairied suiner or later, dis he? An is that ony reason why my son shoud dae the same? For whit haed oor John to get mairied? Whit put mairyin in his heid? If he haed been some hameless cratur in lodgins, a body coud hae leuked for naethin else than that he wid hae duin the best for himsel, an leuked oot for somebody to tak care o him. But oor John! My son!! A chiel that haed every comfort in life that I, his mither, coud bestow upon him!!! A lad that haedna a single care in this warl', to tak it into his stupid heid to gang an dae sic a daft-like thing as mairy! Lod! Mrs. Dunn, when I think on the thing, it nearly mak's me dementit."

"Tuts, tuts, neebor! ye're haiverin. If John's in a position to tak a wife, as I hae nae dout he is, an sees a lass he thinks wid suit him, I, for ane, dinna see--"

"A lass to suit him! Ay! ye're at it noo. But ye dinna think yon cratur, Maggie Morrison, a hizzie to suit my son? Mony a time I hae telt him that when he leuked oot for a wife, he wis to tak a wumman like his mither, that haed a' her faculties aboot her, an wis able to dae her ain washin if need be. But yon peely-wally wid-be-leddie, hoo will she be able to dae onything for him? Losh! if I haed thocht, or kent, that he meant to mairy yon Miss, I wid hae let him see the error o his weys lang syne. But he never telt me onything aboot his plans an purposes. He wis aye ready eneuch to fash me wi a' his ither bathers, an hoo he shoud hae kept this yin to himsel sae muckle, clean beats me."

"But, Mrs. Macrae, ye needna tell me ye didna ken a' alang, as weel as ither folk, that he wis gaun wi the lass, an it shoudna surprise ye noo that a waddin is the upshot."

"Shoudna surprise me! My fegs! shoud it no? I hae got mony a surprise in my life, Mrs. Dunn, but never onything like this. I haena been the same wumman since the oor I heard o't. Ye never haed a son gettin mairied, Mrs. Dunn, an sae ye canna be expected to unnerstaun a mither's awfu feelins in the circumstances. Whit in a' the warl' put the silly notion in his heid is beyon' me. If he haed juist explained whit wis wrang, I wid hae duin a' that lay in my pouer to please him, as I hae aye duin; but juist to come to me, withoot ony warnin or complaint, an say, 'mither, I'm gettin mairied.' Lod! Mrs. Dunn, it nearly teuk awa my braith."

"But, Mrs. Macrae, did ye never gie a thocht to the lad's affections? I warn ye, he haes taen a notion o the lass--he loes her, nae dout."

"Loe's her! That's a fine yin! Whit did ever she dae for him? His affections, lod! his maun be the funny affections that tak him awa frae his mither, an sic a mither as I hae been to him. Early an late--mornin, nuin, an nicht--I hae toiled hard an sair, slavin mysel to daith, to see him richt, an this is a' my thanks. Mrs. Dunn, excuise my tears, but I canna keep them in, when I think on it."

"Oh, dinna mak sic a wark, wumman. Whit dis his faither say aboot the thing?"

"His faither! Whit dis his faither ken or care aboot the maiter? Ye'll no get him to fash his noddle aboot onything but his paper an his politics. I get nae satisfaction frae him ava; an, whit is worse, he haed the cheek an impidence to tell me that when we began the battle o life atween us, he haed to leave his mither."

"There ye are, ye see, Mrs. Macrae, that's juist the wey o it a' the warl' ower; nae dout his mither wis gey sair put aboot when yer guidman an ye taen up thegither."

"An whit wid she be put aboot for? My fegs! it wis a a gran' day for Jamie Macrae whin he got me to tak him. He wis the prood man on his waddin nicht, an I hae never heard him express a single regret since syne; for if he haed, I wid hae--"

"Juist that, noo! But, tell me, haes John brocht Miss Morrison up to see ye?"

