one of the town-council, who, it was known, hardly ever entered the door of a church, and now came on motives of curiosity.  He was talking very grand to some of the congregation:  “Upon my word, your minister is a very eloquent man.  Indeed, he will quite convert me.”  One of the elders, taking the word in a higher sense than the speaker intended, quietly replied, “Indeed, Bailie, there’s muckle need.”

A kind correspondent sends me an illustration of this quaint matter-of-fact view of a question as affecting the sentiments or the feelings.  He tells me he knew an old lady who was a stout large woman, and who with this state of body had many ailments, which she bore cheerfully and patiently.  When asked one day by a friend, “How she was keeping,” she replied, “Ou, just middling; there’s ower muckle o’ me to be a’ weel at ae time.”  No Englishwoman would have given such an answer.  The same class of character is very strongly marked in a story which was told by Mr. Thomas Constable, who has a keen appreciation of a good Scottish story, and tells it inimitably.  He used to visit an old lady who was much attenuated by long illness, and on going up stairs one tremendously hot afternoon, the daughter was driving away the flies, which were very troublesome, and was saying, “Thae flies will eat up a’ that remains o’ my puir mither.”  The old lady opened her eyes, and the last words she spoke were, “What’s left o’ me’s guid eneuch for them.”

The spirit of caution and wariness by which the Scottish character is supposed to be distinguished has given rise to many of these national anecdotes.

Certainly this cautious spirit thus pervaded the opinions of the Scottish architect who was called upon to erect a building in England upon the long-lease system, so common with Anglican proprietors, but quite new to our Scottish friend.  When he found the proposal was to build upon the tenure of 999 years, he quietly suggested, “Culd ye no mak it a thousand? 999 years’ll be slippin’ awa’.”

But of all the cautious and careful answers we ever heard of was one given by a carpenter to an old lady in Glasgow, for whom he was working, and the anecdote is well authenticated.  She had offered him a dram, and asked him whether he would have it then or wait till his work was done—­“Indeed, mem,” he said, “there’s been sic a power o’ sudden deaths lately that I’ll just tak it now.”  He would guard against contingency and secure his dram.

The following is a good specimen of the same humour:—­A minister had been preaching against covetousness and the love of money, and had frequently repeated how “love of money was the root of all evil” Two old bodies walking home from church—­one said, “An’ wasna the minister strang upo’ the money?” “Nae doubt,” said the other, rather hesitatingly; and added, “ay, but it’s grand to hae the wee bit siller in your haund when ye gang an errand.”