Chapter II: Part 2

The meeting broke up about one in the morning, and as I was putting on my topcoat I observed some waiters busy arranging tumblers, &c., in the next room, and wondered what meeting there could be at that hour. It was ourselves! A new chairman and croupier were elected, and we began again. I don't know when this meeting broke up, for my watch had stopped. It was a dark night, or morning rather, when Stewart and I set out for home; and I should think we would be about half-way when I grew very eloquent in praise of Burns, and I had just finished what I thought a grand quotation, and was waiting for Stewart's approbation, when I discovered I had lost him. This caused me the greatest concern, for I thought he had taken what some people would call "just plenty," and others "too much." So I immediately sat down to look for him. I felt a little overcome; and though the grass was damp and there was a cold wind whistling through the hedge, I must have waited a considerable time without finding Stewart. So I determined to go without him. I had gone about a mile, I should imagine, and was thinking I must be near home, when I heard in the distance a glee-party singing "We are na fou." As we approached I heard the rumble of a trap, which turned out to contain some of the party who had been detained by a second adjournment. They recognised me in passing by the light of their lamps, and pulled up, asking where I was going. I said, "To Brewlands," the name of Stewart's place. I think they laughed, and told me I was going the wrong way, and that if I had gone a little farther I would soon have been at the hotel. I did not want them to know I was not aware of where I was going, and explained I was looking for "Brewlands," the name Stewart usually gets, as farmers are generally called by the name of their farm.

"Jump in," they said, "there's nae fear o' him; he can aye find his way hame. We'll tak' ye up an' see if he has onything in the bottle."

They were right. When we arrived at the farm we saw a light in the dining-room, and Stewart, evidently hearing the sound of the wheels on the gravel, came out, and when he found I was one of the company he said, "Whaur hev ye been? Man, I was jist comin' oot to look for ye. I didna miss ye till I was near hame, an' I thocht I wad jist gang in for a lantern."

He had evidently not had time to get the lantern, but I noticed he had found time to take a dram, as the bottle was on the table, and a tumbler with what appeared to be whisky and water in it.

Stewart's version of the affair was quite different from mine. He explained to the party that he was reciting some o' Robbie's fine bits to me when he became aware that he wasn't, for I was not there. "An' noo I think on't," he said, "I fancy I dae mind o' a sound like you sittin' doon suddenly on the roadside."

Feeling rather cold I thought I would be the better of a little spirits, and being overcome I fell asleep in the arm-chair, while Stewart and his companions began another adjournment. I must have been completely worn-out with fatigue, for I don't remember getting to bed.

Breakfast was considerably later than usual next morning, and Mrs. Stewart asked when we got home. I did not know what to say, but Stewart did. He said, "It would be efter twelve, wouldn't it?" as if we were not sure. I said in the most doubtful tone I could raise, "I daresay it would."

I think there must be some truth in the proverb that there is a special providence for children and a certain class of men, for Stewart was quite fresh in spite of his exposure the previous night; and if not to this cause, to the mildness of the season must be ascribed his immunity from influenza.

JOHNNIE GIBB'S FUNERAL

"Are ye in, Mrs. Broon?"

"Ay, come awa' in, Mrs. Mitchell."

"Eh no, I mannie come in," says Mrs. Mitchell, coming in all the time, "for I've jist left my tatties on the fire, an' whaur there's bairns, ye ken, yin's aye feared."

"Ay, that's true. I'm jist washin' some peenies, for I declare when ye hev a family ye need never sit doon."

"Ay, that's true. I dinna ken hoo some women aye manage to be at their doors or in their neebors' hooses, for I can tell ye I never devauld fae workin' fae mornin' to nicht; but I was jist thro win' oot some dirty water the noo, an' I see they're getherin' for Johnnie Gibb's funeral, puir man."

"Ay! it's an awfu' thing that sudden death."

"Eh, haud yer tongue, it is that; it's enough to kill a horse."

"Ay, bit there's nae use tryin' to gang against Providence."

"Eh no, especially wi' some o' they new-fashioned troubles."

"Ay! but it'll mak' an awfu' difference in that hoose, for Mrs. Gibb's a wumman o' this kind,--an' mind I'm no sayin' onything against the wumman aither, for she's a guid enough wumman maybe, but yin canna keep their een shut a'thegither an' no see that Johnnie wusna attended to as he micht a' been."

"Ay, that's true; as I often say to my man, 'Hoo wud ye like to hae yer ain tea to mak' efter comin' in fae a hard day's wark?' I'm share my man wudna dae't, an' I wudna ask um; but it disna look weel to see a man plouterin' aboot an' dain' women's wark; an' we've heard o' sic things,--atween you an' me, an' it's no gaun ony farrer,--we've heard o' sic things as gettin' a gill fae the grocer, an' tellin' um to mark it doon, 'Bread, sixpence.'"