"Brocht her up to see me! an that's whit he haes duin. The stupid gommeral, didn't they come ram-stam in on the tap o me on a Friday nicht, when I wis at my cleanin, an a' the hoose tapsalteerie--the ashpan, fender, an ither things on the middle o the fluir, an everything hig-ulty-pig-ulty. Mrs. Dunn, I didna ken whaur to leuk. In comes my leddy, dressed up to the nines, wi her fur-lined cloak an a' her orders an fal-de-rals. I gaed John a leuk that micht hae spained a foal, for I kent, frae a glint I haed juist taen a' mysel in the leukin-gless when I wis ower at the jaw-box, that my face wis covered wi splatches a' blackleed, an that I wis an awfu-leukin sicht. 'this is my mither, Maggie; mither, this is Miss Morrison.' I wis perfeckly dumfounert. She held oot her gloved haun sae prim for me to tak, an I nearly fainted wi shame an confusion as I made grab at it wi fingers thickly covered wi pipecley. Then, to mak maiters worse, the conceited thing aff wi her fligmageeries an yokit tae like a hatter to gie me a haun, while John sat on the big chair smilin frae ear to lug. Losh! I coud hae bashed his heid again' the jams, I wis sae angry."

"That was very kind o the lass, I'm thinkin, an showed she wisna wantin in common sense. O coorse, it wis thochtless a' John bringin her up withoot gien ye notice."

"Thochtless! It wis disgracefu, that's what it wis! But mind ye, that's no it a'. The next mornin, when I got him bi himsel, I yokit on him, an gied him a regular throu-pittin; an guess ye whit he said?--'Oh, never mind, mither, Maggie didna care a rap aboot hoo ye leuked.' Maggie, mind ye! She didna care a rap! But I cared twa-three raps! Him an his Maggie! But he'll mibbie get eneuch o his Maggie yet."

"Aye, aye, an whaur are they gaun to tak up hoose, if it's a fair question?"

"Oh, in the big lan' to be share! Twa rooms an kitchen nae less. She maun hae her pairlors, sofaes, pianaes, chiffoneers, an a' her orders; but, I think, less micht hae duin them. Pride gangs afore a fa'. When I got mairit, I wis quite content wi a but-an-a-ben, but there's nae end to the extravagance o young folk noo-a-days. They hae nae sense."

"Aye, but Macrae, ye maun bear in mind that when ye got yer guidman he wis juist a common worker; noo he's a maister, wi a business o his ain, an yer son is his pairtner; John's beginnin whaur his faither left aff."

"That's the thing, Mrs. Dunn=-that's the secret o the hale affair. Catch the Morrisons encouragin oor John to their tea-pairties an haunlins, if he haed been onything less than whit they ken him to be, the junior pairtner in a flurishin sodae-watter concern."

"Mibbie I dinna ken, Mrs. Macrae, but my opeenion o the Morrisons is, that they are juist aboot as daecent folks as yer son coud hae fa'en in wi, an I fail to see for what yer pittin yersel sae muckle aboot."

"Pittin mysel aboot! I'm no pittin mysel aboot yae preen pynt! That's a guid yin!--pittin mysel aboot! Na! but when I think o the thing, I feel inclined juist to gang an droon mysel. But if I'm spared, as I ken I will be, I'll mibbie live to see him rue an repent the day that ever he left his mither's hoose."

"Toot! toots! wumman, dinna haiver, ye'll get yer hert cheered up at the waddin."

"Here's luck to the waddin. Na, they canna keep me frae gaun to it."

"I dinna suppose onybody wants to keep ye frae gaun to it. Ye'll need to be there."

"Oh, he's butterin me up wi the present o a new silk goon an a splendid shawl, as he says he wants to see me daecent; but, between ye an I Mrs. Dunn, tak my wird for it, I'll tak the shine oot o thae Morrisons, supposin I shoud need to dress like Queen Victoria in gems an jewels frae tap to tae. I'll show him an them that he haes a mither that never made a fuil o onybody."

"Ye're an awfu wumman, Mrs. Macrae; but I hope ye'll get ower yer tantrams, an agree wi the young folk, for--"

"Agree wi them! I can agree wi onybody! I'm share I wid be the last wumman in this warl' to say or dae onything that micht lead to quarrellin. Lod, I hae eneuch to dae to mind mysel withoot interferin wi them an their nonsense. But if they think I'm gaun to beck an boo to a wheen wid-be gentilities, they're far up a close."

"Ane! two!--losh, is it that time? Oor guidman'll be in this meenit, an I hinna got the tatties poored. Tell John I'll gie him a present onywey, for he's a nice chiel, an a lad that deserves to be happy.'

