AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF WILLIE SMITH.

If I thocht the world would tak the least interest in the matter, I wad tell it the where an' the when o' my birth, in conformity wi' auld use an' wont in the case o' biographical sketches; but, takin it for granted that the world cares as little about me as I care about it—an', Gude kens, that's little aneuch, thanks to the industry o' my faither, that made me independent o't!—I shall merely say, wi' regard to the particulars above alluded to, that I was born in a certain thrivin, populous bit touny in the south, an' that I am, at this present writin, somewhat aulder than I was yesterday. I dinna choose to be mair particular on the point, because I dinna see that my age has onything mair to do wi' my story, than the ages o' witnesses hae wi' their evidence. Bein born in the usual way, in the usual way was I christened—(Anglice, baptised); but hereon hangs a tale, or rather a dizzen o' them. My faither's name was Willie Smith, my paternal grandfather's name was Willie Smith, I had an uncle whase name was Willie Smith, an' twa cousins whase names were Willie Smith; an' it was determined that I should be a Willie Smith too, in order, I suppose, to mak sure o' perpetuatin that very rare an' euphonious family name. But, oh, that they had ca'ed me Nebuchadnezzar, or Fynmackowl, or Chrononhotonthologos, or ony name in the sma'est degree distinctive, an' no that confounded ane, that seems to me to belang to every third man I meet. It wad hae saved me a world o' misery, an' disappointment, an' suffering o' a' sorts. It's just incredible the mischief that simple circumstance has wrought me—I mean, the ca'in me Willie Smith. It may appear, I dare say, a harmless aneuch thing to you, guid reader, but, my feth, ca' ye yersel Willie Smith just for ae twelvemonth, an' ye'll find it's nae such joke as ye may think, especially if there be half-a-dizzen o' Willie Smiths leevin in the same street wi' ye; whilk is a' but certain to be the case, gang to where ye like. I ken I could never get oot o' their neighbourhood, an' mony a shift an' change I hae made for that express purpose. I maun confess, however, that the name's no a'thegither without its advantages. Mony a scrape I hae got skaithless oot o', when I was a boy, in consequence o' its frequency. In the first schule I was at, there war three Willie Smiths, besides me, an' it was thus almost impossible, in many cases, to ascertain which was the real delinquent when mischief had been perpetrated; an' the result was, that the wrang Willie Smith was as often punished as the right ane; but as I, of course, was frequently in the former predicament, I am no sure that, if the account were fairly balanced, I wad be found to hae been a great gainer after a'. Latterly, however, I certainly was not; for the maister, finding the difficulty o' distinguishing between the Smiths, an' that the course o' justice was thus interrupted, at last adopted the sure plan o' whippin a' the Willie Smiths thegither, whenever any one o' the unfortunate name was charged wi' ony transgression. We were thus incorporated, as it were, rolled into one, and dealt wi' accordingly, in a' cases o' punishment.

My schule days owre, I began the world in the capacity o' shopman to my faither, wha was a hosier to business, and carried on a sma', but canny trade in that line. He wasna to ca' wealthy, but he was in easy aneuch circumstances, an' had laid by a trifle, which was intended for me, his only son an' heir. I was now in my twentieth year, the heyday of youth; an', why should I hesitate to say it, a sensible, judicious, well-meanin, an' good-lookin lad, but (I hesitate to say this, though) wi' a great deal mair sentiment in my nature than was at a' necessary for a hosier. How I had come by it, Heaven knows; but so it was. I was fu' o' romance, an' fine feelin, an' a' that sort o' thing, an' wi' a heart most annoyingly susceptible o' the tender passion. It was just like tinder, as somebody has said—I think it was Burns—catched fire in an instant. For some time, however, as is the case with most youths, I dare say, my love was general, and was pretty equally divided amongst all the young and good-lookin o' the other sex whom I happened to see or meet wi'; but it at length concentrated, an' dwelt on one object alone—(this was a case o' love at first sicht)—a beautiful an' amiable girl, wha attended the same kirk in which I sat. I hadna the slightest personal acquaintance wi' her, nor ony access to her society; but this didna hinder me adorin her in my secret heart, nor prevent me puttin doon stockins to customers when they asked for nightcaps. In short, before I kent whar I was, I was plump owre head an' ears in love, distractin love, wi' my fair enslaver, an' rendered useless baith to mysel an' every ither body. Never did the tender passion so engross, so absorb the feelins an' faculties o' a human bein, as it did those o' me, Willie Smith the hosier, on this occasion. I was absolutely beside mysel, an' felt as if livin and breathin in a world o' my ain. This continued for several months; an' yet, durin all that time, I had remained content wi' worshippin the object o' my adoration at a distance, an' that only on Sundays, for I rarely saw her through the week. Whan I said, however, that I was content wi' this state o' matters, I am no sure that I hae said precisely what was true. Had I said that I lacked courage to mak ony nearer advances, I wad, perhaps, hae expressed mysel fully mair correctly. This was, in fact, the case; I couldna muster fortitude aneuch to break the ice, an' yet I didna want encouragement either. My fair captivator soon discovered the state o' my feelins regardin her, as she couldna but do, for my een war never aff her, an' my looks war charged wi' an expression that was easily aneuch interpreted. She therefore—at least I thocht sae—kent perfectly weel how the laun lay; an' if I didna mak a guid use o' the impression I had made in my turn—for this I thocht I saw too in sundry little nameless things—the faut was my ain, as I didna want such encouragement as a modest and virtuous girl could, under the circumstances, haud oot to a lover. She looked wi' an interest on me, which she couldna conceal whanever we met, an' I frequently detected the corner o' her bright blue eye turned towards me in the kirk. Often, also, have I seen her sittin in melancholy abstraction when she should hae been listenin to the minister; but could I blame her, whan she was thinkin o' me? Of that, from all I could see an' mark, I was satisfied.

At length, unable to endure the distraction o' my feelins langer, and encouraged by the wee symptoms o' reciprocal affection which I had marked in my enslaver, assurin me o' my bein on pretty safe ground, I cam to the desperate resolution o' makin a decisive move in the business. I resolved to write my beloved; to confess my passion, and to beg that she would allow me to introduce myself to her. This resolution, however, I fand it much easier to adopt than to execute. There was a faint-heartedness aboot me that I couldna get the better o'; and a score o' sheets o' paper perished in the attempts I made to concoct something suitable to the occasion. At length, I succeeded; that is, I accomplished such a letter as I felt convinced I couldna surpass, although I wrought at it for a twelvemonth.