"Ay, Johnnie was a simple man, an' we shouldna say onything against the corp ahint his back that we couldna say to his face; an' if he could dae ye a guid turn, ye had jist to ask it. I'm share it's no a fortnicht sin' my man was plantin' tatties in the back gairden, an' Johnnie lookit ower the hedge, an' he never said onything but jist 'Try they,' an' he put six Dalmahoy earlies in my man's hand. Ay! it's a lesson to us a'; as I aye say, If ye havena a guid word to say o' onybody, 'od sake haud yer tongue,--there they're comin'! Wha's that young man in the front?--that's no their auldest son Jamie, is't? It's jist him; ay, my Alec telt me he met um comin' ower fae the station this mornin' tryin' to talk English, an' him naething but in a draper's shop. Says he, 'I could hardly get away this morning, we're so thrang in our estaiblishment.' Ay, there's nae fear o' him talkin' shop; an' see what a graund hat he's got, an nae weepers on't, an' him the corp's son; an' black kid gloves tae, instead o' white cotton yins; an' see what a grand coffin they've got tae,--they mun get it oot o' Edinburgh, as if Wull Binnie couldna mak' them a guid enough yin. I can tell ye, the yin he made to me when my grandfaither deid was as guid a coffin as a man need pit on his back, a' covered ower wi' big brass-heided nails like a jail door; an' she's gaun to gie them a graund denner tae when they come back, mair like a mairrage than a funeral. She was ower to me for the len' o' hauf-a-dizzen knives an' forks an' as mony spoons, an' a' among the neebors tae for a cruet-stand; dash't, d'ye ken, when she cam' to me I didna ken what she meant, so I says, 'Eh I'm rale sorry, but I doot mines is ower sair torn.'

"'A cruet-stand,' says she, 'for haudin' mustard an' catshup, ye ken."

"'Oh! a cruet-stand,' says I, pretendin' I hadna heard her; 'eh no, I never had onything that way bit a pepper-an'-saut dish.'--Hev ye seen her new murnin' goon an' weedy's kep?"

"That wad be the bundle Jamie brocht oot ablow his oxter; I was wonderin' what it was. Weel, I'm share she micht a' gien Maggie Simpson the job to mak' it; though maybe Maggie's better athoot it, an' couldna wait lang enough for her siller. I declare there she's comin' ower to show aff her graund new frock.--Come awa' in, Mrs. Gibb; we wus jist sayin' hoo sorry oo wus for ye, an' what a consolation it wud be to ye to see sic a wiselike turn-oot at the funeral."

"Ay! it's a sad day for me. Hoo d'ye like my frock? Jamie brocht it oot; rale mindfu' o' um, wasn't it?"

"Eh ay, it jist looks as if it had been made for ye; it's easy seen it's no Maggie Simpson's dain'. I'm share it's just spoilin' guid cloth to gie her a goon to mak'."

"I've jist come in to see if ye wad len' me yer tureen for the soup."

"Oh ay; John keeps his nails an' things in't, but I'll gie't a bit dicht oot for ye."

So away went Mrs. Gibb, saying to herself, "Haverin' bodies! nae doot they've been speakin' aboot me."

And Mrs. Mitchell said, "I mun awa' tae for I've jist left my tatties on the fire; that's the warst o' gaun to Mrs. Broon's hoose,--there's nae gettin' oot o't."

And Mrs. Brown said to herself, "Thank guidness, that's Mrs. Mitchell awa' at last; there that graith cauld. I thocht I'd never see her back,--bletherin' besom."

SPRING CLEANING

"Now spring returns, but not to me return
The vernal joys."

I wonder if the poet's wife had an attack of cleaning fever when he composed the above sentiment; if so, I can feel with him, as no doubt most householders can at present. I thought our house was in first-rate order, but my wife said I knew perfectly well it was in a filthy state, and that most of the rooms required papering. It seems she had called on a neighbour, and found the house handed over to the painters. So, not to be outdone in this respect, she went straight to the landlord and wrestled with him, as did Jacob of old, the blessing going the length of papering the drawing-room and lobby. I knew nothing of this till yesterday morning, when I heard whistling, which I rightly judged to be too good to emanate from our domestic. It was the painters; they make themselves at home wherever they go. On emerging into the lobby, I found it heaped up with furniture, and to get to the bathroom I had to traverse three sides of a square. I enjoy my morning ablution, especially at this season, and was consequently annoyed to find the bath heaped up with pictures, &c.; in fact, every part of the house seemed crowded with furniture.

After dressing, I thought I would look into the drawing-room to see what was being done, but on approaching the door I heard "three," "pass three," and looking through the keyhole I saw the painters sitting astride a plank playing "nap." I turned the handle, but found the door was barricaded by a pair of steps being placed against it, another pair, connected with a plank, being at the far side of the room. I shouted through the door that it was "all right," and went away to get breakfast, but found the dining-room empty, with the exception of the girl, who said, "If ye please, yer to take yer breakfast in yer ain room." She had a strange get-up. Her head was in the Arabian style, wound up in a red handkerchief, and her apron was made out of a sack with an announcement on it about somebody's dog biscuits. Breakfast was set on a little gipsy table, and I had hardly got started when I noticed the _Scotsman_; and, wishing to see what number had visited the Exhibition and how the voting had gone in the Assembly, I half rose to reach for the paper, when my knee caught the table and landed the contents on the floor. I tried to explain how easily a three-legged table was upset, but my wife said she had told me often not to read at breakfast. She could never get a word out of me when I got a paper in my hand.