"Tell him yersel. What hae I got to dae wi him an his presents? He wis happy eneuch if he haed juist steyed at hame an never heeded his nonsense o mairyin."

The voices ceased, twa doors gaed tae wi a bang, my pipe was duin, sae I ris an gaed awa frae that windae, a wicer if no a happier man.

Puir John Macrae! I wadna like to be ye.

HIS BOTTLE

THE man that haesna been in trouble haesna yet come into his full inheritance, an few o us mortals escape bein, at an odd time, gey no-weel. We never ken whit guid health is till we're laid up wi something.

For a guid while I haedna been mysel at a', sleepin nane at nicht, an like to fa' asleep a' day. This went on till it cam to be, that I steyed in my bed a' thegither. My condition put Betty in an awfu funk; for, as she said, "That wis the wey her faither, puir man, wis troubled for twelve year afore he was taen awa." I hae heard folk say he wis the laziest man in the toon, but folk, ye ken, mak great mistaks. Housomever, naething wid dae Betty but that she wad get the Doctor. Sae I wis coaxed to mak a superhuman effort, wash my face an haun's, while Betty put a clean sheet on the bed an changed the pillae-slips. This wis to mak me a wee bit mair respectable like. Betty then tosh't hersel up, an went awa for the medical man. When he cam he said--

"Well, Mr. Macnab, it's ye that's doun this time: what's like the maiter?"

I kept my heid steady, turned my een on him wi a woe-begane leuk, but before I coud get my parched lips to open, Betty in wi--

"He's no weel ava, Doctor, an haesna been since ever he becam a full member o the Ancient Order o Foresters. Naebody kens what's wrang wi him, but ye'll see for yersel he's no richt"

"Show me yer tongue, Mr. Macnab," said the Doctor; an wi that I shoved oot the unruly member.

Betty started back an held up her haun's, sayin--

"Oh, Doctor! Doctor! did ye ever see a tongue like that? Leuk hoo black it is. Dinna gie him up, Doctor--dinna gie him up. Exert yer skill to the utmaist! Dae a' ye can for him, if there's ony hope ava. Oh my puir man, my puir Airchie!"

"Put oot yer tongue a little further, Mr. Macnab, please."

I rammed my tongue oot sae far that I coud scarcely get it to come in again, an as I did sae, a wee bit sugarally that I haed been soukin fell oot a' my mooth on to the bed-cover.

"Whit's that?" cried Betty, "whit's that in a' the warl'? Leuk at the black stuff comin up. O my husband! little did I think ye were sae faur throu."

"Ye have been soukin black-sugar, Mr. Macnab," said the Doctor, wi a smile.

"Exactly," says I, "onything to keep a chap frae wearyin."

"Let me feel yer pulse. Ah! a little excited. Haes onything been worryin ye lately?"

"Worryin me!" I cried, thinkin that mibbie I haed got hydriphobae; "I hinna been bitten ava that I ken o."

"What wid worry him?" says Betty, "he disna need to tak a single thocht for onything in this warl'. But he's aye think, think, thinkin, an he gangs aboot as if he haed a' the affairs o the nation on his heid. Speak to him aboot that, Doctor."

"Ah, Mr. Macnab, ye maun avoid thinkin. It is a very bad thing to dae."

"Lod!" says I, "that cure's waur than the disease. D'ye never think ava yersel na?"

Betty haed in her spade again.

"Advise him again' readin beuks, Doctor; he maun aye hae a beuk in his haun--aye, even at his meat. If ye juist saw him at his denner, ye wad think he wis silly. He'll be sittin glowerin at his beuk, an his haun'll be wannerin ower the table, grabbin everything but the nicht thing; an I've seen the sugar-bowle up to his heid afore he wad notice that it wisna the tea-cup. Advise him again' readin, for it canna be guid for him."

"Readin while aetin is always bad, an readin ower much isna guid for ony ane; but, o course, Mrs. Macnab, we maun a' nou-a-days read a little."

"Oh, aye, I daursay, mibbie on a Sunday! Nae dout ye're richt eneuch there, Doctor, but he reads, reads, reads--eternally reads, an ye'll no get a wird oot o him for love nor money. An whiles ye wid think he wis gaun clean gyte. The yae meenit he'll be lauchin into himsel like a loonie, an the next he'll be gloamin an shuttin his neive as if he wis quite cairied awa."

