proudly, with my eye fixed on an imaginary
picture on the wall of the Royal Academy.

"Deed has it," replied the President; "so
you must nae paint Lincoln, or Devon, or
any of the counties, but only Grosvenor
Square and Park Lane, like Sir Thomas.
But in fack ye need ne mind what ye heint,
if ye can speak or get folk to speak for ye:
for fortunes are made in London mair by
the tongue than the paint-pot. Therefore I
say again, learn to converse in a Christian-like
voice, and no to screech like a reupen
owl."

I have a particularly delicate ear, and the
President's pronunciation fell on me like the
death-cries of a thousand pigs; but I was
conscious at the same time that my own was
as bad—nay, worse; for the tone was sharper,
and the words were more indistinct. And
yet, with a perception of this, with a taste for
music which would have made me a Paganini,
I could not alter a note or a syllable. A house
continued to be a " hooss," in spite of all I
could do; and the cattle in my landscape
were all "coos." Strange that I, who had
painted the Kippel Wood, could not avoid
calling it the Keeple Wud! While the
President spoke, I could have killed him
for his insulting unkindness; but on my
way home I determined to profit by what
he had said. I determined to banish all
Scotticism from words and grammar; and,
as I stalked past my two relations, who were
still in deep sorrow at my behaviour, I made
the first use of my undefiled English by telling
my aunt I despised her " hantiquated
hidears," and my mother that she was a
"habsurd old ooman."

I went up the creaky old stairs to make
preparations for my departure. A thought
struck me just before I left my bedroom
that old women must live, whether
they were absurd or not, and that
hantiquated hidears required support, whereupon
I took out my breastful of notes,
and left half of them on the table. I then
walked majestically through the kitchen, and
then the old ladies left off their crying for a
moment, and my mother said: " Are ye no
goin to say fareweel to yer auld mither?" I
was on the point of breaking down. I was
just in fact going to kiss her when she
unluckily called me by my name. It is a hideous
name, and all my indignation was roused. I
said, " What demon tempted you to call me
that? and above all, what made you marry
a man who was marked for infamy by the
patronymic of M'Craw ? Is Sir Jemmy
M'Craw a possible name for the President of
the R. A—? Mother! mother! you have
been the ruin of your son!"

I rushed forth into the night with my
portmanteau on my back, and my other
properties under my arm. Passing up
Glenlivet-street, I looked up to the
windows of number nine. There was a party
going on. I heard the piano, and fancied
for a moment how nice Miss Arabella
M'Clarty looked while she scattered her soft
touches upon the chords like a shower of rosebuds.
The tune was " Whistle and I'll come
to you, my lad." As I dare say, M'Clavers,
the advocate from Edinburgh, was there,
glancing at her with his toddy-oozing eyes;
and young Scoogle, the surgeon, inspecting
her clavicle and sternum with professional
admiration; and here was I, outside, loaded
with luggage, solitary, unknown, gazing up
to the lofty eminence of the first-floor window;
for the ground-floor was occupied by the office
of " Mr. Simon M'Clarty, Writer." Ha! ha!
play on! I shrieked (inaudibly, as people do
in books). The time will come when perhaps
I may whistle, and perhaps I mayn't; but if
I do, you, Miss Arabella M'Clarty, with your
fine airs and graces, will come to me at the
first note; but, after all, what are you to
Lady Edith Maltravers ? Go on, and tempt
the whistle of M'Clavers, the advocate, or
young Scoogle, the surgeon. You snobs! I
despise you all! With which magnanimous
declaration I took my place for Edinburgh;
and, in due time continued my journey by the
morning mail-train to London.

The mail-train to London I said, and in
all safety and punctuality it reached its
destination, but London I never attained. No;
though my ticket was paid for the whole
way, London I have never seen. Regent
Street, Bond Street, the National Gallery,
are all to me still undiscovered lands. A
great change took place in my mind and
fortunes, and this is how it occurred:

I got to Berwick in a pleasant day-dream
all the time, only interrupted by the attempted
conversation of some brutes in human form
who would not leave me to myself. One
ruffian, a guano-thoughted savage, who had
come down from Doncaster to the Agricultural
Show, seeing my easel and other
properties stowed away beneath my seat, had
the insolence to mistake me for a wandering
musician, and asked me to favour the
company wi' a play on the poipes. Another
scoundrel thought the parcel contained a
thimble-rig board, and asked to let him have
a touch for the pea. I didn't like to reply;
for my hideous Scottish accent glared me in
the face the farther I receded from my native
land, and I felt certain my indignant responses
would have been received with laughter. I
could have given my life to be gifted for five
minutes with a true English pronunciation,
that I might have said, " Vulgar wretches, I
look down on you with contempt. A gentleman
holds no controversy with such disgusting
snobs!" But too well I knew, if I had
ventured to give utterance to these lofty
words, the form they would have taken:—
"Vulgar ratches! I luck doon on ye wi'
contem. A gentleman does na' have any
controversy wi' sich disgustin' snoabs!" I
was therefore silent, because my tongue could
not obey the dictates of my mind. The fear