'What will Sandie Macpherson think of this?' | a silver watch and chain given to him by and when I heard the criticisms, which cut his aunt on his birthday. His books were me up like a haggis right and left, I could like himself-clean, white and neat, with have borne every thing but the thought of how he would gloat over them down yonder in Scotland. I was somewhat consoled and a wee bit hopeful, when, some years afterward, I published my History of the Renaissance in Thuringia;' for the critics, knowing nothing of the subject, praised it to a man, and talked nonsense about my industry, my originality and my erudition. I cared nothing for the critics, but I said to myself, with a smile, 'That's one for Sandie Macpherson at last!'

no thumb-marks or dog's leaves to disfigure the pages. He wrote a beautiful hand, like copperplate, and in the writing class, as well as the rest, he was facile princeps. Well might he look with scorn on my slovenly dress, my books all thumbed and torn, and on my handwriting, which was ill to make out as heathen Greek. Well might he be held up to me as a shining light and an example. 'Tammas Ercildoune, go out and wash your face; when will ye learn to be tidy, like Alexander Macpherson?' Tammas, your books are a disgrace; do ye no' think shame when ye see the books of Alexander Macpherson ?'

"Perhaps you will be asking who Sandie Macpherson is, that I set such store by his opinion? Well, up to a few months ago you might have seen his name--Alexander' For shame, Tammas, for shame; do you Macpherson,' as it was given baptismallyover the door of a small grocer's store in the Gallowgate of Glasgow.

"Sandie and I were schoolfellows.

ever see Alexander Macpherson sucking black candy in the midst of school?' 'Tammas, your handwriting is abomination; Alexander, set him a copy yoursel', to show him how a lad should write.' These were cries ringing for ever in my ears. What wonder if I grew to look on Sandie as a superior being--to be gazed at with admiration and envy, to be imitated with awe and fear? It was just the same story when we went to college.

"We met there on our former footing; that is to say, he distinguished himself as usual, while I watched him from a respectful distance. Few words ever passed between us, for we had never been on speak

We first met in the Rev. Mr. Macindow's seminary, out beyond the Cowcaddens, and afterward we attended Mr. Parallel's mathematical and Dr. Skelpum's Latin classes, in the High-school. As I mind Sandie now, he was a wee, smug-mouthed, black aveezed laddie, with eyes like a hawk, and a stoop in the shoulders. From first to last he was ever at the top of the class. He carried away all the prizes at the Rev. Mr. Macindow's, and when he came to the High-school, among lads twice his size, he was dux" of the class. Such a memorying terms—either in or out of school. But as he had! It was wonderful, wonderful. the relationship between us was clearly unHe could repeat the whole Latin Delectus derstood. Sometimes, as he passed me on with his eyes shut, and he knew the whole the street, wearing grandly his red college of Euclid, when we were laboring over the gown and his college hat, while I crept 'Pons Asinorum.' Dr. Skelpum himself along with my gown on my arm, he would was afraid of him. As for me, where he give me a patronizing nod, that was all. was dux I was dunce. I had the 'taws' We began Greek together under Whiteland, nearly every day from the doctor, and ever and moral philosophy under old Dr. Plainand aye, while I writhed in my corner, I stanes. It was the old story. He was the could hear the cry. 'Alexander Macpherson. pet pupil of both professors. He drank in tell Tammas Ercildoune how to construe' learning like his mother's milk. From the this or that passage in the 'Metamorphoses.' first Greek to the second and third I followed Sometimes, just to shame us, he was put at him laboriously-as a clumsy fledgling fol the very bottom of the class, and then-lows the flight of some splendid eagle, whom Lord, to see him louping from place to it seeks to emulate in vain. place, like one running up a brae, and then standing flushed and triumphant, in his old place, at the very top!

"Sandie's father was a small tradesman in Glasgow, and you may be sure he was proud enough of his son. Sandie was ever spick and span, had the best of clothes, and

"After we left college, I lost sight of him for some years. I believe he might have received a bursary and gone to Oxford, but his father, proud as he was of his attainments, did not want to spoil him for a trade, and withdrew him before he had completed his course. I myself took to pupil-teaching,

having not yet decided to try my fortune in | literature.

"By the way, Ercildoune, I met an old school-fellow of yours in Glasgow.' “Ay, indeed?' I said, feeling the blood mount to my face in a moment.

"A man named Macpherson, a small tradesman, and a member of the local club which took me down. A prosy fellow and very sarcastic. He amused me very much by his reminiscences of your schooldays, and seemed greatly astonished that you had made any mark in the world.'

"I forced a laugh, but I felt hot and cold all over.

"Do you remember him?' proceeded Still." He remembers you wonderfully.'

"I'm not sure,' I returned with carelessness. 'I believe there was a lad by that name in the class with me, but I've almost forgotten him. It's-It's a long time ago!'

'But one day, fired by sudden enthusiasm, I wrote a long letter to The Glasgow Herald on some question of the day. It was printed next morning in all the glory of large type, and signed "Thomas Ercildoune." It was the proudest day of my life, but alas! it was destined to be overclouded. Toward afternoon I entered a coffee-shop, and saw, in the compartment next to me, his head buried in the paper, a human figure. The paper was The Herald, open at the page containing my letter. sat, blushing with all the pride of freshblown authorship. Presently the face looked up, and I saw, to my surprise, my old schoolfellow, Sandie Macpherson. Our eyes met, but his stony orbs gave no sign of recognition. Then he turned to the paper "Hypocrite that I was! Did John Still again, and smiled. Yes, he was reading my know that I was lying? He looked at me letter. It might astonish the public, but it for some moments with an amused smile, as could not impose upon him. There were if he were calling up some queer reminis Latin and Greek quotations in it, and frag-cence; and I-I could have brained him. ments of moral philosophy; how ashamed Some little time after that John Still and I I felt of them, as I saw them come under fell out. He wrote a criticism of Suckle's his baleful eye. He smiled again, placed History of Civilization,' and published it down the paper, paid his reckoning, and in the Radical Lambeth Review. I hanwalked out of the shop, without a word. Idled the same book next quarter in The went home a miserable man. I might put on grand airs before the public, but one man knew my measure, and that man was Sandie Macpherson.