"Oh, well," says the Doctor, "really that's--that's--common eneuch, if a beuk is really interestin--"

"Aye, interestin ye're comin to it noo. But if ye'd only kent the kind a' trash that he's taen up wi. My fegs! will I no get a braw reid face some nicht when the Elder comes in an catches him at his confoondit Shakespeare. Oh, ye needna get angry Airchie, I maun get the Doctor to speak to ye aboot that, when he's here onywey."

The Doctor smiled, an, addressin Betty, said--"But he reads his Bible nou an again dinna he?"

"Read his Bible! Ay, that's anither thing he dis. He reads his Bible. Mony a nicht I hae seen me I coud hae bashed his heid again the jams, I wis that angry, to see him sittin there readin awa at the Scripturs, when he wid hae been wicer-like gaun to the meetin wi me. Oh! he reads his Bible, but I question if he dis it wi an unnerstaunin hert, for he speaks an airgufies wi the minister, as if he--the minister--wis juist a common man."

Bi this time the doctor haed brocht oot yon bobbin affair that he cairies in his coat-tail pootch, an began to soon' me. "Tak a lang braith," says he.

I teuk a braith that wid hae served a whale--a braith that wid hae knocked a' the buttons aff my Sunday waistcoat if I haed haen it on.

"That'll dae," said the doctor, as he began to chap wi his knuckles on my kist, like as if it wis the ootside door o a Guid Templars' Ludge he wis at. "Did ye ever spit bluid, Mr. Macnab?"

"Aften," says I.

"When did ye spit bluid last?"

"Let me see," says I, "It wis at the election time. A chiel said the reasons for my political opeenions wadna haud watter, an I says 'ye're anither,' an wi that his haun cam up again my mooth, an whit mortal man coud stan' that? sae I flew on him, an afore ye coud coont Jack Robisson--"

The doctor lauched. "I see, I see; the bluid didna come o it's ain accord."

"No to my knowledge, it wis a guid scud I got; but mind ye, he didna get awa wi it. It wis mony a lang day afore he--"

"Whisht, whisht Archie; that's no a wey to be speakin the noo, an ye mibbie sae near--"

"Dis he eat well, Mrs. Macnab?" asked the doctor.

"Oh, he eats eneuch in a' conscience; but he disna tak time to chow his meat, he juist bolts it. If I wisna aye near him to clap his back, he wid be got choked some fine day. It's nae satisfaction to mak a denty dish for him to see it swallaed as if it was parritch."

"Ah! Mr. Macnab, that is bad. Ye ken that if ye dinna masticate yer fuid, the saliva--. Dae ye smoke?"

"Betty," says I, "gang an see if that's onybody at the door." I wanted to speak to the doctor in private aboot this thing. "Yes, doctor, I tak a bit draw noo an again. Hae ye ony objections to that?"

"Nane whatever, provided ye dinna smoke ower much. In fact, I wad recommend ye to smoke a little."

"Betty," I cried, "dae ye hear this, the doctor says I shoud smoke a little. He recommends it for me."

"If the doctor haed to clean my kitchen grate, he wadna recommend ony sic a thing. But the doctor smokes himsel--the men are a selfish lot."

"Ye maun be carefu wi intoxicatin drinks, Mr. Macnab," an wi that the doctor leuked at me wi ane o his e'en shut.

"Sae I am, doctor,--sae I am. Exceedinly carefu. Always the very best."

"But never ower much."

"Never mair than a gless at a time."

"Dae ye ever feel a giddiness in the heid?"

Betty again, "Ay, he's fashed wi a giddiness, but he'll no let me say it's that. Whiles he taks turns that he can scarcely walk withoot haudin on to the wa'. Is there muckle wrang wi him, dae ye think, doctor?"

"Weel, na. No a great deal. I'll write oot a bottle for ye, that Mrs. Macnab will get at the druggist's. If ye are to recover, Mr. Macnab, ye maun get up oot o yer bed, walk aboot, an lie doun nou an again on the sofae."

"I raither dout, doctor," says I, "I'll no be very weel able to follow yer instructions. It's mibbie a' up wi me, for ye see oors is no a sofae, it's juist a couch."