Havin faulded this letter, which I did wi' a tremblin hand and palpitatin heart, I clapt it into my pocket-book, whar it lay for three days, for want o' courage to dispatch it, and, in some sort, for want o' opportunity too; for if I sent it by the post, there was a danger o't fa'in into the hands o' Lizzy's faither—Lizzy Barton bein the name o' my enthraller; and there was naebody else that I could think o' employin in the business. At length, however, I determined to dispatch it at a' hazards. There was a wee bit ragged, smart, intelligent laddie, that used to be constantly playing at bools aboot oor shop-door, and whom we sometimes sent on bits o' sma' messages through the toun; and on him I determined to devolve the important mission of deliverin my letter. Accordingly, ae day when my faither was oot, and naebody in the shop but mysel—

"Jock," cried I, waggin the boy in, "come here a minnit." Jock instantly leaped to his feet—for he was on his knees, most earnestly engaged in plunkin, at the moment—and, crammin a handfu o' bools into his pocket, was, in a twinklin, before me; when, wipin his nose wi' the sleeve o' his jacket, and looking up in my face as he spoke—

"What's yer wull, sir?" said Jock.

"Do ye ken Mr. Barton's, Jock?" said I.

"Brawly, sir," replied Jock.

"Weel, Jock, my man," continued I, but wi' a degree o' trepidation that I had great difficulty in concealin frae the boy, "tak this letter, and go to Mr. Barton's wi't, and rap canny at the door, and ask if Miss Barton's in. If she's in, ask a word o' her; and, when she comes, slip this letter into her haun. If she's no in, bring back the letter to me, and let naebody see't. Mind it's for Miss Barton, Jock, and nae ane else. Sae ye maunna be paveein't aboot, but keep it carefully hidden under yer jacket, till ye see Miss Barton hersel; then whup it oot, and slip it into her hand that way;"—and here I fugled the proper motion to Jock. "Noo, Jock," I continued, "if ye go through this job correctly and cleverly, I'll gie ye a saxpence." Jock's eyes glistened wi' delight at he magnificence o' the promised reward, so far transcendin what he had been accustomed to receive. He wad hae thocht himsel handsomely paid wi' a ha'penny, and wad hae run sax miles ony day for a penny.

Having dispatched Jock, after seein the letter carefully buttoned up inside his jacket, I waited his return wi' a painfulness o' suspense, and intensity o' feelin, that I wad rather leave to the reader's imagination, than attempt to describe. It was most distressin—most agitatin. At length, Jock appeared—I mean in the distance. My heart began to beat violently. He bounced into the shop; my trepidation became excessive; my knees trembled; my lips grew as white as paper; I could hardly speak. At last—

"Jock," said I, wi' a great effort, "did ye see her?"

"Yes," said Jock, "and I gied her the letter."

"And what did she say?"

"She asked wha it was frae."

"And ye tell't her?"

"Ay."

"And what did she say then?"

"She just leugh, pleased-like; and her face grew red, and she stappit it in her bosom, and said, 'Vera weel, my man:' and syne shut the door."

Oh, what pen could describe the feelins o' joy, o' transport, that were mine at this ecstatic moment! She had smiled wi' delight on hearin my name; she had blushed when my letter was put into her hands; and she had put that letter—oh, delicious thought!—into her bosom. The proof o' her love was conclusive. There was nae mistakin what were her feelins towards me. Jock's artless tale had put that beyond a' doot. I was noo put nearly distracted wi' joy. But, if the merely gracious reception of my letter was capable o' inspirin me wi' this feelin, what degree o' happiness could be imparted by a reply to it, and that o' the most favourable kind? (It could be ascertained by the Rule o' Three.) That degree o' happiness, whatever it is, was bestowed on me. In the course of the ensuing day, I received the following sweet billet by the postman, written by Lizzy's own dear hand:—

"Miss Barton presents her compliments to Mr. Smith, and will be happy of his company to tea, to-morrow evening, at six o'clock."

Oh, hoo I noo langed for the "to-morrow evenin at six o'clock!" And yet I trembled at its approach, wi' an undefined, but overwhelmin feelin o' mingled love and shame, and hope and fear. It was just what I may ca' a delightfully painfu' predicament. Regardless, however, o' my feelins, the appointed hour cam round, and whan it did, it saw me dressed in my best, and, wi' a flutterin heart, stan'in at Lizzy's faither's door, wi' the knocker in my hand. I knocked. I heard a movement o' the sneck behind. The door opened, and my angel stood before me. I smiled and blushed intensely, without sayin a word. Miss Barton stared at me wi' a look o' cauld composed surprise. At length—

"Miss Barton," I stammered oot, "I am come, according to your invitation, to"——

"My invitation, sir!" said Miss Barton, noo a little confused, an' blushin in her turn. "What invitation? I haena the pleasure o' ony acquaintance wi' ye, sir. Ye're a perfect stranger to me."

"I houp no a'thegither, Miss Barton," replied I, makin an abortive attempt at a captivatin smile. "I took the liberty o' addressin a letter to ye yesterday; an' here's yer invitation on the back o't," continued I, an' noo puttin her ain card into her hands. The puir lassie looked confounded, an', in great agitation, said—

"Oh, sir, it's a mistak! I'm so sorry. It's an entire mistak on my part. Yer'e no the person at a' I meant. I thocht the letter was frae anither gentleman—a different person a'thegither. It's the name has misled me. I am really so sorry." An' she curtsied politely to me, an' shut the door.

Ay, here, then, was a pretty dooncome to a' my air-built castles o' luve an' happiness! It was a mistak, was it?—a mistak? I wasna the person at a'! She thocht the letter was frae anither gentleman a'thegither! An', pray, wha was this gentleman? A' that, an' a deal mair, I subsequently fand oot. The gentleman was a certain Willie Smith—a young, guid-lookin fallow, who sat in the same kirk wi' us, an' between whom an' Lizzy there had lang existed the telegraphic correspondence o' looks an' smiles, an' sighs, an' blushes—in fact, just such a correspondence as I had carried on mysel, wi' this important difference, however, that it wasna a' on ae side, as it noo appeared it had been in my case. The other Willie Smith's returns were real, while mine were only imaginary. I needna enlarge on the subject o' my feelins under this grievous an' heart-rendin disappointment. It will be aneuch to say that it pat me nearly beside mysel, an' that it was amaist a hale week before I tasted a morsel o' food o' ony kind. I was in a sad state; but time, that cures a' ills, at length cured mine, too, although it didna remove my regret that a name so unhappily frequent as Willie Smith had ever been bestowed on me.