"It was no use arguing with myself that the man was an idiot; that although he was glib at uptaking what was taught him, he had neither talent or originality. The memory of those early days haunted me like a shadow.

"I am not going to weary you-and myself -with a history of my literary struggles, till I conquered the book-taster, the magazine editor and the publisher, and became a recognized producer of the popular literary article. Years passed away. In the course of years I emigrated to London, on the invitation of John Still, the philosopher. Then I published my first book, and as I have told you, it was a failure. I retrieved myself by my second, which was about half as good, and not near so earnest as the first. I still had Glasgow and Sandie Macpherson in my mind when I failed or succeeded, but in course of time the impression grew dimmer and dimmer. It was one fine day that John Still, returning from the North, where he had been lecturing on some political subject, spoke to me as follows:

Caledonian, and turned Still's arguments inside out in no very complimentary fashion. Still was a sensitive man, and a while after that, he cut me dead in the street. We made it up afterward, but were never the same as before. Till the day of his death, I never gave him any explanation. I cared no more for Suckle or his arguments than for the fly on the wall! Suckle, indeed-the poor, silly, over-crammed Cockney gawk! The real cause of my attack on John Still was anger and irritation. Sandie MacPher son again was at the bottom of it all!

66

A year or so after this I went down to Glasgow on business. By that time I had made a name for myself and my visit caused a stir in the city. I stayed with Sir Robert Mungo, the lord provost-a silly man, with a sniggering taste for philosophy. After a few days I grew weary of being lionized; for nearly every time there was a grand dinner, and I was bored to death with the admiration of daft folk of both sexes. One forenoon, as I was wandering about the streets, looking at the old houses and calling to mind the places I had known when a lad, I passed down the Gallowgate, and saw the name of 'Alexander Macpherson' over a small grocer's shop. Now I was in a

"'Indeed! and what did he say?" I said carelessly.

"Shall I give you the very words?" asked my friend, laughing merrily. Certainly.'

666

"They're telling me,' he said, 'that Ercildoune has just written another book. Lord, Minister, surely the world has gone clean daft! What can folks see in such a silly sumph as yon?'

"So Sandie passed away," concluded the old philosopher," and now, whatever happens to me, I know that my career must be considered a failure, for the one dream of my existence, to make an impression on Sandie Macpherson, has been rendered impossible forever."

think, I went down to my natal city to de-
liver the rectorial address. I was an old
man by this time, and had a great name all
over the world. Such a reception as they
gave me! As I stood in the large hall, with
the Professors and citizens around me, the
students in their thousands cheering me,
fine ladies in the galleries smiling down
upon me, I felt that I had reached the
height of my ambition. I addressed them
like a man inspired. I spoke of my early
days, my struggles. my fondness for the
country of my birth, and I was in the
middle of a splendid peroration, when, all
of a sudden, I became conscious of a man's
face looking quietly up at me. One man's
face, in all that sea of faces! But I knew
it only too well-grim, cold, hard as granite,
yet with a kind of pitying smile upon it-
whose face could it be but the one I had
dreaded all my life? The words went out
of my head, and I ended feebly, sitting down
into my chair with a sigh of relief when I
had finished. *** The next day there
were columns in the papers, and in the
course of the long report something to this
effect: 'At this point of his discourse, al-
luding to his early days in this city, Mr.
Ercildoune was visibly affected. His emo-
tion was touching to witness, and he almost
broke down, but amidst the loud cheering
of his enormous audience he at last con-
cluded his magnificent address.' 'Visibly
affected,' indeed!—and 'touching emo-
tion!' They little knew that my speech I
was nearly ruined by the sinister influence
of Sandie Macpherson."

The great man paused, half amused, half angry, at the remembrance of his old experience. Reaching out his hand he took down a pipe from the mantlepiece, filled and lit it, and smoked for some minutes in silence, with his sad eyes fixed on the fire. I sat watching him reverently and wonderingly. At last he broke the silence:

I never saw Sandie again after that. "About a year ago, however, an old friend, a minister of the Kirk, coming on a visit from Glasgow, informed me that my former school-fellow, who was one of his congregation, had recently died. My friend had been with him frequently during his last illness. I asked, not without anxiety, if the poor fellow had still remembered me? "My friend smiled.

666

Ŏh, yes, he remembered you well,' he replied, and only a few days before his death he spoke about you.'

ROBERT BUCHANAN, b. 1841.

A BENEDICT CANTICLE.
Of all the insidious
Temptations invidious,

Contrived by the devil for pulling men down,
There's none more delusive,

Seductive, abusive,

Than the snare to a man with a wife out of

town.

He feels such a delightfulness,
Stay-out-all-night-fulness,
Shall-I-get-tight ?-fulness-

own it with pain!—

A bachelor rakishness,
What-will-you-take?-ishness,
Next-day's-headache-ishness,
None can explain!

'Tis

His wife may be beautiful,
Tender and dutiful-

not that her absence should cause him
delight:

But the cursed opportunity,

Baleful immunity,

Scatters his scruples as day scatters night.

To

He feels whiskey-and-water-ful,

Rapine-and-slaughter-ful,
Nothing-he-ought-to-ful,
his toes' ends;

So bachelor-rally-some,
Quite corps-de-ballet-some,
Make-stories-talley-some

With wicked friends.

-Life.