I had to get out of the house sideways, by a step known in military tactics as "right close," wedging myself past piles of chairs dressed in white pinafores trimmed with red braid. I did not think the house could have held so much furniture; it looked like an auctioneer's store-room.

On returning to dinner I was told there was not much, as there had been little time to cook. The gipsy table was again in requisition; but as it was too small to hold the various items, a couple of chairs were used as sideboards. When we were at dessert the girl entered and said, "Gif ye please, the wumman says she aye gets a little speerits."

"What woman says that?" I asked.

"It's the widow, dear, who is washing the floors," my wife explained.

It seems strange that it is always widows who do that sort of work, and strange that they and ministers always call a glass of whisky "a little spirits." I suppose it does not sound so bad, though it sounds ungrammatical. One would think it should be "a little spirit," though perhaps that is ambiguous; but those who call soup or porridge "them" might as well say "a few spirits," though perhaps that expression is misleading too, and might turn the thoughts to those who entered the herd of swine.

After dinner I was shown a book of patterns for wall-paper. "This is what I was thinking of for the drawing-room," said my wife, showing me one with an elaborate design; "or this," a much quieter pattern. I said I preferred the quiet one, but was told the other was more expensive, and the landlord was to pay for it, which seemed unanswerable logic from a woman's point of view. As we could not come to an agreement about it, we voted; but as the votes were equal--one on each side--my wife threw in her casting vote in favour of the expensive pattern.

I can't help feeling that I am worse than useless in the house at present. I am positively in the way,--something to be tolerated, which is rather humiliating for one who should be the head of the house; and, what makes matters worse, my wife and the girl are extra friendly, and talk over their plans, completely ignoring me, unless it is to ask me to balance myself on the chimney-piece and hand down a large picture. What a fine time of it landlords would have if men were masters of their own houses! I used to do all that was required for the house at my own expense when I was a bachelor, though I don't remember doing anything.

There is a fearful smell in the house just now, and my wife is astonished that I do not like it. It smells to me like the stuff I use for rheumatism; it is furniture polish, and women seem to revel in it. Sometimes the aroma is changed to ammonia or spirit of salt; but the blends are all sickening to me, and it permeates the house to such an extent as to make everything one eats seem flavoured with it. I am quite lame with bruising my legs on fenders, &c., which stick out in all unexpected places; and as I couldn't get a comfortable seat in the house I sauntered along to the club, where I met Watson, and was narrating my troubles to him, when he said, "Oh, man, they're all the same just now,"--meaning women. "I'll tell you what," he continued confidentially; "what do you say to a few days fishing?" I thought it a first-rate idea, but did not know what my wife would say, as the last time I went with Watson I stupidly left the hotel bill in my pocket; but my wife didn't, and told me I should be ashamed, as there was more for beer and whisky than for our food, and she could have got a bonnet or something with half of what I had, what she termed, "thrown away on drink." I told Watson I would see--with the mental reservation, my wife--and let him know in the morning. Watson seemed to be reading my thoughts, for he said, "They'll be glad to get rid of you at home."

I did not think my wife would have cared to let me go again with Watson, for she thinks he makes me drink more than I otherwise would, and I know Watson's wife thinks I lead her husband astray in the same manner; but to my surprise there was no objection offered. On the contrary, I was told that I would be the better of a rest. I may be wrong, but I felt that it was said in a tone which implied, "Thank goodness, we'll get rid of him, and then we won't have to bother about dinner." At any rate we're both pleased, and there will be two happy husbands enjoying fresh air, and two insanely happy wives revelling in turpentine and bathbrick to-morrow.

Watson gave me a tip which I must not forget: he said, "Mind, when you go home, to take notice of the great improvements, though you won't see any difference." And another thing I must mind, is to burn the hotel bill.

A MARRIAGE

It is strange, that with all the facilities for marriage of recent years the young man of the period is getting more difficult to tempt. He can get married for half-a-crown, but he can hardly be induced to get married for anything. Up till last generation a marriage in a family meant a dancing and rejoicing till long past the small hours,--it is now compressed into a sort of five-o'clock tea; and one can have sympathy for the old man who said, "I dinna care for yer new-fangled mairrages. Gie me an auld Scotch funeral." One of this sort told me on his return that I had made a great mistake in not going. "It's the best funeral I've been at this lang time,--as much as ye could pit yer haun' tae." The village grocer had died, and I, as a summer visitor, had been invited.