Havin already described mysel as bein o' a susceptible nature, and bein at this time in the prime o' youth, it winna surprise the reader to learn that I soon after this fell in love a second time. The object o' my affections, on this occasion, was a pretty girl, whom I met wi' at the house o' a mutual freen. She was a stranger in oor toun, an' had come frae Glasgow—o' which city she was a native—on a short visit to a relation. The acquaintance which I formed wi' this amiable creature soon ripened into the most ardent affection, an' I had every reason, very early, to believe that my love was returned. The subsequent progress of our intimacy established the delightful fact. We eventually stood on the footin o' avowed, an' all but absolutely betrothed lovers. Soon after this, Lucy Craig, which was the name of my beloved, returned to Glasgow, but not before we had settled to maintain a close and regular correspondence.

The correspondence wi' Lucy, to which I hae alluded, subsequently took place; an', for several months—durin which I had made, besides, twa or three runs to Glasgow, to see her—mony a sweet epistle passed between us—epistles fu' o' lowin love, an' sparklin hopes, an' joy. I may as weel here remark, too, that, on the occasions o' my visits to Lucy, I was maist cordially an' kindly received by her mother—a fine, decent, motherly body, an' a widow—Lucy's father havin died several years before. Aweel, as I said, our correspondence went on closely an' uninterruptedly; but I maun noo add, wi' a restriction as to time, an' say for aboot five months, at the end o' which time it suddenly ceased, on the pairt o' Lucy, a'thegither. She was due me a letter at the time; for I had written three close on the back o' each other, which were yet unanswered. In the greatest impatience an' uneasiness, I first waited ae week, an' then anither, an' anither, an' anither, till they ran up to aboot six, whan, unable langer to thole the misery which her seemin negligence, or it micht be something waur, had created, I determined on puttin my fit in the coach, an' gaun slap richt through mysel, to ascertain the cause o' her extraordinary silence. To this proceedin—that is, my gaun to Glasgow—I was further induced by anither circumstance. There was a mercantile hoose there, wi' which my faither had dealt for twenty years, an' which had gotten, frae first to last, mony a thoosan pounds o' his money—a' weel an' punctually paid. Noo, it happened that, twa or three days before this, my faither had dispatched an order to this house for a fresh supply o' guids, whan, to oor inexpressible amazement, we received, instead o' the guids, a letter plumply refusin ony further credit, an' demandin, under a threat o' immediate prosecution, payment o' oor current account—amountin to aboot £150. To us this was a most extraordinary affair, an' wholly inexplicable, an' we resolved to know what it meant, by personal application to the firm. This, then, was anither purpose I had to serve in gaun to Glasgow, to which I accordingly set out, wi' the folks hunner-an'-fifty pounds in my pocket.

On arrivin in the city just named, my first ca', of course, was on Lucy. But this wasna accomplished withoot a great deal o' previous painfu feelin. It was twa or three minutes before I could rap. At length I raised the knocker, an' struck. Lucy opened the door. She stared wildly at me, for a second, an' then, utterin a scream, ran into the house, exclaimin, distractedly—"O James, James! mother, mother! here's Mr. Smith's ghost!" And she screamed again more loudly than ever, an' flung herself on the sofa, in a violent fit o' hysterics.

Here, then, was a pretty reception. I was confounded, but stepped leisurely into the hoose, after Lucy, whom I found extended on the sofa, an' her mother an' a strange gentleman beside her—a stranger to me at least—endeavouring to soothe her, and calm her violence. On the mother, my presence seemed to hae nearly as extraordinary an effect as on the dochter. Whan I entered the room, she, too, set up a skirl, and fled as far back frae me as the apartment wad admit, exclaimin—

"Lord be aboot us, Mr. Smith! is that you? Can it be possible? Are ye in the body, or are ye but a wanderin spirit? Lord hae a care o' us, are ye really an' truly leevin, Mr. Smith?"

"Guid folks," said I, as calmly as I could, in reply to this strange rhapsody, "will ye be sae kind as tell me what a' this means?" An' first I looked at the dochter, wha was still lyin on the sofa, wi' her face buried wi' fricht in the cushions, and then at the mother, wha was sittin in a chair, starin at me, an' gaspin for breath, but noo evidently satisfied that I was at least nae ghaist.

"Means, Mr. Smith!" said she, at intervals, as she could get breath to speak; "oh, man, didna we hear that ye were dead! Haena we thocht that ye were in yer grave for this month past! Dear me, but this is extraordinar! But will ye just step this way wi' me a minnit." An' she led the way into another room, whither I followed her, in the hope o' getting an explanation o' the singular scene which had just taken place; an' this explanation I did get. On our entering the apartment, my conductress shut the door, an', desirin me to tak a seat, thus began—"Dear me, Mr. Smith, but this is a most extraordinar, an' I maun say, a most unlucky affair. Werena we tell't, a month ago, that ye were dead an' buried, an' that by mair than ane—ay an' by the carrier frae yer ain place, too, at whom Lucy made inquiry the moment we heard it? An', mair than a' that," continued Mrs. Craig, "here's yer death mentioned in ane o' the newspapers o' yer ain place." Saying this, she took an auld newspaper frae a shelf, an', after lookin for the place to which she wanted to direct my attention, put it into my hands, wi' her thoom on the following piece o' intelligence:—"Died, on the 16th current, at his father's house, ——, Mr. William Smith, in the 23d year of his age."

"Noo, Mr. Smith," said Mrs. Craig, triumphantly, "what were we to think o' a' this, but that ye were really an' truly buried? The place, yer name, yer age, a' richt to a tittle. What else could we think?"

"Indeed, Mrs. Craig," said I, smilin, "it is an odd business, an' I dinna wunnur at yer bein deceived; but it's a' easily aneuch explained. It's this confounded name o' mine that's at the bottom o' a' the mischief. The Willie Smith here mentioned, I need hardly say, I suppose, is no me; but I kent him weel aneuch, an' a decent lad he was—he just lived twa or three doors frae us; an', as to the carrier misleadin ye, I dinna wunnur at that either—for he wad naturally think ye were inquirin after the deceased. But there's nae harm dune, Mrs. Craig," continued I.

"I'm no sure o' that," interrupted my hostess, wi' a look an' expression o' voice that rather took me aback, as indeed, had also the triumphant manner in which she had appealed to me if they could be blamed for havin believed me dead. This she was aye pressin on me, an' I was rather surprised at it; but it was to be fully accounted for.

"No!" said I, whan Mrs. Craig expressed her uncertainty as to there bein ony mischief dune; "isna there Lucy to the fore, lookin as weel an' as healthy as ever I saw her, an'"——

"Lucy's married!" interposed Mrs. Craig, firmly and solemnly.

"Married!" exclaimed I, starting frae my seat, in horror an' amazement—"Lucy married!"

"'Deed is she, Mr. Smith, an' yon was her husband ye saw; an' ye canna blame her, puir thing! I'm sure mony a sair heart she had after ye. I thocht she wad hae gratten her een oot; but, bein sure ye were dead, an' a guid offer comin in the way, ye ken, she couldna refuse't. It wad hae been the heicht o' imprudence. Sae she juist dried her een, puir thing, an' buckled to."

