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qualities desirable in a customer: straight-forwardness and solvency.

      Donald's honesty is all the more admirable, because he is firmly convinced in his heart, that he will go straight to Paradise whatever he may do. You will confess that there is danger about a Christian who feels sure that many things shall be forgiven him.

      Perhaps his honesty may be the result of reflection, if the following little anecdote that was told me in Scotland is any criterion:

      A worthy father, feeling death at hand, sends for his son to hear his last counsels.

      "Donald," he says to him, "listen to the last words of your old father. If you want to get on in the world, be honest. Never forget that, in all business, honesty is the best policy. You may take my word for it, my son—I hae tried baith."

      This worthy Scot deserved an epitaph in the style of that one which the late Count Beust speaks of having seen on a tombstone at Highclere:

      "Here lies Donald, who was as honest a man as it is possible to be in this world."

      The Jews never got a footing in Scotland: they would have starved there.

      They came; but they saw … and gave it up.

      You may find one or two in Glasgow, but they are in partnership with Scotchmen, and do not form a band apart. They do not do much local business: they are exporters and importers.

      The Aberdonians tell of a Jew who once came to their city and set up in business; but it was not long before he packed up his traps and decamped from that centre of Scotch 'cuteness.

      "Why are you going?" they asked him. "Is it because there are no Jews in Aberdeen?"

      "Oh, no," he replied; "I am going because you are all Jews here."

      An American was so ill-inspired as to try his hand there where even a Jew had been beaten.

      The good folk of Aberdeen are very proud of telling the following anecdote, which dates from only a few months back, and was in everyone's mouth at the time of my visit to the city of granite:

      An American lecturer had signed an agreement with an Aberdonian, by which he undertook to go and lecture in Aberdeen for a fee of twenty pounds.

      Dazzled by the success of his lectures, which were drawing full houses in all parts of England, the American bethought himself that he might have made better terms with Donald. Acting on this idea, he soon sent him a telegram, running thus:

      "Enormous success. Invitations numerous. Cannot do Aberdeen for less than thirty pounds. Reply prepaid."

      The Scot was not born to be taken in.

      On the contrary.

      Donald, armed with the treaty in his pocket, goes calmly to the telegraph office and wires:

      "All right. Come on."

      Jonathan, encouraged by the success of this first venture, rubs his hands, and, two days later, sends a second telegram, as follows:

      "Invitations more and more numerous. Impossible to do Aberdeen for less than forty pounds."

      Donald thinks the thing very natural, and laughs in his sleeve. He bids the messenger wait, and without hesitation he scribbles:

      "All right. Come on."

      Jonathan doubtless rubbed his hands harder than ever, and might have been very surprised if he had been told that Donald was rubbing his too.

      However, he arrived in Aberdeen radiant, gave his lecture, and at the end was presented by Donald with a cheque for twenty pounds.

      "Twenty pounds—but it is forty pounds you owe me!"

      "You make a mistake," replied Donald, quietly: "here is our treaty, signed and registered."

      "But I sent you a telegram to tell you that I could not possibly come for less than forty pounds."

      "Quite so," replied Donald, unmoved.

      "And you answered—'All right. Come on.'"

      "That is true."

      "Well then?"

      "Well, my dear sir, it is all right: you have come—now, you may go."

      Like the crow in La Fontaine's fable, Jonathan registered a vow … but a little late.

      "Ah!" cried the Aberdonian who told me the story, "Jonathan will not go back to America to tell his compatriots that he took in a Scotchman." And his eyes gleamed with national pride as he added: "It was no harm to try."

      He considered the conduct of the American quite natural, it was clear.

      As for me, I thought that "All right—come on," a magnificent example of Scotch diplomacy and humour.

      Donald has a still cooler head than his neighbour John Bull, and that is saying a good deal. In business, in love even, he never loses his head. He is circumspect. He proceeds by insinuations, still oftener by negations, and that even in the most trifling matters. He does not commit himself: he doubts, he goes as far as to believe; but he will never push temerity so far as to be perfectly sure. Ask a Scotchman how he is. He will never reply that he is well, but that he is no bad ava.

      I heard a Scotchman tell the butler to fill his guests' glasses in the following words:

      "John, if you were to fill our glasses, we wadna be the waur for 't."

      Remark to a Highlander that the weather is very warm, and he will reply:

      "I don't doubt but it may be; but that's your opinion."

      This manner of expressing themselves in hints and negations must have greatly sharpened the wits of the Scotch.

      Here, for instance, is a delicious way of making a young girl understand that you love her, and wish to marry her. I borrow it from Dr. Ramsay's Reminiscences.

      Donald proposes to Mary a little walk.

      They go out, and in their ramble they pass through the churchyard.

      Pointing with his finger to one of the graves, this lover says:

      "My folk lie there, Mary; wad ye like to lie there?"

      Mary took the grave hint, says the Doctor, and became his wife, but does not yet lie there.

      Much in the same vein is an anecdote that was told me in an Edinburgh house one day at dessert:

      Jamie and Janet have long loved each other, but neither has spoken word to the other of this flame.

      At last Donald one day makes up his mind to break the ice.

      "Janet," he says, "it must be verra sad to lie on your death bed and hae no ane to houd your han' in your last moments?"

      "That is what I often say to mysel, Jamie. It must be a pleasant thing to feel that a frien's han' is there to close your ee when a' is ower."

      "Ay, ay, Janet; and that is what mak's me sometimes think o' marriage. After all, we war na made to live alone."

      "For my pairt, I am no thinkin' o' matrimony. But still, the thoucht of livin' wi' a mon that I could care for is no disagreeable to me," says Janet. "Unfortunately, I have not come across him yet."

      "I believe I hae met wi' the woman I loe," responds Jamie; "but I dinna ken whether she lo'es me."

      "Why dinna ye ask her, Jamie?"

      "Janet," says Jamie, without accompanying his words with the slightest chalorous movement, "wad ye be that woman I was speakin' of?"

      "If I died before you, Jamie, I wad like your han' to close my een."

      The engagement was completed with a kiss to seal the compact.

      The Scot, in his quality of a man of action, talks little; all the less,

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