I do not, as a rule, care for being present at either ceremony, but had accepted an invitation to a marriage the other day; and as I am not famous for punctuality, various friends wrote reminding me that the hour was 2.30 sharp, so I determined to surprise them by being in time, allowing myself half an hour to go from Haymarket Station to Newington. Happening to notice a train at the platform, I rushed downstairs without taking time to get a ticket in case I should miss it, and thinking it would be quicker and cheaper than a cab. I sat fully ten minutes beside two gentlemen, who seemed as impatient as myself, judging by the number of times they looked at their watches. "We'll never catch it," said one. I knew I would catch it if I stayed any longer, and asked a passing guard when the train was to start. "As soon as the signal's down," he said.

I had still about a quarter of an hour to spare, so I got out and took a car along Princes Street. The car was full, but that was no concern of the driver's. He stopped for every lady who hailed him; and after the conductor had explained to each one that the car was full, and that he was not going her way at any rate, and when she would get a car, and that she would know it was for Portobello by the name on the notice-board, we proceeded. By the time we got to Frederick Street my patience and time were about exhausted, and I now saw the folly of not walking, as I had originally intended.

I was despairing of being in time, but got a hansom, trusting to the ceremony being a little late, paying the driver on the way in order to save time, and the moment he drew up I hurried into the house.

I am rather absent-minded; and when the girl showed me to the room, I felt the driver had put me down at the wrong number. I had been too hurried to notice it, and had evidently come to a house where a funeral company had met. The girl had that "don't-make-a-noise" sort of air about her. She pointed, Quaker-like, to where I was to deposit my hat, and then opened the room door quietly. I entered on tip-toe, and was confirmed in my surmise. The company were standing round the room looking at the carpet. I noticed a vacant place, and took it, placing my hands at my back like the others, and helping to do the carpet-staring, all the time wondering what I should do. I should explain my mistake and retire, but I did not like to break the silence. My thoughts were broken by a friend coming over and shaking hands, and I was glad to recognise him, as I knew he was to be at the marriage too. "What are we to do?" I asked, hoping he would see a way out of the difficulty and the house. "You should shake hands with the hostess," he said, pointing at my back. I turned and saw a group of ladies, and was glad to find I was in the right house.

The bride was just expected in, hence the silence. She came in leaning on her father's arm, looking very pale, and trembling as if she was being led to execution; but her father did not seem to care much, and I noticed as he passed that his tie was creeping up the back of his head, but had been brought to a halt by his ears. I sympathised with him, as I often wear mine there. I envy men who are always tidy about the neck, and have bought every patent I have seen, but can't keep my ties in subjection. The bow of a dress-tie will not remain in the centre, but if I allow it to nestle under my ear it will remain there all right. The ladies tell me I should get a wife, but I shall try some more patents first. I have been asked by ladies several times since the marriage what the bride had on, and they seem annoyed that all I can remember is that she wore a large white bouquet. That tie occupied too much of my attention, with the maker's name on a label just over the bump of philo-progenitiveness.

The bridesmaids followed in the procession, and then the minister, with papers in his hand, like the warrant for execution. After the principal parties had got into position, the minister began in deep tones, "We are met on this solemn occasion" (all the company seemed to feel it, for they still looked at the carpet as if they had dropped a pin and could not be happy till they found it), and concluded by asking if any of the company objected to the marriage. There being no objections, he then asked the bride and bridegroom if they were willing to take each other as they stood, as if he didn't know that was why he was there. During the ceremony the bride was sobbing, and perhap she thought she wanted to back out of it. I don't understand what she was crying about, as I happen to know she had been looking forward to the marriage for two years. The couple, having assented to the marriage, were told to join hands; and here a slight hitch occurred which I have noticed before at marriages. The bride and bridegroom had on gloves, and both seemed too nervous to be able to take them off themselves, and had to get it done for them.

I thought it stupid of them wearing gloves indoors, and said so to the person next me; but he said, "They must wear gloves, because the groomsman and bridesmaid have to take them off." "But why?" I asked. "Just because it's always done," he replied in a tone which seemed conclusive.

I now remembered that the gentleman who shook hands with me on entering had on gloves, and I had asked him if he had a sore hand; and I now observed that all the guests wore gloves, and seemed uncomfortable in them, as if they did not fit about the joints, and that they appeared to be greatly relieved when the cake and wine were passed round and they could take them off. Everyone seemed to think they could now change their funereal face for a more natural one, and the bride was passed round to be kissed. She was quite bright now, though there were still two little diamond tears trembling on her eyelids.

The minister was asked to take a refreshment, but said "No; the bread I will take, but the wine I will not touch." I thought he might have had sense enough to know the difference between bride's cake and bread, and wondered if he refused the wine thinking it might be of the kind supplied at sacraments. As soon as the minister left, the company indulged in a general clatter. It must be nice to be a minister, and know you are awing the company with your presence. And yet I don't know: I believe I would as soon remain as I am, and receive the friendly slap on the shoulder, and hear the informal words, "Hullo! old man, what a' ye gonny have?"

The bridegroom replied briefly to his toast, as the brougham was waiting to take his bride and him to the station, and of course he managed to say "My wife and myself," as if it were an old affair; and the conclusion of the speech seemed to be the signal for the production of rice, which was poured liberally about them,--a barbarous joke, not possessing even the quality of originality.

