“‘A dram!’ says I; ’preserve us! is there ony ill in a dram?—­that’s the last thing that I wad hae thought about.’

“‘Ask the broken-hearted wife,’ says she, ’if there be ony ill in a dram—­ask the starving family—­ask the jailer and the gravedigger—­ask the doctor and the minister o’ religion—­ask where ye see roups o’ furniture at the cross, or the auctioneer’s flag wavin’ frae the window—­ask a deathbed—­ask eternity, David Stuart, and they will tell ye if there be ony ill in a dram.’

“‘I hope, ma’am,’ says I,—­and I was a guid deal nettled,—­’I hope, ma’am, ye dinna tak’ me to be a drunkard.  I can declare freely, that unless maybe at a time by chance (and the best o’ us will mak’ a slip now and then), I never tak’ aboon twa or three glasses at a time.  Indeed, three’s just my set.  I aye say to my cronies, there is nae luck till the second tumbler, and nae peace after the fourth.  So ye perceive, there’s not the smallest danger o’ me.’

“‘Ah, but, David,’ replied she, ’there is danger.  Habits grow stronger, nature weaker, and resolution offers less and less resistance; and ye may come to make four, five, or six glasses your set; and frae that to a bottle—­your grave—­and my bairn a broken-hearted widow.’

“‘Really, ma’am,’ says I, ye talked very sensibly before, but ye are awa wi’ the harrows now—­quite unreasonable a’thegither.  However, to satisfy ye upon that score, I’ll mak’ a vow this very moment, that, except’——­

“‘Mak’ nae rash vows,’ says she; ’for a breath mak’s them, and less than a breath unmak’s them.  But mind that, while ye wad be comfortable wi’ your cronies, my bairn wad be frettin’ her lane; and though she might say naething when ye cam hame, that wadna be the way to wear her love round your neck like a chain of gold; but, night after night, it wad break away link by link, till the whole was lost; and if ye didna hate, ye wad soon find ye were disagreeable to each other.  Nae true woman will condescend to love ony man lang, wha can find society he prefers to hers in an alehouse.  I dinna mean to say that ye should never enter a company; but dinna mak’ a practice o’t.’

“Weel, the wedding morning cam, and I really thocht it was a great blessin’ folk hadna to be married every day.  My neckcloth wadna tie as it used to tie, and but that I wadna swear at onybody on the day o’ my marriage, I’m sure I wad hae wished some ill wish on the fingers o’ the laundress.  She had starched the muslins!—­a circumstance, I am perfectly certain, unheard of in the memory o’ man, and a thing which my mother ne’er did.  It was stiff, crumpled, and clumsy.  I vowed it was insupportable.  It was within half an hour o’ the time o’ gaun to the chapel.  I had tried a ‘rose-knot,’ a ‘witch-knot,’ a ’chaise-driver’s knot,’ and a ‘running-knot,’ wi’ every kind o’ knot that fingers could twist the neckcloth into, but the confounded starch made every ane look waur than anither.  Three neckcloths I had rendered