"Exactly, Mrs. Craig—exactly," said I, here interruptin her; "I understan ye—ye need sae nae mair." An' I rushed oot o' the door like a madman, an' through the streets, withoot kennin either what I was doin or whar I was gaun. On recovering my composure a little, I fand mysel in the Green o' Glasgow, an' close by the river side. The clear, calm, deep water tempted me, in the desperation o' my thochts. Ae plunge, an' a' this distractin turmoil that was rackin my soul, an' tearin my bosom asunder, wad be stilled. In this frame o' mind, I gazed gloomily on the glidin stream; but, as I gazed, better thochts gradually presented themsels, an' finally, resentment took the place o' despondency, whan I reflected on the heartless haste o' Lucy to wed anither, thereby convincin me that, in losin her, my loss was by nae means great. So then, to mak a lang story short, in place o' jumpin into the Clyde, I hied me to a tavern, ate as hearty a supper as ever I ate in my life, drank a guid, steeve tumbler o' toddy, tumbled into bed, sleepit as sound as a caterpillar in winter, an' awoke next mornin as fresh as a daisy an' as licht as a lark, free frae a' concern aboot Lucy, an' perfectly satisfied that I had acted quite richt in no droonin mysel on the previous nicht.

Havin noo got quit o' my love affairs, my first business, next day, was to ca' on the mercantile firm alluded to in another part o' the narrative; and to their countin-hoose I accordingly directed my steps—and thae steps, when I entered their premises, were a wee haughty, for I felt at once the strength o' the money in my pouch, and a sense o' havin been ill-used by them. On enterin the countin-hoose, I fand the principal there alane, seated at a desk.

This gentleman I knew personally, and he kent me too; for I had frequently ca'ed at his office in the way o' business, and on these occasions he had aye come forrit to me wi' extended hand and a smilin countenance. On the present, however, he did naething o' the kind. He sat still, and, lookin sternly at me as I approached him—

"Well, Mr. Smith," he said, "are ye come to settle that account? Short accounts make long friends, you know," he added, but wi' a sort o' ferocious smile, if there be such a thing.

"I wad like first to ken, sir," I replied, "what was the meanin o' yer writin us sic a letter as we had frae ye the ither day?"

"Why, Mr. Smith," said Mr. Drysdale, which was the gentleman's name, "under the peculiar circumstances of the case, I don't see there was anything in that letter that ought to have surprised you. It was a perfectly natural and reasonable effort on our part to recover our own."

"A reasonable effort, sir, to recover your own!" said I indignantly. "What do you mean? My faither has dealt wi' ye these twenty years, and I don't suppose ye ever fand it necessary to mak ony effort to recover your money oot o' his hands. I rather think ye were aye paid withoot askin."

"Oh, yes, yes," replied Mr. Drysdale, doggedly; "but I repeat that recent circumstances have altered the case materially."

"What circumstances do ye allude to, sir?" said I, wi' increasin passion.

"What circumstances, sir, do I allude to?" replied Mr. Drysdale, fiercely. "I don't suppose you required to come here for that information; but you shall have it nevertheless, since you ask it." And, proceeding to a file of newspapers, he detached one, and, throwing it on the desk before me, placed his finger, as Mrs. Craig had done on another occasion, on the bankrupt list, and desired me to look at that. I did so, and read, in this catalogue of unfortunates, the name of "William Smith, merchant, ——. Creditors to meet," &c. &c.

"Now, sir," said Mr. Drysdale, with a triumphant sneer, "are you satisfied?"

"Perfectly, sir," I replied; "but you will please to observe that that William Smith is not my father. He's a totally different person."

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Drysdale, "not your father! Who is he, then? I didn't know there was any other William Smith, of any note in trade, in your town. I did not, indeed, look particularly at the designation; but took it for granted it was your father, as, to my certain knowledge, many others have also done."

"Indeed!" replied I; "why, that is mair serious. Some steps maun be taen to remedy that mischief."

"Without a moment's delay," said Mr. Drysdale, who was already a changed man. "Your father must advertise directly, saying he's not the William Smith whose name appears in the bankrupt list of such a date. Lose not a moment in doing this, or your credit'll be cracked throughout the three kingdoms. It has already suffered seriously here, I can assure you."

Having paid Mr. Drysdale his account, which he wasna noo for acceptin—sayin that, if we had the sma'est occasion for the money, to use it freely, without regardin them—and havin thanked him for his advice as to counteracting the evil report that had gane abroad respectin us, I hurried awa to put it in execution; and thinkin it very hard to be subjected to a' this trouble sae innocently, and to hae, at ane and the same time, a pair o' such calamities sae oddly thrust upon me, as my ain death, and the bankruptcy o' my faither. However, sae it was. But my business noo was to remedy, as far as possible, the mischief that had been done by the unfounded rumour o' oor insolvency. Wi' this view I hastened awa to a newspaper office, to begin the cure by an advertisement; and, in doin this, I had occasion to pass the coach-office whar I had landed the day before. Observin the place, I thocht I micht as weel step in and secure my ticket for the following day, when it was my intention to return hame. Accordingly, into the office I gaed; and, whan I did sae, I fand the clerk in earnest conversation wi' twa men, ane o' whom was busily employed in lookin owre the way-book or register o' passengers' names. They didna at first observe me enter; but, whan they did, there was an instant pause in their conversation; and I observed the clerk, after he had glanced at me, tippin a significant wink to ane, and gently punchin the other wi' his elbow. Then a' three glanced at me. I couldna understand it. However, I said nothing; thinkin they were settlin some private business thegither, and, oot o' guid nature, wad rather wait a minute or twa than interrupt them. But my waiting wasna lang. Before I had been an instant in the office, ane o' the men cam roun to whar I was stan'in, and, lookin me fiercely in the face, said—

"What's your name, sir, if you please?"

"My name, sir!" replied I, as angrily—for I thocht the fellow put the question in a very impertinent sort o' way—"what business hae ye wi' my name?"

"Oh, mair than ye're aware o', p'raps," says he. "An' it's a bad sign o' a man whan he'll no tell his name," says he. This touched me to the quick, an' I dare say the vagabond kent it wad, an' did it on purpose. It was a wipe at my character which I could by nae means submit to. So says I to him, says I—

"Freen, ye'll observe that I'm no denyin my name—I'm only disputin yer richt to demand it. I'm no ashamed o' my name, sir, although it certainly has cost me some trouble in my day. My name, sir, is William Smith—sae mak o't what ye like."

"I should mak a couple o' guineas o't, at the very least," said the fellow, wi' a smile; and at the same time catchin me by the breast o' my coat, and sayin that I was his prisoner.