One can imagine the couple in a railway carriage trying to look as if nothing had happened, and their discomfort on observing side looks, smiles, and whisperings from those on the opposite seat, who have noticed some rice which has trickled down his trousers to the floor. With guards and porters, I believe, subterfuge is useless: the new trunks, &c., tell too plainly, and they have to be liberally tipped.

The floor of the dining-room was covered with rice, and an idea occurred to me which might be taken up profitably. We see forms, &c., advertised for balls: why should not poulterers announce, "Hens supplied for marriages!" They would clean the carpet in a few minutes.

Human nature is a strange thing. A hearse, or a brougham with a slipper tied behind, will collect all the women in the neighbourhood, except the better-bred ones, who are peeping out from behind the curtains. A man takes no interest in either, but there will be a crowd from morning till night when a gas pipe or telegraph wire is being laid.

Well, each to his taste: Dress for the ladies, a drain for the men, the bride for the bridegroom, and may they be happy!

AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES WITH HINTS

No one of a philanthropic nature can think but with pity and sympathy of the mental sufferings of those who have toasts to propose or reply to. True, there are some who could not go home happy from a meeting unless they had aired their eloquence; but they are a small minority. Ministers are usually swift in getting on their feet, and slow to sit down; and though they have "the gift o' the gab," to some, if not all, it is an infliction--not less probably than to their brethren in the laity--to have to speak, as they know that something better will be expected of them. Talking with a country minister recently, he said:

"I was once at a Burns Dinner in Edinburgh, and when we were at the soup I got a note handed from the chair, saying I had been put down for a toast in place of some one who was absent. Well, sir, I laid down my spoon and never touched my dinner." (This was said in a tone of sad reflection.) "But," he added, brightening up, "I picked on two lines of quotation the chairman had left out, and I gave them twenty minutes of it,"--the cheery expression of his face showing that the lengthened speech was not given as revenge for the loss of a dinner, but with pride in his "gift."

There are "Practical Letter Writers" and books on Etiquette, but no one seems to be bold enough to publish a book of Speeches suitable for the many exigencies of those who "go out." The "Practical" or "Complete" Letter Writer usually was filled with such subjects as "To a Duchess on refusing an Invitation," or "From the Same to the Same," and has of course long since retired to a well-merited oblivion; but a "Practical" Speech Maker would be sure to go into many editions, and relieve many a sufferer from one of the chief miseries of civilisation. In the meantime, however, as we are now into "the season," a few hints may be found useful.

Be careful, then, not to pause after saying "Mr. Chairman," as, when it is followed by "and gentlemen," it might seem an invidious and undesirable distinction.

Begin by saying, "The toast which has been entrusted to me" or "put into my hands"--both expressions being classic--"is perhaps the most important on the list." This will command attention, especially from those who have to speak after you, as they naturally look on theirs as the most important; and though they may afterwards claim the distinction, you will have gained your object.

Should your name be on the toast-list, say you "could have wished the toast had been put into better hands," and pause to allow the company to say "No, no; not at all"; but should you be informed during the evening of the toast expected of you, say "I had no idea when I came into the room that I should be called upon to," &c. This is also classic, and affords an ample opportunity of showing your powers as an extempore speaker. Borrow a piece of paper and a pencil from your neighbour, and during dinner jot down a few ideas on the subject; and when you have said, "The toast which I have to propose," pause, then say, "is--ah--" then lift the card as if you had given the subject no thought, and could speak on any topic at a moment's notice, whereas in reality the menu is to hide your notes.

It would require a clever statistician to give an approximate idea of the number of times speakers will begin a sentence without seeing their way to the end, trying to conclude with, "And thanking you all, gentlemen, for the kind way my health has been proposed and received,--" only to find they are in a corner, with no way out except by saying, "Shall sit down," which is not a graceful finish. Some, no doubt, wriggle out by saying, "Can only thank you again,"--a tautological weakness.

In returning thanks, the speaker, after gaining a character for modesty by alluding to the "too flattering terms in which my health has been proposed," can trade on it by praising himself still further. No doubt, the conclusion of a speech is the difficult part, but it can be got rid of by thinking of a subject or person omitted, and saying, "I beg to propose a toast which should have been given earlier in the evening," and then handing the difficulty on to other shoulders.

If a speaker before you has made a joke which has taken well, repeat it, and get up a second laugh in your own favour, and the originator is flattered at being quoted, while you share the honours with him.

Should you be in the position of finding that your ideas have flown, or that they have not arrived, fix on the one who has made the best speech, and say he has anticipated you in everything you were about to observe. This will arouse sympathy for you under the trying circumstances, reflect credit on you as a speaker, and exonerate you from further remarks.

As your toast will probably be pretty well down the list, the company will not be difficult to please, or critical, so you need not let your nominative trouble you. I have often felt the deepest sympathy for the poor reporters who have to take home the tangled mass of some great man's speech and unravel it into grammatical order; and one is often astonished next morning to read an interesting speech extracted from chaos.