The doctor lauched, wrote something on a bit paper, put on his hat, bade us "Guid nicht," an syne was aff.

Noo the plot thickens.

"There ye are noo," says Betty; "ye hear yersel whit the doctor says. See whit ye hae brocht yersel to noo wi yer readin an no chowin yer meat. There wis nae uise o me speakin."

"Na! an stop yer haiverin. Obey the doctor, gang an get the medicine made up as ye were telt!"

Betty put on her hat an shawl, cautioned me again' risin to open the door, if onybody cam; wi my shirt-tail, an wis aff like a whitruck.

She wisna oot five meenits till I noticed she wis awa withoot the doctor's prescription! "Oh, the stupid craiter," thinks I, "she'll hae to come back." Every meenit I expected to hear the key turn in the door, but na. Hauf an oor passed, an in she comes a' pechin.

"There's the bottle, an there maun be something awfu guid in it, for it cost twa-an-six. Medicine's quite a luxury noo-a-days."

Hoo coud this be? The doctor's line wis lyin on the chair as he haed left it. Here wis Betty haed been to the druggist, an here wis a bottle shuir eneuch. It wis fou maist up to the cork, an on the ootside wis a paper, "A dessert spuinfu three times a day." "Shake the bottle." Whit coud this mean? "Hae ye the line back wi ye, Betty?"

"Na, Airchie; the chiel in the shop said he wid put it in his beuk, an if ye wanted ony mair he wid see the nummer o the bottle."

"Betty, my wumman," says I, "there maun be something no canny in this, for there's the doctor's line lyin there as he left it."

I wish ye haed seen Betty's face as she leuked at that bit paper. She leuked at me, she leuked at the bottle, an then she leuked at the paper again, but that wis a' she said.

"Whitna paper did ye tak, Betty; whaur did ye get it?"

"I canna mind the noo," says Betty, scartin her heid. "Let me see! Oh, ay! I lifted it aff the leukin-gless here. I thocht the doctor laid it there when he taen up his hat."

"Guid goblets!" I cried, "ye hae taen awa a poetical effusion I wrote for a chap doon the toon on the daith o a cock canary! That's whit ye hae got in the bottle! Hoo did the druggist leuk when ye haunit him the paper?"

"He juist leuked as uisual, an said it wis a nice nicht, an if the weather kept up it wadna be sae bad, an then he went an got a bottle, put a wee tait o this in it, an a wee tait a' that in it, till he haed it fou; then he wrote the directions, stuck them on, an said, 'twa-an-six, please.' That's a' that I ken aboot it; but, o course, I'll gang back wi it."

"O course, ye will; an tell him juist to poor his wee taits back again till the bottle's empty, an then fill it up wi whit's on the doctor's line, an ask him to sen back my poetry."

She did sae, an frae her accoont the chap wis kind o grumphie, an didna say it wis "a nice nicht" that time.

I'm improvin, but as I hae some o my bottle to tak yet, the danger's no a' ower.

THE PATRIOT

THE Year a' Jubilee wis an awfu year o speech-makkin; but as a Scotchman I think--an I believe I'm richt--that no a single spoot gien bi onybody coud haud the caunle to the speech made bi Lord Bute when he unveiled the statue o Sir William Wallace at Stirlin. A lot a' folk haed been threepin doon oor throats that we were awfu loyal whether we thocht it or no, but the Marquis telt his countrymen something they ken, an that is--that we're a' Scotchmen yet. An I for ane like to be telt what I ken, if it's onything nice.

At yae pairt the Marquis said--"I hope that Wallace was deid before the hert was plucked frae his breest bi the common hangman, the hert that haed been quickened bi the excitement o victory at Stirlin, an that haed contracted wi anguish at Fawkirk, the hert thats sel-sacrificin love--embracin a' the unkent Scotland o the future--leuked to us an to oor children."

When I haed read that length I haed a lump in my throat an a teir in my ee, sae I coud sit still nae langer, but I on wi my bannet, stappit awa doon to Tam's, an said to a wheen auld codgers there, "What will ye hae, my chiels?--gie it a name, for I'm mair prood o bein a Scotchman the nicht, than I hae been since last I heard the Professor, brither Blackie."