"Prisoner!" exclaimed I, in amazement, "prisoner! what do you mean?"

"I mean just exactly what I say," said the fellow, quite coolly; and, thinkin he saw in me some show o' a spirit o' resistance, whilk there really was, he touched me wi' a bit thing like a wean's whistle, and winked to his neebor to come to his assistance, which the latter immediately did, and catched me by the ither breast o' my coat.

"Come along," said baith, now beginnin to drag me wi' them.

"No a fit," said I, resistin, "till I ken what for I'm used this way."

"Oh! ye don't know, Mr. Innocence!" said the fellow wha first took hand o' me; "not you—you're amazed, an't you? You can't suppose there's such a thing as fugæ warrants out against you! And you can't believe I should have such a thing in my pocket," added the scoonril, takin' a piece o' paper oot o' his pouch, and haudin't up before my een, but oot o' my reach. "There, my lad, are you satisfied now? That's the thing I walks by."

Then, havin replaced the paper in his pouch, he went on, but now, apparently, more for the information of the bystanders (of whom there was, by this time, a considerable number gathered together), than for mine.

"You're apprehended, Mr. Smith, by virtue of a fugæ warrant, obtained at the instance of Messrs. Hodgson, Brothers, & Co., on the evidence of two credible witnesses—namely, Robert Smart and Henry Allan—who have deponed that you were going beyond seas; you being indebted to the said Hodgson, Brothers, & Co., in the sum of £74. 15s. 9d. sterling money. There's cause and ground for yer apprehension, Mr. Smith," continued the fellow; "so, no more about it, but come along quietly, and at once, or it may be worse for you."

"I'll see you shot first," said I. "I ken naething aboot your Hodgson, Brothers—never heard o' them before. I owe them nae money, nor onybody else, but what I can pay; and I haena, nor ever had, ony intention whatever o' leavin my ain country."

"A' quite natural statement'; these, Mr. Smith," said the man wha first took haud o' me; "but ye'll observe we're no bound to believe them. All that we have to do, is to execute our duty. If you are wronged, you may have your redress by legal process. In the meantime, ye go with us." And again the two commenced draggin me oot o' the office.

"May I be hanged if I do, then!" said I, passionately; for my blood was noo gettin up. It wad hae been far better for me, in the end, if I had taen things calmly—for I could easily hae proven my identity, and, of course, the messengers' error in apprehendin me; but my prudence and patience baith gave way before the strong feelin o' resentment, which a sense o' the injustice I was sufferin had excited.

"May I be hanged if I do, then!" said I; and wi' that I hit ane o' the fellows a wap on the face that sent him staggerin to the other side o' the office. Havin done this, I turned roun', quick as thocht, and collared the ane that still held by me, a proceedin which was immediately followed by a wrestle o' the most ferocious and determined character. I was the stouter man o' the twa, however, and wad sune hae laid my antagonist on the breadth o' his back, but for his neebor, who, now rendered furious by the blow which I had gien him, sprang on me like a tiger; and, between them I was borne to the groun', the twa fa'in on the tap o' me. Here, again, however, the battle was renewed. I continued to kick and box richt and left, wi' a vigour that made me still formidable to my enemies; while they, to do them justice, lent me kicks and blows in return, that nearly ca'ed the life out o' me. There, then, were we a' three rowin on the floor, sometimes ane uppermost an' sometimes anither, wi' oor faces streamin o' blude, and oor coats a' torn in the most ruinous manner. It was an awfu' scene, and such a ane as hadna been seen often in that office before, I dare say. As micht be expected, we had a numerous audience, too The office was filled wi' folk, the door was choked up wi' them, and there was an immense crowd in the street, and clusters at the window, a' tryin to get a sicht or a knowledge o' what was proceedin within. Baith the commotion and the concourse, in fact, was tremendous—just appallin to look at. But this was a state o' matters that couldna last lang. My assailants havin ca'ed in the assistance o' a couple o' great, big, stout fallows o' porters, I was finally pinned to the floor, whan my hauns bein secured by a pair o' handcuffs, I was raised to my feet, again collared by the twa officers, and a cry havin been made to clear the road, I was led oot o' the office in procession; a messenger on each side o' me, the twa porters ahint, and ane before, openin a passage through the crowd, whose remarks, as I gaed alang, were highly flatterin to me:—

"What an awfu'-like ruffian!" said ane. "What a murderous-lookin scoonril!" said anither.

"What's he been doin?" inquired a third.

"Robbin the mail-coach," answered a fourth; "and they say he has murdered the guard an' twa passengers."

"Oh! the monster!" exclaimed an auld wife, whom this piece of accurate information had reached; "the savage, bloody monster! Was ever the like heard tell o'! The gallows is owre guid for him."

In short, I heard mysel, as I was led alang, charged wi' every crime that human wickedness is capable o', although I perceived that the robbery o' the mail, and the murders o' the guard and passengers, was the favourite and prevailing notion; a notion which, I presumed, had arisen frae the circumstance o' the row's havin had its origin in a coach office. Some reports hae been waur founded. As to the reflections on my appearance, I couldna reasonably quarrel wi' them: for, really, it was far frae bein prepossessin; and o' this I was quite sensible. My coat was hingin in tatters aboot me; my hat was crushed oot o' a' shape; and my face was hideously disfigured wi' blude, and wi' unnatural swellins frae the blows I had gotten.

Wi' the reflections on my appearance, then, as I hae said, greatly improved as it was by the display o' my handcuffs, I couldna justly fin' faut. By-and-by, however, we reached the jail; and into ane o' its strongest and best secured apartments was I immediately conducted. Havin seen me fairly lodged here, my captors took their leave o' me; ane o' them sayin, as he quitted the cell, and shakin his head as he spoke—

"If ye don't rue this job, friend, my name's not what it is—that's all."

The door bein noo closed on me, an' a fine opportunity bein thus presented me for indulgin in a little reflection on my present circumstances an' situation, I accordingly began to do so; but I fand it by nae means a very agreeable employment. Amang ither things, it struck me that I had exposed mysel' sadly, and very unnecessarily, since I could easily, as I believe I hae before remarked, hae shown that they had put the saddle on the wrong horse; but I had allowed my passion to get the better o' me, an' instead o' takin the richt and prudent course o' establishin this by a quiet procedure, had resisted, an' foucht like a thief taen in the fact. However, the business was noo hoo to mend the matter, an' it was some time before I could discover precisely hoo this was to be done—at least wi' a' that expedition I wad hae liked. At last it struck me that I couldna do better than intimate my situation to Mr. Drysdale, an' request o' him to come an' see me. This, then, I immediately did—the jailor furnishin me wi' paper, pen, an' ink, an' undertakin to have my letter delivered as directed, which was faithfully executed; for, in less than half-an-hour, Mr. Drysdale, laughin' like to split his sides, entered my cell.