If some distinguished person--say, Sir Henry Irving--accepts an invitation to sup with a club, it will be the duty of the committee to see that a full toast-list is prepared, as, after the strong mental strain he has just come through, it will be a relief and a rest to him to have his mind diverted to such subjects as "The Provost and Magistrates of Edinburgh," "Our Educational Interests," "Our Mercantile Interests," "The Clergy," &c., and you can afterwards give your friends an idea of the splendid night you had by saying you "kept it up till three in the morning."

The one who has to propose "The Provost and Town Council" must allude to our beautiful, our own romantic and historic town, giving the Council all credit, and say that no one has the interest of our city more at heart than ----, whoever is to reply. He may have acted as if he had mistaken the Council Chambers for the House of Commons or a licensed grocer's back parlour; he may have been active in bringing Edinburgh into ridicule, so that, like the inhabitant of another town when from home, we feel we should say, "I belong to Edinburgh, but, as share's death, I couldna help it." Still, the classic expression must be used; and whoever replies will say with all the earnestness of an original expression, "There is no one who has the interest of the city of Edinburgh more at heart than I have," and thereby confirm the truth of your assertion.

If the phrase "Proudest moment of my life" is used, the speaker should try to get up a suitable expression, as it is sometimes said in such melancholy tones as would lead the audience to doubt the assertion, or give them a humble opinion of previous proud moments.

But if the proposing of or replying to a toast should destroy one's enjoyment of a dinner, how much more serious is it for the chairman, who has several toasts to propose; and yet if he has listened as he ought to have done to others in a similar position, the difficulties will diminish. He will remember that when the toast of "The Queen" was given, the chairman said, "I am sure there is no body of men more loyal than ----," whatever the company happened to be composed of. In giving "The Navy, Army, and Volunteers," the chairman always begins by saying, "With regard to."

"With regard to our Navy, you all know what our tars have done in the past; and though our wooden walls have been superseded by ironclads, still the same 'hearts of oak,'"--the rest of the sentence is immaterial, as it is always drowned in applause.

"With regard to our Army, you all know what our soldiers have done in the past." This, of course, is a repetition; still it is flattering to the company to give them the credit of being posted in our great battles. "And should the day ever come, though I hope it is far distant"--(pause for "Hear, hear")--"I am sure they will give a good account of themselves." Changing his tone of voice, he then says:

"With regard to our Volunteers, I have no doubt that, should the day ever come," &c. (see remarks on the Army).

Should your health be proposed in a strange town, you will make a hit by discovering some special reason for liking the place,--the best, of course, being that you were born there; and in this respect one of our eminent statesmen is a master,--he seems not only to have been born again, but several times. If no personal reason can be found, the speaker must fall back on some historical incident or person or thing, saying, "Of course we have all a warm side to a town so closely associated with Sir Walter Scott," or Burns or Wallace, as the case may be, though this only gives you a claim shared in by all Scotsmen, and is to be resorted to only when the personal element cannot be introduced.

A free and easy style of speech should be cultivated, and perhaps there is no better way of appearing at ease than by playing with a wine glass, a fruit knife, or the watch chain. If done successfully, the speech may seem to occupy a secondary position in your thoughts. To timid people it is especially useful, as, by bending the head down while drawing imaginary designs on the tablecloth, your remarks will not be heard, and mistakes will pass unobserved; and should there be an apparent dearth of subject in your toast, you can draw it out to the length you fancy desirable by introducing a story, _apropos_ if possible, or by encroaching on some of the other subjects. The speaker who follows may justly complain that you have taken the wind out of his sails, but you can leave him to raise the wind for himself.

Like Lady Jane in "The Mikado," the occupancy of the chair is an acquired taste, and many a one who has had to be pushed into the position has developed an abnormal love for making speeches.

Three winters ago one of this description presided at a curling-club dinner; and as he took up the toasts one by one, whispers went round the company that he was the very man to represent his ward in the Town Council. And he seemed to be of the same opinion, for after he had gone through the toast-list he toasted individually every one of the company who had been omitted, and, as a last resort, when they were used up, he had the landlord of the hotel brought in, and made an eloquent speech on the way the dinner had been served, making the beef and greens appear a royal banquet, and, as a proof of the landlord's worth, mentioned that he had known him for the last thirty years. The eloquence seems to have had the desired effect, if speech-making is a _sine quâ non_ for our Council, as he is now a Councillor.

It is no doubt extremely annoying to remember, after you have finished your toast, that you have forgotten the best part of it,--the joke you intended to crack, or the story you meant to tell,--and the only way to relieve your feelings in this case, and to ensure a good night's sleep, is to secure as many as you can in the cloak-room, and have an adjournment, where you can take an opportunity to let it off.

The number of times the foregoing classic expressions have been used will only be exceeded by the number of times they will be used; and by making free use of them no one need despair of occupying a chair in the Council Chambers, and going down honoured and respected by all who knew him.

"HOW D'YE DO?"

Everybody is apt to say of every cold he has, that it is "the worst I ever had"; but I think I can truthfully say that the one from which I am now suffering beats all its predecessors.

