lost his patience, and, anxious to get home, remonstrated with his master, “Ye’d better tak it, sir, for there’s nae waile[161] o’ wigs on Munrimmon Moor.”  The humour of the argument is exquisite, putting to the laird in his unreasonable objection the sly insinuation that in such a locality, if he did not take this wig, he was not likely to find another.  Then, what a rich expression, “waile o’ wigs.”  In English what is it?  “A choice of perukes;” which is nothing comparable to the “waile o’ wigs.”  I ought to mention also an amusing sequel to the story, viz. in what happened after the affair of the wig had been settled, and the laird had consented to return home.  When the whisky drove up to the door, Hairy, sitting in front, told the servant who came “to tak out the laird.”  No laird was to be seen; and it appeared that he had fallen out on the moor without Hairy observing it.  Of course, they went back, and, picking him up, brought him safe home.  A neighbouring laird having called a few days after, and having referred to the accident, Balnamoon quietly added, “Indeed, I maun hae a lume[162] that’ll haud in.”

The laird of Balnamoon was a truly eccentric character.  He joined with his drinking propensities a great zeal for the Episcopal church, the service of which he read to his own family with much solemnity and earnestness of manner.  Two gentlemen, one of them a stranger to the country, having called pretty early one Sunday morning, Balnamoon invited them to dinner, and as they accepted the invitation, they remained and joined in the forenoon devotional exercises conducted by Balnamoon himself.  The stranger was much impressed with the laird’s performance of the service, and during a walk which they took before dinner, mentioned to his friend how highly he esteemed the religious deportment of their host.  The gentleman said nothing, but smiled to himself at the scene which he anticipated was to follow.  After dinner, Balnamoon set himself, according to the custom of old hospitable Scottish hosts, to make his guests as drunk as possible.  The result was, that the party spent the evening in a riotous debauch, and were carried to bed by the servants at a late hour.  Next day, when they had taken leave and left the house, the gentleman who had introduced his friend asked him what he thought of their entertainer—­“Why, really,” he replied, with evident astonishment, “sic a speat o’ praying, and sic a speat o’ drinking, I never knew in the whole course o’ my life.”

Lady Dalhousie, mother, I mean, of the late distinguished Marquis of Dalhousie, used to tell a characteristic anecdote of her day.  But here, on mention of the name Christian, Countess of Dalhousie, may I pause a moment to recall the memory of one who was a very remarkable person.  She was for many years, to me and mine, a sincere, and true and valuable friend.  By an awful dispensation of God’s providence her death happened instantaneously under my