"What's this, Mr. Smith?—what's this has happened ye, man?" said he, when the laughing would let him speak. "Ye see what it is to hae a bad name. I tell't ye there was mair than me mistaen aboot this affair. It's a most unlucky name yours."

"Confound the name, sir!" said I. "It's like to be baith the ruin an' the death o' me. But what can I do? I canna get quit o't, an' maun just fecht oot wi't the best way I can."

I wasna at first a'thegither in such a laughin humour as my visitor, yet I couldna help joinin him in the lang run, whan we took twa or three guid roun's o't, an' then proceeded to business. Mr. Drysdale said he wad bail me to ony amount, if that were necessary to my immediate liberation; but proposed that he should, in the first place, call on Hodgson, Brothers, whom he knew intimately, an' state the case to them. This he accordingly did; an', in aboot a quarter o' an hour, returned to me in the jail, wi' ane o' thae gentlemen alang wi' him. Mr. Hodgson expressed the utmost concern for what had happened, an' offered me ony reasonable recompense I might name for the injury an' detention to which I had been subjected. This, however, I declined, but expressed a wish that the messengers wha had apprehended me micht be keel-hauled a bit for the rashness o' their proceedins.

"As to that, Mr. Smith," said Mr. Hodgson, smilin, "I think you had as well 'let a-be for let a-be' there. They have been sadly mauled by you, I understand, and it strikes me to be a drawn battle between you."

"Weel, weel," said I, laughin, "e'en let it be sae, then; but the scoonrils ocht to be mair carefu' wha they lay their hands on."

"They ought, no doubt," said Mr. Hodgson; "but, in this case there was really some excuse for them. Our debtor, whom I dare say you know very well, is a young man of the name of William Smith—a grocer in your own town, who began business there some months ago. Now, he has failed, as I dare say you know, also—has shut shop—swindled his creditors—and fled the country. This was the fellow we wanted to catch; and, you being from the same place, of the same name, and of, as I take it, about the same age, it is really no great wonder that the men were deceived."

I allowed that it was not; but said it was rather hard that the sins o' a' the Willie Smiths in the country should be visited on my shouthers. "There's no a piece o' villany done by, nor a misfortune happens to a Willie Smith," said I, "but it's fastened on me. It's really hard."

My twa visitors laughingly admitted the hardship o' the case, but advised me to be as patient under't as I could—a wishy-washy aneuch sort o' advice; but it was a', I dare say, they had to offer.

I need hardly say that the jail doors were noo instantly thrown open to me, nor that I lost nae time in availin mysel' o' the liberty to which they invited. The first thing I did on gettin oot was to provide mysel wi' a new coat and hat; for, until this was done, I wasna in a fit state to be seen, an' couldna think o' walkin the streets in the torn-down and blackguard lookin condition in which my captors had left me. Havin, however, improved my outward man a little, and brushed up my face a bit—but on which, notwithstandin a' I could do, there continued to remain some ugly traces o' my late adventure—I thocht I couldna do better, as I had noo a lang idle evenin before me, than ca' on twa or three auld and intimate acquaintances o' our family that resided in Glasgow. In pursuance o' this resolution, I began wi' some decent folks o' the name o' Robertson, distant relations o' our ain, and from whom I had, on the occasion o' former visits, o' which I had made twa or three, met wi' the most kind an' cordial welcome; and o' this I naturally expected a repetition in the present instance. What was my surprise and mortification, then, whan I fand it quite the reverse—most markedly sae!

"Oh, William, is that you!" said Mrs. Robertson, drily, and wi' a degree o' stiffness and cauldness in her manner which I couldna understan'. "Will ye stap in a bit?" she added, hesitatingly and evidently wi' reluctance. Weel, she used to fling her arms aboot me, and pu' me in. But it was noo, "Will ye step in?" I did, but sune saw there was something wrang; but what it was I couldna conjecture. I overheard her husband and dochters refusin Mrs. Robertson's request to them to come ben and see me. They used to a' rush aboot me, like a torrent. In short, I perceived that I was a very unwelcome visitor, and that a speedy retreat on my part wad be highly approved of. Amongst other hints o' this, was Mrs. Robertson's scarcely speakin three words to me a' the time I sat wi' her, and no makin ony offer o' the sma'est refreshment. Her behaviour to me was a'thegither exceedinly strange and mysterious; but what struck me as maist singular, was her aye speakin o' my faither wi' a compassionatin air. "Puir, puir man!" she wad say; "Gude help us! it's a weary warl' this! Ane canna tell what their weans are to come to. Muckle grief and sorrow, I'm sure, do they bring to parents' hearts." These truths bein obvious and general, I couldna deny them, although I was greatly at a loss to see ony particular occasion for advertin to them at the time. Wearied oot at length wi' Mrs. Robertson's truisms, and disgusted wi' her incivility and uncourteous manner to me, I took up my hat, and decamped, wi' as little ceremony as I had been received. I was, in truth, baith provoked and perplexed by her extraordinary treatment o' me, and couldna at a' conjecture to what it could be owin.

But let the reader fancy, if he can, what was my surprise when I fand mysel' treated in almost precisely the same way in every ither hoose at which I ca'ed subsequently to this. There was, in every instance, the same astonishment expressed at seein me, the same cauldness exhibited, and the same mysterious silence maintained durin my visit. I was perfectly confounded at it; but couldna, of course, ask ony explanation, as there was naething sae palpably oot o' joint as to admit o't. Havin made my roun' o' ca's wi' the success and comfort I hae mentioned, I returned to my quarters, and, orderin a tumbler o' toddy, sat down amongst a heap o' newspapers, to amuse mysel' the best way I could till bedtime. The first paper I took up was a Glasgow one, published that day. I skimmed it ower till I cam to a paragraph wi' the followin takin title—"Desperate Ruffian." This catched my e'e at ance; for I was aye fond o' readin aboot desperate ruffians, and horrible accidents, and atrocious murders, &c. &c. "So," says I to mysel', "here's a feast." And I threw up my legs on the firm on which I was seated, drew the candle nearer me, took a mouthfu' oot o' my tumbler, and made every preparation, in short, for a quiet, deliberate, comfortable read; and this I got, to my heart's content. The paragraph, which began wi' "Desperate Ruffian," went on thus:—

"This morning, a scene, at once one of the most disgraceful and ludicrous which we have witnessed for some time, took place in one of the coach-offices of this city. A fellow of the name of William Smith, a young man of about twenty-three or twenty-four years of age, from ——, who is charged with various acts of swindling, and is well known as a person of infamous character, was apprehended on a fugæ warrant, by our two active criminal officers, Messrs. Rob and Ramage, in the —— coach-office, just as he was about to take out a ticket for Greenock, whither he intended to proceed for the purpose of embarking for America with his ill-got gains. The ruffian, on being first apprehended, denied his name; but, finding this not avail him, he violently assaulted the officers in the execution of their duty, and, being a powerful man, it was not until those very deserving men had suffered severely in their persons, and obtained the aid of the bystanders, that he was finally secured. This, however, was ultimately accomplished, when the fellow being securely handcuffed, was conducted to jail, and lodged in one of the strongest cells, where he will, of course, remain until brought to trial. There is a rumour that Smith has been concerned in some late coach robbery; but we have heard no particulars, and cannot vouch for its truth, although, from his appearance, we should suppose him to be perfectly capable of anything."