I am often told that I should be more careful of myself; but who would think of getting such a cold as I have, by simply saying to an old lady, "How d'ye do?" I had just returned from a month in the country, braced up, as I thought, for the coming winter; and now I am weaker and less fit for work than before I went away, and all through asking the simple question, which means nothing. The old Scotch manner of "Hoo are ye?" replied to by "Thank ye for speirin'; hoo are ye yersel'?" showed that our sensible forefathers knew the formality of the question, and did not consider it worth replying to. But that does not seem to be the opinion of my lady friend.

On the way home I made the acquaintance of a young Englishman, who said he intended spending a few days in Edinburgh before returning south; and when, on the Sunday morning, he said he should like to hear one of our celebrated divines, I offered to accompany him. And if my friend wished to get an idea of what a Scotch sermon was like, we could not have been more fortunate: the text was soon lost sight of, and the preacher warmed to his task. Taking it for granted that his apparently respectable congregation was of the worst possible order, he worked himself into a passion, telling his hearers of their fearful future, dealing out revenge in copious quantities, and ignoring anything like love, mercy, or even justice.

The heat of the sermon had worked me into a perspiration, and when on the way out my friend said, "Do you pay your ministers to insult you in that way?" I could not think of a reply, feeling he was looking down on us from a higher civilisation, and was glad of the excuse to say "How d'ye do?" to the old lady who had just caught my eye.

Mrs. Fraser is an Aberdonian, and, though she has been half a century in Edinburgh, she has lost none of her northern accent, much to the annoyance of her daughters.

"Oh, I'm nae weel at a'," she replied. "I'm nae sae young as I've been, an' I seem tae be a' breakin' up thegither."

"Oh, I'm very sorry," I said; "but I hope you'll soon be bet----"

"I'm fair lame wi' thae rheumatics i' the knee, an' I've tried a'thing I can think o'. I'm share, the siller I've spent on liniments an' medicines wad--I dinna ken what: an' jist thrown awa'. An' as for rubbin'----"

Before she could find a simile for the useless effects of rubbing, I said, "Well, I'll bid you good----"

"Ye micht as weel--I dinna ken what," she said, finding her suitable expression. "An' then, my back's aye troublin' me: it's an awfu' thing, that lumbagie; but ye'll ken naething aboot that; an' the doctors dinna seem tae be able tae dae me ony guid."

I took advantage of her coughing, to say "My friend is waiting on me, so I'll say----"

"Not a bit o' guid: hot flannels, an' ironin' an' I dinna ken what a'; an' ye micht jist as weel--I dinna ken what."

"Well, I'll not keep you standing in the cold," I said, as if I had been detaining her, though I was beginning to shiver after the hot time we had been treated to inside; but she did not seem to hear me, and continued:

"An' then I was three weeks nursin' Mr. Fraser. Ye wad see aboot it in the papers----"

"Yes, I was very sorry to----"

"Never had my claes aff, ye may say, for it was jist het watter an' laud'num cloths day an' nicht. 'Peritonitis' the doctors ca'd it, but I ken better: it was jist inflammation in 's inside, wi' a chill."

"In--deed!" I said, with as much sympathy of expression as I could throw into the word. "Well, I am afraid I'm keeping you in the cold, and my friend is----"

"Ay, he was jist worn awa' tae skin an' bane. I'm share he was an awfu'-like ticket; but I'm wonderfu', considering an' I have a lot tae be thankfu' for, after a'. Diabetes, an' indyspepsy, an' a' their fancy names! but it's naething mair nor less than indisgestion, an' bad enough it is at that."

I was now chilled through, and had been standing for ten minutes holding out my hand like a railway signal at the angle of "caution," ready to shake hands and get away. The crowd which had (as is usual on leaving church) blocked up the pavement for a considerable time, had all dispersed, and my friend was gesticulating wildly for me to "come on." He had whispered to me, in his Cockney style, when the sermon was finished, "A pint of beer will go down fizzing after that; that's a hot 'un, that is," and I knew he was now impatient to realise his wish. Still he was better off than I was; he was walking about to keep himself warm, while I was shivering beside one who forcibly brought to mind Outram's picture:

"But her! expose her onywhere,
She'll ca' for her annuity";

and I could not help admiring her constitution and indifference to temperature, though I should have been better content without proof of it. At last, getting desperate, I caught her hand and hurriedly said, "Good-bye."

"Well, good-bye," she said; "I'm rale gled tae see ye; an' hoo's yer mither?"

"Oh, she's quite well, thank you; good-bye."

"Good-bye; remember me tae her, an' be share an' tell her I was speirin' for her, an'----"

"Yes, thanks; I'll tell her; good-bye."

"Say I was jist thinkin' aboot her the ither day, an' sayin' tae Maggie I mun ca' sune."