The next mornin I haed a heid on me like a fifty-shillin pat, an while Betty was steerin up a Seidlitz pouther for me to tak, says she--

"Ye ocht to be ashamed o yersel, Airchie Macnab, the wey ye were cairyin on last nicht doon the toon, ca'in the English sic names as nae Christian shoud ca' anither, an takin the name a' the Lord Bute in vain."

"Me tak his name in vain! Na, na, Betty, ye maun be mistaen, or somebody haes been tellin ye what's no true."

"I heard ye wi my ain ears cryin at the pitch o yer voice, 'the Marquis for ever!' 'hurrah for auld Scotland!' It wis disgracefu!--that's whit it wis."

"It wis nae herm, my lassock," says I, "wid ye hae us gie up a' sentiment an patriotic feelin? It wis the Scotchman in me assertin himsel."

"It wis the whisky in ye, ye mean. I wish to guidness ye wid be a wee thing mair respectable, Airchie Macnab, an less o the Scotchman, if to be sae ye need to get fou. If ye wid only hae as muckle sentiment in ye as mak ye join the teetotal."

"Betty," says I, "I'm ashamed o ye. The bluid o the Mackenzies that flows in yer veins maun hae got unco wattery, when ye can staun' there an speak to me, a Macnab, as if we were at a mithers' meetin. Shade o my ancestors! fancy yer progeny bein a teetotaler! Betty, my wumman, ye're nae Scotchman!

"If yer ancestors, as ye ca' them, haed sic a haunlin wi ye as I hae, when ye're on the ran-dan, they'd mibbie feel as muckle ashamed o ye as I dae; they wid be apt to gie their progeny a guid scuddin if he brak in upon their sleep every twa-three meenits wi yellin oot at the pitch a' his voice, 'rush on, ye Scots, renew yer deeds an show yer latest bravery.' Onybody that gaed by the hoose last nicht wid think it wis a lunatic asylum, or a penny play-hoose. I'll warn ye, the Elder'll hear aboot it, an then there'll be a fine how-d'ye-dae."

"The Elder! whit dae I care for him? He wisna aye sae circumspect an sae douce. I've seen the day when I wadna hae needed to chase him wi a gless o--"

"Oh! let byganes be byganes! He admits himsel that he wis juist a brand plucked frae the burnin."

"Weel, there ye are! A brand plucked frae the burnin. Naebody can ca' me that onywey, bad an a' as I am."

"Oh, Airchie Macnab! ye're worse than the heathen in yer blinndness. My fegs, if the Marquis hears a' yer ca'in him a brither Scot, he'll hae ye banished to the Drucken Island."

"Will he? Nae fears a' him! I've a guid min' to gang doon an ca' an his Lordship some o thae days at the big hoose, an thank him in person for his invaluable wirds."

"Aye, an get flung oot on yer hunkers for yer presumption," says Betty, wi ane o yon tantalisin turns up o the nose that the weemen gie when they think they hae the whiphaun in an airgument, "he wid hae ye chased aff the grun's in a jiffy."

"Nae fears a' him, he's no sic a hauty-tautie! An if I hear onybody sayin a single wird again' him, be it on the mountain side, or yet within the glen, stan' he in sodgers' claes alane, or backed bi polissmen, I'll draw my nieve an smash his impident face a' ower the premises. This I swear to dae, sae help me--"

"Here, tak it when it's fizzin" says Betty, an wi that she rammed the tumbler up again' my teeth, syne I swallowed every thing, even the grun's, an afore I wis duin riftin, Betty wis awa ben the wee room, makkin the bed, an letherin the bowsters, in a fashion that said as plain as plain coud be, "I hae nae time to be fashed ony mair the noo!"

The Marquis said in his speech that the English canna be we, nor yet can we be they. Thanks, thanks to thee, my noble freen'. That ashuirance is muckle needed. When I leuk roon' me in this sae cauld nineteenth century, an see an hear men that bears the names o the clans gabblin awa as if they haed been brocht up within sicht o the Seeven Dials, London, it mak's my teeth crunch an my bluid bile. Wallace! Bruce! an Burns! Think o Scotchmen bein pooh-poohed oot o their nationality, an weep. We fear nae prood Edward's approach. Still, a wheen Neddies wid hae us transmugrified into something they ca' Britons. Britons an blethers! it's Scotchmen we are an will be, tho "crouns an coronets be rent."