Weel, guid reader, what do ye think o' that? Wasna that a pretty morsel for me to swallow? It is true that I needna hae felt very uneasy aboot the description o' a character that didna belang to me; but it maun be observed that there was here that mixture o' fact and fiction which, in cases o' rumour, it is sae difficult to separate. Moreover, I was certainly the person spoken o', however erroneously represented; there was nae denyin that. I was mingled up wi' the business, and the very process o' establishin my innocence was certain to gie me a most unpleasant notoriety; and was likely, besides, no to be in every case successful. In short, I fand, tak it ony way I liked, that it couldna be reckoned otherwise than as a most unlucky affair. It was noo, too, that I began to smell a rat regardin the treatment I had met wi' frae the different acquaintances I had ca'ed upon. They had either seen the paragraph which I hae just quoted, or had heard o't. The same belief explained to me the cause o' Mrs. Robertson's reflections on the risin generation o' mankind, and her extraordinary sympathy for my father. There could be nae doot o't—and thus was the mystery solved. Of this I was still further satisfied, when, on takin up anither Glasgow paper o' the same day, I fand that it also contained an account o' the mornin's affair. The twa paragraphs were, on the whole, pretty much alike in substance; but, in the second ane, there were twa or three incidental circumstances mentioned that added to the interest o' the story considerably.

Such, then, was the readin wi' which I beguiled the time on the evenin o' which I am speakin; an' I leave it to the reader o' thae pages to judge hoo far it was calculated to soothe my previously harassed feelins, an' to afford me the relaxation an' amusement I sought, an' o' which I had sae much need. At first, I resolved on takin every possible public an' private measure that could be commanded to counteract the evil reports, o' ae kind an' anither, under which baith mysel personally an' my family were labourin. I thocht on gaun roun to a' the acquaintances on whom I had just been ca'in, an' explainin to them the real state o' the case; an' then followin up this proceedin wi' ca'in on the editors o' the twa papers in which the injurious statements had appeared, an' requestin, nay, insistin, on their puttin in a true version o' the story, at the same time carefully markin my identity, an' separatin me frae a' discreditable transactions, of every kind, degree, an' character whatsoever. A' this I thocht o' doin, I say; but, on reflection, I changed my mind, an' determined no to gie mysel ony such trouble, but just to let things tak their course, an' trust to my ain conduct, an' the weel-kent respectability o' my faither, for the guid opinion o' the warld. Anent the rumour o' oor bankruptcy, however, I thocht there could be nae harm in puttin in an advertisement or twa, contradictory o't; an' this was accordingly done, in the following brief terms:—

"William Smith, hosier, ——, begs to inform his friends and the public, that he is not the same person whose name appears in the bankrupt list published in the —— newspaper of the 15th inst. All claims on the advertiser will be paid, on demand, at his shop."

This advertisement I handed into the offices o' twa Glasgow papers that same nicht, an' next mornin saw me safely perched on the tap o' the coach for oor ain place, glad that a' my misadventures were owre, an' that I was soon to be at hame again; for I was sick o' Glasgow—an' the reader will allow no withoot some reason. The coach on which I was mounted was just aboot to start, the driver had taen the reins in his hand, an' the guard was strugglin to get up the last trunk, whan the waiter o' the inn in which I had been stoppin, an' which was at the head o' a prodigiously lang close, just at the startin-place, cam rinnin up, an' cried, lookin at the same time at the passengers—

"Is there a Mr. Smith here?"

I expected that half-a-dozen at least wad hae owned the name; but, to my surprise, there was no Mr. Smith amang them, but mysel.

"They ca' me Smith, my man—what is it?" said I, wi' a suspicious look; for I noo stood greatly in awe o' my ain name—no bein sure what mischief it micht lead me into.

"There's a gentleman up in the hoose wants to see you directly," said the lad.

"But I canna go till him, man—ye see the coach is just gaun to start," said I.

"Ay, but he says that's o' nae consequence. Ye maun come till him. He has something o' importance to say to ye."

Thinkin it wasna advisable to slight a message o' sae pressin a nature, an' curious to ken wha it was that could be wantin me, an' what he could be wantin me for, I leaped down, resolvin to mak my legs, which were gay an' lang an' souple anes, save my distance, an' havin nae doubt they wad, critical as the case was. I up the close like a shot, an' into the hoose; but, though I was in a hurry, the waiter wha had come for me was in nane. He didna appear for five minutes after; an', as he was the only person wha kent onything aboot a message bein sent after me, I had to wait his return, before I could find oot the person wha wanted me. This, however, he noo effected for me; but not before a good deal mair time was lost. The gentleman who wished to see me was dressin; so I was shewn into a room, while the waiter went to inform him o' my arrival. In a minute or twa after—durin which I was dancin aboot in a fever of impatience, for fear o' losin the coach—the door o' the apartment flew open, an' a laughin, joyous-lookin fellow, with a loud "Aha, Bob!" an' extended hand, rushed in; but he didna rush far. The instant he got his ee fairly on me, he stopped short, an', lookin as grave's a rat, bowed politely, an' said he was exceedingly sorry to perceive that he had committed a gross mistake.

"The fact is, my dear sir," he said, becomin again affable, to reconcile me, I suppose, to the unfortunate blunder, an' speakin wi' great volubility, "my name is Smith, which, I suppose, is yours too, sir. I'm from London. Now, you see, my dear sir, my brother Bob, who lives in Ireland, and whom I haven't seen for some years, was to have met me here last night, agreeably to arrangements made by letter, and we were to have gone this morning, as it were, by the same coach in which you were going, to visit some friends in that part of the country to which it runs. Well, you see, I arrived here only this morning early; but the first thing I did was to inquire if there was a Mr. Smith in the house, and I was distinctly told by the rascal of a waiter that there was no person of that name. Well, what does the fellow do, but come running to my bedside, a little ago, and tells me that there had been a Mr. Smith in the house over night, and that he was at that moment on the top of the —— coach. Well, my dear sir, did not I immediately and very naturally conclude that this Mr. Smith must be my brother! And thus has this unlucky mistake happened. 'Pon my honour, I am most sorry for it—exceedingly sorry, indeed."