"She'll be very pleased to see you, I'm sure," I said, edging away; and before she had time to reply, I lifted my hat and hurried off, and began to apologise to my friend; but he said, "It's all right, old man; I was sorry for you. I know the sort; but if you've any regard for your own health, you'll not ask after hers again on a cold day. I was smiling when I saw you make a grab at her hand; and when she kept a hold, and went on saying 'Good-bye,' I was afraid you were in for more of it. It reminded me of a quiet boy who once called on us; and when I asked him, 'How's your father?' he said, 'He's quite well, thank you.'

"'And your mother?'

"'She's quite well, thank you.'

"'And your uncle?'

"'He's quite well, thank you."

"'Big handsome fellow your uncle, isn't he?"

"'I haven't got an uncle.'

"I had mistaken the boy.--I say, by Jove, you're as white's a sheet; let's hurry to my hotel."

A week has now crept slowly by, and I have not been able to get warm. I shiver as if I had ague; and blankets and hot drinks seem useless. My eyes water when I try to read; and I pass the time studying the wall-paper. I seem to have got mesmerised with it,--discovering faces, figures, and animals among the flowers, only to lose them and search for them again. Wallpapers are diabolical affairs. It never struck me before how barbaric they are; though I remember of being afraid, when I was a little boy, to sit at the right of my grandfather's fire for an ugly demon with long yellow and white legs on the imitation marble mantelpiece. We may call ourselves Liberals, Radicals, or Conservatives, but we are all conservative by nature. The first fiend who designed a wall-paper made the roses run in diagonal lines, and all his successors have followed him in this respect without considering the reason.

Why should we have flowers on wall-paper? And if we must submit to flowers, why should they not be natural? Why should not the tired eye be able to rest when we are in bed? Simply because the first fiend who designed wall-papers fixed it on his conservative disciples; he evidently "had them bad" at the time, or was just recovering from a second or third attack, and it is a great pity he had not died under the first.

The flowers on my bedroom wall are evidently meant for chrysanthemums; but they are on a colossal scale, and afford every opportunity for one who has the leisure I have had this week of discovering a variety of subjects. There is the head of an old woman with a long nose; but I am annoyed when I look at her, as I want to get up and correct the drawing of her left eye, and, as there are hundreds of her round the room in every repetition of the pattern, I feel I would require a lot of paint. Then I turn away from her and look for the dancing negro, whom I only discovered on Thursday. He is difficult to find, as I am not so familiar with the place. The old woman keeps looking at me from every diamond; and I see the dog's head, with the ears formed by two leaves. But where is the negro? I think, "This is the wall-paper: where is the negro?" and "He won't be happy till he gets it." And when I do find it, my eyes are so tired that I look to the ceiling for a rest; but the negro floats on the ceiling,--only he is green instead of brown, and the old woman is purple. I shut my eyes, but they still float in changing colours. I am certain the first designer had _delirium tremens_.

"If I had the designing of wall-papers, I would make them different," I think; but perhaps I am like the gentleman who said, "Give me the making of a country's songs, and I don't care who makes its laws." He never wrote any songs, though no one had the contract.

Last spring the house-painter insisted on my selecting this paper as being from the latest book of patterns; but I had no idea of the mysterious and unsatisfactory figures it contained. One has to study it for a week to discover all there is in it, and there was not time then, or I might have said, "The woman's eyes are not the same size; the negro has one leg longer than the other; and the dog's nose is not at the right angle."

When I am able to get out of bed, I shall have paper of a simple tint put on, and I shall be careful to whom I say "How d'ye do?"

M'CRANKY'S BRACE OF GROUSE

The M'Crankys have had a few friends to dinner, but though the viands and wine were faultless, three of the four couples who sat down, left with the disagreeable feeling of being 'found out' in a little bit of pardonable deception.

M'Cranky had gone, as usual on the Twelfth, to his friend's shooting on the Lugate, only thinking of the pleasure of inhaling the invigorating air and the delightful sensation of hearing the birds fall with a thud. A shooting season makes one forget the drawbacks in the shape of climbing a hill, only to find that we have to go down the other side to climb another; then there are the interminable "hags," so easy to slide into and so difficult to climb out of, as one sinks over the boots in the wet peaty earth.

None of the party having M.P. at the end of his name, it was arranged that they should go out on the 11th and have a look over the ground; the weather did not look promising, but Gilfillan the keeper tried to inspire hope by saying that "it micht clear up by the morn," adding, as if to himself, "if the wind wad only change." Carts of provisions were arriving, and the white-washed house seemed to be preparing for a lengthened siege. The night was passed pleasantly, each one recalling the good shooting he had done last season.

"Do you remember the blackcock I brought down after you had fired at it, up by the shepherd's house? it was a long way out."

"Yes, but that gun of mine carries a long way. I killed a hare on the moor, dead on the spot, and paced it, eighty-two paces. Gilfillan saw it."

No one required to be called in the morning; and as each one got up, he went to the window to find a leaden sky and a drizzling rain, which looked as if it meant to stay a few days.

During breakfast there were many glances out of the window in the hope of seeing a clear streak of sky rising behind the hill, and when the repast was over and pipes lit, there was a general saunter round to the kennels to hear Gilfillan's opinion.