Friend Mac Donald - O'Rell Max

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the accentuated syllable of each word. What do I say? The syllable? He will often sound but the vowel of that syllable.

      Here is a specimen of Scotch conversation, given by Dr. Ramsay:

      A Scot, feeling the warp of a plaid hanging at a tailor's door, enquires:

      "Oo?" (Wool?)

      Shopkeeper—"Ay, oo." (Yes, wool.)

      Customer—"A' oo?" (All wool?)

      Shopkeeper—"Ay, a' oo." (Yes, all wool.)

      Customer—"A' ae oo?" (All one wool?)

      Shopkeeper—"Ay, a' ae oo." (Yes, all one wool.)

      These are two who will not have much to fear on the Day of Judgment—eh?"

      You may, perhaps, imagine that laconism could no further go.

      But you are mistaken; I have something better still to give you.

      Alfred Tennyson at one time often paid a visit to Thomas Carlyle at Chelsea.

      On one of those occasions, these two great men, having gone to Carlyle's library to have a quiet chat together, seated themselves one on each side of the fireplace, and lit their pipes.

      And there for two hours they sat, plunged in profound meditation, the silence being unbroken save for the little dry regular sound that the lips of the smokers made as they sent puffs of smoke soaring to the ceiling. Not one single word broke the silence.

      After two hours of this strange converse between two great souls that understood each other without speech, Tennyson rose to take leave of his host. Carlyle went with him to the door, and then, grasping his hand, uttered these words:

      "Eh, Alfred, we've had a grand nicht! Come back again soon."

      If Thomas Carlyle had lived at Hamadan, he would have been worthy to fill the first seat in the Silent Academy, the chief statute of which was, as you may remember, worded thus:

      "The Academicians must think much, write little, and speak as seldom as possible."

      Another Scot very worthy of a place in the Silent Academy was the late Christopher North.

      A professor of the Edinburgh University, having asked him for the hand of his daughter Jane, Christopher North fixed a small ticket to Miss Jane's chest, and announced his decision by thus presenting the young lady to the professor, who read with glad eyes:

      "With the Author's compliments."

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