Bein naturally o' a very placable disposition, I didna say much in reply to this harangue; but, mutterin something aboot there bein nae help for't, rushed oot o' the hoose, an' down the confounded lang close, as fast as my legs could carry me, and that was pretty fast; but no fast aneuch to catch the coach. It was aff an' awa, mony a lang minute afore.

"Aweel," said I, on discoverin this, "but this does beat cock-fechtin! What, in heaven's name, am I to do wi' this unfortunate patronymic o' mine? It's crossin me wi' mischief o' ae kind or anither at every step. I suppose I'll be hanged in a mistake next. That'll be the end o't. I'll change't, if I leeve to get hame—I'll change't, let what like be the consequence, or I'll hae an alias added till't, before waur comes o't; for this'll never do."

In such reflections as thae did I expend the impatient feelin that the loss o' the coach, an' the recollection o' certain ither sma' incidents, with which the reader is acquainted, had gien rise to. But little guid they did me; an' this I at length fand oot. Sae I just gied a bit smile to mysel, an' made up my mind to wait patiently for the next coach, which started the same nicht, though at a pretty late hour. Late as that hour was, however, it cam roun, an', whan it did, it fand me, withoot havin met wi' ony ither misfortune in the interim, mounted again on the tap o' a coach. This time I was allowed to keep my seat in peace. The coach drove awa, an' me alang wi't; an', in twal hours thereafter, I fand mysel in my faither's hoose, safe and soun', after a' that had happened me.

Shortly after the occurrences which I have just related, my puir faither departed this life, and I, as his only son and heir, succeeded to a' his possessions—stock, lock, and barrel; and I now only wanted a wife to complete my establishment, and fix my position in society. This, however, didna remain lang a desideratum wi' me. A wife I got, and as guid a ane as ever man was blessed wi'; but it was rather a curious sort o' way that I got her. Ae nicht, pretty late, in the summer o' the year 1796, a rather smart rap comes to our door. We were a' in bed—mother, servant lass, and a'; but, on hearin't, I bangs up, on wi' my claes, lichts a cannle, and opens the door. On doing this, then, I sees a porter loaded wi' trunks and bandboxes, and behint him a very pretty, genteel-lookin young woman.

"Here's a frien o' yours come to see you, frae Edinburgh," says the porter, whom I kent weel aneuch; and wi' this the young leddy comes forward, wi' a licht step, and ane o' the prettiest smiles I ever saw; and, says she, haudin oot her haun to me—

"Ye'll no ken me, Mr. Smith, I dare say?"

"No, indeed, mem," says I—"I do not."

"I'm a cousin o' yours," said she—"Margaret Smith, and a dochter o' your uncle William's."

"Frae Edinburgh," said I, takin her cordially by the haun, and leadin her into the parlour.

"The same," said she smilin again; "and I'm just come doun to spend a day or twa wi' ye, if ye hae room for me, and winna think me owre troublesome."

"Room!" said I—"plenty o' room; and, as for trouble, dinna mention that." And I assisted my fair cousin to remove her shawl and other haps. This cousin, I may mention by the way, I had never seen before; and neither had she ever seen ony o' us, although we knew perfectly weel o' each other's existence. But this within parentheses.

Havin seen my pretty cousin—for she was really a bonny-lookin and modest creature—made so far comfortable, I ran joyfully to my mother, to inform her o' oor acquisition. My mother, who had never seen her either, was delighted wi' the intelligence, and instantly rose to welcome her. The servant was roused oot o' her bed, a little supper prepared, and some delightful hours we spent together. I was charmed wi' my fair cousin; so intelligent, so lively, so sensible, so accomplished—so much o' everything, in short, that was captivatin in a young and beautifu' woman. Nor was my mother less delighted wi' her than I was. There were, indeed, some things spoken o' in the course o' conversation between my mother, and oor guest, and I, relatin to family affairs, in which we couldna somehow or other come to a distinct understandin. There was something like cross-purposes between us; and I observed that my fair cousin was extraordinary ignorant o' a' matters concerning us, and o' the circumstances o' a number o' oor mutual relations. But this neither my mother nor I thought much o', either. It was just sae like a bit lively thochtless lassie, wha couldna be expected to hae either the genealogy of a' her friends, or their particular callins or residences, at her finger ends. However, as I said before, we spent a pleasant evening thegither; and this followed by eight as pleasant days, durin which time our fair guest continued to make rapid progress in the affections o' baith my mother and me; although, of course, the regard she excited was somewhat different in its nature in the twa cases. In mine it was love—in my mother's esteem. But a' this was to hae a sudden and curious termination. At the end o' the eight days above alluded to, happenin to tak up a newspaper, I was attracted by an advertisement bearing the following highly interesting title—"Young Lady Missing." I read on, and found, to my amazement, that the young lady was no other than my fair cousin. The notice stated, that she had gone down to ——, to visit some relations; had left Edinburgh, by the —— coach, on the mornin of the 10th, and had been safely set down at ——; but that her relations there had seen nothing of her, and that no trace of her could since be found. The advertisement concluded by offering a handsome reward to any one who could give any such information as might lead to a discovery of the young lady, either to Mr. William Smith, haberdasher, ——, or to Mr. William Smith, No. 19, Lavender Street, Edinburgh.

Here, then, was a queer business. But, bein now somewhat accustomed to thae things, I was at nae loss to discover the meanin o't. The young lady wasna my cousin at a'—she had come to the wrang shop. She was a niece o' Willie Smith the haberdasher's—and there was the mystery solved at ance. It turned oot precisely sae. There was an awfu kick-up, and an awfu rejoicin, and shakin o' hands, and writin o' letters, and sae forth, after I had announced to the different parties how the matter stood, and brocht them thegither. But I wasna gaun to lose my fair cousin this way. I followed her to Willie Smith's, whar I was a welcome aneuch guest, and availed mysel to the full o' the advantages which a curious chance had thrown in my way, by eventually makin her my wife; and, as I said before, a most admirable one she made, and still maks, as she is sittin by my elbow at this present writin.

Noo, guid reader, sae far hae I brocht the story o' my life, or perhaps, rather o' my unfortunate name, (no a'thegither so unfortunate either, since it helped me to sic a wife,) and I maun stop; but it's for want o' room, and, I assure you, no for want o' matter. What I hae tell't ye is no a tithe o' the sufferings I hae endured through this unhappy patronymic o' mine. In truth, it was but the beginnin o' them. The rest I may relate to ye on some future day. In the meantime, guid reader, I bid ye fareweel, wi' a sincere houp that yer name's no Willie Smith.