To the Marquis o Bute an a' leal Scotchmen, at hame an in lodgins, here's Pluck. Hech, that's gran'! I hope Betty disna smell onything.

FRAE THE PEW

A SERMON.

I DINNA ken if onybody ever risked their eternal welfare, as I'm noo aboot to risk mine; but, if I shoud be cut aff for the sin o presumption, I'm weel prepared for the inevitable, bein, as I am, in three different funeral societies. As I address the poupit, I expect some to haud up their haun's in pious indignation an weel-feigned horror, sayin, "He'll dee withoot instruction; an in the greatness o his folly, he'll gang astray." To these I wid say, "Ca' cannie, my freens; dinna think that I'm thinkin as ye're thinkin; dinna expect that I'm gaun to cry on the hoose-taps the things that ye whisper in the lug. Catch me!"

I never saw the man yet, be he e'er sae big a gommeral as needit a shae-horn to pit on his hat, but whit thocht he coud put his minister up to a thing or twa. Folk thats opeenion wadna be asked aboot a coo or a cauf, a horse or a cuddy, blether awa aboot ministers an sermons as if they were something for aetin. "He's awfu dreich." "He's ower evangelical for me." "That's no a very weel prepared sermon onywey. "He reads awfu close." "I hae heard him at that yin afore." "He mey be a guid man, but he's no a bonnie yin." "I wonner if he's mairied." These expressions o opeenion constitute the clang an clamour o a kirk skailin, an are the feast o reason an the flow o saul that gies the Sunday denner sic a relish in mony a hoose in this Christian country.

A minister wid hae an awfu puir chance to get alang at a' if everybody wis allou'd to get up, an, as they think, correct him. It wid be like a stair-heid fecht. But still whit a haunlin he whiles gets ahint his back. Afore he haes hung up his goon in the vestry press, his grammar an diction is bein discussed by the wayside, an while his wirds are bein sifted an spreid oot, the guid seed dances awa on the wings o forgetfuness. But love's labour is never lost, an mony a thing the minister says oot a' the Bible, that he disna think muckle o--because he didna mak it himsel--sticks to the ribs o his hearers an keeps them frae becomin, a'thegither, dry banes.

Some fowk'll be sayin, "Noo, Airchie, let us see ye gien the ministers a proper steer up. Walk intae them. Tell them to practice as they preach." To they fowk I hae to say, "Haud on, my unsophisticated innocents, ca' canny awee." Dinna think Airchie Macnab's gaun to mak a Ba'lam's Cuddy o himsel to please ye or ony ither body. I beg to state, in classic terms, that I'm no sae green as I'm cabbage leukin. Practice as they preach! Na! na! nane o that! I ken ministers thats lives are exemplary, thats walk an conversation is a' that coud be leuked for in mortal man, an thats preachin is--weel accordin to their stipen's--an that's puir eneuch in a' conscience. "Practice as ye preach" is guid advice to a quack doctor, but no to a minister. An then, forby, hoo coud I expect--in fact, hoo coud onybody expect--guid o ony kind oot o him that haed reached his ain standard o perfection? There's mysel, noo, a man that naebody durst pynt the finger o scorn at, I, even I, haes notions o morality, that--like oor waddin cheenae--is never brocht oot except for strangers. Na! na! my freens, dinna let oor minister be to us, nor in oor thochts, the personification o hiecher things, for the last gowden cauf wis a mistak.

To the ministers themsels I needna apologise, for I'm juist gaun to gie whit I like to get--an that is a wird or twa o encouragement an caution, an the man that can afford to dae withoot that, is juist as independent as fules generally are.

Frae I wis nae hiecher than the beuk-board, I hae gaed Sunday efter Sunday, wat, dry, an snawin, to the kirk, an sittin in ablo the gallery, listened wi a' my pith to thoosands o sermons frae the poupit, an it wid be gey funny, if, when at this late oor, I shoud try to say a wird frae the pew, my action shoud be thocht sacreligious.

O course there mey be, here an there in this warl' o varieties, a minister that's sae far abuin his simple fellow mortals as to be quite independent o their flattery, bein able to dae even that for himsel. To him I hae naethin to say. To him I wadna as muckle as lift up my een. He is a law unto himsel, an