he had come to this country in early life, with three halfpence in his pocket, and a nail and hammer in his hand, for all worldly substance; how he had earned his bread by making nails, which was his business in Scotland; how, one day, passing by some flowers exposed for sale, he had touched a geranium leaf by accident, and, charmed with its fragrance, bought it, having never seen one before; how, with fifteen dollars in his pocket, he commenced the business of a florist and gardener; and how he had refused as many thousand dollars for his present prosperous concern; how, when he first came to New York, the place opposite his garden, where now stands a handsome modern dwelling-house, was the site of a shed where he did his first bit of work; how, after six-and-twenty years' absence from Scotland, he returned home; how he came to his father's house--"'Twas on a bright morning in August--the eighth of August, just, it was--when I went through the door. I knew all the old passages so well: I opened the parlour door, and there, according to the good old Scottish custom, the family were going to prayers afore breakfast. There was the old Bible on the table, and the old clock ticking in the corner of the room; there was my father in his own old chair, exactly just where I had left him six-and-twenty years gone by. The very shovel and tongs by the fire were the same; I knew them all. I just sat down, and cried as sweetly as ever a man did in his life." These were, as nearly as I can recollect, his words; and oh, what a story! His manner, too, was indescribably vivid and graphic. My father's eyes filled with tears. He stretched out his hand, and grasped and shook the Scotchman's hand repeatedly without speaking; I never saw him more excited. I never was more struck myself with the wonderful strangeness of this bewildering life. He showed us the foot of a rude rustic-looking table. "That," he said, "was cut from out the hawthorn hedge that grows by my father's house; and this," showing us a wooden bowl, "is what I take my _parritch_ in!" I asked him if he never meant to leave this country, and return to bonny Scotland. He said, No, never: he might return, but he never meant to settle any where but here. "For," added he, "I have grown what I am in it, madam, and 'tis a fine country for the poor." He had been an early martyr, too, to his political opinions; and, when only nineteen years of age, had been imprisoned in Edinburgh for advocating the cause of that very reform which the people are at this moment crying jubilee over in England. He seemed to rejoice in this country, as in the wide common land of political freedom, unbounded by the limits of long-established prejudice, unbroken by the deep trenches which divide class from class in the cultivated soil of the old world. I could have listened to this strange oracle for a day; but in the midst of his discourse he was summoned to dinner; and presenting his son to